Chicagoans Are The Nicest People

     Say what you will about the folks of Chicago, I’ve had enough positive exchanges with them to make the statement that they are among the nicest, most helpful of people. That is to say, as long as they’re not driving. Chicagoans behind the wheel are a brutal bunch and I hope that I might never again be prevailed upon to drive in that city. But with their feet on the sidewalk I’ve found them to be as polite and helpful a group of urbanites as I’ve met anywhere.
     For example, on Friday, February 14, I flew from Columbus to Chicago for visit with my daughter Claire and her husband Miguel,

...two very nice Chicagoans, for that matter.

     Anyway, after arriving at Chicago O'Hare,

...I made my way to the blue line train to the city,

...where, according to the information screen on the train station platform, it was plenty cold outside.

    But I'd arrived  prepared for the Chicago weather.

    What I hadn't prepared for was the ordeal that awaited me when I arrived at my train stop.
     My plan had been to get off the train at the Western stop, which I did,

...then walk several blocks from the station to my daughter and son-in-law's house in Logan Square.
      However it turned out that the exit from the train platform was through one of those old-fashioned turnstiles,

...that looked like this.

     This turnstile wouldn't have been a problem if 1) I hadn't been hauling with me an extra-big, extra-heavy suitcase which I'd stuffed with some of the mementos I'd brought from my mother's house to bequeath upon my daughter (see post from 2/1/2020, "My Mother's House, My Mother's Things"), and 2) the darned suitcase hadn't been too darned big to squeeze through that vintage turnstile, which I learned was the case when I tried to squeeze it and myself through and got stuck.
     "You gotta push the suitcase through first," said a young guy who was looking at me from the other side of the turnstile. "Back up," he said, "and I'll pull it from my side."
     Now, I know  you shouldn't judge a book by it's cover or a person by their looks, but this kid was underfed-skinny with long, straggly hair and a long, straggly beard, and he was dressed in a long, straggly, worn-looking coat with a straggly, worn-looking wool hat pulled over his straggly hair, and I was judging that as soon as he got my suitcase around to his side of the turnstile he'd be off with it as fast as his legs could carry him and the suitcase.
     But no. After he pulled my suitcase through the turnstile he waited for me to turn myself through, then he rolled my suitcase back to me. He didn't even ask for any kind of financial compensation for his trouble, though if I hadn't been too  bundled and trussed-up to easily reach my wallet I'd have offered him some sandwich money anyway. However, he quickly walked off to the train platform, apparently having someplace to go.
       Safely on the other side of the train exit, I next faced what I had anticipated would be the greatest challenge of the trip: negotiating my gargantuan suitcase down the steep flight of stairs from the platform to the sidewalk without taking a tumble, and  it would surely be a bad tumble at that.

     I and my suitcase made it, precariously, as far down as he first landing, where I stopped to catch my breath, rest my arms, and gather the courage to make it down to the next landing.
     While I stood on that landing girding my loins, so to speak, up the steps towards me came another young man, this one every bit as scrawny and scraggy-looking as the youngster who'd helped me through the turnstile, though this fellow was clothed in a patchy, pie-baldish jacket and he had a shock of green hair that appeared to be growing upwards in a pile on top of his head.
      "Here, let me help you with that," said this colorful fellow as he reached for my suitcase, which I compliantly handed over, and as he lugged it down the stairs, much quicker and more nimbly than I'd have been able to, I thought to myself, 'bye-bye suitcase.
       But no again. At the bottom of the stairway he handed me back my suitcase and then was on his way back up the stairs to the train platform. 
      Safely on the sidewalk and feeling much gratitude towards my kind young stranger benefactors, I continued lugging my suitcase down and across the streets towards my daughter and son-in-law's house,

...stopping once to ask an elderly gent for directions, which, of course, he helpfully gave me, as I knew he would, he being a Chicagoan.