Andersonville

View from the Quincy Street El station.

Trains are wonderful things when they run on time. Despite being strapped for cash and perpetually on the edge of service cutbacks and fare hikes, the Regional Transportation Authority-Chicago Transit Authority tag team delivered me where I wanted to go this morning with cumulative delays totaling maybe 45 seconds. I could set my watch by the Metra train into the city, as always, and even though the Brown and Red Line tracks are under construction, the longest wait I had on a platform was about seven minutes. And if I had gone up the stairs a little faster, I would have caught the first train and not had to wait at all.

I am torn about the automated system on the CTA trains, which removed conductors from their jobs and put everything on the shoulders of the motormen. Job loss bad. Timely audible announcements good.

The object of today's solo quest was Women and Children First, a stalwart among the dwindling number of woman-owned independent bookstores in the country. Linda, one of the owners, happily showed me around and recommended several books (her list here). I ended up buying Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen (autographed copy!), set in a traveling circus in the 1930s, which Linda gushed about. The book, not the circus.

Women and Children First, on Clark Street north of Foster.

Andersonville was a nice neighborhood for walking, its side streets full of big leafy trees and nice to jaw-dropping brownstones.

Brownstone, jaw-dropping variety.

And by 12:30 the neighborhood was fairly swarming with dyke couples shuttling among the Swedish bakeries, Turkish restaurants, dog delis, and sidewalk cafes. I was accosted by a well-meaning young HRC rep clutching a binder. I declined to give her any money, but thanked her for her work.

Apparently even the Baptists like us in Andersonville.

The last side trip before the return El hop back downtown and Metra out to sunny DuPage was Early to Bed, a renowned woman-owned sex toy shop. It was much smaller than I expected, far more boutique than superstore (or even Walgreen's). "I Touch Myself" was playing on the stereo when I walked in--a nice, if inadvertent touch--and the single girl behind the counter was friendly without being pushy. I guess a sex toy shop is about the last place I want a hovering sales clerk, so it worked out well for both of us. I got to see (and heft, waggle, and cautiously poke) many things I had never before seen in the flesh. It was an impressive selection. I'll leave it at that.