The mark of any good city is its ability to be rediscovered time and time again. Unfortunately for me, I require a catalyst for that rediscovery. In this instance, it was a visit to an old friend's new apartment in Little Italy.

On this relatively warm (32°F) afternoon we've opted to ride Chicago’s Metra rail instead of the the Elevated Train a.k.a. "The El". The Metra is anachronistic. The conductors greet you with polished shoes; black hats brimmed with gold and pleated black pants. Meanwhile, the El has cold metal turnstiles, loud ugly ticket machines and security guards. The gentle rocking of the Metra’s car is in stark contrast to the violent clamoring of the El. The seats on the Metra are comfortable with ample room, proper cushions and coat hooks. Five dollars seems a little steep for a round trip, 10-mile journey, but the fee is merely a surcharge for the civility that the El does not offer.

It reminds me of Europe. As I stare through the industrial buildings and the jagged rocks that line the rail and imagine that I'm on "Die Bahn". I stare through the cold grey of Chicago as my mind takes me to the crashing waves of the Mediterranean. I stare through the--

"Tickets!" the man calls out, staring directly at us. "Wher'you goin'" his demeanor lacks the charm of the morning-shift conductor. The Metra lines stretch as far as Wisconsin, yet I can't imagine anyone going anywhere but Union Station.

Union Station is a time portal. The signs are all done in lettering that is reminiscent of Al Capone's business cards. Everything about the building is everlasting granite. Only a necessary few technological advancements have been allowed to intrude upon a massive building that it one part train station, one part statue. The station sits due west of the Sears Tower, no longer owned by Sears inc. and no longer the tallest building in the world. It is the hub of a business world long passed.

The streets that border the station are of Presidential powers. Locals recognize Adams Street and Jackson Boulevard, but today we're seeking out a lesser known exit--a small door that leads to Clinton Street. Obviously this Clinton has a legacy far deeper than that of our former/potential President.

If Union Station is a memorial to a time passed, its Grand Hall is the tomb. Fifty-foot-high ceilings are supported by magnificent granite columns in a football field-sized room which currently houses but a handful of bored patrons. This is the kind of room where the heart pounding scenes of classic movies are filmed, except in place of the casually dressed man doing crossword puzzles would be hordes of smartly dressed ladies and gentlemen; half of them waiting to board a train, the other half chasing their dearly beloved. Humphrey Bogart no longer graces the ornate granite benches.

Tucked in an easy-to-miss hallway off the south end of this tomb, is the unsung, uninteresting, Clinton Street exit. It is with an noted air of irony that an inconspicuous doorway sits off of a conspicuous room.

I've never seen this exit. Were this building a concert hall, Clinton Street would be the doorway where the caterers delivered food for the opening night party. It allows one to exit and enter unceremoniously from a very ceremonious location. Despite the heavy traffic that dwells within the station, there exists a city-style tranquility on this relatively quiet street.

Thinking about it later, I smile. As we begin our walk to University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC), I begin to wonder if anything truly ever stops being a mystery. Do we make "discoveries" or simply stop and allow ourselves the luxury of enjoying the unknown?