Risking It All for Love in Chicago

by Stephen J. Lyons

“Chicago is the worst and most dangerous city in the World, by far. [IL Gov. Pritzker] needs help badly, he just doesn’t know it yet. I will solve the crime problem fast, just like I did in DC. Chicago will be safe again, and soon. MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!”

—President Donald J. Trump, September 2, 2025, “Truth” Social.

Recently my wife and I risked it all for love. We traveled to Chicago.

Normally, we aren’t thrill seekers, but all the hotels in Kandahar were booked. Apparently there was a weapons bazaar. Who knew?

Instead, we dusted off our Kevlar vests, updated our wills, loaded up on MREs and, with heart beats nearing the AFIB level, boarded the always dependably late northbound Amtrak in Champaign for the Windy City.

When we arrived at Chicago’s Union Station we ducked under the constant incoming globs of pigeon poop and mysterious rust-colored water drips and entered a frenzied scene. Everyone in the station was either coming or going, or searching for a clean bathroom and a power outlet. It was indeed a war zone.

A desperate young refugee begged me for four dollars so he could get a vegan iced coffee with oat milk, but I only had twenty-dollar bills. Times were tough.

Outside, Jehovah’s Witnesses confronted us. “We told you this day would come!” they shouted. For the first time I felt bad that I had never let them in my house and that I had lied about being a Buddhist.

Chicago streets were in lockdown mode. Avenues were clogged with taxis, Ubers, motorized scooters and people speaking in tongues about the Bears’ poor play calling. My wife was frightened. After all, she shuttered, who spikes the ball instead of trying to get a few more yards closer for a field goal?

We said a quick secular prayer and hailed the first armored personnel carrier we could find. Our driver’s name was Butch. He had a neck tattoo of an exploding plane but I wasn’t too worried. After all, he took VISA. Said he had served in Chicago’s Englewood and West Garfield Park neighborhoods.

“Look,” he said. “I’m not sure I can get you to your hotel alive, but I’ll give it 110 percent. Hang on! Booyah!”

He then locked the doors and inserted a Taylor Swift CD and sped off. I had never felt so helpless.

I looked out the bulletproof glass windows at the urban chaos unfolding in front of us. A line had formed at Pret A Manger, Brooks Brothers was having a massive one-day-only sale and a helicopter flew overhead with a trailing banner that read “Will Buy Your House for Cash.” Surely this was a sign of the times.

Butch weaved in and out of a line of idling black SUVs parked by City Hall. We bounced over massive potholes probably left from IEDs, barely missing suicidal bicycle messengers on their deadly missions. I clutched my wife’s hand, told her I loved her and that if anything happened to me to go ahead with the remodeling plans, but to please take the lower bid.

“Can I do the kitchen, too?” she asked.

The minutes to our hotel seemed like half hours. Sidewalks on Michigan Avenue were packed with hordes of crazed shoppers carrying survivalist-sized parcels from Whole Foods and Morton’s Steak House. It was indeed a Mad House on Michigan.

As we screeched to a halt at the entrance of the Radisson Blu Hotel, Butch said, “No Charge. The card reader is down. Just stay alive, no matter what you do! Now run, dammit, run!”

We dashed like the wind inside to the check-in counter. “Are we too late for Happy Hour,” I asked breathlessly.

“No,” the clerk, said. “The Executive Lounge is still open. Use your key to get in. And that will be $1,700 for three nights.”

Obviously these were wartime prices, but what choice did we have?  We were never so glad to see a two-room luxury suite with the heated toilet seat and complimentary Nespresso machine in our lives.

Later, as we nibbled crab cakes and sipped our third glass of California Pinot Grigio while overlooking the battlefield of Millennium Park I realized just how lucky we were to have survived the day.

 “We need to talk,” said my wife. I emptied my glass and braced myself for what might be coming. “Next year can we just make it easy on ourselves and simply spend our next holiday in Kabul?”

God, I love this woman.

Stephen J. Lyons’ Substack is “The Revolution Starts Here.”