No Sleep Til Wisconsin! (pt. 2, Plan B)

TODAY'S QUESTION FOR COMMENTING: When I say college, you think [fill in the blank]? Chime in at the bottom, after the post! -- Erin :)

October 2006, Chicago, Illinois
(Continued from last week's pt. 1 post.)

So there I was, on the train on a gorgeous autumn day, speeding my way out of Chicago and to the great state of Wisconsin (which, an article in the Tribune recently assured me, “has it all”). Except I totally wasn’t.

“What do you mean this train doesn’t go to Kenosha?” I asked the conductor (or someone dressed up early for Halloween as Ringo Starr in Shining Time Station). I'm sure he wanted to bonk me on the head with his conductor cap and snap, What do you think I mean, lady?

“This train only goes to Waukegan,” he said, keeping his hat on. “The next one to Kenosha is in an hour.”

I was totally perplexed. First of all, Waukegan, Illinois, is maybe three stops short of Kenosha. What's the point of making that town the end of the line for this train? MY train? Couldn’t it keep going just a little farther? And secondly, what gives? I had gotten on the Metra at a platform that said “To Kenosha” and I had found the train times from the Transit Authority’s web link “Chicago to Kenosha, weekdays.” I should be whirling toward Wisconsin! And technically, I suppose, I was. But I wanted to actually be whirled into the state itself, not dropped off in some shiny Chicago suburb just shy of the state line. I wanted to go to America's Dairyland! All the way! Extra cheese, please! Now!

In the end, the conductor and I worked out a plan. He sold me a ticket to Kenosha and made a note on the back that said I'd be getting off the train in Evanston, then getting back on an hour later to continue to Kenosha. This actually sounded kinda fantastic (if pretty stupid). Evanston was my home for three years in college, and I had not set foot in the town, let alone on the Northwestern University campus, since graduation more than six years ago.

My college friend Deanna regularly mentions things we did and people we knew at Northwestern. Virtually 100% of the time, I have no clue what she's talking about. Zilch. Those college years are weird for me – I moved away from home for the first time, with semesters in Portland, Oregon, and Allentown, Pennsylvania (AKA "not that far from Philly or NYC"), sprinkled in for good coastal measure – and I recall being generally happy and social and productive. (I also recall eating a lot of spaghetti O's.)

But I barely keep in touch with anyone from that time anymore, which is totally unlike me. I am still friends with the first non-family member I ever met, hours after I was born! I have been exchanging myspace messages recently with my second grade boyfriend! I still talk to people from all the jobs I’ve quit. (And while I don't like to quit friends, I do like to quit jobs, so there are several. And I always tell coworkers who’re sad to see me leave, “Don’t worry, no one gets rid of me.” It's mostly true.).

But other than Deanna, there is no one from the college years to whom I speak on a regular basis. I almost never start stories with “When I lived in Evanston…” or “At Northwestern...”

The most I really think about college is to casually consider the fates of fellow students for whom my friends and I had developed ridiculous (but accurate) nicknames. I wonder how Long Arms is doing? Or, whatever happened to The Guy Who Walks Around Like An Asshole? Does he still walk around like that?

Clearly, I was long overdue for some memory jogging in Evanston. So what if I had missed one train and boarded another that was hell bent on staying in Illinois! It was an adventure and it was supposed to happen like this. The gods of public transportation were sending me back to college.

But could I handle this unexpected Plan B? Was I strong enough not to go homicidal in the face of all that silky, flat-ironed blonde hair and those ubiquitous Greek letters and North Face parkas? Did I really want to think about stolen bikes (two of them!) and voting for “Evil Dave Sheldon” for student government president? Could I handle flashbacks of my curious, novice stabs at rowing with the NU crew team (in freezing temperatures, before sunrise, on the Chicago River) or oil painting to the never-ending soundtrack of Pink Floyd in the art building? (Which, incidentally, had to be done by walkman, since the art teacher announced on day one that we could play any CD we liked on his stereo, as long as it wasn't Floyd. After 20 years around college art students, he'd had enough, and I guess that makes sense.)

Anyway, once I set foot on campus – that gorgeous, manicured mile-long wonderland of hallowed halls, changing leaves, and dudes playing hacky sack -- I knew it would all come flooding back. What if I had blocked most of it out for a reason? I remembered something about a student clubbing another student over the head with a hammer in the fine arts building once. I sure hope I wasn't the hammeree (or the hammerer, for that matter). I would soon find out.

(To be continued . . . Tune in tomorrow for to meet the people of the train, fancy pants and all!)