The "L"

My Southeast Asia blogging is about 2/3 done. OK maybe a tiny bit more. Time for another domestic travel story break. I'll finish up Singapore, Malaysia and everywhere else we went in February after this post.

2024 is going to be an extremely unusual travel year for me. For the first time in my career (and only like 30 years in...), I'm doing a significant amount of work travel. In an average work year before last fall-ish, I'd take one or at most two trips somewhere requiring an overnight stay in some city that I didn't call home. This year? Lots of out-of-town trips. When this year is over, I'm guessing maybe 10 or 12 total. Primarily New York, but not just New York. 

To make it even weirder, my wife is doing the same thing. So when she snagged a coveted speaking spot at a conference in Chicago with a hotel room covered entirely by her company in April, I had to tag along. This is the stuff I live for. It combines two things I love most of all: travel and mooching (free hotel!). Now I just had to figure out what to do in the Windy City for a couple of days while the love of my life was busy speaking to an audience of hundreds and listening to others do the same.

I'm very proud of her accomplishments at this conference, by the way.

This was not my first visit to Chicago. I think it was number six, although I could be wrong, but I don't think I am. But I'd never been faced with getting to the city by myself and keeping myself busy for a day plus on a Friday and Saturday all by myself. Complete freedom is daunting sometime. What to do?

As an architect, one of the things I've always admired about the city of Chicago is the way that they have sold architecture as a tourist attraction for visitors. So I looked at the Chicago Architecture Center as a source of inspiration for this trip. The classic Chicago architecture tour is a boat ride down the Chicago River, but I was pretty sure I'd be familiar with most everything they would show us on that trip and I wanted something more obscure, more architect-y. There are a lot of choices.

Buried deep in their tour list is an architecture tour conducted from the "L", Chicago's mass transit rail system that connects the downtown to all sorts of points within and outside of Chicago. I have been a longtime lover of mass transit so this instantly appealed to me to dig into a little more. Plus I had to get to the city from Midway Airport somehow and yep, the "L" serves the airport too. Seems like there was a theme developing here. And if I love anything more than mooching on travel, it's themes.

OK, so that's not true. I love mooching way more than pretty much anything.

First view of Chicago. On the "L" from Midway Airport.

This would not be my first time riding the "L". I did it on my first visit to Chicago in 1995 and honestly, it was not a good experience. I actually feel comfortable saying I hated it. We took it from wherever it was in the city we were staying down to whatever blues club we were headed to for the night. It was dirty. It was noisy. It was smelly. And it felt unsafe; the station we boarded the train at was deserted except for one or two sketchy-looking characters and somehow there is something stuck in my head about a vicious-looking dog. We cabbed back. I've never been on it since. 

But 1995 is a long time ago. I like to think I've grown a lot since then. 

Friday morning. 8 a.m. Midway Airport. Not O'Hare. Southwest goes to Midway. 10 minute walk to the "L" station. $5 day pass which gets me anywhere and everywhere on this magnificent mass transit system. Time to go to the big city!

So why is it called the "L" and why do I keep using quotes around the letter? First of all, I'll stop doing the quotes thing. Second of all, L is short for elevated. And it's short for elevated because Chicago's downtown transit rail line is unlike any other system in the world that I have experienced: it's elevated 20 feet or so above the street. If you want to board mass transit in New York or Paris or Washington or Singapore or Boston, you are generally heading underground. Not in Chicago. You are walking up a set of steps.

And just to get the whole New York perspective out of the way...yes, I know there are elevated train tracks in the Subway system and yes, I also know New York is the best city in the United States and quite possibly the world, but there are no elevated trains in most of Manhattan. Downtown Chicago: elevated trains. Downtown New York: underground trains.

The L running right down the middle of a street in downtown Chicago. Check out that steel!

Mass transit in Chicago didn't start with the L. In fact, it didn't even start with trains. The L is really the fifth generation of mass transit in the city. The first public use train tracks were laid by the Chicago and South Side Rapid Transit Railroad in June 1892. The track was just 3.6 miles in length and it connected downtown Chicago to Jackson Park to the south. That section of track is still in use today on the Green Line of the L. 

Before 1892, Chicago had gone through several iterations of private mass transit, starting with horses pulling carts, then horses pulling trains, then cable cars, then electric street trollies before finally moving to electric train service (although there were admittedly a couple of years of steam). These modes of transportation definitely overlapped in their service life but ultimately the train won out because it was faster by a factor of two and much safer. Apparently pedestrian fatalities were a bit of an issue for the street trollies.

It's perhaps worth spending a little bit of time on some history here. I mean, why is there even an elevated train in downtown Chicago in the first place? And isn't it kind of inconvenient for property owners to have a train running past their second or third floor windows making all that noise and blocking the light? Not to mention the atmosphere at street level with some giant train track supports covering up most of the facades of the buildings and blocking the light from the street level, like someone put a ceiling on the street?

Well, yes, there is all that. The quick answer to the why is the track elevated is that it was cheaper to elevate than tunnel. Why did people permit it to run right in front of their buildings? That's a little murkier because for sure when you've just built a brand new fancy building in the late 1800s (remember Chicago burned to the ground in 1871 so everything was pretty much brand new when the L started to be built). the last thing I think you'd want is a train track 20 feet off the ground running right in front of it. 

There may have been some cajoling and payments involved on this one and maybe a little more pressure than just simple cajoling, particularly in Chicago's downtown or Loop area, where a financier who was convicted of larceny and somehow got out of jail through blackmail (sketchy, right?) named Charles Yerkes worked some kind of magic to get the bare minimum of property owners to sign off on his building an elevated rail line in the heart of the city. 

The restored to almost original condition Quincy Station on the Loop, including the reconstructed station house.

