The Frost of the Windy City
Living in West Des Moines, I’ve always felt like we sit somewhere near the center of the American map. Not exactly north, not exactly south, but close enough to the Canadian side of the continent that winter really means something here. When people talk about cold weather, I sometimes smile. Up here, anything above freezing almost feels pleasant.
Among my friends, taking a walk at 1°C isn’t considered a challenge. It’s just… Tuesday evening.
This is what I jokingly call the “Actual U.S.” — the part where the air has teeth and the people quietly learn to live with it.
My friends from Texas see things very differently.
For them, cold weather is something closer to punishment. So when we all met in Chicago a couple of months ago, I knew the city was going to test their limits. Chicago doesn’t just get cold; it specializes in cold. The kind that slides under your jacket and stays there.
That evening the skyline of Chicago was almost invisible. Thick fog rolled between the buildings like slow-moving smoke. Streetlights glowed softly through the mist, and the wind coming off the lake carried a damp chill that made even thick gloves feel useless.
We were layered up like explorers, yet somehow the cold still managed to sneak in.
The Prelude
The evening before our downtown adventure felt almost like planning a small expedition.
Six adults, two teenagers, and three younger kids gathered around a table. The younger ones sat with their usual cans of Coca-Cola, completely unaware of the serious planning happening around them.
For the adults, those cans served a slightly different purpose.
Let’s just say they were mixers.
Soon the conversation became louder, the laughter easier, and the plans increasingly ambitious. Someone suggested we start before sunrise. Someone else insisted we needed to visit at least five landmarks. At one point we even debated which train car would be “strategically ideal.”
Eventually I grabbed a small piece of paper and began writing everything down like a serious planner.
Wake-up time.
Train station.
Landmarks.
Backup plans.
It looked impressively organized.
And the next morning, of course, I forgot that paper completely on the table.
The Journey
Morning arrived with that sharp Midwest cold that wakes you up instantly.
We layered up in thermals, jackets, gloves, scarves — basically everything we owned — and piled into my trusted Nissan Rogue.
The drive to the Aurora train station was short but quiet. The roads were still half asleep. When we arrived, the parking lot looked strangely empty, almost like a scene from an early morning movie.
A wide stretch of asphalt with only a few cars scattered around.
I parked as close to the platform as possible. Not for convenience, but for survival. In that wind, every extra step outside felt like a bad decision.
The station itself was simple. No gates. No crowds. Just a straight path from the parking lot to the platform.
In the distance we saw the glowing screen of a ticket kiosk.
My friend and I walked quickly toward it, hands buried deep in our pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold wind. A few quick taps on the screen and our tickets were printed.
Then we waited.
Ten quiet minutes on the platform.
The only real sound was the wind… and occasionally the faint rhythm of teeth chattering from someone in our group.
Then slowly, through the fog, a massive shadow appeared.
The train.
It rolled toward us slowly, its lights cutting through the mist. At first I thought it was simply slowing down for the station. But once we were inside, I realized something funny.
That was its normal speed.
For the next hour we watched the frozen Midwest landscape drift past the windows — empty fields, silent suburbs, and distant factories — all slowly leading us toward the gray, magnificent heart of Chicago.
Into the City
The train station in downtown Chicago felt enormous. Not elegant exactly, but powerful.
High ceilings. Steel beams. Echoing footsteps.
It reminded me of a giant cave built out of stone and metal. People moved quickly in every direction, rushing past each other like determined ants.
Shoes clicked sharply against the floor. Somewhere nearby a coffee machine hissed loudly.
The air smelled like a mix of old coffee, cold air, and that metallic scent that always seems to follow trains. Large digital boards hung from the ceiling, constantly flipping through the names of distant towns while a calm voice over the loudspeaker announced arrivals and departures.
Millennium Park
Not far from the station sits one of the most vibrant places in the city: Millennium Park.
