Week 49: Lyle Lovett at Ravinia

August 19 – 25, 2012

One warm summer night long ago, Lyle Lovett crooned, his voice echoing off the canopy of trees. This was the night my husband first tried to kiss me under a big oak tree at Ravinia. Hours of sipping sangria only aided Ben’s courage. It was palpable. He leaned in bravely and closed his eyes, I in turn leaned back denying him. Cruel? Hardly. Ben’s move, although motivated by liquid courage and hormones I assume, was premature. During this time, we were solely friends with great chemistry. At this time, I had a deep love for Lyle. Lovett that is. An unabashed crush on this country crooner. Poor Benjamin never stood a chance on this night. This night belonged to me and Lyle. You see, his country twang grounded with notes of gospel and blue grass, easily swoops into my top ten. Unbeknownst to him, Lyle provided companionship on long journeys. We sang together, note for note, he in key, me struggling and thankful for solitude. Harmony soothing those long dark roads, when mile markers didn’t mean much, where all the exits looked the same. Lyle is comfort to me. He makes wherever I am feel like home.

hmm, do i know that man behind me? the answer is no. just one more reason to stay out of the pavilion.

Ten years later, Ben and I once again find ourselves at Ravinia ready for Lyle, but the setting has changed. We are now in the pavilion, not the grass; there is no milk jug full of potent yet delicious sangria for Ben, he has beer instead; and Lyle has aged, his face a congruence of lines, of life on the road I suppose. But the music, the music is the same if not better. The cicada’s competed for our attention, but Lyle won. I discover that the pavilion doesn’t improve the experience, quite the opposite. Folks in here are serious, shushing and telling you to sit down. I miss the lawn. There you can choose to lie, sit or stand. Drink, talk or dance. The choices are endless. The pavilion is, well, limiting, and kind of lame. Only scenario that I can put the pavilion on top: rain. But, we sit for over an hour, while Lyle belted out some of my favorites, new and old. I sing along, try to stand often, and am given the evil eye by my neighbors. Damn you and your pavilion rules! Frankly, I don’t think Lyle would approve of this. I’ll try to catch him after the show to discuss.

the master, lyle, and his big band

I’d like to think Lyle was the beginning of my courtship with Ben; a friendship turned to love. Each time I hear Lyle, I can’t help but think of that hot summer night when Ben leaned in confidently. I smile and think that things happened as they should. That you can’t rush a good thing  or even understand why Lyle puts that Pony on a boat. It’s all a mystery to me. On another day, not long after that first night at Ravinia, we laid underneath a big oak tree, reminiscent of a night so similar. This time I closed my eyes, felt his soft lips press to mine, and breathed a sigh of delight.

Week 48: A Trip To The Emergency Room

August 12 – 18, 2012

I should have known. I was doomed from the beginning. No good can come of a day when it begins like this. When the sky itself says go home…

ominous

I should have turned around, went home and crawled back into bed. But no, I trudged forward an optimist. Today, Chicago, you were downright mean. Wrong.  I’ve been floating around all summer in a euphoric haze, oblivious to your cruelty. I don’t know what’s happened to you citizens of Chicago what wrongs have been done to you, but anger has settled deep into your bones and your heart. I can only assume it was the heat. A summer unlike any summer: long, hot, humid. Maybe it was just too much. Maybe you’re all too fragile. On my way to work, the sky warned me and I didn’t listen. My gut even said so, the day stung with disdain and culminated on my drive home. As I sat waiting for the light to turn green, incessant honking rang out, screaming. I gaze in my rearview mirror and realize it is all for me. Buy why? “Pull up you fucking idiot” he shouts. I look forward, car directly in front of me, red light, nowhere to go. I’m perplexed. I say “where would you like me to go?” more honking and obscenities eject from his pursed lips. My mild-mannered self is crippled and my alter (angrier) self takes hold. I can take no more of this ridiculousness. I call him a fucking asshole, because let’s face it, that’s exactly what he is, and I tell him that he’s a sad, sad excuse for a man. Anger had boiled up inside me. Rage, in fact. Praytell, why did I deserve this?

I arrive home in a fueled rage. I just cannot let it go. After all these years in the city, I still take these things personally. Venting to Ben helps and I begin to slowly relax. I decide that a glass of wine on the deck will help. I want to enjoy the beautiful evening. I open the cupboard reach for a glass, its stem catches the top of the refrigerator ever so slightly, breaking in my hand. I don’t even realize it at first. I’m too busy trying to hold the glass in its three pieces and lay it down safely on the counter. Just then, claret begins oozing steadily from my hand. I’ve cut myself. I rinse the wound under the faucet thinking it’s not bad, but upon further inspection realize this is quite severe. Ben concurs and before I know it we are rushing to the hospital. Nothing like spending happy hour in the emergency room.

ER  un-happiness

This brings us to my latest adventure. A trip to the emergency room. Sure, it wasn’t planned. No doubt there are better places I would have rather been. But, nonetheless, an adventure it was. A gash on the top of right thumb, on the joint no less, stitches were required. For those of you who have never been in an emergency room, lucky you. For this might be the saddest and craziest place on earth. I desperately wanted one of those surgical masks to adhere to my face in the hopes it would stave off whatever the hell these people had. Stitches? I’ll take em! Anything over what these folks are suffering from. Eek! After teasing me twice, when my name was called the third time it was time to go back to be tended to.

waiting to be stitched

Enter Eugene. A semi-friendly man who has come to “clean my wound” before stitching. That doesn’t sound bad. On the contrary this was the most painful and horrendous thing that has ever happened to me in my adult life. As Eugene power-washed my wound, over and over and over again, I shrieked with laughter, on the bridge of hysteria. Laughter of all things. The pain was so intense and unbearable that I didn’t know what to do myself. So, I laughed, hysterically, while Ben looked on confused. “Does it hurt” he says? “Yes!” I respond sharply, glaring at Eugene, fist clenched ready to throw some blows. He says “one more” and I say “no thank you.” It takes everything in me not to forcefully apprehend his torture device and chuck it across the room, and Eugene along with it. The aftermath stings. Where are my drugs I wonder?! This is a hospital for Christ’s sake. Don’t they hand these things out in Pez dispensers here? The doctor enters to stitch me up and says “I’m not gonna lie. These shots are gonna hurt like hell.”  I brace myself. She wasn’t lying. A needle in the hand, bone in hand, four times. That hurts. Finally, numbness and I wonder why they didn’t do this first. The stitching begins and I quickly realize that my husband is on the verge of passing out. His face is oatmeal white and he looks dazed. I instruct him to put his head between his legs and breathe. I plead with him to go outside to get fresh air after which each time he replies “it’s just not done.” After fifteen minutes and countless bouts of blacking out, he agrees. The final stitch is in and I am bandaged for departure.

wounded

My entire adult life I have evaded the emergency room, much to my own surprise. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve seen, somehow have resulted in only minor scratches and a bruised ego. Today, I now live among the scarred. A laceration joining us. Today I did not walk away unscathed. Today, I have a battle wound from this city. One that will live with me forever. No matter where I end up, no matter where I go, I can always look down and be reminded of this day in Chicago. It bears a permanent imprint.

Stay tuned for next week when I am provided with a deeper understanding of the culinary elite!

Weeks 46 – 47: Paddle Boarding and Electric Boat Cruise

Where have you been 52LC?

Adventures have been happening, the writing, not. I’m sorry. I’m back.

July 1-7, 2012 and July 22-28, 2012

It’s summer in the city. What that means for us folks in this sweaty armpit of an urban landscape is get out. Get outside. Take it in. Breathe it all in. Before we know it, fall will pass us by and winter will be barreling down upon us. Some posts ago, earlier this summer, I took the plunge, literally, into an icy bath also known as Lake Michigan. I reunited with my water-self and continued to explore other opportunities involving said element. Hence the following two adventures.

Paddle Boarding to begin. The alarm sounded at 6am. I recall being flummoxed. It’s Saturday after all. A day of rest. I rouse Ben and we begin our trek south, riding bikes along the lake path. It’s early and lovely but extremely warm already. It’s as if the sun never went to sleep last night. Instead, its rays extended through time, through the night, cooking the earth while we slept. Poor moon, poor us. We arrive at North Avenue beach to pick up our board rental, only to discover the beach covered in nets and athletes. Today, there is a volleyball tournament. Great. After hauling the board across the hot sand I get into the water and climb aboard. I begin paddling, and quickly discover the ease of the sport. Luckily, the water is calm and the breeze mild (I suspect this as the culprit of ease), allowing our boards to skim across the water swiftly. We paddle out far and stop. It’s silent and beautiful. That early morning haze still lingering, the skyline bold in our view. It’s quite wonderful really. We decide to jump off our boards and take a swim. It’s quiet out here. We paddle some more and I can’t believe how delighted I am in the delight itself. Who knew this could be so fun! After one hour, we begin to paddle ashore and I am truly bummed that it has come to an end. Our rental time is up. I am also saddened about the impending embarrassment I am about to endure. The beach has filled and the games have begun. I’m angling, trying to determine the best point of exit (i.e. least humiliating) to get the boards back up the beach. I sigh, realizing the only route is on the fine line between the marked courts. Let’s do this. Have I mentioned that these boards are heavy and awkward to carry? Oh, I didn’t? They’re awkward and heavy. So, here we are, heaving these things up the sand, trying to blend in, which seems impossible. I can feel their eyes on me. I carry, carry, carry, stop, breathe, carry, carry, carry, stop, breathe….You get the picture. Alas, we have completed the walk of shame and return our boards. But not without a battle wound. I have a bright red rash on my left hip. A little something to remember it all by.

post boarding. the camera’s not waterproof

I throw up every time I’m on a boat. Big ones, small ones, it doesn’t matter. All boats are the same. Some say you just have to give it time, adjust. Forgive me if I don’t agree. I never get my sea legs and inevitably end up hurling the contents of my stomach starboard. It began long ago on a ferry ride across the English Channel from the Isle of Man to Liverpool. A rainy Boxing Day. A football match on the horizon. But, the sea was angry that day my friends. Waves crashed over the sides of our vessel, the sea pitched us up then down, over and over again. It was no more than 15 minutes into our 3 hour journey that I reached for that little white bag in the seat pocket and daintily spewed. I was not alone. The ship became a gruesome scene; something out of medieval times. The horror. This was the moment things changed. As a young girl, I don’t recall the water pitching me into such a fit, and now, as an adult, the tables have turned.

this cruise schuks, in a good way

So, you can imagine my fear of this next adventure. A small electric boat. Saturday. Chicago River. We arrive at Marina Towers and take the elevator down to the Chicago Electric Boat Company. I was quivering, yet strangely excited. My giddiness perhaps overdone in an attempt to thwart the oncoming upchuck. We board our tiny vessel, it tilts side to side, over and over again. The river is heavy with traffic. Weekenders in speedboats heading out to the lake, boat tours full of visitors. And then there’s us, in our teeny tiny vessel. Wakes from the Wendella tossing us from side to side. God help us. Kevin begins to shuck oysters. Yeah, that’s right. I said oysters. I suppose it’s the last thing you want to consider while boating and trying to avoid the sickness of the sea. But me? nah. If I’m goin’ out, I’m goin’ out strong. My nervousness subsides and I realize that I will not be throwing up on this trip. Imagine my delight. I start sucking back oysters and washing it down with a crisp white vino. Jealous? If I were you I would be. This is how the Brookes’ and Dragotto’s roll. I don’t know what to tell you people. It started with oysters and went on to smoked trout tartines and all sorts of yummy toast-point treats thanks to chef Kevin. Two hours came and went and as I walkie-talkied our boat in, I was half tempted to throw the throttle in gear, full speed (all of 8 mph), head toward the lake, and never look back. What a wonderful way to spend a sunny day in the city with your best pals.

ahoy matey

From boards to boats, my love of the water and Chicago was palpable these weeks. Each day I drive down Lake Shore Drive, Lake Michigan on my left or right. My coming’s and going’s; its shore my compass. Each day its look varies. Dark blue, Caribbean blue (thank you zebra mussels) and frozen sometimes. It’s ever changing, affected by the seasons and the elements. I never get tired of its beauty or the feeling I have when I’m near it. Something about the water ignites something in me. My soul just feels happy.

Stay tuned for week 48 of 52LC. It’s a 9-1-1 kind of happy hour.

Weeks 44 – 45: Modern Homes Tour & Paris Opera Ballet

June 17 – 23, 2012

Modern Homes Tour

The following statement could be held against me a in a court of law. I am warning you, it sounds creepy.  I have always liked walking around my neighborhood at night and looking into other people’s houses. Told you. Creepy. It’s dark outside. They can’t see me, but their lights are on and I can see them, see their home. I’m not particularly interested in what the people are doing as much as I am interested in what their house looks like. How have they decorated, what paint colors, art, and furniture? There, I said it. If you can’t tell the truth on your blog, where can you?  This brings me to my next adventure. When I learned there was an actual opportunity to see some of the most beautiful modern homes in Chicago, I jumped at the opportunity. This week I bring you the Chicago Modern Homes Tour.

Escorted by pals Katie and Kiwi, we began at the Ravenswood home. It’s strange entering the first house because these are self-guided tours. You’re unsure what you can and cannot do. As the owners stood in their kitchen, we said hello. We look at each, around at the vastly open and beautiful white space wondering which way to go. But we stroll inside, outside and even upstairs. All the while, I’m thinking, huh, this is very trusting. The owners allowing perfect strangers to enter their bedroom, their bathrooms, all very private places. This house is stunning. immaculate. And I really want to live here. Completely unassuming from the outside, spacious, light and open on the inside. A patio of dreams. I envision entertaining here. I depart thinking Architect John Ronan is a genius. On to the next home.

don’t get the deck dirty with your shoes. instead, put on blue socks.

We head south to the Alexander Gorlin townhouse. A crisp, white and metal structure. Entering, I feel as if I’ve stumbled upon a Miami Vice set. This house is not used as a home, but rather a rental for entertainment projects and photo shoots. And that’s exactly how it feels. Sterile and weird. We quickly tour each floor, not able to linger long. A consensus on this home: we don’t like it. Next, on Wolcott we visit two homes, drastically different from one another. One, a smallish and modest two bedroom home designed by Brininstool-Lynch. An Asian influence is obvious, mixed with masculine features. The cinder block walls and dim lighting scream “man.”  The other house, a 2.5 million dollar home with stairs to heaven. I didn’t think it was possible to get lost in a house. I stand corrected. I wandered aimlessly, like the others. Mouth open, in awe. I cannot begin to convey the beauty of this home, but wondered who would live here? A family of 10 could easily live comfortably. It’s for sale I learn. I will consider.

a $2.5 million dollar view

Lastly and delivering on everything you would assume to be weird about this kind of tour, was Pfanner House by architect Zoka Zola who also lives here with her family. On each floor, a docent is gagging to tell you about the home and the architect. This I liked. What I wanted to ask was “did you forget that you opened your home for this tour today?” Dust bunnies and old shoes littered the floors while the sinks were dirty with hair pins, tweezers and all other bathroom accoutrement. Not to mention that the entire family was there, not to speak to visitors mind you, but cooking and eating. Can you say awkward? Or maybe I should say what’s for dinner and pull up a chair.

June 24 – 30, 2012

Paris Opera Ballet

This one is real simple. I love the ballet. And the Paris Opera Ballet? Well, do I need to say more? Not only the oldest ballet company in the world–dating back to the 1600’s–but one of the very best. It lived up to every expectation. First course: Suite En Blanc. Beautiful. Eight classical ballet’s conceived by Serge Lifar. It had everything. Pas de trois, ensembles, adages. Incredible. You couldn’t help but be in awe of these dancers. Technically, it was unlike anything I have ever seen. Emotionally, I was moved beyond words.

Second course: Roland Petit’s L’Arlésienne and Le Boléro by Maurice Béjart. The first, a heartbreaking love story. A young man obsessed with a woman whose memory keeps him from happiness with his new bride. One so intertwined he appears to be driven mad. We don’t know. It culminates in a finale so amazing I found myself on the edge of my seat. Spoiler alert: do not watch this if you don’t want to see how it ends. Equally as breathtaking and, dare I say, erotic, was Le Boléro. To be honest this was the piece I  came to see. Boléro can be danced by a male or female lead. We were privileged to see the exquisite Aurélie Dupont, Paris Opera Ballet Étoile. She was breathtaking. A large table center stage with Aurélie on top. Shirtless men surround the table, sitting in chairs inhaling and exhaling, rhythmical movements. Leaning forward, hand through hair, sighing and leaning back. Aurélie’s movements are precise but repeated, becoming more intense and animated. She’s like a snake charmer. Each movement matching music. Culminating. Simply fantastic in every possible way.

ballet buddy, kari

In any other place, would these two weeks have been possible? Sure. But very few. Unknowing and trusting Chicagoans opened their homes to perfect strangers. The Paris Opera Ballet debuted to only 3 U.S. cities. Two points for you Chicago. Two points for you.

Stay tuned for Weeks 46 and 47 of 52 LC, but don’t forget your life jacket!

Week 43: Evening Swim at the Lake

June 3 – June 9, 2012 –  An Ode to REM

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night.
I’m not sure all these people understand.
It’s not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water.
They cannot see me naked.
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday.

Humming, I slowly wade in. Nightswimming. Icicles! Deserves a quiet night. What am I doing? Of recklessness and water. Fuck this is cold! These things, they go away. Maybe for you Michael Stipe. Replaced by everyday. Come on you wuss, just do it! Go in, go under already. Turn around and just run in, fast. Get it over with. Like ripping off a band-aid. No, I decide to torture myself. Ever so slowly. Because I am a wuss.

pre swim: warm

I’m in, to my waist now. No turning back really. I’m committed. I turn, look at the shore. Smatterings of people. Some kids playing in the sand, the sun setting behind the buildings. I turn back and look out into the lake. Not a person or boat in sight. The water reflects the purple and orange from the sky. The horizon doesn’t distinguish between the two. They become one. It looks inviting I’ll admit. I snap back to reality. I’m fucking cold. I put my hands in the water, wetting my wrists and elbows in an attempt to reduce the shock. It’s not working. I cup the water and gently pat it on my arms, then shoulders, then stomach (squeal), and then chest. I shiver. Repulsed. How cold is this? I later read: a brisk 63 degrees. Breathe in, breathe out. You can do it. Just dive forward. And I do. When my head submerges I feel pain, but I am swimming forward, holding my breath. I surface, inhale and tread water. I feel invigorated.

post swim: frozen

My instinct is to get out. Quickly. But I decide to stay and swim. Thinking, it will get better with time, that moving will generate warmth. I am, of course, wrong. I float on my back, shades of pink and purple. It’s quiet. My frolic in the lake  is brief. I slowly swim towards shore. Slowly because I am actually numb. As I exit the cool water I feel the heat of the day on my skin. The feeling is refreshing and welcomed. Tonight I made a discovery: Night is delight, it’s time to swim. Not during the day when crowds of Chicagoan’s flock to the shores, seeking refuge and salvation from the heat and their lives, and the life guards accost you verbally when you wade out past your knees. At dusk, the sunburned mom’s and dad’s tote their coolers off the hot sand, the lifeguards vacate the premises. At dusk, you can swim. Freely. And it is blissful.

a time to swim

Early years in Chicago brought me to the lake frequently. But that subsided ages ago. Fear of waking with a third eye or a flesh-eating bacteria the next day have clouded any opportunity to do so. The 10 o’clock news reporting beach closures due to e coli and tyrannical lifeguards have kept me at bay for too long. No more. I found the lakes sweet spot and have fallen for its charms. I find the calm and cool waters comforting and forgiving, lulling me into calm and back into the arms of Chicago.

Stay tuned for week 44 when I trudge through the homes of 6 perfect strangers.

Weeks 41 – 42: Great Lakes Naval Base & Sears Tower Skydeck

May 20 – June 2, 2012

My husband left me. Not forever, just for three weeks while visiting the Isle of Man, his home. This could feel like forever if I secretly didn’t relish the opportunity to have the house all to myself; a quiet space and a king size bed to sleep in diagonally. I am the envy of all my married girlfriends. When I shared this news with my parents, of my temporary single life, my dad asked if I would like some company. I quickly realized he meant just him, not with my mom. I eagerly accepted his offer. We said our goodbyes and I hung up the phone. Only moments, seconds really, passed when I realized this would be the first time that my father and I have spent more than 24 hours together, just the two of us. No husband, mom, or sister to break-up the conversation or hours in the day. I can’t say that I felt nervous, this was my dad. Someone I admire, love and care for deeply, not to mention find funny and interesting. But there was a twinge of something that I couldn’t place my finger on. A feeling of some sort. Anticipation maybe, but I didn’t think so. I pushed it aside and began planning his visit.