The entire L system in Chicago started out as a bunch of independent operators sometimes using the same tracks (particularly Yerkes' Loop) to get people from point A to point B around the city. It was apparently a risky business because it seemed like there were a lot of bankruptcies over the decades. To clean all that up, the State of Illinois created the Chicago Transit Authority, which was given a mandate to purchase all the equity in the various independent private rail operators and bring the whole system under one banner. That happened in 1947 and when they did it, they closed a whole series of stations. There was a station about every other block, built that way to compete with the street trollies, which were long gone in 1947.

Today, the L transports Chicagoans and visitors alike over a network that is 224 miles long and features 145 different stations on a total of eight different routes. It is the fourth largest transit system in the United States and one of only three transit systems worldwide to operate 24 hours per day (along with New York and Copenhagen). In 1994, the CTA extended the Blue Line to O'Hare Airport. Nine years later, they extended the Orange Line to Midway Airport, which is how I got to downtown Chicago on time for my 11 a.m. L tour with the Chicago Architecture Center.

The Willis (neé Sears) Tower. The brick warehouse in the center of the pic is a Daniel Burnham design.

The idea behind an architecture tour on the L is that you can get a good sense of a lot of Chicago's architectural history by stepping off at the some of the Loop platforms and taking a look around. We spent about 90 minutes on the L itself and covered just about two miles (there are only eight stations in the loop) but we certainly could have spent a lot more time; there's a ton to see.

We didn't get what I would consider Chicago's most publicly consumable architecture on this tour. The L doesn't go anywhere near SOM's Willis (Sears) Tower or the former John Hancock Building. Nor does it pass by Marina City or the Chicago Art Institute or the Tribune Tower. You also can't see any of the works of Frank Lloyd Wright or Mies van der Rohe's Lake Shore Drive apartments. True, you can see the Willis Tower from the Washington/Wells station platform, but you are not really that close at all. 

Was that disappointing? Not for me it wasn't. There's more to architecture than signature buildings and there were a lot of very fine architects practicing architecture in the late 1800s, not that every building we saw was of that vintage. But I do especially love that period of architectural history, when architects were exploring new technology and materials that had been produced and discovered (or re-discovered when it comes to concrete) during the industrial revolution. In places like Paris, that exploration and struggle brought about Art Nouveau and ultimately Modernism with a capital M. In Chicago, it helped with building higher and higher. 

Daniel Burnham's magnificent Fisher Building (1896).

I'm not going to blow-by-blow the building list but I will give the superlatives in a few categories along with the station where we saw them.

The most instantly-recognizable-by-a-non-architect building we saw was the Willis Tower. Yes, it was at a pretty good distance but SOM's and particularly structural engineer Fazlur Khan's revolutionary bundled tube design that allowed this building to be the world's tallest when it was built under the Sears name is always worth a look. Incredibly, it is now the world's 25th tallest building. Station: Washington / Wells.

The most important building from a history of architecture standpoint was the Monadnock Building. When it was built in 1891 according to the design of Burnham and Root, it was the tallest load-bearing brick building in the world. It still is. This was about the limit that traditional masonry construction could be built vertically. The Monadnock building was the last of its kind. Nobody ever tried to build a masonry load-bearing brick building that tall after this. Its achievement is both being the tallest of its kind and also making architects and engineers realize there was a better way to build tall buildings. The "most important" designation here is mine. Disagree if you want. Station: Harold Washington Library.

The building by the most important architect was the Jewelers' Row Building by Adler and Sullivan. I am once again personally assigning a "most important" label based on Louis Sullivan's innovation and influence over the profession and history of architecture. I'm not a huge Sullivan guy personally but he was clearly influential, even if for no other reason than Frank Lloyd Wright came out of his shop and Wright acknowledged Sullivan as a mentor. Personally, I think Wright succeeds with or without Sullivan but that's just me. Sullivan clearly erected some significant buildings in his life and move us towards modern architecture in ways that I feel are beyond debate. Station: Washington / Wabash.

The standout building for me on the tour was Daniel Burnham's Fisher Building. I think architects today sometimes don't appreciate Burnham enough. I think it's because of his significant involvement in the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago that legitimately set the public appreciation of and attitude to what good architecture could be back a few centuries. But there were times he got it right and the light and elegant, 20 story Fisher Building is just spectacular. I know there are some neo-gothic touches towards the top of the thing but they are less heavy-handed than the more famous and also neo-gothic Tribune Building across the river. I think the Fisher Building as an early high rise building has aged well. Station: Harold Washington Library.

Adler and Sullivan's Jewelers' Building (1881). It's the red brick and stone building.

The best thing about exploring Chicago's architecture on the L, though, was not the variety of buildings we got to see, although the selection was pretty impressive. The best thing was the different perspective you get on the buildings that are visible from the station platforms, particularly those that are super close up when you are standing waiting for the train. 

Plain and simple, the designers of most of these things never intended for their architecture to be viewed that way. And given the 100 plus years that have passed since some of these things were conceived and built, the results are surprisingly good. You can get a fantastic look at the brickwork, detailing and particularly the terra cotta panels that were in vogue in the late 1800s and early 1900s on some of these structures. Terra cotta just is not a popular cladding material in the twenty-first century so to see these prefabricated units up close literally 10 feet or so in front of your face is pretty spectacular. We were never supposed to be this close to some of these buildings because there was no L in place when they were built. This phenomenon is purely accidental. 

There is some irony, therefore, in walking along the south platform of the Harold Washington Library and looking close up at some of the details on the station's namesake building. You can get a fantastic look at the midwestern-inspired details on the facade of the building at just about platform level. The corn stalks above and below the face of Ceres are both whimsical and exactly appropriate. Good thing the details can be seen from the station because there's no way they could have been seen from the street. But the Washington Library wasn't built before the L was in place like the Fisher Building. It was completed in 1992. The designers either ignored the presence of the L entirely, or were opting to match the building's neighbors. I can't see either one making much sense.

Terra cotta panels (top); Harold Washington Library detail (bottom).

