Chicago: Pot of Borshch

The lady at the hotel bar had a strong Russian accent.

Everyone on the train who didn’t speak English, spoke Russian.

Everyone on the streets downtown who didn’t speak English, spoke Russian.

Our last night, after changing out of business attire and waiting for the shuttle to take us back to the train station, I took a walk around the corner in the hotel lobby to follow the music. It was loud and compelling, all strings and balalaikas interweaving delicious Slavic minor chords. I found a banquet hall full of well-dressed people, each white tablecloth a sea of wineglasses and flower arrangements, a table of honorees upon a dais at one end. A disembodied voice spoke Russian through the loudspeakers, and people applauded and the music swelled; then it dipped, and the voice spoke again and the music swelled and dipped again with the applause. Only because I was raised on American pop culture did it sound vaguely Krasnaya Bratva or Russkaya Mafiya. I believe they were celebrating a baptism.

The wait staff transporting the salads all spoke Russian too.

Not to suggest Chicago specifically is being taken over by a new mob, for the workers at the Hertz franchise at Portland Airport as well as most of the non-English speaking kids at my wife’s school all speak Russian as well. I was just drawn to wonder why the bilingual signs at the airport etc. featured Spanish instead of, I dunno, Chinese.