After the heavy architecture of the station, stepping into the park felt like entering a completely different atmosphere. Open space. Fresh air. Trees. Art. People moved slowly here. Tourists took photos. Street musicians played music near the famous pavilion. Families wandered through the pathways.
And of course, there it was the famous sculpture locals call The Bean.
Officially it’s known as Cloud Gate.
Its mirrored surface reflected the entire skyline of Chicago in a distorted, beautiful curve. Aneesh immediately ran closer to look at our reflections bending across the steel surface.
For a moment, the cold wind didn’t matter.
The Sky Above the City
Not far from the park rises one of Chicago’s most recognizable landmarks: Willis Tower. Standing below it, you almost feel like the building disappears into the sky. We eventually made our way inside to reach Skydeck Chicago. The elevator ride alone felt impressive climbing more than 100 floors in less than a minute.
When the doors opened at the top, the entire city stretched beneath us. And then there was The Ledge. Glass balconies extending outside the building itself. Standing on transparent glass while looking straight down at the streets hundreds of meters below is a strange experience. Part thrill. Part mild panic.
TEXAS
Through the Storm: A Relentless Drive South
A few days later came another journey entirely. This time, from Iowa down to Texas.
Just the three of us — Suma, Aneesh, and me — loading our bags into the Nissan Rogue and setting out before sunrise.
At first the drive felt peaceful. Iowa’s farmland stretched endlessly around us. Tall red barns, massive grain silos, and tractors parked beside muddy paths.
Aneesh kept pointing at the huge farming equipment scattered across the fields.
But as we crossed into Missouri the sky slowly began to change.
Gray clouds gathered. Then darker. Then almost purple. By the time we approached Kansas City the storm had fully arrived.
Rain hit the windshield like handfuls of gravel. Thunder cracked across the sky. Wind pushed against the car from the side.
Still, I kept driving.
The storm followed us into Oklahoma. We stopped three times along the way.Each time at lonely gas stations glowing under neon lights in the middle of the storm.
Gas.
Pizza slices.
And my personal survival fuel — Red Bull.
Two cans in total.
At one stop the rain was so loud on the roof of the car that we could barely hear each other speaking. At another, the store smelled strongly of coffee and fried food.
Truck drivers came and went quietly.
Outside, the wind never stopped.
But eventually the rain softened as we crossed into Texas. The clouds began to break. The highway signs slowly started pointing toward Dallas.
And finally, late that night, we drove into the quiet neighborhoods of Frisco.
A Warm Welcome
When we reached Chepstow Crescent Court, something wonderful happened.
Before we even stepped out of the car, the front door opened.
Our friend’s daughter Janvika came running out toward us with a huge smile on her face. She was tall for her age and full of excitement.
Behind her stood our friends, waiting outside to welcome us.
After hours of rain, thunder, and highway miles, that moment felt incredibly warm.
Their home was stunning — a spacious American-style house with soft yellow lights glowing warmly through the windows, inviting us in after our long drive. The entrance hallway led seamlessly into a large living room, where a massive television sat on a carved wooden stand and a cozy L-shaped couch beckoned us to sink into its cushions. A soft rug beneath a low coffee table added warmth, while lamps in the corners bathed the room in a gentle glow.
The open-layout kitchen flowed naturally from the living area. A sleek stove stood on one side, a stainless-steel dishwasher on the other, and a large dark-brown dining table dominated the center, perfect for family meals and gatherings. Just to the right of the entrance, polished wooden stairs led up to a loft with two cozy children’s bedrooms, offering a calm and playful space above.
Behind the living area was a huge garage, neatly organized with shelves of tools, bicycles, and other household equipment. Every corner of the house felt thoughtfully arranged, combining comfort, practicality, and warmth — a true haven after our long stormy journey.
Standing there, tired but happy, I realized something.
The long drive through storms had finally ended.
But another part of the journey had just begun.
And of course… after a week here, we’ll have to make the long drive back to Iowa again.
That story, however, is for another day.