Remember that whole theme thing I mentioned earlier? I found a way to add to it. I'm a bit of a completist (or close to it) that way. So the day after my ride in from Midway and my time on the CAC tour, I thought I should get back on the L and head up to the Chicago History Museum to learn a little more about the history of Chicago's downtown mass transportation. 

Brown Line, if you must know.

So, why the Chicago History Museum? Well, it seemed like a good place to pair with my Friday time on the L because they have in their collection one of the original L cars that transported people from the Loop to the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition. It's located on the second floor of the Museum right at the top of the main public stairs. It is quite different from today's L cars. Train travel has come a long way in the last 130 years.

This train car was clearly built for a more refined time when going to work or just downtown probably involved wearing your finest clothing and you likely expected the accommodations inside the train to match your dress. No hard plastic seats in the 1890s. Cushioned fabric all the way arrayed across a choice of seating configurations, including some benches facing each other that looked to me like there was precious little knee space between you and the person you'd be facing. 

The appearance of the car also likely reflects the attitude toward the manufacture of train cars used by the public and probably didn't differentiate between long-distance train travel and local mass transit. What does that mean? Well to me in addition to the comfort expected in the seats themselves, the majority of the cabin both inside and out is made of wood. That likely means hand assembled with care which took a lot of effort and time. The result is something softer and warmer to the touch than the stainless steel used in L cars today. It also likely meant more wear and tear and a deteriorated appearance far sooner than today's L cars. 

1893 L car, Chicago History Museum. You can see some of the interior in the bottom photo.

I honestly hoped for a little bit more out of the L Car exhibit at the Chicago History Museum. There are other exhibits in the Museum which shed light on Chicago's history and culture but if I'd gone only to see the 1893 L car, I'm not sure I would have thought it was worth the $19 admission charge. I'm not putting down the whole museum, just cautioning future visitors like me who ONLY want to see the L.

I thought my trip up to the Museum was worth it. I needed something to do; I wanted to see as much as I could about the history of the L in my two days in town; and I had my first Chicago dog ever on the way up there. I'm not sold on the Chicago dog in total. I'm still preferring mustard and sauerkraut and leaving it at that hot dog-wise. 

But I also got something else on the L ride up there.

The Monadnock Building, 1891.

The hour and a half or so I spent inside the L system on Friday late morning and early afternoon had me standing on elevated train platforms looking at buildings while a lot of trains passed by. Multiples lines run through the Loop and it was a business day. We didn't have to wait at all for the next train because it seemed like they were passing through every station we visited at least every two or three minutes.

My trip up to the Chicago History Museum was on a Saturday. On Saturdays, trains don't run as frequently as they do on Fridays. On the way up there, I tried to enter the station at an entrance that didn't sell fare cards so I had to retrace my steps and go in a different entrance. I then fumbled around with the fare card machine and just missed a train headed north. The result of all my confusion, misdirection and not hurrying, combined with a Saturday train schedule, had me looking at a lot more on the way into the station and had me standing on the platform a lot longer with nothing to look at other than what was around me. 

And that made me notice one or two things. 

First of all, you might have heard it gets a little windy in Chicago from time to time. And it certainly was that way when I was standing on the Brown Line platform waiting for a train to take me north. To shelter from the wind, I found a three sided enclosure towards the middle of the platform that seemed like it would provide me a little relief from the cold. It did. If it had been 21 days earlier, I would have been able to get a lot warmer by hitting the heater button. These things are heated on demand from November to March. Cool. Or hot. Never seen this before. Probably because most all stations most everywhere else are underground and protected from the wind.

The other thing I noticed on my way into the station was a north arrow on the ground at the bottom of the stairs to the station. If I have a pet peeve about most mass transit systems, it's that you can't tell which way is north when you exit the station and there's nothing to help you out. It's especially bad in New York. I cannot for the life of me figure out which way to walk when exiting a New York City Subway station half the time. The perfect solution is what the CTA does: add a north arrow for people at the point where they enter the city. It's genius and very helpful. And I did not just see this in one spot in Chicago. It's like a thing. 

Now if there's a bit of an irony here, it's that I don't find the L disorienting direction-wise precisely because it's NOT underground. I feel the same way when I'm moving around the above ground stations in other cities, most recently in Tokyo. It's just a lot easier to get turned around below the surface of the Earth. Nonetheless, I appreciate the gesture and there are some L stations which are not above ground and I'm sure I'd love this helpful sign in some other spots throughout the city.

Sometimes I pick activities when I travel that have a high ceiling but often fail to deliver. When that happens, I don't spend time blogging about them. Maybe there's a post on Instagram but that would be about it. This 2024 re-introduction to the L for me was definitely worth the few hours spent on a couple of spring days exploring the history of the system and where it can take us, even if we end up spending 90 minutes getting on and off at various stations seeing what we can see and and end up getting off at the exact same spot we got on. I know next time I visit to Chicago, I'll be all about getting on the L and going wherever I need to go that it takes me.

And in this crazy travel year that has a ton of work trips, that next time would be later this month. No blogging about that trip. I'm there on that one for work, not as a tourist. I think my tourism trip to Chicago is going to end up being more satisfying than this upcoming work trip. Hey...you can't have everything you want all the time.

North arrow. Sometimes it's all about the details.

Pullman

In the year 1880, George Pullman started building a town just south of Chicago. By that, I don't mean that he built the first building in a remote location hoping others would follow and settle in a similar spot. I mean he started building a whole town from scratch. With his own money. And not so he could sell those properties to others at a profit or something like that. He intended to hang on to every last building he built.

In the 20 years or so before 1880, George Pullman had a pretty good run in business. In the late 1850s he had an idea that folks might need a comfortable rail car to ride around in for days while exploring the United States by means of the rapidly expanding railroad network. He was right. That first car, the Pullman Old No. 9, featured a wood-burning stove, some comfortable seats and a series of bunks for sleeping overnight. The success of that first car allowed Pullman to start his own company, which he named after himself. 

