As the plane touched down at Frankfurt Airport, Stewart felt agitated. He was tired. So tired. With all the excitement of the trip, he hadn’t slept in the last 48 hours.
When his traveling companion asked him a question as simple as where Stewart had put his bag, Stewart snapped at the guy.
He had to lie down.
They arrived at their hostel at 10 a.m., only to find it was closed until 1 p.m. for cleaning. So, Stewart grabbed his backpack and guitar and headed around the corner to a pizza place.
As he stood in line waiting to place his order, a woman behind him tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, can you play that?” she asked with an Irish accent, pointing to the guitar.
No, he felt like growling at her, I just carried it all the way from America… rghrghr…
Yes, he said.
She and her boyfriend had just opened an Irish pub around the corner, the woman explained. The musician who was supposed to play tomorrow night was sick; could Stewart come by tomorrow afternoon to play for the bartender? If the bartender liked him, he could have the gig.
Stewart thought about it.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
When he caught up with his friend later, he shared the news. The two were supposed to leave Germany together the next morning for… well, for anywhere. But this changed things.
His friend didn’t want to stay in Berlin. So, the next day, he took off with a guy from New Zealand who was staying at the hostel, leaving Stewart on his own.
At 2 o’clock that afternoon, Stewart arrived at the Shamrock Irish Pub. He stood in front of the bar with his guitar and began to play “We Gotta Get out of this Place,” by the Animals, while the bartender, himself a musician from Northern Ireland, stood by watching.
“Stop!” cried out the bartender just ten seconds into the song.
“Was it that bad that I can’t even finish?” asked Stewart.
“It was all right,” said the bartender. “Can you play tonight?”
Stewart returned to the Shamrock that evening. A diverse crowd of American soldiers, Germans, people from all over the world packed into the large, dimly lit room. Stewart played 30 songs for them, all that he knew, among three sets.
Between songs, people cheered. Stewart wasn’t used to that kind of reaction in the U.S. When he walked around the room between sets with a hat in his hand (a green, felt top hat— a gag provided by the bar), the customers threw money into it. He wasn’t used to getting tips this way, either. Back home, there was just a tip jar.
Though the ruse did its job: He got 100 dollars in tips on top of the roughly 100 dollars the pub paid him.
With the performance such a success, the owners invited him back to play the next night. And the next night after that.
On that third night, however, his luck ran out. In the middle of a set, the bartender suddenly told him to stop playing, because police officers had arrived. Unbeknownst to Stewart, the pub didn’t have a license for live music.
His stint there was over.
Heartbroken, he returned to the hostel. Three nights of his dream, of getting paid to do what he loved— it was all over now.
As he sat in the hostel brooding, and talking to other guests, the proprietor of the place called out over the PA system, “Stewart!” It was a phone call.
Stewart was shocked. Who knew he was there? Not even his family knew he was there.
He walked to the front desk and took the phone. “Stewart,” said the man at the other end of the line, “what are you doing for the next month or so?”
It was one of the patrons at the Shamrock. He found out where Stewart was staying from the owners of the place.
Turned out the man managed seven Irish pubs throughout Germany.
And would Stewart be interested in playing for him?
Have I died and gone to heaven, or what?!, Stewart thought. He was just a “hobby musician”; not good enough to play professionally. He didn’t even have enough songs, just the ten he repeated.
“Well, let me check my schedule,” he told the man, wanting to sound professional.
“Nothing.”
He felt elated. Here he was, barely off the plane from America, and in his mind, he had stepped into the rabbit hole.
So began the touring. He started in Frankfurt, then moved on to the German state of Saarland, and then Saarbrücken. He pushed himself to learn new songs every day.
A week into his travels, he was performing in the small town of Sankt Ingbert, near the border with France, when a man approached him.
“Where do you live?” the man asked in broken English.
“Well, nowhere,” Stewart replied.
“No!” shot back the man, in a burly voice. “You live with me now!”
It so happened that the man was a German soldier who spent most of his time out of town for training, leaving his apartment empty. The American musician he had just seen perform was to be his tenant— free of charge.
Stewart was almost speechless at the offer.
Indeed, he accepted, taking up residence on the living room couch that very night.
A week of traveling turned into a month, and a month turned into two-and-a-half months. All the while, Stewart remained in Germany, never making good use of the Eurail train pass he had bought for traveling throughout Europe.
When mid-February came around, it was time to return home— well, for as much as it could be considered home— to Madison, Wisconsin. He had reached the end of his four-month vacation.
Well… sort of.
