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A Refuge in the Wilderness
Sunday, October 02, 2005
DATELINE: Rosemont, Ill. -- Last night after my reading at the Great Lakes Booksellers Association trade show here, I ventured out of my hotel to find someplace, anyplace, to eat other than the hotel restaurant. Man, what a wasteland. In all directions, as far as I could see, nothing but blackened office towers and parking garages interspersed with small, self-contained oases of life, such as it is, compliments of Hilton, Double Tree and Crown Plaza. The whole soulless mess was connected by vast swaths of pavement. This is a place built for automobiles, not people. Certainly not people on foot.
I set out nonetheless. The bell hop had given me a tip that if I headed south, soon enough I would come to a small Mexican restaurant. I walked. And I walked. It was a trip down Desolation Row. The five-lane-wide roads were empty of traffic; all the buildings dark; I was the only life form, as far as I could tell, anywhere within miles. If this community has a heart, it was nowhere within my sight, and it occurred to me that whoever designed this moonscape should be sentenced to an eternity languishing in the mall.
I soldiered on. Just as I was about to give up and head back -- Hark! Who goes there? -- two humans approached on foot. A middle-aged couple.
"Do you live around here?" I asked. But of course they didn’t. It didn’t appear anyone lived anywhere near here. They were hotel refugees, too. "I was told there was a restaurant down here, but I must have gotten it wrong."
"Maria's?" The man asked. "The Mexican place?"
"Yes, yes, the Mexican place!" I said, resisting the urge to hug him.
"You're almost there. Go to the next light and turn right."
I thanked him and followed his instructions. But around the corner awaited still more darkened office towers and parking garages. What the...? And then I saw it. A tiny little place sitting among the flotsam of modern suburban, office-park life. Maria's. It was as if it had parachuted in from Tijuana and gotten blown off course to this out-of-the-way corner. Inside, the joint was hopping. Pinatas hung from the ceiling and the walls were covered in hand-painted murals. Waiters served up giant margueritas. A flamenco guitarist strolled among the tables, playing. Wow, a pulse in Rosemont!
The salsa, heavy with fresh cilantro was heavenly. The margueritas even more ethereal. My meal, grilled chicken smothered in poblano peppers, was excellent. A couple hours later, I happily strolled back to my hotel, not even minding the sterile landscape around me. So there you have it. A first-person account of a heartbeat in the wilderness. Take it from me. If you find yourself stuck in Rosemont, Ill., without a car or the time to take the train into Chicago, hunt down Maria's Mexican Restaurant. It's worth the trek.
In about an hour I do a signing, then I'm on a plane out of here, back to Pennsylvania and my family.
posted by John Grogan at 10:51 AM
 
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