They are crazy with the skyscrapers in downtown Chicago, US, where we are visiting for a week. At least three are going up, including one shaped like a 2,000ft corkscrew. In no time, the tour guide says, you will be able to see all the way to Indiana from these new monsters of the midway. They never say why anybody would really want to.

But it is a glorious town, Chicago. It is about comfort food, soaring spires, Da Bears and constant repairs to the Dan Ryan Expressway. You would think a town that could reverse the direction of its major river, or build some of the most interesting towers in all the world, could pour a road that would survive a Midwestern winter. Apparently not.

Chronic turmoil

The expressways here are in chronic turmoil. The Kennedy has had more work than Joan Rivers' audience. The Dan Ryan is like a Roman ruin. The bedrock of this fair city must be more bed than rock.

"Over here, where the Sun-Times used to be, is Donald Trump's latest vision," the tour guide says. Meanwhile, down at the government courthouse, an alleged mobster known as Joey 'The Clown' Lombardo is on trial, accused of murder, entertaining the room with stories about shoeshine boys and cheap coppers.

It is like a scene out of a Cagney film. At one point, the judge scolds the defendant and the attorneys for too much laughter. You can almost hear the ghost of Al Capone: "Go get 'em, Joey boy."

Childhood memories

That is Chicago. Texture. Humour. Frustration. History. Back in the suburbs, I stand in the kitchen of the house where I grew up, staring at the biggest jar of mayonnaise you ever saw. In the suburbs, they think big, too. "You could lube a bus with that thing," my wife says.

"Did you see the way Nonnie salted her chicken?" the little girl whispers. Yes, I did. The little girl's grandmother likes a chicken salted just so. She likes her sandwiches with a nice smear of Hellmann's and her burgers cherry pink. Nonnie is 84 years old. Nonnie does not need our advice.

Besides, for five days I too have eaten like Henry VIII. One day, I had an Italian beef sandwich so peppery and thick that I have been having post-traumatic stress. So, yes, I have probably put on ten pounds during my Chicago visit, most of it meat. At breakfast, we discuss lunch. At lunch, we dream of dinner. The Midwest is a Mardi Gras of hearty grub.

Each morning, I repent by jogging down the steamy streets, while the little guy explores every corner of my boyhood home, where fishing rods and hockey sticks still line the garage. "He hit a home run today, he hit a home run," he sings, a tune with only ten words that he performs over and over.

The little guy is on a mission to reclaim the streets of the US for urchins like him. It is not easy. Yet, he manages to coax some fine summer experiences from the soggy plains. He dances through spider webs. He digs for night crawlers. For him, it is all about how you approach life. He counts among his friends, all of the major superheroes. And every dog he has ever met.

"Hey, the Wagners are here," someone shouts. Talk about superheroes. The Wagner boys are a legend in these parts. Not so long ago (40 years), they had one of the best backyards of all time. They were always building go-karts or racing mini-bikes.

The Wagners arrive just before sundown, the way old buddies should — on motorcycles.

Reliving old days

We chat as if we are in a tavern somewhere, reliving the old days. As you will recall, the late Sixties were an American renaissance. Back then, childhood was not just a career track.

It is about then, I hear her yell. "He's choking!" my wife screams from the kitchen. The culprit: a grape. The victim: the little guy. In the kitchen, the 4-year-old looks at me with muddy eyes. For the first time in his life, he is unable to make a sound.

"Come here," I say, and Heimlich him so hard that his feet lift 6 inches off the tile floor. Nothing. "We'll get it," I assure him, and Heimlich him again, launching him even higher. Still nothing. "Here, lemme have a look," says my buddy Jim. He peers into the little guy's mouth, reaches in with an index finger and flicks a perfect grape from the front of his guppy throat.

"Cancel that," my wife tells the 911 (emergency) operator.

"Can you say thanks?" I ask the little guy. "Thanks," he says, extending the best handshake of his life. A home-run handshake. Thanks, old buddy. Can I breathe now?

Go there...Chicago

From the UAE
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— Information courtesy: The Holiday Lounge by Dnata

By Chris Erskine, Los Angeles Times-Washington Post News Service

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