Don't ask for unsweet tea: all tea is unsweet tea.

That is the sweet reminder I provide my dad with every time we travel. As if his Southern drawl, barely decipherable above the Mason-Dixon, weren't obvious enough, his request for "unsweet tea" draws the inevitable, "You're not from around here, are you?"

We touched down in Chicago, in the Land of Lincoln, yesterday around 3. After an AC-less cab ride into the city, we needed an hour in the hotel room (which is approximately the size of a matchbox) to let our clothes air out (graphic, yes, but it was THAT bad). Next, we went to Petterino's, a bistro-style restaurant in the Theater District. We sat outside, at Cheryl's insistence, and it wasn't long before I regretted this decision.

Let me take you back to a time several years ago. Picture it: London, 2003. Unfamiliar with international travel, my folks and I arrived a few hours before we were able to check into our hotel. Deliriously tired from an overseas flight, we trudged to the nearest McDonald's-- adventurous, I know-- in search of coffee and Coca-Cola. There we sit, crabby and tired and sipping our caffeine-friendly beverages, when I noticed a woman sitting across from us rambling on. At first there was a waitress behind her clearing used trays off the top of the trash can, so I assumed that's who Crazy was talking to. Before too long, though, the waitress was gone and Crazy's rant continued.

First mistake: eye contact. As soon as my little eyes connected with Crazy's, I had purchased a one-way ticket to Wacko World. It wasn't long before Crazy was yelling at me, accusing me of murdering her friend Terry. Dad thought she was possessed, Mom went the schizophrenic route, and I just prayed for delivery.

Fast forward to our dinner last night at Petterino's, and wouldn't you know Crazy's long-lost American cousin found my little family there at our sidewalk table. At first I wasn't sure Crazy 2.0 spoke English, but every ten words or so I made out a phrase: "...was a marine...," "buy me a sandwich," "in Iraq they pay to get killed." We got a solid 5-minute-feels-like-eternity speech before he wandered off to one of our neighbors. Oh, but he came back. I, resident loonie magnet, had learned my eye contact lesson. Not Captain Fun, though. Oh no, Never-Met-a-Stranger-Tim was wide-eyed and fully engaged as our street friend rambled on.

Eventually, he was scared off by neighborhood law enforcement, and our evening resumed it's normal touristy track.

More adventures from Chi-Town coming your way after dinner.