My guitar gently weeps for Chicago, John Prine, sinful sandwiches and the old 'hood near Wrigley

In our last installment, I’d been pantsed by the TSA, fleeced by the rental car company, and nearly hammered to death by mosquitoes in the hometown I hadn’t visited in five years.

Do not become alarmed. This is pretty much how I always roll.

Now we’re leaving behind the malarial joys of the northwest...