Pullman rolled out a new and improved version of the Old No. 9 in 1865. The Old No. 9 was an adaptation of an already existing railroad car. The 1865 Pullman car, The Pioneer, was built from scratch as an overnight sleeper car. Gone were the wood burning stoves and added were folding bunks that allowed more space for traveling in comfort during the day. 

He kept working. An improved, longer Pullman sleeper car was rolled out in 1876. 

They kept selling. The railroads were expanding quickly. The amount of track in this country tripled between 1870 and 1890 from 53,000 miles to more than 160,000 miles. That translated into a booming business for George Pullman. Very booming. 

It is difficult to understand in the year 2021 how successful these sleeper cars were. While Amtrak still has overnight accommodations on their trains today, I can't believe they drive anything about the industry. But in the 1860s, Pullman sleeper cars were a significant and important mode of transportation. So much so that when The Pioneer was introduced with a wider body than all previous rail cars, platforms were re-built and bridges widened so The Pioneer could serve stations and fit under bridges. Pullman was a mover.

1955 Pullman Car.

So sometime in the 1870s, Pullman decided the next step for the company was to build a new factory and headquarters. Since he was going to all that trouble, he decided he may as well build housing for all his workers while he was at it. And supply them with all the conveniences that they may need in life to live in a town at that time some travel distance from the city of Chicago. After all, they would pretty much need to move out of town to keep their jobs. Welcome to Pullman!

Reaction to Pullman's gesture of building a town for his workforce was mixed. Pullman himself saw his endeavor as altruistic, giving his loyal workers a safe, family oriented community free of danger and temptation. Others saw it as a method for Pullman to exercise an unnatural level of control over the people he employed to build his sleeper cars. There is perhaps more than a kernel of truth in the latter point of view. 

In some ways, Pullman was doing for his employees just what medieval landlords and former plantation owners had done to serfs and freed slaves: giving them protection and a place to live, but setting the cost of that lodging (Pullman did charge his employees rent to live in his company housing, after all) and certain conditions about their lives. After all, you could only do in Pullman what George Pullman had put in his town. Church? Yes. Library? Sure. Stables and railway station. Umm...yeah. How else are you going to get in and out of town? Shops and a theater and a hotel? Yes and yes and yes. Saloon? No. Hard pass on that one. Pullman didn't believe in it.

Still, as long as Pullman was profitable and happy and everyone (mostly) agreed with him, I suppose it could have worked out fine forever. I mean, how badly do you need a saloon if your boss is like the ultimate philanthropist and greatest guy in the world?

The Pullman headquarters, now the Pullman National Monument Visitor Center.

Greenstone Church, Pullman.

Of course, that's not what happened. Eventually all booms bust, at least a little. And sure enough, the boom times for the Pullman Company eventually hit a snag.

In 1893, a nationwide depression hit, and demand for Pullman's sleeper cars dropped. For the first time in a long while, George Pullman was faced with a losing business situation. And his reaction was not good. 

You'd think someone who could afford to build an entire town with the profits from his company and who saw himself as a father figure of sorts for the people that he employed might be inclined to bend over backwards to keep those people who had built him a fortune safe and secure. Not so much. Not here. He decided he needed to lay off some of his workforce (who at this point lived miles from any other real viable source of employment, remember). For those that remained, working hours would increase and wages would be cut by 25%. 25% is a lot. I guess it's better than not having a job but, let's face it, it's a big cut.

And rent? Well that didn't change. George Pullman was going to pay you less to work in Pullman but still charge you the same amount to live there.

Now maybe I don't know all the factors that drove Pullman's reaction to this downturn in business but I do know this: in 1898, just half a decade after he made these decisions relative to his workforce, the Pullman Company was valued at $63.5 million. That's $2 billion in 2021 money. I have to believe Pullman had enough in the bank to ride this one out a little without taking it out of his employees. But then again, this was also the 1890s. 

Hotel Florence, named after George Pullman's daughter.

The former stables, Pullman.

The reaction to Pullman's cost cutting measures was a strike, with the American Railway Union (ARU) supporting Pullman's employees. And then things really devolved from there.

Pullman doubled down on his decision and refused to give an inch, which predictably resolved nothing. Eventually, the ARU extended the strike in support of Pullman's workers to include no longer staffing any trains nationwide that pulled a Pullman car. Some of those trains also served the United States Postal Service so not moving Pullman cars meant not moving the mail. That got the federal government involved. Troops were deployed in 1894 (on the side of Pullman, of course), a few incidental deaths happened and eventually the strike was busted. 

I can easily imagine George Pullman thought he had won, but in many ways the strike of 1893 was the beginning of a series of events that ultimately spelled the end for the Pullman Company. George Pullman died in 1897, just one year before the Illinois Supreme Court ruled that the charter issued to the Company allowed the construction of company offices, factories and support buildings but not housing. That decision forced the sale of the housing in Pullman, and not all sales were to employees of the company.

The 20th century brought more trouble for the Pullman Company. Antitrust legislation. Another labor dispute, this one with the porters who worked on Pullman's cars (we'll get to that...). The decline of the railroad and the rise of the automobile and of air travel. Despite all of that, the Pullman Company rolled out a new Pullman sleeper car model at least once a decade all the way through the 1950s. But ultimately, it was too much and then end came on January 1, 1969.

George Pullman and the company he founded are long gone. But Pullman still exists. Or at least a lot of it does. Sure, the factories are gone or abandoned; the market building is burned out; the railway station has been replaced; and the community center called the Arcade that housed the library, theater and shops is no longer there. But Pullman is not abandoned. It's a living, breathing neighborhood that carries the legacy of the Pullman Company and its founder, but has also moved well beyond George Pullman. And it's well worth a visit. We penciled it in on the last day of our recent Milwaukee to Chicago via Iowa swing over Labor Day weekend.

Now as luck would have it, it was the grand opening weekend of the Pullman National Monument on the weekend we visited. The former Pullman administration building and what's left of the adjacent boarded up and burned out factories form the initial stage of the National Monument created by presidential decree by President Obama way back in 2015. Being there for the grand opening was a blessing and a curse. While it was awesome to be a part of the event, access to both the Visitor Center (they moved us through in 15 minutes total, including the gift shop) and the Hotel Florence (we couldn't get in at all) was extremely limited.

I'm assuming the restoration of the factories may be on the horizon somehow as funding becomes available, although that's honestly a bit of a guess. Otherwise there's not a whole lot to see there beyond the Visitor Center (on the ground floor of the administration building); a landscaped plaza near the old rear erecting shops; and the Hotel Florence just to the south. Admittedly, we would have spent at least twice as much time in the Visitor Center if we weren't on the clock and being reminded every five minutes of how much time we had remaining.

If what remains of the company part of the town of Pullman is pretty cool (and it really is), the rest of the town blows it away with both quantity and quality. While the Pullman Company was in decline, the town itself was anything but. The factories are shells of what they used to be and most of the buildings built by Pullman to serve the community are gone, but the houses are (to the untrained eye at least) all still there and gorgeously cared for by people who seem to love living there.

The details of these Victorian houses are incredible and they don't look any worse for wear for the 140 years since they were built. This was not a community built with expediency and the lowest cost in mind. It is a testament to the people who built the town and the people who have lived there and cared for it that there are this many perfect looking residences in one place. There are literally blocks upon blocks of these things. It's impressive. If you can stand to walk around a town and gaze at and take pictures of strangers' houses (I clearly can), I would highly suggest a walk through the neighborhoods of Pullman in addition to visiting the National Monument.

Then before you leave, make one more stop, please. At the A. Philip Randolph Pullman Porter Museum on the north end of town. In a lot of ways, the story of the Pullman Porters is more remarkable and important than that of the company that hired them.

Back in the 1860s when you purchased a Pullman sleeper car, it came fully staffed. Call it a service contract, if you will. A way for George Pullman to offer a consistently high level of service that was expected of the Pullman brand. No matter where you traveled on a Pullman car, you would received the exact same level of personal attention and pampering that you would on any other Pullman trip. It provided Pullman a lot of control over his customers' experiences, while at the same time bringing a consistent stream of revenue to his bank account.

To staff his cars with porters, George Pullman turned to a group of people who in the 1860s had little economic opportunity. He decided he would only hire black men to perform this job for him. Another altruistic move from the Pullman Company? Maybe. Or like the housing he built for his workers miles away from anything else, maybe not. Pullman had a very specific thought process when it came to hiring black men (including many recently freed slaves) for these positions. He knew he could pay them very little, could work them long hours (up to 400 hours a month in some cases) and could expect an appropriately servile attitude likely ingrained in their psyche based on their standing in mid-nineteenth century American society. I am also sure that all sorts of abuse came with the job, which he also needed someone to take well.

Now, despite George Pullman's motivation for this decision, he did end up giving unprecedented opportunities to a lot of men. At a time when few employers would even consider hiring people of color, the Pullman Company did it regularly. In the early 1900s, they were the largest employer of black men in the nation. And the opportunity did allow some men to live lives that they couldn't have imagined 20 or 30 years prior. At a time when there were few other opportunities other than sharecropping, with its cycle of perpetual poverty, out there, being a Pullman Porter was not the worst employment opportunity to take.

The Pullman Porters display in the Pullman National Monument Visitor Center.

Having said that, they were clearly separate from the other employees at the Pullman Company, and that separation extend to union representation. When Pullman's workers went on strike in 1893, they were welcomed by the American Railway Union. But...not the porters. They were excluded, not that it would have done them any good if they had joined that strike anyway. If the Pullman Porters were waiting for an invitation to join the ARU after that, it never came. Not 10 years later, not twenty years later. Never.

So in 1925, A. Philip Randolph and Milton P. Webster helped the porters form their very own union, the Brotherhood of Sleeping Car Porters (BSCP), to start to advocate for the rights of the underpaid and overworked porters. It didn't work. Not at first, anyway. But the union kept at it, particularly Randolph, and eventually, 10 years after the formation of the BSCP, the Pullman Company recognized the union and began negotiation of a collective bargaining agreement that was signed two years later, improving working conditions for the union members.

The Pullman Porters had genuine status within their communities. They represented a different career track and a way out of what was pretty much no more than legalized ecomonic slavery that came in the wake of the end of the Civil War. But come 1937, they were also civil rights pioneers. 27 years before the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, a major manufacturing company negotiated better working conditions with a union set up specifically to represent the rights of black employees.

If you are in Pullman, don't visit without stopping at the Pullman Porter Museum and understand their story a little better. It won't take you long to walk through and read every word (not kidding) in the Museum but it's well worth a stop. Their story includes a significant step towards being closer to equality for people of color. Although let's face it, we are not really close to being all the way there some 80 plus years later.

No pics allowed inside the Pullman Porter Museum, so I had to be satisfied with this exterior shot.

Now on a regular visit to Pullman, our day would have stopped there. We would have headed back to Chicago to eat at one of Rick Bayless' restaurants or go look at Edward Hopper's Nighthawks in the Art Institute of Chicago or hit up a blues club. But opening weekend offered us a different kind of Pullman experience: we got to walk through some genuine Pullman sleeper cars. 

Visit today and you won't have that opportunity, but to celebrate the Grand Opening, Amtrak hitched three privately owned cars to one of their engines and brought them to their birthplace for a weekend. I can't express how fortunate we were to have this opportunity, not to mention the foresight we had to get up early and get in line for some tickets that were all gone before 9:30 in the morning. I have never been in an overnight car of any train, whether historical or modern or built for sleeping or not. To do this in this place was special.

The three cars we walked through that day (in the order we walked through them) dated from 1953, 1955 and 1927. All three are privately owned and are all available for rent for short or long distance travel. All you need to do is pay a little money and make arrangements for Amtrak to hook up your rental car to one of their trains. I'll assume they don't come with porters.

The lounge area of the 1955 Pullman sleeper car.

Tight quarters: bunkbeds from the 1927 model.

I think it's fascinating to understand a little bit about how people used to travel. These days we hop on a plane or in the car (or both) and head out to where we need to go. We don't (generally) sleep in our cars and if you are a budget traveler like me, I'm sure you've had the pleasure of sleeping sitting up in a seat in coach on some overnight flight somewhere 30,000 feet or more over the globe at one time or another. But a multi-day journey over land without staying in a hotel? I've never done it. Doesn't mean it doesn't happen. Just that I've never done it.

But even if you have done it, I'm sure it's not quite like riding the rails in a Pullman car. Each car is like a mini bed and breakfast of sorts. Although one that, practically speaking, you can't really leave until you get to where you are going. In the meantime, as you travel across the country, you are sequestered in a cabin with (in all likelihood) a group of folks that you don't really know and can't really get away from. Days most likely would have been spent in the communal lounge areas of the cars (like the one in the second photograph above) because the bedrooms are too tiny to do anything other than sleep.

It's a bit of a crazy way to get from one place to another. But I guess considering the alternative would have been either wagon, horse or foot, all of which take a lot, lot, lot longer (and are a whole lot less comfortable), the Pullman cars probably represented absolute luxury that if you could afford, you did.

It's also like something out of an old movie. I could imagine as I sat in the lounge area in my cheeseburger shirt and J. Crew shorts, a cast of characters all dressed in their best clothes to travel across the prairie or some other place in the American west for days with nothing to do except get to know your fellow passengers or look out the window at countryside that you don't likely see very often. I guess air travel was around in the 1950s but this impression for sure applied when the 1927 Pullman car was first pulled across the country.

It is unlikely I will ever travel in a Pullman sleeper car. While I would love to take a rail journey across the United States someday, it would have to be when I have way more time than my current employer's time off policy allows on my hands. And of course, it wouldn't be in anything like a Pullman car, I'm sure. 

Like everything else we went through during the Pullman National Monument grand opening (except walking through the town, of course), we were rushed through these things. There was barely enough time to register exactly what you were looking at, but I guess in the end there was enough. I loved the 1927 car the best. Maybe it was because it was the least modified of the three or maybe it was because, for a few seconds, we got to step out onto the back platform of the car and imagine we were riding across what would be (even in the late 1920s) a country that was largely undeveloped west of the Mississippi River. It must have been pretty amazing, even if it might have tried my patience. I think we were quite fortunate to visit exactly when we did. Sometimes things work out like this.

More tight quarters. Maybe people weren't as big back then?

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How We Did It

Pullman is about a 20 to 30 minute drive south of downtown Chicago. There is tons of street parking and the town is super walkable. I appreciate all the "hellos" and "thank you for visiting" comments we got from residents while we were walking around the neighborhood. Maybe it was just because it was the grand opening of the National Monument but I kind of think it was more than that. This is a community worth being proud of and it shows.

The Pullman National Monument Visitor Center is open daily from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. except for New Year's Day, Thanksgiving Day and Christmas Day, when the National Monument is closed. Check their website for full details of what there is to do on site. I am sure our visit was as atypical as it gets. 

The A. Philip Randolph Pullman Porter Museum is open from Thursday to Saturday. I would check their website to make sure these hours hold. Like I mentioned in the post itself, it's not going to take that long to walk through but supporting museums like this one that tell these sorts of stories is important. Just like in the main town, we found parking plentiful near the museum.

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The Farnsworth House

There is an undeniable and absolutely visceral thrill in visiting a famous work of architecture for the first time. At least there is for me. I'm talking butterflies in the stomach, fanboy type stuff. You turn a city corner or drive down a lane or walk thorough a garden and it's there. That work. Those walls. Those spaces. Those materials. That thing you have looked at in books or magazines or guides and suddenly it's right there in front of you for you to take in. To touch. To feel in your soul. It never gets old. No matter how much or how often or how infrequently I do it. It's exhilarating. 

I've experienced this feeling a lot in my life. I made a promise to myself when I graduated architecture school in early 1994 that I would spend my vacations at least once a year doing this. Seeking out the works of architecture I'd admired most in school and taking everything in. Paris. Finland. Amsterdam. Brussels. All over the United States. Each time, a thrill. A discovery. A confirmation that what I felt looking at pictures in a book was even better in person. Or most times anyway; sometimes (and not often) they disappointed me. But then again sometimes they made me drop to my knees in awe, which is probably a little melodramatic, but it did actually happen once.

I kept this stuff up for a while. I was pretty diligent and committed from 1994 to about 2007. I read guidebooks. I made maps. I lugged a camera all over the place that was way heavier than I would even think about carrying now. I filled eight 3" binders with slides that I rarely look at even though I DO still own a slide projector. Then I ran out of stuff to see. Or got interested in something else. Or maybe a little bit of both. OK, maybe more the latter.

In the years since 2007, I've traveled way wider and further than I ever had before. And in between safaris and walks to ancient Incan citadels and birdwatching and everything else I've been up to, I've managed to pick up some buildings that I missed between '94 and '07. The Maison de Verre in Paris. All of Antoni Gaudí's work in Barcelona. The Pantheon in Rome. Maybe some others.

Talk about a weak knees moment, by the way. My heart about stopped with joy when I found the Pantheon.

There were still some others out there on a mental list, including a probably pretty impractical house designed by Mies van der Rohe for Dr. Edith Farnsworth in Plano, Illinois, just about 60 miles or so west of Chicago. 

