On a midnight cab ride back to our hotel, the driver asks if we’re from Chicago, and when we tell him no, he begins to play tour guide.
“You ever see ‘Married With Children’? That’s the fountain in the opening credits. You see it?” he points. “You see those towers? Oprah lives in that one.”
We ask our guide if he knows of any bars within walking distance of our hotel—preferably ones that have live music. He parks us outside of Buddy Guy’s Legends, and the three of us leave the windy street and enter into the thick rhythm of the horns and drums of a blues band. For the next hour we won’t hear hardly anything the other is saying. We fill up on three-dollar beers and dance the cold out of our bodies. As we leave, I pass by a young man who tells me that I’m a good dancer. I laugh and shake my head, and it won’t be until I’m back out in my hotel room that I wish I’d had been more gracious.