When he arrived in Madison, Stewart headed to the nursing home where his father was living. When he got there, what he saw saddened him: His dad was asleep in a chair in the dining room, drooling and wearing a soiled adult diaper.
Stewart put out his hand. His father took it. The two walked around the grounds for a while, talking.
Stewart saw indications that his dad’s Parkinson’s had progressed. His speech had worsened, and talking was more difficult now. In any case, without his son there, he didn’t talk to anyone around him. He looked and sounded as if he had aged tremendously over the past four months.
Sorry, Stewart told his dad. I got a job in Germany. I’m going back.
Go, said his dad.
Though he couldn’t be sure, Stewart suspected that his father understood that this was a dream come true. That his dad wanted him to live his own life; certainly not stay back on his account.
Stewart’s father was a selfless man that way.
Maybe his dad was even living vicariously through him.
After two weeks back in the U.S., visiting with his dad more or less every day, Stewart got on a plane and went back to Germany. Returned to his new life, whatever it was. All he knew then was that he had a place to live— or rather, a place to use as a home base as he toured— and income from doing something he lived.
At the same time, Stewart saw the situation as a fluke. The gigs couldn’t last forever, he thought, so he booked as many as he could early on.
He played for weeks. Weeks turned into months. Gigs turned into more gigs, along with offers to play at private parties.
Two years had gone by when he found himself one day in 1993 playing an outdoor festival for the opening of a music store. There, he started talking to a German woman. Stewart was now 33; the woman was 23. He thought she was cute.
He asked her out, but she just said eventuell— “maybe.” She had a boyfriend.
Two months later, she no longer did.
He moved in with her right away.
Later that year, Stewart had another fortuitous encounter. A man who had hired him to play his 40th birthday party— someone who worked for the Finanzamt, the German equivalent of the IRS— told Stewart to apply for residency in Germany. That way, the man said, he could have medical insurance from the government. Plus, as a musician, he would be able to deduct essentially all of his expenses from his tax returns, since most everything he bought contributed to his image on stage. (Or so the theory went.)
Up until then, Stewart had been working under the table. What with the transient nature of playing gigs all over the place, he wasn’t concerned about the authorities’ pursuing him. But medical insurance sounded appealing, as did being able to make so many deductions.
A few days later, Stewart submitted an application to his local branch of the Federal Foreign Office. In return, he received a stamp that allowed him to live and work in Germany for one year. A year later, having paid his taxes and not having committed any crimes, he got another stamp valid for two years. After that, he got another two-year stamp.
Then, in 1998, with five years of residency and taxes under his belt, Stewart finally secured a life-long green card. He now had all the rights of a German citizen except the ability to vote.
Not bad, this new life in Europe. Here he was, seven years after coming back, doing what he loved, getting paid to do what he loved, and even traveling to other countries in Europe to perform.
Not bad.
Except for the part that was: His relationship with his girlfriend.
In 1999, after seven years, it broke apart. The truth was, it had been breaking apart for a long time. Stewart traveled a lot for his gigs, and that caused problems for her. She had a hot temper, and that caused problems for Stewart. They had even broken up a couple of times before.
Then, too, there was another issue. One day, as Stewart was standing over the sink in the bathroom, brushing his teeth, his girlfriend walked in and asked him bluntly, “Are you going to stay true to me?”
The question socked him. He stood there, silently— one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand.
He thought back to his ex-girlfriend in America. To his high school sweetheart, a woman he wanted to trust but who had let him down again and again and again. That experience had hurt him so much.
Now, here was another girlfriend asking if he would be faithful.
How did he know she would be?
One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. As he mind spun, Stewart remained silent.
His girlfriend turned on her heels and stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.
After the breakup, Stewart wandered around. He followed the philosophy of an Irish friend of his: Gig as much as you can, because when you do, the place you’re playing will provide you with a hotel room or a musician’s room. A musician’s room was just what it sounds like, a small room provided to visiting musicians for an overnight stay.
Only, these places were pigsties— disgusting, horrible places not fit for humans. On the other hand, they were free. Stewart would bring his own sheets and hope that the creepy-crawly creatures wouldn’t get to him during the night.
Stewart continued gigging and traveling for several years. But over time, he grew increasingly unhappy. After his German girlfriend, he had no significant romantic relationships. He dated a lot, but he just didn’t feel compatible with any of the women he met.
Then, too, he began feeling physically ill, as if a weight were pressing on his shoulders.
Then his life really a took a turn. It would start, simply enough, at a gig in October 2006, a gig like so many others he had done.
