The Lake

The lake in Chicago looks like the sea. You can't see the other side of it and sometimes its waves trick me into believing that I'm home, standing by the North Sea, feeling the cold harsh wind whip about my face.

However, it is not the sea. It's a lake. A big lake. 

On a hot day it becomes a playground. If you walk along the pathway next to it you run the very real risk of being mowed down by rollerbladers and cyclists. People throw frisbees and American footballs. 

(As an aside, never think throwing an American football is like throwing a rugby ball. They may look alike, but Americans get very confused when you give them a backward twisting toss of the ball and shout, "C'mon Jonny Wilkinson, give it yer best shot!")

(Another aside, I remember when I caught the very ball Jonny Wilkinson scored with in a Newcastle game. Actually, the pupil next to me caught it, but I caught the pupil as they fell backwards with the effort...)

On one particular lake shore beach they have, just in the last few weeks, planted random palm trees along the way. I saw the secret lorry arrive one dark evening to unload the palm trees, as if some how we wouldn't realise that they had just sprung up over night. I think they are trying to convince us all that we live in some type of tropical paradise. 

We don't. 

Today it's cold and raining. The palm trees do nothing but remind us that we can't always trust in what we see. 

In a week I come home and will be looking at red bricks and grey pavements and perhaps even stand by the North Sea itself. Maybe I'll say to myself, "This can't be the sea, it looks just like the lake." But I'll be wrong, it is the sea, and I'll step in until the cold salt water covers my feet and I'll know I'm home. 

The Lake: