Hitchhiking gets a bad rap in the US. Many people consider it to be extremely dangerous, not to mention unreliable. In addition, numerous drivers would not even consider stopping to pick up a hitchhiker, rendering the act moot to begin with. Luckily, other countries have differing attitudes regarding this method of transport. I’ve hitchhiked three times, in 2 different countries, and plan to continue utilizing it as a means to cross distances where public transportation is either scarce or non-existent.

Ways of asking for rides differ by location. Hitchwiki has an excellent breakdown of gestures, a packing list, etiquette, and other useful tips for beginners and seasoned pros alike. In the US and Europe, a “thumbs up” motion will suffice for advising drivers that you need a ride. However, do not use the same gesture in the Middle East or West Africa. This is the equivalent of telling the drivers “up yours”. That is, unless you want to ensure that no one picks you up. In these places, angle your arm downwards and point with two fingers towards the ground. In South America, keep your palm towards the direction of traffic with your index finger pointed up. These subtle differences can mean the difference between not being stranded and hoping that a hotel miraculously appears next to your port of call. Remember to smile, look drivers in the eye, appear as friendly as possible, and be flexible on drop points. Give cars plenty of visibility. Not every car will go to your intended destination; rather, the journey will likely be broken up into multiple lengths in the direction of where you’re trying to go.

I’ve hitchhiked in Oviedo and Córdoba, Spain, as well as 3/4 the length of Jordan in an afternoon. A lack of public transport forced my hand, but hitchhking is also an enjoyable way to meet locals as well as get a glimpse into their culture.

My first hitchhking experience took place in Oviedo, Spain. The couchsurfing host and myself had just walked up a steep pass in order to get a viewpoint above the town. After over an hour of mostly uphill climbing, we had reached the top, but were exhausted. As the public transportation options were at the time, non-existent, the only way back down was to extend a thumb. Fortunately, within a few minutes, a car of senior citizens pulled over. They offered to take us to the bus station in town, which we gratefully accepted. It was as if our grandparents had provided a lift. The four friends joked around with us, inquiring about our backgrounds, impressions of Oviedo, and general lifestyle. Although understanding them was difficult, the short journey was cordial overall and they dropped us off, without needing a transfer or asking for money.

The second time again took place in Spain, with a similar backstory. In this case, I was visiting a Decathlon outlet on the weekend, on the outskirts of the city, and had arrived by bus. Not knowing the bus schedule and lacking the call minutes to phone a taxi, I waited outside the stop for at least thirty minutes, hoping the bus would pass by. After realizing that there was going to be no bus, I again extended a thumb, hoping some passerby would take pity. Again, luck was on my side. A black Renault pulled over, with a German woman asking my destination. She offered transit to the train station, as it was a central point in the town. We conversed the entire ride back, with her pointing out the massive inconsistencies in the bus system on the weekends. With that knowledge at hand, I may have attempted to hitch both ways. As seen here, it can often be more reliable than the town-sponsored transport service.

The third and most recent time took place in Amman, Jordan. Unlike the first two, hitchhiking was actually planned. Myself and a Danish backpacker were in Wadi Rum, in the far south of the country, and needed to get back to Amman, in the north. The distance between the two cities is 319 kilometers, or around 200 miles. There is no direct public transportation between the two, as all buses would route through Aqaba, further south, and then transit to Amman. This didn’t make sense. Why would we backtrack to end up in the same spot? Enter hitchhiking. As we had a full day to make the trip, it was of no importance how long the journey would take.

Leo, the Dane, spoke to a taxi driver who graciously dropped us off for no charge at a highway pass. After exiting, we were planning on how to signal, exit strategies, how to survive if no rides were offered, when, not but a minute after getting off, pulls over a black Mercedes. We had caught the eye of the driver and both made the hitchhiking gesture, two fingers towards the ground. The driver and his passenger got out and asked where we were going. Leo spoke intermediate Arabic, so was able to get the point across of our journey. The car was driving to Ma’an, 80 kilometers north. This is where Petra is located. Leo was trying to get straight to Amman, but we decided it would be best to take the ride and figure out next steps when we were 80 kilometers closer to our final destination. With a mix of his Arabic and my charades, we were able to convey basic information to the driver, who seemed more interested in testing the boundaries of his car’s speedometer. We quickly arrived to Ma’an, after passing a series of checkpoints. These were breezed through and we were never in danger, due to catching a glimpse of the driver’s guarded police badge.

After being dropped on the side of the highway in Ma’an, we needed to wait a whole 30 seconds before a massive truck pulled over. Mohammed was heading to the outskirts of Amman and would gladly give us a ride. Although another conversation primarily held with charades, Mohammed spoke a few words of English, and we shared stories of our families. Whether or not any of it was understood, in either language, is a moot point. Halfway through the trip, Mohammed pulled over for gas and asked how we liked our coffee. Refusing to accept payment, he bought us qawah arabiyya bdouin sokkar – Arabic coffee without sugar. We sipped our gas station coffees and made small talk the rest of the route to Amman. I gave Mohammed a keychain from Chicago to say thanks and as a memory of his riders. Again, he refused payment and gave us directions to get back to our hostel. End to end had taken around six hours, 300 kilometers, 2 cars, and one unforgettable experience.

Overall, mil gracias and shukran ktiir to the various drivers who have given me lifts over the years. Hitchhking is a valuable tool in the travelers’ arsenal, and when approached properly, can provide for countless stories, memories, and new friends.

Hospitality to foreigners characterizes Jordan. From serving endless portions of lamb, mansaf, coffee/tea, and other dishes, to treating the guest as king, visitors can look forward to the perpetual kindness bestowed from the Jordanian people. In my case, it extended to couchsurfing, hitchhiking, partying, and eating. A combination of being in the right place at the right time, blind luck, and friendliness made it an experience impossible to forget.

It all started with the fortune of a cheap flight. Booked 3 weeks out and granted permission to take time off work, I headed to Amman with zero plans, other than seeing Petra and Wadi Rum. The fabled rose city, half as old as time, and T.E. Lawrence’s camp are two of the most well-known landmarks in the country and easy to visit, thanks to entrepreneurial transport options. However, to see these wonders, I would first have to make it into the capital. A friend picked me up at the airport around midnight as we drove towards my hostel, making transit stops for coffee, shawerma, and sightseeing. It’s common for the proprietor to refuse to take your dinars, followed by you insisting that he must. This exchange goes back and forth, until he finally accepts. However, make sure to pay. This is a cultural nuance that is not quickly picked up on. What made everything more wonderful was the two hours of sleep followed by the 5 am call to prayer from the Muezzin, shattering the silence and the food-filled dreams of yours truly. This ride was the start of numerous encounters with the generosity of locals.

Fast forward a few days as we head off to Petra. Located in the town of Wadi Musa (Moses’ desert), for entry, it’s necessary to purchase a pass, either day, one, or two. The price decreases by duration to thwart the hoards of tourists taking day trips from Israel. I ended up couchsurfing, staying with THE most well-known host in the entire country, Ghassab. BBC even had a special on him. Having hosted over 500 surfers in both his village and cave, Ghassab and his pink jeep were celebrities within the community. Unfortunately when I arrived, his engine had exploded, making cavesurfing impossible. So I stayed in his village, at his house. Not content with me hailing a taxi, a friend of his offered transit. So we set off, conversing in charades and driving through the desert landscapes, with dabke blasting through the 4×4’s feeble sound system. After miles of dunes and passing through a small village, we arrived at Ghassab’s humble abode.

Ghassab laid plate after plate of bedouin cuisine in front of me, as we watched German news and talked about life. As luck would have it, he asked if I had accommodation in Wadi Rum, which I did not. He then made a call to his cousin, who owned a camp, and set a place aside for me. Ghassab had attended university in Germany, though returned years ago back to homeland, where he owned a tour company. A bedouin and native of Petra, he gave advice on the terrain, history, and possible scams that could occur. Later, his friends came over as they ate, drank bedouin whisky (tea) and discussed ongoings. They spoke no english, so he translated. For those looking for a couchsurfing host in Petra, it would be criminal to pass over Ghassab.

After exploring Petra for 2 days and nearly getting lost on the back trails in Little Petra, it was time to head south to Wadi Rum. Via a shared taxi, a fellow Danish backpacker living in Ramallah, and myself found ourselves at the gateway to the desert. This desert however, spellbinds all who look upon it. To quote Lawrence, “the crags were capped in nests of domes, less hotly red than the body of the hill….They gave the finishing semblance of Byzantine architecture to this irresistible place: this processional way greater than imagination.” Deserts have a powerful effect on the mind. So vast, so harsh, and yet so magisterial at the same time. Adding to this magisterial effect was the camp, packed with goat-hair tents, refugee from the rampant and relentless sun.

As nighttime fell, the desert heat subsided. With it brought a cool blanket of darkness, that illuminated the sands via the vast sea of stars. As the camp was enveloped by nightfall, a large family came out to celebrate. Seemingly on cue, twenty to thirty locals pulled out picnic tables, coolers, hookahs, and set up shop. The Dane and I wandered over to be social and were greeted with the typical “welcome to Jordan, where are you from?” However, it took a loop after. “United States” I replied. “Where?” responded Youssef, the man in charge of the operation. “Midwest”. “Where?” “Wisconsin”. “Where?”. “Milwaukee.” “Milwaukee!? – my sister lived there for 9 years! I lived in Houston!” Bonded by this location, Youssef exclaimed “Wisconsin, you must celebrate with us tonight! Help yourselves; we have plenty of food, drinks, whatever you want. You are with us”. True to his word, bottles of Johnnie Walker Black and Grey Goose emerged as we made ourselves drinks, ate hommos and tabbouleh, and partied into the night with this massive Jordanian Christian family. Youssef introduced everyone in the group, as hookahs were lit and music was blasted through the speakers in the communal tent. We tried dancing Dabke, as his Lebanese friend showed a few steps, but resigned ourselves to the numerous mint and apple shisha flavors. Welcoming complete strangers into a family event and treating them like long-term friends – the hallmark of Jordanian hospitality.

Acts like this, albeit not the same degree, happen all over the country. Being invited for tea, coffee, a meal, or just to talk are commonplace. By being open to experiencing their culture and pastimes as well, you open yourself to an entirely new world of potential experiences. Others, such as hitchhiking are frequent, and will be touched upon later. All in all, Jordan is a place where hospitality to guests comes first and is tantamount to a good relationship.

 

 

 

When Ukraine is mentioned, what comes to mind? Perhaps the separatist fighters involved in the war in the Donbass region. If you’re a football fan, then likely Dynamo Kiev, who makes the Europa league tournament annually. Well, let’s take a trip east of downtown to wander through Ukrainian Village, take in the sights, and hear about more than just the ever-present game of war that holds Ukraine between the EU and Russia.

 

For starters, drop the “the”. Ukraine is proper name for this country. If you prefer a transliteration, then utilize Ukrayina. There’s a lot more to this former Soviet republic than meets the eye. However, as we are short of hryvnias, a jaunt through this neighborhood populated by immigrants who settled here after the fall of communism will suffice.

 

Starting at the western edge of the neighborhood, we stroll past shops advertising a modicum of shipping, legal, insurance, and other services like any other borough. Only this time, the names may be a little harder to read. How’s your knowledge of Cyrillic? If you want to be able to understand what’s written, knowledge of this alphabet is necessary. Careful though, not all Cyrillic alphabets are created equal. There are a few distinct letters, which may blur comprehension. Then there’s the language effect. As an ex-Soviet republic, many Ukrainians, especially those from Kiev, fluently speak the mother tongue of their previous satellite comrade. However, coming through the neighborhood speaking Russian is akin to putting ketchup on a Chicago dog, you heathen. Similar are the languages, but that’s like saying you’re from Chicago and hail from oh, Naperville. It’s just not the same.

 

Strolling through Ukrainian Village is a like a smaller Lviv, except it’s only about a mile long. Fortunately, this reduces our travel time significantly. Instead of a 10-hour flight, it’s roughly a 20-minute walk with no jet lag. In addition, this neighborhood is full of attractions, for all interests.

 

In Ukraine, 97% of the religious communities are Christian, with around half the makeup being Orthodox. This lends well to the two churches that quite literally tower over the skyline. When heading east, go slightly south and reach the St. Volodymyr Ukrainian Orthodox Church. Founded in 1968 and offering services in English and Ukrainian, the church serves as a focal point for art, religion, and learning opportunities. The entrance features a golden mosaic of its namesake titled the Baptism of the Ukrainians, represented alongside his mother, St. Olha. In addition to the divinity of the painting, the church’s 5 domes are modeled after the Hagia Sophia, or the Aya Sofia, in Istanbul. Enter this house of worship and become awestruck by the numerous frescos decorating its walls depicting the life of Christ, the apostles, and the Virgin Mary. These masterpieces would not look out of place in the Art Institute and unlike the museum, won’t charge a $23 entrance fee. Spend that on some Ukrainian gastronomy, which we’ll cover later. The other church, St. Nicholas, was constructed in the style of St. Sophia’s in Kiev. 13 weathered onion-shaped green domes dot the skyline, visible from anywhere in the community. Golden mosaics dot the front door, and standing in awe, struck by the chiming bells and the chatter of Ukrainian passing through the streets, one can’t help but feel taken back to the old country, transported in time through the beauty and elegance of every vertigo-inducing steeple, dome, and painting. This is no downtown.

 

Next to the museum lie the fascinating Ukrainian National Museum and the Ukranian Cultural Center. To enter, simply pay the $5 suggested donation and enter into a world of art, history, traditional dress, and yes, what us non-Ukrainians would refer to as decorative Easter eggs. Known as Pysanky, these works of wax are covered in historical and other significant symbols. Certain motifs date back to pre-Christian times, older than the cracks in the pavement on Fullerton. The eggs are dyed in multiple colorations, which creates a hypnotic effect when the wax is removed. Just don’t look for chocolate inside. You may break a tooth.

 

If you enter during a quieter hour, as the museum is solely open Thursday – Sunday, you may be lucky enough to get a semi-guided tour. The docent sat in the same rooms I occupied through each of the 3 floors, able to answer any question about traditional garb, holidays, instruments, culture, and more. The museum contains insight into the lesser-known Holodomor, or the hunger plague. Otherwise known as the Ukrainian genocide, as many as 12 million Ukrainians were said to have perished. I’ll leave more details to the visitor. Also, there’s a section on the 2014 protests in Maidan Square in Kiev, after leadership vetoed joining the EU. The struggle for inclusion is well documented and cloth from the very square is included. Both current pieces, quite literally, of history and the past are in abundance and presented with a wealth of knowledge. There’s also a work in progress on the top floor, but I won’t reveal details.

 

Near to the museum, there’s the Ukrainian Museum of Modern Art. Often, rotating collections will come through and although small, those in favor of modern art will enjoy their brief passing by. Admission is via a suggested donation, and like the above, hours are rather limited. A bi-lingual crowd is present throughout the neighborhood, so feeling out of place as a native English speaker is rather commonplace. Don’t worry, it builds character.

 

After all that cultural exploration, you’re likely hungry. Thankfully, like its former controller, your hunger will be vanquished after perusing a number of the local spots. Shokolad, Trident, and Old Lviv provide authentic dishes like Pelmini, Varenyky (don’t call me Pierogi), Borscht, and daily specials. Come for the food; stay because you can’t actually move from the filling portions. For a lighter snack, Rich’s, Ann’s, and Kasia’s all over deli and grocery service, providing your favorite old world favorites such as stuffed cabbage, potato pancakes, hunter’s stew, variations on the word pierogi, and herring. Great food, low prices, and service with an Eastern European smile. That’s to say, none at all.

 

After this short stroll through a slice of Eastern Europe, if you so desire to visit Ukraine, it’s rather easy to do so. Visas are not required for EU or US passport holders and flights are connected with British Airways, Lufthansa, Austrian, LOT Polish, and KLM; all offering routes from O’Hare. Due to the massive fall in the domestic currency’s exchange rate over the past couple years, Ukraine is an inexpensive destination. Notable city break opportunities include Odessa, Kiev, and Lviv. The eastern part of the country is still mired in conflict, but many other destinations remain safe for tourism. Learn the alphabet, learn a few words, and book your flight. If you’ve enjoyed this slice of Ukraine, the whole pie is going to taste a lot sweeter.

 

 

 

All around the world, one of the most well-known, loved/hated, and common forms of transportation is the night bus. Utilized to save a night in a hotel and cut daytime travel down, the night bus is loved by few, hated by a few more, and utilized by most. Its convenience and plentiful options, especially when a night train route doesn’t exist, is seen from the developing to the developed world. Naturally, said development can be reflected in standards of comfort, cost, fellow passengers (livestock included), and seat selection. Having taken night buses around the world, some better than others, my expectations were simple: a reclining seat, legroom, personal space, and bathroom access. None of the above were about to be met.