Little did he know then that that would be the start of a series of bizarre, scary events that would alter the course of his life.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
An Incredible Journey, Part II
Thursday, June 11, 2009
An Incredible Journey, Part I
Stewart (he doesn't want his last name used in this article, for reasons that will become clear later) grew up in suburban Glenview in the 1960’s and ’70’s as a typical Glenview kid in the 1960’s and ’70’s might. He attended Wilmette public schools until high school; moved on to New Trier West (now the school’s freshman campus) after that. Upon graduating, he enrolled at Northern Illinois University.
Two years into college, though, he had a problem: He had to declare a major. He didn’t know which to choose, and the decision was too much for him. He had difficulty making big decisions like that.
Instead of deciding, Stewart dropped out of college. He got a job working at the Greyhound station in Northbrook. Moved back in with his parents.
Here, it must be said that there’s a girl in this story, too. A girl Stewart had met in high school. The girl of his high school romance.
In 1982, when Stewart had been working at the Greyhound station for two years, this girl was studying at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Stewart missed her. So, he did what any typical 22-year-old guy who’s in love would do: He joined her.
When he arrived in Madison, he wanted to enroll in the university to continue his studies. Only, he couldn’t get in-state tuition until he had lived there for a year. So, he did that. Worked for a whole year in a store that sold children’s corrective shoes. When the state of Wisconsin finally considered him a resident— or, more to the point, considered him eligible for reduced tuition— he started classes.
So, there was the girl, the reason he came to Madison. There was the university, where he could continue his education. But there was still the issue of what to major in.
He wanted to be a dietician, so he started out pursuing food science. When he took a chemistry class, though, he found it too fast-paced; too competitive, what with all the pre-med students. No, the stress of hard science wasn’t for him.
Rather, he thought to himself: The hell with that. I’m going to do what my dad did. I’m going to become a teacher.
Oh, yes— his dad. His dad plays a role in this story, too.
Stewart’s mother had had a hysterectomy to remove cancerous ovaries in 1973. Unfortunately, she succumbed to the cancer in 1985. After his wife’s death, Stewart’s dad moved into a so-called retirement hotel.
One day, Stewart got a call from an administrator there. It seemed his dad had called for an ambulance on three occasions. That was a problem.
The calls weren’t made without reason. You see, Stewart’s dad had Parkinson’s’ disease. The Parkinson’s caused him to fall face down on his bed multiple times. Hence, the calls to 911.
The problem was that ambulances scared the elderly people there (or so said the administrator). The calls couldn’t continue. Stewart’s dad would have to leave.
What was Stewart to do? Would could he do? Only one thing: Bring his dad up to Madison to live with him in the dorm.
And it worked. Stewart's father, then 62 (he was forced to retire at 60), became one of the guys. Everyone liked him. No one asked him to leave. He would nod off in front of the communal television— the only man in the place over 30, let alone 62— and no one said anything.
He stayed there until the following May, when Stewart graduated.
Yes; after five years of classes between two schools in two states, Stewart finally graduated college with a degree in elementary education. He also had never traveled outside the U.S. before. Europe’s different cultures, different currencies (at the time), different languages— all of that appealed to him.
Now he was set with that.
But not with the girl.
She had broken up with him.
And so, after graduation, Stewart and his dad moved to Evanston, where they lived while Stewart worked during the day at Banner Day Camp up in Lake Forest. It was a job that Stewart, then 26, had taken on every summer since he was 17. He worked his way up from counselor to counselor-and-bus driver to musical director.
Ah, yes— music. Music was something Stewart liked. A lot.
He would lead songs for groups of campers. He played guitar, performed for the whole camp at the yearly Bannerama festival. When it rained, he would spend the whole day singing.
Yes, Stewart really liked music.
As the summer of 1986 wound down, he didn’t have a job lined up for the fall. Then, on the last day of camp, he received a call from an official at Milwaukee Public Schools. He had gotten a job teaching eighth grade math and science.
For the next three years, Stewart and his dad lived in Milwaukee. Halfway into that time, Stewart reconciled with his girlfriend. At the end of it, he quit his job. He was going back to Madison.
With his father, of course.
Stewart was now 29. He had been with this girl on and off for 12 years, almost half his life. He had moved to Madison for her not once, but now twice, this time leaving behind a job he enjoyed.
Four months after he arrived, she broke up with him again.
It was the same story— the same story over and over. She would cheat on him; he would take her back. She would cheat on him again; he would take her back again. He thought it cruel, her doing whatever she wanted, knowing that she could, because Stewart would always take her back. (He always did.)
