Resentments are festering again, and I’m beginning to ferret out the cause. It’s no one’s fault, just people’s differing habits. It will come to a head soon, but I think I’ll know what to do. In the meantime, we’re off to Chicago, if we can find it. Miles of road construction later, we blunder our way into Gary, hurtled down a marked off ramp into a no-man’s-land of rusted girders and plowed up roadways, with a thin ribbon of temporary asphalt wavering down the middle. At its end, we find three roads but no sign anywhere telling us which is the right one. Then, across the way, we spy words and an arrow, spray painted in graffiti black. I-94, it says, and the arrow points left. It could have sent us anywhere, but it steered us right, and we are out of the maze and onto the interstate, and the Chicago skyline soon appears. The venue, Lincoln Hall, is lovely and we are well received. It’s another night at Motel 6, and then north across Wisconsin, headed for Minneapolis.