Night buses cover the major routes while backpacking Southeast Asia. In Vietnam, said buses are known for their mostly lie-flat seats, comfort, and space. The Thai night buses offer a similar amount of space, plush reclining seats, and enough air conditioning to turn water into ice. Cambodian buses, on the other hand, present none of the above. At least the one I took, about 6 hours in length, was the equivalent of being offered a cot in an airport. Luxury, it is not. I was headed to Battambang, on the western side of the country, before transiting into the capital, Phnom Penh.

The first sign that the journey was going to drag on was the actual “seating” itself. Most night buses function in the same manor as city buses, with seats that recline and are built for sleeping. If you’re lucky, there’s also a modicum of leg room so that yours aren’t immediately crushed when the passenger in front of you cranks their backrest back. However, in Cambodia, these seats take the form of mattresses. Double mattresses to be exact. Yes, for your journey, you will be “seated” on an inflexible double bed. Also, if you’re solo, there will be a random person next to you. Need to meet people in Cambodia? Only travel by night bus. You’ll get accommodated quickly. I presume that if there was a couple, they would be able to request “seats” next to each other, should space remain.

The second sign was the length of the bed. In Cambodia, people are smaller than in the West. Being 1.91m / 6’3 does not leave much room for adjustment, as the beds are only about 1.60m / 5’3 end to end. Next to a random stranger. Ergo, for the entire ride, I was scrunched up knees-to-chest, lying on the equivalent of a down plywood board. Now, this would be more acceptable should the space by built for one. Swing and a miss.

I had the fortune of ending up next to a computer salesman, who, let’s call Jack. Jack didn’t mind the ride, as he actually fit in the compartment without having to partially assume the fetal position. He spoke English, and inquired about my trip and general thoughts on the country. He also had a lengthy diatribe on government corruption and how it affected his personal business ongoings. His family lived near Battambang, and was en route to see them, after months of being away doing business. He also apologized profusely for his “lack” of English skills, as is common in non-anglophone locales. Naturally, Jack’s English was excellent. Striving for a better life for his family, he would spent long periods of time in various provinces to earn a living. In addition, he took pity on my inflexibility and lack of contortion skills in being able to lie down comfortably. Jack kindly positioned himself near the edge, to allow me an extra bit of space. When your knees spend the ride at a 90 degree angle, any additional comfort is welcomed.

The third and final sign was the deficit of any shock or noise-reducing components. No Cambodia, a flimsy curtain is not suddenly going to cut out all wayward, shrieking conversations from the melange of nearby passengers. Add in Khmer’s tonality and zero noise canceling properties of the bus, and there was little sleep to be had. Also, having nothing to block the incoming light from sleeping next the window was a rude awakening when the sun rose. There is nothing better than a bumpy, cramped, stiff, and noisy night bus journey. On the bright side, we didn’t crash. The night bus in Cambodia made the Megabus look like a first class Emirates trip. And that’s with mine catching on fire and exploding.

For those looking to add a little spice and leg cramps to their overland journey throughout Southeast Asia, I recommend taking a few night buses. Traveling with locals and experiencing their mode of transport was an eye-opening ride. Quite literally, because I couldn’t fall asleep.

 

Do you ever dream of visiting India? Basking in the aromatics of saffron, gazing upon the majestic Taj Mahal, and absorbing the cacophony of languages and street vendors, but lack the rupees to do so? How about Pakistan? Sip bountiful quantities of chai, feast on succulent stewed goat, and uncover the friendliness and generosity of those branded members of the so-called “axis of evil” but a decade ago? Fear not. You don’t need to overcome endless bureaucracy for a visa or panic over yet another overblown travel advisory warning; all that’s necessary comes via the 49B bus or a car. Welcome to Devon Avenue.

The name “Devon” brings to mind perhaps a drab, listless street ransacked of activity save the occasional bar or restaurant. The reality couldn’t be further from that baseless observation. 11 miles (18 kilometers) from the Loop in the neighborhood of Rogers Park calls this shock to the senses home. The street is just a small sample of the 82 languages spoken in said neighborhood. Polyglots and linguists rejoice. Anyone expecting the pleasantries of yet another Starbucks, Gino’s, or Portillo’s will be sorely disappointed.