Only, this breakup was different. It would be their last.
Soon after, she married another man.
A man she had been seeing in secret.
Stewart stayed in Madison for two more years, doing substitute teaching. But he was distraught. The breakup was traumatic; very traumatic. He enjoyed teaching, and he loved taking care of his dad. But this… this was too much.
He knew he needed to make a change in his life. A big change.
In the summer of 1991, one would take shape.
Now 31, Stewart was back at Banner Day Camp teaching music. (It was a job he had taken on every summer since he was 17.) One day in the middle of the camp season, he was participating in the daily singing session that took place before campers boarded their buses for home. As the children were gathering, he took the microphone on a whim.
“Is there any staff member interested in joining me on a tour through Europe?” he said.
The idea had been stirring in him for a little while. Stewart was burned out. He felt he was getting old before his time. He thought a vacation in Europe would make him a better teacher; would make for some interesting stories to tell his students when he got back.
Stewart's moves from 1981 to 1992. (Click here for a more detailed map.)
So, Europe it would be.
And why not have a travel partner? That would make the trip more fun.
From the crowd, one of the counselors approached Stewart. It was a guy in his early 20’s. Yes, he said, he’d be interested in going. In fact, he also was thinking of making a tour through Europe.
And so it was that at the end of the camp season, Stewart put his dad into a nursing home, gathered his guitar and some other belongings, and boarded a plane to Frankfurt, Germany.
Only, the trip wouldn’t go quite as expected.
Not at all.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Rage against the machine
The same could be said of Sam Wolfson.
Wolfson is co-owner of String-A-Strand, a bead store in Lincoln Square. These days, a passerby to the store would see something unusual taped to the inside of the front window: Seven pieces of paper— two with String-a-Strand letterhead, the rest plain white— with black, hand-written text scrawled across them.
The text (brace yourself— it’s a bit long) reads as follows:
AL CAPONE WAS A Piker Compared to Mayor Daley & HIS BAND OF CROOKS THAT RUN CITY HALL
IF THESE PARKING METERS ISN’T FRAUD & EXTORTION ON THE People & THE CITY O [sic] CHICAGO WHAT IS. FRAUD & EXTORATION [sic] IS A CRIME SO THIS LEASE SHOULD Be VOIDED. Mayor DALEY-STROGER AND EVERY POLITICIAN WHO ARE INVOLVED IN THIS SHOULD BE IMPEACHED. NOT A SINGLE MEMBER OF THE CITY COUNCIL STOOD UP FOR THE People OF CHICAGO & SAID THIS IS WRONG. WHY SHOULD THEY WHEN THERE [sic] HANDS ARE IN OUR Pockets.
We MUST VOTE EVERY ONE OUT OF OFFICE. THESE ARE SOME OF THE WORST POLITICIANS IN THE Country. No Concern For THe PeopLe OF CHICAGO. OnLy for THe MONeY They CAN Pocket. WE MUST FINALLY STAND UP & SAY NO MORE YOU B_ _ _ _ _ DS [sic].
STOP Ripping US OFF THERE MUST BE SOME HONEST POLITICANS WHO WILL VOID THIS PARKING LEASE FRAUD. THAT’S WHAT IT IS FRAUD.
2011
VOTE THE STROGERS & DALEYS OUT OF OFFICE. ENOUGH IS ENOUGH. RESCIND THE SALES TAX BACK TO 8.5%. VOTE THESE BUMS OUT OF OFFICE FIX THE POT HOLES STOP RAISING TAXS [sic] THAT’S ALL THESE POLITICIANS DO.
WAKE up CHICAGO We CAN’T Be THAT STUPID TO PUT THESE CORRUPT POLITICIANS BACK IN OFFICE. Especially DALeY & STROGER WHO SOLD THE PEOPLE OF CHICAGO DOWN THe TOILeT SeLLING THE PARKING MeTers & RAISING THE TAX To THe LARGEST IN THE CounTry. FRAUD & CorrupTION THAT’S ALL CITY HALL IS. ITS TIME TO VoTe THe IDIOTS OUT.
HOW BAD IS THIS CORRUPTION THE CEO OF THIS PARKING METERS RIP OFF ON THE people OF CHICAGO. IS MAYOR DALEYS BROTHER. WHAT CROOKS. WHY WON’T THE Newspapers & TV REPORT THIS.
LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT. MAYOR DALeY SOLD THE MeTeRS TO A PRIVATE CO. SO WHY ARE CITY EMPLOYEES WRITING TickeTs ESpecIALLY THE CHICAGO POLIce. DID THe MAYOR SeLL THE POLICe DepT. ALSO. WHO WRITeS THE TICKETS & WHERE IS THE MoNey GOING SOUNDS LIKE TYPICAL CHICAGO CORRUPTION.
It took Wolfson only a week to write this out.
“I have never been politically active,” he insists. “But this one got to me.”
Sam Wolfson, a delicately punchy man of 72 (“21,” he quipped, when first asked his age), has washed-out gray hair, slightly wrinkled skin, and a goatee. He speaks in a raspy voice and has a tendency to gesticulate with his hands when he talks about this.
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| Sam Wolfson behind the counter at String-a-Strand. (Click on photo to enlarge.) |
The this, of course, is the privatization of the city’s parking meters. Last September, Chicago’s City Council approved a plan to lease the 36,000 meters to a private operator for 75 years in exchange for $1.15 billion. Mayor Daley has argued that this was an important move to bring the cash-strapped city some income. Just about everyone else seems to feel differently.
Parking rates have increased, in some cases dramatically, and erroneous tickets have been issued, due to broken (or full) meters or inaccurate signage. There’s been public outcry, too, over the process leading to the decision, which was opaque to the public. As a result, drivers have boycotted feeding meters, boycotted parking at meters, and even resorted to vandalism.
One man— who, ironically, doesn’t drive— put up signs.
“Hundreds have came in,” says Wolfson of his paper diatribe. “Hundreds have agreed with me one hundred percent.”
Wolfson, who grew up on the West Side of Chicago, has owned his own business ever since he was 18. First, he worked concessions for a guy at Wrigley Field and Comiskey Park. Eventually, he bought the guy out, and he continued with the work until 1971. Then he got into the bead business.
He’s even opening a new place in Lincoln Park, a gourmet hot dog restaurant. Once it gets approval from the Department of Public Health, his son will manage it.
Though Wilson doesn’t drive to work— his wife drops him off, or he’ll take the bus— he’s still felt the brunt of the parking meter changes. “My wife and me went to Wildfire last week for dinner,” he recalls. “Three dollars for an hour and 25 minutes. Now, Wildfire is crowded; we like our steaks. We go in there, takes you a half an hour to get our food. A-ga-a-ga-a-ga-a-he”— he motions with his hands, as if scarfing down food.
“Fast, you get out there so you don’t get a 50-dollar ticket.”
It riles him up that you have to get up by 8 a.m. on a Sunday to feed the meter. It riles him up that now, if you park at a meter, you barely have time to see a full-length movie. But what really riles him up is the “crooks.”
Aka: the politicians.
“Al Capone was a piker compared to Daley and his crooked politicians in City Hall,” he declares. “At least with Al Capone you knew what you were getting!”
As for more-recent times, “Every governor we had the last— I mean, Ryan’s in jail, and BLA-go-vich [his pronunciation] is selling the seats. But Daley’s getting away with this crap. All of his henchmen get caught, but Daley doesn’t know anything about it. He’s so crooked, it’s uncanny.
“Every term, all his friends get convicted. But this son-of-a-bitch— ‘What? I didn’t know anything about it!’ That’s his whole philosophy. ‘I didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t know anything about it.’ I mean, even with the trucking scandal, he got away with it. Everybody else went down the tubes.”
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| The storefront. Wolfson's signs are at right. (Click on photo to enlarge.) |
“Everybody,” he insists, agrees with his signs, which went up in the window in February. “Everyone. They look at it, they come in, they say ‘one hundred percent.’ A lot of them are fed up.”
As for Mayor Daley, “They gotta’ vote him out of office. I don’t care how big of a machine it is. […] He’s a elected official, not a damn dictator, if that’s who he wants to be. I mean, he tore up the airport; he sold the damn tollways. But this is ridiculous. This is just a rip-off on the people that wanna’ come to Chicago from out of town, have a nice dinner, see a play.”
“Let me tell you,” he continues. “If I was 50 years younger, I would run for damn mayor. I would just go up and down the street to get the 35,000 signatures.”
He pauses.
“Well, not 50 years younger. Maybe 40.”
Right now, like the archetypal Cubs fan, Wolfson’s looking ahead to next year.
“If 5,000 people see that,” he says of the signs, “they’ll tell 5,000 people. Those 5,000 people…
“We’ll get ’em out of office.”
The anthropologist Margaret Mead famously said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful committed citizens can change the world; indeed it's the only thing that ever has.”
If Wolfson and his signs can build up the momentum, we may just see a revolution.