I’m not sure how the conversation began, but on the first night of his visit, my father shared that the Great Lakes Naval Base was just north of the city. I was surprised, not knowing that such a place even existed so close to home. After learning that my father, some forty-five years earlier, had gone through training there; Our trip north was solidified with this news. I envisioned my father, a young, optimistic eighteen year old boy going through boot camp with thousands of other young men. I was excited to take this trip down memory lane alongside him. Saturday morning we hopped in the car, taking the long way, winding north up Sheridan Road through cloudy skies, arriving in Great Lakes 45 minutes later. My dad says “it looks the same, but different.” Some things changing, others not. Modernized buildings and entrances, flank old points of entry and housing. I look left to see young naval men and women marching. We turn right into the guest parking lot, the naval museum just beyond an enormous naval gun on display in the courtyard. We enter the museum, a modest but insightful exhibit categorically displaying naval history here at Great Lakes and in the world. Traditions of past continue, although changed and developed over time. The museum is small, but inclusive of naval history. I learn a lot. Not just about uniforms, training, ships and combat, but about my father. Stories of his training, his time at sea and abroad. The good, the bad, all there. Would I have gone here if it were not for my father? No, but he made it all worth while, just to know him a little better.

reminiscing pops

Next up, 103 three floors above the bustling city streets we hover over Chicago. Waiting for what felt like hundreds of Japanese tourists to pose for their 100th picture, we impatiently wait our turn. Finally we are there, next in line. My heart begins to pound and I have the uncontrollable urge to run away. I now understand the term “fight or flight”. I am scared to step out on this thing. What if I’m the unlucky one today? What if today is the day the glass decides to give way? I look over and realize my dad is under the same quiet hysteria that I am. Finally, the Japanese group has parted and a space becomes available.

towering above

“Come on dad, you can do it! Just don’t look down” I say. I step out first looking out, not down. I am tip-toeing across, treading lightly, as if that would make a difference if this thing decided to separate from the building. I slowly get acclimated, but not comfortable. We have someone take our photo and not two seconds later my father has jumped out and left me there. He clearly has a fear of heights–also something I did not know. I take  a moment and look down. It’s freaky and I have had enough. I step off and we call it a day. When I told my dad I had bought tickets for the Sears Tower Skydeck (The Ledge), I don’t know if it resonated with him that we would be stepping out onto a thick pane of glass, dangling over the city. I’ve lived in Chicago for over 10 years and have never taken the time to go up. Always over and through, but never up. From up here, the city looks clean and peaceful. No horns honking, traffic or smog. Just sunshine, blue waters and pops of color. I kind of like it, despite all the tourists.

don’t look down

After four days of eating, drinking, walking, playing and eating some more, if was time for dad to depart. I sadly dropped him off at the train station and gave him a big hug goodbye. That earlier feeling I couldn’t put my finger on, I now understand it to be self-imposed. As if I insisted that I should feel some erroneous emotion simply because I don’t get to see my father often. What I understand is that, quite simply, it is easy to be with him. Effortless really. The conversation comes easy, the jokes and a shared love of topics. His visit only made me wish we could do this all the time, but we can’t. So, I will remember this time, just the two of us, and look forward to the next time. Knowing I will learn new things about him, myself and the city I live in.

Stay tuned for week 43 of 52LC when I have no fear of e.coli and freeze my bullocks off!

Weeks 38-40: Garfield Park Conservatory, A Debut, Failed Attempt, and A Taste for the Arts Gala

April 15 – April 21, 2012

Nearly a year ago, the Garfield Park Conservatory sustained extensive damage from a hail storm. If you were in Chicago, perhaps you remember your car being dinged from bumper to bumper, your eyes searching, eagerly peering through the window in an attempt to inspect the damage you knew awaited. Or, perhaps you were like me, inspecting the golf ball sized masses that had accumulated on your deck, in awe of its size and quantity. Campaigns to raise funds to replace the damaged glass littered the city for months. Shards of glass imbedded in soil, fauna and walkways. A difficult and saddening mess, to say the least. Arriving at the Conservatory, early on Sunday morning, I was unsure what awaited. Entering the main house, I look up to discover panes covering trees. If only temporary, a solution and shelter now exist.

persian pond chihuly

I haven’t been here in years. Not since I moved to Chicago over 12 years ago. I almost slap myself for not attending regularly, for it is quite a magnificent treat. Despite it’s location in a not so appealing neighborhood, this gem shines brightly against the boarded up buildings and crack addicts on the corner. As I enter, the smell of dirt and plants impede my nostrils. I walk the ambling paths through Palm House and into the Fern Room observing the carefully manicured and cared for fauna. Each room bursting with color, greens and yellows. I search for the lagoon to only find it drained with a man in wading boots hosing it down. I guess it’s a cleaning day. I’m a little disappointed. I take my time, it’s not crowded, and walk slowly, occasionally sitting to enjoy and breathe the air. I am remarkably at ease. Often catching myself wondering how such a place exists within a city. I survey the area also wondering where I might stow a hammock, a hideout, to only later bask in its wonder for an evening all to myself, under the shade of palms, trumpet and Boojum trees.

April 22 – April 28, 2012

A zillion things happened this week, unfortunately none of them being a 52LC adventure. Hey, a girls gotta work. I did however make my television debut which I hope will excuse my lack of time and ambition this week. I refrained from breathing through the entire segment. I may have set a world record.

