Oh, Chicago, why do I love you so? There is nothing in my
country mouse upbringing that should feed on your hustle and bustle, grow giddy
at the sight of your skyline, or salivate over your deep-dish and bun-wrapped
culinary creations.
And yet you woo me, Chicago. You ply my heartstrings with
your proud and beautiful buildings. You captivate me with your art. And you
stun me with your hardscrabble history—built by men with roughhewn hands and
undaunted determination.
Home of the White City, debut site of the Ferris Wheel, birthplace
of incomparable Studs Terkel, death-place of Enrico Fermi (nerd out), and home
of sports franchises so hallowed and fraught with history they themselves have
become venerated characters in the play that is Chicago.
So is it really any surprise that I leapt at the chance to
see you again? Admit it. You wanted to see me, too.
In mid-July, the gals—five of us, college girlfriends, and let me
just say, totally classy—flew from Dallas, Houston and Washington, DC to
converge at the Long Beach, Indiana home of some of the loveliest hosts ever.
Well, almost all of us.
Flights out of DC were cancelled due to weather, so Egypt
flew out the next day and then took a bus to Michigan City, Indiana where we
picked her up in a hotel parking lot. Lord, you should have seen it. It was
like opening the door to the chicken coop in a room full of junebugs. The mad rush, the flapping, the triumphant cackling.
We may have had a lot of catching up to do…
We stayed up late, we dished about boys, we canoed, and we
swam in Lake Michigan. And that was just in one day. Memorable moments included
the making of Egypt’s rock sculpture on the beach, our first tastes of summer shandy,
and Des and me (slightly) ramming the paddle boat with the other girls in it.
Really, the fact that we successfully boarded and de-boarded debarked
(whatever) the canoe without capsizing was a feat not lost on any of us.
That
night, after watching fireflies in the backyard, I remember climbing the
stairs, dusting the beach sand from my toes, feeling the pleasant weariness
that only comes with good, long, sun-dappled and laughter-filled days.
The next day we took the South Shore Line from Michigan City
into Chicago. Blinking, we emerged from the station to street level, and it was
like greeting another old friend. The city had weathered a few more winters since
I last saw her, but then again, so had I. This time, I brought better walking
shoes (Mr. Man, I can feel you rolling your eyes at me in exasperation. It was
three years ago, so just don’t even go there.).
We then proceeded to check into our hotel in less than two
minutes. Truthfully, we didn’t even take our bags upstairs. (Which reminds me
of how surprised I am that so many folks don’t know about the whole “there is
no 13th floor” thing. Seriously, you haven’t noticed that, people? C’mon,
we all know what the 14th floor really is.)
We hightailed it to Navy Pier for lunch where, Gospel truth,
I saw a young seaman in dress whites, complete with traditional white “Dixie cup”
cap and those pants with the slight bell, who couldn’t have been more than 19.
Goodness, he was handsome! <The author fans herself.> (I get this penchant
for men in uniform from my mother who, had she been there, would have come
positively unglued.)
We hit up some usual tourist stops: Garrett’s popcorn
(caramel with pecans = sinful), photo ops with the Ferris Wheel, and a water
taxi ride back to Michigan Avenue where we braved the throngs at the iconic
Cloud Gate sculpture to leave our fingerprints and take selfies.
By dinnertime we were more than ready for some of Gino’s
pizza, calorically speaking…and because we thought we’d start the evening off
with cocktails but instead ended up crashing a private party at the hotel’s rooftop
bar. <affects a nearly Steel Magnolia’s-esque drawl> “It’s okay, y’all!
We’re from Texas. Y’all have a great night. Mazel tov!” Indeed, there is
something so totally satisfying about good friends, especially those who’ll
crash a party with you, hot pizza and cold beer.
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