I've had the Farnsworth House on my list for years. I've also visited Chicago at least four times since I started traveling in a serious way twenty seven years ago. I never went there. It seemed too far. But with the world seemingly off limits for travel for most of this year, this seemed like the ideal time to pick off some of my longstanding domestic sites that I'd just never gotten around to visiting. 2021 had to be the year I made it to the Farnsworth House. There was really no good excuse for passing this up for another year. And now...mission accomplished!

I made my way to the Farnsworth House with some pretty strong preconceived notions and none of them were flattering to either the house or the architect. The story of the house likely started as a chance meeting between Dr. Farnsworth and Mies at a party of some sort in the mid-1940s. Dr. Farnsworth was tired of staying in the city on weekends in the summers and longed for a country house where she could escape Chicago for a few days every week. Mies had the answer, one that turned out to be a glass box with precious few walls along the banks of a river prone to flooding. I told you there was bias.

Who does this? Who goes along with such a seemingly preposterous idea? And one that, by the way, ended up costing about 75% more than the desired price. A glass house for a single woman in rural Illinois. Are you kidding me? What is wrong with these clients who agree to these ideas kicked around by the famous architects they hire. I get it a little bit. Maybe I don't have enough money to get it completely. 

I'll also say this: I'm an architect and I don't get why Mies van der Rohe is so revered. He often pops up on lists of the very best architects of the 20th century (usually alongside Frank Lloyd Wright and Le Corbusier) and I don't understand it at all. I see no warmth. I see spaces that don't move me. I see skyscrapers with structural columns glued onto the exterior of buildings in a non-structural way and I don't get it. I don't want to touch Mies' buildings, and architects are famous (or infamous) for touching buildings; it makes us feel good somehow. 

But since I'd never been in one of his residences, I thought I should give it a shot. 

The approach to the Farnsworth House, the thing that builds that anticipation of that first view, is pretty much perfect. From the visitor center (obviously not in place during the time Edith Farnsworth owned the place), it is a gentle, half mile walk along, but separated from, the Fox River. The trees conceal the house until you reach the front patio and the place is revealed. I can't give Mies credit for this. Or Edith Farnsworth. Because the walkway was installed by Lord Peter Palumbo, who bought the house from Farnsworth. But it is pretty much perfect. A complete "oh my God, there it is (finally!)" moment.

Or it would be, if the fence surrounding the patio under reconstruction weren't there like it was when we visited. You can still get the sense that this reveal is correct. It would have been spectacular without that construction fencing. And one day, the fencing will go away again.

Two things on that first impression. First, the house seemed heavier than I thought it would. It didn't seem like a glass house. This is an impression that I would continue to have while walking through the house. The intent of the removal of the barrier between outside and in didn't seem to me like it worked. From either the outside or in. I felt inside when I was inside the house and I didn't feel space flowing into the house when I was on the exterior. I felt that the house was a heavy object when I was outside. It's the thickness of the floor and roof slabs, I think.

Second, it seemed way higher off the ground than I thought it would be. I expected a couple of feet. We were told 5'-3". If there's a rub with me and this house, it's the whole flooding thing. The house is notorious for being underwater when it shouldn't be (which is never). I expected the reason the place would be consumed by the Fox River so much was that it was so close to the water and it was so close to the ground. Mies apparently tried pretty hard to get the floor of the house high enough to avoid flooding. The problem was he really relied on rumor and folklore as his science when determining the first floor elevation.

The Farnsworth House awaits!!!

The patio under construction.

The story behind the siting of the Farnsworth House is that Mies really wanted it next a venerable maple tree near the river's edge. The tree would provide shade for the house in summer and protect it from getting too hot. He was advised to site the house further inland on the top of the slope to the street side of the property, but the allure of that maple was too much.

I guess he tried to get it right. He asked around with some local dudes about their memory of how high the river would get. They gave Mies their input: three feet was the answer. Mies erred on the side of caution and made it 5'-3". He missed the mark by about five feet. Yes, the river flooded its banks by about 10 feet one year.

That's FIVE FEET above the floor of the house!!! How do you mess it up that badly? I mean I know the answer to that is in the previous paragraph (he asked the neighbors) but how is checking with some locals the way to get to an answer this critical? The Farnsworth House (to me) is as famous for flooding as it is famous for its design. Major fail!

The irony is that the tree that located the building is gone. Oh well...

The front of the house and the stump of the maple.

Flooding and heaviness. That's what I got. I know my cynicism is showing through right now.

Then I went inside.

First off, let me say that the tour of this house is awesome. You get incredible information. You get a ton of time. And you get to take as many pictures as you want with so few people on the tour that you can really get all the pics you want without any issue. I'm not sure I can say this quite about any other famous house I've visited. I appreciate the access. No shoes and no touching but that's understandable really. This tour is special.

I am astonished to be writing these next words but the interior of this house was one of the best places I have been in years. The flow, the openness, the views, the light. All of that was so impressive. I continue to maintain that the separation between out and in was clearly there (there was no way we were outside when we were inside the Farnsworth House). I saw the glass and the floor elevation as separators from the landscape beyond. It didn't matter. I'm so in love that I would consider buying one of these (without the flooding, of course, and the leaks and the condensation) to hang out in on weekends. If this is supposed to be a weekend house, I buy it. I totally get it.

I can't afford one of these, for the record.

Admittedly, there are some quirks and some mistakes and a little vanity to the place. The porch echoes. It's noticeable when a tour guide is talking to you in there (although he supposed it might be advantageous to Edith Farnsworth's violin playing). The fireplace lacked a hearth originally; the wood just sat on the floor and the ash tended to blow around the place when the door and the two windows in the place were open at the same time (Palumbo fixed that one just like he did the approach to the house). And the kitchen has a custom light fixture designed specifically to show off the world's largest (at the time) stainless steel counter to people on the outside of the house looking in. I mean, why do you need this? why do you need to show off the kitchen counter at night to people looking at the house?