April 29 – May 5, 2012

I knew there would be a problem. Gray sky’s, clouds and cool air. All factors for an unsuccessful trip to the Sears Tower Skydeck (This Willis Tower business is just nonsense. It will always be the Sears Tower to me). I was hopeful though. I tied my shoes and walked vigorously to the train station. Standing on the platform, chilled and puzzled, I saw the fog rolling in. Shit. Still hopeful, I board the train, transfer to the brown line at Belmont and exit at Quincy. Double shit. More fog. I stand below, looking up, its peak covered. The top, not visible.

the view from the top…what view?

I enter the lobby, for some reason thinking my arrival will part the fog. A Skydeck employee informs me “It’s zero visibility up there today. Your tickets are good for one year.” For some reason, I’m still torn. I got up early, took the train downtown on a Saturday morning only to be disappointed. At this moment Katie enters and talks some sense into me. After a brief deliberation, with little to no success on a plan b, we decide food will help. We walk to Michigan Avenue and cozy up in a booth at The Gage. A bottle of champagne, baked dutch baby pancake, rock shrimp a la plancha? Okay. It’s only 10am, but okay. Today’s adventure was a fail, but even good things can come out of a failed attempt. I’ll be back Skydeck! I will see thee on a sunny and clear day. Until then, I will sip champagne and gorge myself. Cheers!

a suitable substitute

May 6 – May 12, 2012

Chicago Academy for the Arts 30th Anniversary Performance at the Harris Theater and A Taste for the Arts Gala! Now, this adventure may be a total cop-out considering I was required to attend. You see, this is where I work. BUT, in my defense, it was a coveted event in the city, tickets sold out! To begin, a performance of CAA students and alums at the Harris Theater, with Justin Tranter from the Semi-Precious Weapons nearly tearing the house down with his energy and charisma. I found myself on my feet, like all other patrons, as if at a real rock concert. Wait, this WAS a real rock concert. Amazing! After being wowed by my own students and our alums for over an hour, it was time to head upstairs to A Taste for the Arts!

Imagine, if you will, a room full of Chicago’s best chefs–in fact, these are Chicago’s “Top Chefs”—Rick Bayless, Stephanie Izzard, Takashi Yagihasi, Heather Terhune, to name a few, cooking up tasty delights for guests. Not to mention, you can stand at their table, speak to them and then eat their food. Now, had I been an actual guest of this event, as oppose to a worker bee, I would have made 3 turns around this room easily, inhaling all to be offered. However, since my obligations kept me busy throughout the evening, I had to have my husband grab me anything he could get his hands on. This included a space age, freeze-dried, truffle infused, crunchy mac-n-cheese from the hip chefs at Moto to a blissful shrimp type creation from Ms. Izzard, which pushed my eyelids closed and resulted in the release of satisfying moans.

To Summarize…

I’ve been busy and have found it difficult this past month to, not so much do the adventures, but to sit down and carefully craft a witty and irresistibly charming rant here for my loyal 52LC followers. Apologies. But, school is out. Summer is in. And 52LC has many exciting summer adventures planned. So, grab your suite, some sunscreen and lets get going!

Week 37: Intelligentsia Roasting Works Tour

April 8 – April 14, 2012

The beginning. It’s important. Each morning I wake up, shuffle down the hallway, usually with one sock on, hair untamed, sleepy eyes. My aim: the coffee pot. The first sip resonating, brushing the cobwebs aside, but do not be fooled. What sounds like a simple morning routine, has in fact, been carefully tweaked and tailored over time. Each night, before bed, I grind fresh beans and accurately measure filtered water. This labor of love would be fruitless if it weren’t for the perfectly roasted beans. Because it’s all about the beans. Good beans + careful preparation = delicious coffee. In theory, of course. Some would argue that store-bought, freeze-dried grounds make the perfect cup, or that the machine doesn’t matter. Some believe that all coffee tastes the same, so why bother? Me, I’d like to slap these folks. I will take on any coffee philistine and dare them to say a beautifully barista-d cup of coffee is equivalent to a “Folgers fresh in your cup” kind of swill. That’s just nonsense.

The warehouse is unassuming. The Intelligentsia logo adorning the corner, the only clue indicating what’s inside. The side door opens and a man with a clipboard checks my name off a list. I enter the one room warehouse and the scent of freshly brewed coffee fills my nostrils. I feel like I’m in a dream. A good one. Not just because I am surrounded by pounds of my favorite coffee, but also because I haven’t actually had any coffee yet.  My voyage here a bit of a blur. I didn’t want to spoil the spoils of unlimited brew. Coffee that is.

tasting heaven

For years, I have bought, ground, brewed and drank, dark, steaming cups of Intelligentsia each morning. You can imagine my excitement to be in the room where these beans are transformed into the brew I speak of. Unfortunately it is sullied. I am finding it difficult to look past the trendy mustaches, emo jeans, and the ‘I’m too cool to assist you’ attitude that I’m receiving. I stand in front of a table, watching three chemex brewers in action, with two hipster douche bags behind the table. “Hello” I say. They peer up from their thick-rimmed, fake, vintage glasses and stare blankly at me. “Hello,” I say, loudly this time, maybe they are hearing impaired. I follow with a “may I taste one of the coffees please?” They reply,  “whatever one you want.” Ooooookay, “should I just help myself? Can you tell me a little bit about the coffees?” Blank stares, again. Don’t mind me, I’m just the patron here. Sorry to pull you away from your one-speed fixie and trite novel to do your job and sell the coffee you claim to love so much. Irritating.

