He looked at the Picasso, Dali, Matisse, a sculpture by Rodin. Walked in silence; taking in colors. Hours spent in a museum. Long stretches of hardwood floors. Art hanging on white walls. The middle-aged man felt at home.

Outside, cars honked and belched fumes into the air. Cop cars blasted sirens. Ambulances sped up and down Lake Shore Drive. Boarded up buildings on Michigan.

Alone, he walked amongst the crowd. Kids looking at cellphones, trucks cutting off pedestrians, food vendors selling hotdogs with sweet relish and peppers. He remembered this town. Remembered when Millennial Park was Grant. Drinking six packs at Blues Fest; a bottle of wine with jazz.

The gray-haired traveler thought of Studs Terkel. His interviews on the fine arts station. That gravel voice asking questions to artists, politicians, working class men, and women, seeking truth.

And, he stumbled past bars on Clark Street he used to frequent. The Duke Of Perth, Joann’s Piano Bar, The German American Bar, Irish joints, the raising of a glass, a toast to the town.

He looked in his backpack and found a harmonica. The thin man zipped it across his lips. God, how he missed this town.