But the scale in the place is right. It seems way smaller on the inside than it does from the outside and this is a good thing. The furniture fits in the place. There's enough space to sit, to read, to relax and to entertain. This seems like a weekend house. Just ignore the flooding.

The kitchen. Check out that countertop.

And the light fixture. To show off the countertop.

It's right...except for the bedroom. I was honestly OK with the whole thing except for the bedroom. It's a weekend house. You have to sleep there. I'm not sure that Mies was really totally accepting of that concept. 

Bedrooms are inherently private. Glass houses are inherently not private. That stainless steel counter lit up to show it off from the outside of the house? About four feet from the location of the bed. And there's no door between the kitchen and bedroom. Or maybe bed area is a better term.

The design of the bed area was a bit of a bone of contention between Mies and Edith Farnsworth, apparently. Mies had this vision of no walls but eventually caved and agreed on a wardrobe that would stop well short of the ceiling to (in a sort of a limited way) cordon off the bed area from the rest of the house. They argued about the height of that wardrobe (Mies insisted on five feet which was not as tall as Dr. Farnsworth) before she worked around him and agreed to the wardrobe but got one of his associates to design it taller. 

I really can't imagine sleeping in the bed area comfortably, and that's coming from a grown man in 2021. I know it was originally a nine acre estate that was later expanded to triple that size and I also know there was not supposed to be anyone outside looking in (despite the whole kitchen light fixture thing), but there is so little keeping that area private. Maybe it's just me.

Private? Not exactly. The bathroom was way bigger than I expected.

So...overall despite the flooding and the privacy in the bedroom thing, I'm thumbs up on this one. I know..it's crazy. I'm crazy! But I can completely understand why Mies thinks he got this one right. The place is really pretty stunning. I'm actually very impressed. And that was on a visit with the terrace under construction. Not only did that issue affect the entry sequence, it also added the wooden stair shown in the second picture of this post which is decidedly NOT part of the permanent house. I'm on board. I'm shocked.

Now, I wouldn't be an architect if I didn't say a little something about some of the details. So here goes.

One of the more celebrated details of the house is the connection between the vertical columns and the horizontal floor and roof planes. This connection is a welded steel to steel connection and welded connections show. Which of course Mies didn't want. He wanted the column and beam / floor to appear to be magically glued together, so he made the workers grind the welds down until the connection was pretty much invisible. He got his way. It looks the way he wanted.

Detail #2: If we were disappointed by the ongoing reconstruction of the terrace (and we were), at least we got to check out the thickness (or thinness) of the travertine marble slabs laid on the terrace (and throughout the whole house for that matter). They are remarkably thin. We found them stacked on the tennis court. The 70 year old travertine looked way better than the tennis court did.

Finally, there is no picture that I have ever seen of the Farnsworth House that shows how sewage leaves the place. I mean it's more than five feet off the surface of the Earth, right? But sure enough, there's a concrete cylinder below the house that contains all the services in to and out of the house. It has to be there; it's just never shown in pictures, that's all.

Welded connection. Or is it?

Travertine. It's thin, right? I think it is.

Despite my generally positive review of the place (admittedly some of it due to the almost unrestricted access to the property on our tour), the coming together of the Farnsworth House was not a painless process. Design started in 1946 with a promised $40,000 budget (that's about 1/10 of 2021 dollars) and the house wasn't ready for occupation until the absolute last day of 1950 (how cold was that first night?). And with a $70,000 price tag.

Mies eventually sued Edith Farnsworth and she eventually sued him back. She lost. Or more accurately, she ended up having to pay him $1,500. But they probably both really lost. There is an introductory video played at the beginning of the Farnsworth House tour. During that video there is a quote attributed to Dr. Farnsworth that goes "My house is a monument to Mies van der Rohe. And I'm paying for it." 

She's probably mostly right. There are not a lot of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe houses out there (the Tugendhat House in Czechia sticks out as another one but I can't say I can think of any others). He's different from some of his contemporaries in that regard. This one got some things very wrong, but it also got some things really right. And sure, she paid for it, but it's also in some ways a monument to her, not that she likely wanted that. But it took both of them to make this house.

The National Trust for Historic Preservation (which owns the house today) decided that they would (at least for 2021) stage the house as Edith Farnsworth, and not Mies, wanted it. Like most architects, Mies was a control freak, and tended not to tolerate anything about his buildings that was not the way he intended, including the objects and furniture placed within. 

I tend to disagree with the master here and go with the client. We should have furniture in our houses that makes us feel comfortable, not that which looks best in the eyes of the architect. We should also be able to hang whatever we want on the walls. After all, we paid for it. I love the objects in Edith Farnsworth's weekend house. For posterity and as a close to this post, I'm including below the key to the objects on display when we were there. This is some pretty good stuff. Both Mies and Edith Farnsworth should be proud of what they did here. It's too bad that the process was so difficult.

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How We Did It

The Farnsworth House is located in Plano, Illinois about a 55 mile drive west and a bit south from Chicago. The National Trust for Historic Preservation operates a series of different tours, (including in depth, grounds-only, seasonal and nighttime tours) Wednesday through Sunday at various times. Check their website for all the options. We took the "Guided Tour of the EFCH" and it was thoroughly awesome. Photographs are allowed. Or at least they are with an iPhone. I'd suggest a reservation in advance because I always have reservations. It just prevents the off chance of huge disappointment.

Earlier this year, I read Alex Beam's book, Broken Glass, which is an account of the relationship between Dr. Farnsworth and Mies and the story of the design and construction of the house and the ensuing lawsuits. I read it right after the new year and it made me determined to visit. It worked!

Finally, there's a field of soybeans right next to the visitor center parking lot. From afar, they looked like a field of flowers somewhere in some European country. I thought they looked awesome, so I took a pic and made it the cover of this blog post. 

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