I try to relax and wait for the tour to begin, sipping on a spicy Columbian blend. The tour guide is nice, a long-timer at Intelligentsia and clearly knowledgable. The tour lasts forever. Two hours in fact. Information worth knowing and lots not worth knowing. Most interesting? The roasting. Go figure. An ancient German machine that slowing toasts and roasts the beans, turning them over and over again in a barrel heated evenly by a burner. Clearly this is a science and the Roaster must pay attention. Green beans slowly turn brown, the Roaster pulling and testing, smelling and adjusting, careful not to burn. Then, the timing is right, and perfectly roasted beans empty into the container before me to cool. The smell, incredible. Most exciting, I get to take a bag of these babies home with me. Hellooo Rwanda.

the tasting table

After over two hours, I feel I have a sufficient understanding of Intelligentsia and despite the lanky tools who run the day-to-day operation, they roast a pretty decent bean. Leaving the warehouse I glance up. The logo gripping tightly to the corner of bricks.  A cup of coffee with wings, taking flight. Genius. For those of you who think it doesn’t make a difference, I challenge you. Frankly, I beg you to reconsider your stance. The morning is where it all begins. Your day. This is your moment to determine goodness, greatness, perfection even. When do you have this much control in your day? Begin it thoughtfully, and remember, you don’t have to be a hipster to do so. Frankly, it’s preferred.

Stay tuned for the next 52LC when I linger in a garden, have a failed attempt, and attend the best gala in town.

Week 36: Museum of Science & Industry

April 1 – April 7, 2012

We are sixteen and it’s 1am. Perched on stools in my parents kitchen, we devour burgers and gravy fries. We’ve been at a house party.  A keg comfortably housed in the bathtub, which my two girlfriends have frequented all night. Me, I was the designated driver and therefore, coherent. Looking over at my friend dipping her fries into a side of gravy, burning herself repeatedly, I can’t stop giggling. She laughs with me between bites, me shushing her, her failed attempt at quieting. My parents asleep upstairs, we struggle not to wake them. This is one of hundreds of memories I have had with Marie. A friendship spanning nearly 32 years, she is my oldest and dearest. She’s from back in the day. Age 4 to be exact. The stories are endless, the haircuts bad, but each has binded us more deeply over time. She living in Michigan, me in Chicago, we make time for one another whenever we can. Me, in and out of Michigan to see my family and her visiting Chicago when she can. She is always a priority. When the call came “I want to bring the girls to Chicago for their spring break,” I squealed with glee.

What to do? With Marie, it’s simple. Food, drinks and maybe even some dancing. With Maddie and Riley, it’s a little more complicated. The Museum of Science and Industry. Yes! We arrive at the museum early afternoon on the Thursday before Good Friday. I quickly realize that I’m an idiot. I have not even considered the possibility that because of the holiday, perhaps the museum would be crazed with out-of-school kids eager to get their little hands on a tornado. I see the ticket booth while rounding the stairs down. Myth Busters – SOLD OUT.  Ominmax – SOLD OUT.  U-505 Submarine – SOLD OUT. I fully expect Maddie and Riley to gaze harshly in my direction and say “you totally suck.” Which, I do. I’m a city dweller for God sake. We live by pre-purchase!! I must be slippin’.

with my favorite ladies and a u-505 submarine

After the ticketing disappointment, we enter the labyrinth that is MSI. Hordes of people, everywhere. I typically hate this. Hate crowds. But, I love watching Maddie and Riley. If I were here by myself, I would have run for the exit five feet into the place, but they just throw themselves into the chaos. Unfazed by the crowds. They wait patiently for their turn and don’t seem to mind the other small children cutting in front of them or brushing them aside. I should take a page from my young visitors. If I had half the patience these two have I imagine I’d be a happier, less angry person. Noted.

cute chicks

We see a tornado, a submarine, and even some baby chicks hatching, but I have a secret agenda. I am here for one reason. I am here to see the Tesla Coil and I can’t wait for my pals to see it too. Now, I am not even going to attempt to explain how this thing works. All I know is that it harnesses and directs high voltage electricity in a very sophisticated manner. We take a seat underneath and the faux scientist (also known as a sad worker-bee) says “Are you ready?” I’m shaking my head. Yes, yes, I am ready! And it goes something like this…

*If you don’t see the video above, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFwdgJpo7tA&context=C4ff4004ADvjVQa1PpcFOQE_FfnDdnXS9u3ihEk5JET5w9XLx0p50=

There is nothing like an old friend. Like an old shoe, they just fit. There’s something wonderful about knowing this person exists in your life, and that no time passes between you. Marie is that friend in my life. I don’t get to see her very often, which saddens me greatly. As I get older, I only want her closer. Many things have changed in our lives and living apart now for over half of it, we have somehow managed to make it work despite the challenges. As I sit, gazing up, electrical currents pushing out, reaching out, I somehow feel safe and at ease with where I am right now.

Stay tuned for a roasting in week 37 of 52LC.