We start the journey on the Far East side, dropping by Devon Market. If you’re in the mood for some ex-Soviet bloc libations, you’ve come to the right place, comrade. Beer, wine, and a plum brandy called a derivation of Slivovitz reign supreme. Every spirit is equally tasty, but some are tastier than the others. Nearby, Little Lagos Market and La Unica Food Mart offer your choice of Nigerian and Colombian options, without the need to be stuck in bumper-to-bumper driving or deal with para-military groups. Order all the goat, egusi, and arepas desired and avoid any of the corruption or oil wealth.

Moving on, get back in the car or the 49B bus, and drive 1-2 miles and prepare your native-english tongue to be of the minority. One such stop is Ghareeb Nawaz, or helper of the poor, in Urdu. Inside, it resembles a cafeteria, with substantial portions of Biryani, Aloo Masala, and Daal heaped onto platters and churned out quicker than Devon Hester returning a punt. However, this establishment is frequented by a diverse group of families, imams, immigrants, and foodies alike. A mix of astronomically low prices given the quantity and a sense of community gives Ghareeb a welcoming air. This is sensed especially when sharing a table with an elderly Pakistani, a Chechen family, and yours truly. It was quite the blend of cultures, languages, rice, spices, and sounds from the kitchen. Here, you’ll hear Urdu, Hindi, and other regional Indian languages.

Our next stop is to disembark from the selected mode of transit and switch to a trusty compatriot – your own two feet. Here, act like the early settlers, and head West. We’re not on the Magnificent Mile anymore. Devon is home to numerous grocery stores, bakeries, local markets, cell phone shops, and travel agencies with a twist. It would be a more herculean task to list each business than getting India and Pakistan to come to terms over Kashmir. Leave all pre-conceptions and empty stomachs at the door and enter a world that would not look out of place on the streets of Lahore, minus the traffic. It’s a naan question.

When you’ve grown disillusioned with trying to decipher the various names written in Hindi, Urdu, and Arabic, head on over to Argo Georgian Bakery. Named after the Argonauts, who searched for the Golden Fleece in Colchis, thought today to be Northwest Georgia, Argo provides a difference sense arousal. Russian, Georgian, and Ukrainian are all present here. Order the Khachapuri, a flaky cheese pastry, and absorb the memorabilia and display from a country many may not know existed, let alone able to find on a map. There is also a small grocery available, so you can purchase adjika, a red pepper condiment from the Caucasus, to make your dishes just like your babushka did. Just don’t attempt to dance Lezginka. This establishment adds Russian and Georgian to the mix, diversion from the Latin alphabet and increasing our language total. Na zdrovye.

Continue wandering the streets and one will see more Salwars than sweatshirts, headscarves than Hollister, perhaps an abaya, and traditional wedding gowns that put the tuxedo to shame in glamour. Devon is a complete parallel to the masses inhabiting the Loop and nearby areas. Be prepared for spice, heat, unpronounceable dishes, befuddlement with every script, and a sensual feast that stretches the length of Asia. You’ll ask, is that Arabic? Hindi? Urdu? Bengali? What on earth is garam masala? Why is this tea pink? And why am I so enthralled with the surroundings?

To the very West, a small Middle Eastern section holds court. The phenomenal Taza Bakery sits atop the throne and instead of patronage, provides fresh zaatar, shawarma, baklava, and falafel. Enjoy Iraqi pop as well as the employees pumping out fresh bread and yelling amongst themselves in their Mesopotamian Arabic dialect. It’s as if the boisterous Italian family restaurant was shipped off to the Islamic world. Continue to not understand anything said or written in the languages above and enjoy. Order a tea and enjoy the locations, inshallah.

Make no mistake, Devon is a surreal locale. Encompassing bits of South Asia, Eurasia, the Middle East, and Africa, this long strip of road is home to a cultural experience not easily replicated in the Windy City. In addition to its numerous cuisines and languages, the people-watching opportunities are top-notch. In an ever-globalizing world, it becomes more important than ever to understand our international brethren. Regardless of one’s nationality, we’re all inhabitants of the globe and should strive to understand each other’s cultures, sensitivities, and palates. As a result, Devon is an excellent place to witness a blending of cultures and histories to create a whirlwind of diversity. Wake up and smell the cumin, stroll the streets and meet its inhabitants. Just don’t expect to find frappachinos, deep dish, and Italian beef.