Dog days of summer, no dog

Finally, summer has made it to the midwest.

It was brought in by a monsoon on Friday, which was of course the day that I decided I needed to get out and about. I'd been doing well in newsreporting, but Thursday night it hit me: I'm not here to do well, I'm here to do the stuff that scares me.

So, out I trudged on Friday -- with my video camera and tripod and steno pad and tape recorder and background reading -- into the gusts of wind and rain. I was off to find some immigrants willing to talk about the Obama administration's recent moves on immigration.

Of course, how exactly do you find immigrants? My first stop was the Village Market Place in Skokie. Train, bus, 20-minute walk past the golf course. Annie a frazzled, soaking mess trying to get people to talk to her in the produce aisle. Is this really how it works?

Next stop: Skokie Public Library.

Only one problem. I'm a thinking walker. Which is to say, I get lost in thought while walking and more often than not, look up to realize I have no idea where I am.

The first time I did this I found myself infront of a synagogue. So, I figured, why not? The rabbi was in and willing to chat and -- who knew? -- he's on the cutting edge of web-based judaism conversion classes. One story idea for the kitty.

The wind was still gusting when I left the synagogue and by this time three prongs of my umbrella were broken. But did I learn from my mistake? No. I wandered some more, looked up, was definitely on the wrong street, but was standing right in front of an immigration law office. Well then.

After a brief visit there, I finally found the bus, got off at the right stop, and was waiting at a stoplight in downtown Skokie, wind about to knock me over, when a luxury car pulled up. I was, again, mid-thought and thus a little dazed when the 50-something man in the car rolled down the window and asked if I wanted a ride. He was going the wrong way so I didn't even think about it enough for the warning bells to kick in, I just said no thanks.

He leaned a little closer to the window, looked at me, snapped his fingers, and said, "too bad." Oh. That's what it was. One of the many perils facing female journalists, I suppose.

I made it safely to the library, though, where I met my new BFF -- the community librarian -- who was a goldmine of contacts (an interview with the social worker who coordinates Iraqi refugee services scheduled for Tuesday!).

Then it was another bus to west Evanston -- a not-so-great part of town -- for a documentary screening about the challenges facing black men and boys.

The place was packed and I quickly made friends with the videographers in the back who taught me how to work my tripod (after my camera nearly fell off since it wasn't screwed on tightly enough). It was not an easy event to cover, but wow, it was amazing. According to the doc, one in three black men will end up in prison in his lifetime and private prisons are projecting future numbers based on 3rd grade test scores. Sadly, my footage doesn't do the evening justice.

By the time the heat arrived on Saturday I was holed up in the downtown newsroom editing film. No lollapalooza for this girl, which, judging by the guy puking on the train on the way to the show, is more than okay by me.