Week 35: Shamrock Shuffle

March 25 – March 31, 2012

When I signed up in January I thought, I have nearly 3 months to train. Get ready. Be ready. The weeks slipped past, days too. Always thinking I still had time. Standing now in a corral with thousands of others, slowly being herded towards the start line, I begin to panic. I feel it rising up inside me, my heart pounding in my chest; fear of failure, fear of being last, fear of not finishing. I swallow hard, suppressing these feelings deep inside, to a dark place. I take 20 steps closer to the start. I gulp, look at my friends and Ben. Only two of them actually prepared for this race. It’s hard to ignore the energy. These people are pumped. They are ready, and they apparently love running. I am looking for a way out. I could climb that barricade. It’s not too high. Anything would be better than the misery I am certain awaits me once I cross the red line. Once I do that, there is no turning back. I can only go forward. And so, I do. I feel the final surge, the push forward. Running. They are all running. So, I run too with the fear of being trampled if I don’t. I climb the first hill heading towards the bridge and make the mistake of looking behind me only to see no one. Not one single runner. Only a small family pushing a stroller. Where did they all go? They have passed us. I glance to my right (panting) to see Pam, hysterical. She’s laughing, but it’s not real laughter. It’s pure hysteria. I look left and see Ben. He glances at us and says “I can’t be last. I’m out of here.” He sprints forward. Leaving us. We are last. Out of 34,000 runners, we are LAST!!!

I must have had a momentary lapse of insanity when I signed up for the Shamrock Shuffle. A popular Chicago 8k (nearly 5 mile) race, notoriously touted as “fun.” I know why I did it. 52 Last Chances, of course. There is no other sane reason this decision could have possibly been concluded upon. I am not a runner. Unless being chased by a crazed maniac or pack of zombies, I prefer a more civil mode of transport. Looking at Pam, I determine this is now or never. We will either A) slowly disappear off the route into a cozy pub or B) finish this damn race. I chose B. Pam I am pretty certain chose A. Despite her plea’s, her eyes full of terror, I push us on, push us forward. Now don’t get me wrong. I am no martyr here. Pushing my dear friend to a finish line 5 miles away seemed cruel and unforgiving. Some could say, I am evil. In fact, I think Pam would say I am evil. But it was this mission to get my friend to the finish line that allowed ME to get to the finish line. See, I didn’t have to focus on myself. I only had to encourage my friend.

Slowly, we make it to mile one, and those phony fuckers pretending to be runners started to drop like flies. This may sound overly harsh, but as far as I’m concerned it’s every man for himself out here. To our delight, we were no longer last. For the first time, crossing the finish line actually seemed plausible. I learn many things over the next hour.

1. Pam is encouraged by cheers from the crowd. She will start to run when she sees and hears them, so I do too.
2. Pam may actually kill me
3. The smell of Garrett’s Popcorn on the race route is very cruel

For the next 4 miles I coax Pam through a roller-coaster of emotions. When the route takes us west on Wacker, away from the lake, away from the finish line, she seriously considers cheating. Looking down a side street, you can see the runners who have already made the loop and are heading back towards the lake. She wants to join them. I tell her that we will not be cheaters and that if we tried joining that group our chances of survival are slim. We’d be trampled to death. I had heard stories about people in distress, causing them to make irrational choices. I was witnessing this first hand. Up ahead I see a man with a limp and I say to her “there is absolutely no way that I am finishing behind a man with a limp. Get your ass in gear, we are passing him.” And we did. We passed the man with a limp. Slowly inching us closer to the finish line. Around mile 3, I see a man run past us and I realize it’s my husband. How did he get behind us? “Bathroom,” he says, “long line too, I ran out of the port-o-potty with my pants still down.” Frankly, I didn’t need to know this. Before I can say anything, he’s off again. Leaving us once more.

As we rounded the corner onto Michigan Avenue and saw the 4 mile marker I almost couldn’t muster the encouragement. The sidewalks are lined with runners who have already completed the race touting words of encouragement, claps and smiles. One of these being a woman with no legs. Pam looks at me and says “Does that woman have legs? She’s already finished?” I start laughing so hard, I almost lose my footing. I realize I should appreciate them, appreciate their efforts to get me to the finish line, but I only want to punch them in the face. To make things worse, the race route ends with climbing the hill on Roosevelt. Pam confesses she can’t go further, so I grab her hand and pull us up the hill. Photographers line the sidewalk and I am appalled that these moments of my life have actually been captured. A digital history of this event now exists. Pam has done so great, and there is no way we are not crossing that finish line. I say “look! there it is! The finish line!” It was our Chariots of Fire moment and no one can take it away. I look back and see runners behind us. Yes, behind us. We will not be last. We cross the finish line and Pam collapses in bliss. Time: 1:18:01. We collect our token banana and water, slowly propeling ourselves forward. We did it. Now, we just need to make it back to the car.

Props to you runners. I am unsure why anyone would openly and happily do this to themselves, but that’s just me. I feel lucky that I had my friend Pam by my side on this warm, sunny morning. This entry may imply that Pam needed me more than I needed her, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. We needed each other. Running is a solitary sport. It’s lonely. But I suppose this may be why it’s attractive to people. You can distance yourself from everyone, run faster, and further away from what’s behind you. Be that a knife wielding psycho or just a bad day. For all the agony, I am glad I did this. Would I do it again? Ask me next year.

Stay tuned for week 36 of 52LC when I tackle science with some little ones.