I’ve gone to look for America

I was ready to go, right?

It was 4:30 a.m. and I stood in the hallway of my apartment building. The door to my apartment was propped open by my shoe. I made one last pass at the checklist in my head. I patted my jeans to check for my cell phone and wallet. I checked my jacket for my plane ticket and the directions.

Okay. Here we go. I pulled the door shut, picked up my bag, took my headphones out of my other pocket and slipped them on my head. I decided on a very fitting “America” by Simon and Garfunkel, a good traveling song. I was on my way to the airport. I’d be in Chicago by 11:00 a.m.

It was still somewhat of a strange thought in my mind. I was going to work on a movie. Some of the guys I met while working on the set for “Prime” last year were in Chicago working on a Marc Forester (“Monster’s Ball” and “Finding Neverland”) movie. I asked them if I could work on it and they said “yes.” I bought a plane ticket the next day. The whole thing happened very fast.

But all the talking and planning that led up to this trip was a theory. Now I was actually going. There was no turning back. And while I was standing on my stoop, waiting for a ride to the airport, the whole thing hit me. I was going to a city I knew nothing about to work on a movie for two weeks with people I didn’t know that well. Would they even remember me? I hadn’t seen them in close to a year.

It was a strange realization and my stomach tensed.

Seven hours later I was getting off of the El train on the north side of Chicago in search of the youth hostel I had registered to stay at. It was 11:30 a.m. I had slept through the entire plane ride.

I realized immediately that the advertisement I had read on the Internet had made the hostel feel a lot closer than it was. It was actually located about 40 minutes outside of downtown.

I have never stayed in a hostel and I didn’t know what to expect. The room consisted of 10 small beds with plastic mattresses, tiny blankets, a sheet and one limp pillow. Mostly young foreigners in America to meet girls and party milled about the common area. I dropped my stuff off at one of the beds and got back on the train.

I made my way downtown, already becoming comfortable with the train. It wasn’t much different than the New York subway.

I stepped out onto the street and started to wander. It was nice to have no destination—a walk simply to see what’s around. At every block I made a split-second decision as to my direction based on nothing more than which way looked more interesting.

It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining and there was a slight breeze coming off of Lake Michigan.

I found lots of amazing things. I stood on a bridge over the Chicago River and looked up at the Sears Tower. Strange that it was only that morning that I stood in the dingy hall of my apartment building, I thought.

I walked down Michigan Avenue and saw the shopping district. I found Millennium Park and played a game of chess against an old man, and I beat him three games in a row.

“Where are you from?” he asked, impressed I had done so well. “New York?”

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“You don’t make eye contact with anyone.”

I laughed and nodded. He was right.

I called my dad to tell him about my trip and what the chess man had told me. He laughed.

He told me to check out a Picasso sculpture near City Hall. “It’s either an angel or a ram,” he said. “It’s very striking.”

“Okay, I’ll try to find it.” Skeptical about the way he described it, I decided that he must not remember it very well.

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Okay.”

I hung up and tried to figure out the way back to the train. I wanted to get back to the hostel to get to bed early to be sharp for my first day on set. I realized I had no idea where I was. I had walked in a zigzagged carefree stroll in many different directions. I did my best to navigate my way without asking, not wanting to seem like a tourist. Another New York thing, I imagine.

I came around a corner and saw it. In the middle of a plaza stood a huge metal structure. It was very obviously a Picasso. The perspective was slightly skewed and the eyes very close together. I sat for a long time on a bench looking up at it, trying to decipher it. What was it?

I decided to wait and not make a decision—it was either a ram or an angel. After all, I had only gotten off of the plane a few hours earlier and would be here for two weeks.