Unobstruction

The air conditioning unit was gone from the window when I arrived home today after work, and I was so happy to see it go. Now, not only do I have the full panoramic view out my window, unobstructed, but also have more sunlight, and will no longer be kept awake at night by the loud clanking of condensation dripping from the above unit onto mine. I lost countless hours of sleep from that piercing echo, resounding like bee bees, rather than water drops, against the metal. And it would always start around 11 pm, when the outside air became cool enough to leave beads of moisture on the hot units, then would subside, it seemed, until approximately 4:30 am, when it would return, full force. On most nights/mornings, even earplugs couldn't block it out.

The weather has been gorgeous, rendering the A/C unit redundant for a few weeks now, anyhow. Of course, I only used the thing twice all summer, so for me it was always superfluous, more of a nuisance than anything else. But, I just knew that if I got rid of it, we’d finally get that sweltering summer heat, and I'd be kicking myself for having it removed. (Perhaps the fact that I kept my window unit all summer is to blame for the surprisingly cool summer that disappointed most of us.) Oh, well. The summer has now faded into perfectly crisp, autumn weather. I never thought I could fall in love with temperatures below 79 degrees (I’ve always been a fan of heat), but the upper 60s are perfect.

Even though I adore fall and am anticipating the brilliance of the trees as autumn stains their leaves orange and red, I can't help myself: my thoughts are already inching ahead toward Christma—okay, okay, I won’t even bring it up. I promise, I will keep myself in check and try not to impose the wintry season on you by discussing the gift-shopping and family celebrations and baked goods and lights and—okay, okay, I promise. That’s enough. For now, I am going to revel in apple cider, fresh corn, pumpkin scones (thank you, Starbucks), cool night breezes, jacket weather, fiery-colored trees, and, when traveling beyond the city, the smell of fall bonfires (one of the best scents on earth, along with Scotch tape, new books, and Old Spice).

You know, sometimes living in a location like San Diego, or Phoenix, or even Atlanta can sound appealing. But, honestly, I can’t imagine settling down someplace without four distinct seasons, and missing out on the transformation from one to the next, each and every year. It feels so exciting every time, knowing that you're in the middle of a transition. Renewal, rebirth and the phases of life feel so palpable here. So, I’ll take Chicago's sub-zero winter wind chills, thank you, if it means that I get to experience the anticipation of a brand new season four times per year.

Spontaneous Saturday

Saturday was a day of stupendous spontaneity (okay, okay, I couldn’t resist the alliteration). But seriously, I can be a little anal when it comes to planning, so it was a welcome break from the norm to only have a vague sense of the day when Wendy and I set out, and to let the city and a whim take us where they might.

It was a gorgeous morning. A light autumn-esque chill was in the air, which made for the perfect relief to a very sunny day. I decided we’d walk to the bank (about ten blocks away), rather than taking the El, and Wendy was perfectly agreeable to the suggestion. We stopped in Starbucks on the way for a caffeine jolt as we headed southward. There’s a beautiful park on Dearborn (sorry, I don’t remember exactly where it was located). We strolled through, admiring a fountain set in the midst of a circular garden. I felt the familiar twinge of sadness noting the homeless asleep in the grass (some on the sidewalk). We left them to their slumber and kept walking.

Farther south we found ourselves in River North, near my old workplace. We stopped for pictures on the gorilla bench outside Rainforest Café, and then paused briefly so that Wendy could take the half a second it takes to observe the Rock N Roll McDonald’s. About a block from the bank, Wendy pointed out one of many signs for Navy Pier. She had never been there, and I’d never been there when it wasn’t freezing cold (I’d been twice before, the first during my first trip to Chicago ever, in February 2002—brrr!). So, that decided it. We directed our course eastward, and from then on the day was filled with two best friends sharing a laundry list of fun things I’d been wanting to do in Chicago, but had either forgotten about, or just never gotten around to doing.

Headed east on Illinois, we approached a used book shop and the Jazz Record Mart that I’d seen a number of times (usually on the way to the movie theatre), and in which I’d always wanted to get lost. We had no schedule (that felt amazing!), and were both eager to stop inside. We agreed that we could have spent hours in the bookstore, but restrained ourselves, deciding that Navy Pier trumped used books that day. We stopped inside the jazz shop next door, where endless shelves of CDs, vinyl, and books greeted us. I love jazz, and Wendy knows it even better than I do, but that store made both of us feel quite limited in our knowledge. It was a plethora of jazz greats big and small. We agreed that our friend Kim would have loved it. I toyed with the idea of buying some Miles or Madeline Peyroux, but again restrained myself. I can go back and buy them later if I change my mind.


Many blocks later, we immersed ourselves in the dense crowds of tourists enjoying Navy Pier. Giddy like kids, we headed toward the ferris wheel for views of the lake and the city. We felt like we were at Cedar Point, except without the rides and the lines (which leaves the lake, the food, the excitement, and the kiddy rides). After getting our picture taken beneath the wheel and boarding our car, we regressed a few years, trying to get our ferris wheel car rocking back and forth (we were not very successful), snapping a ton of pictures, and standing up in the car partly in spite of the posted signs telling us not to (okay, I did this, not Wendy). The views of the city and the lake were lovely. When we stepped off, we purchased our over-priced ferris wheel pictures, and stopped at McDonald’s for—you guessed it—happy meals.

If that weren’t enough excitement for the day, our day was only just beginning. We next headed to Chinatown, where lots of shopping and better food awaited us.

"There's no Macy's on State Street."

After a great deal of anticipation, my mom arrived in Chicago last Thursday afternoon for a much-needed vacation. We knew I’d still be working when she arrived, so we discussed her game plan ahead of time. She’d arrive at Union Station, and then grab a cab from there to Macy’s on State Street (why, oh why is there no convenient public transportation from Union Station to where I live??). Macy’s has often been a meeting point for us, as it’s fairly close to my work, she loves the voluminous, multi-floored shopping experience, and it’s an easy landmark (or, so we thought).

When I finished work, I called her and excitedly told her I was a couple of blocks away. We had agreed to meet at the Starbucks on Randolph and Wabash, but when I called, she told me the saleswoman told her there was no longer a Starbucks at Macy’s but that she was at a generic coffee shop on the first floor. This was immediately fishy. So, I arrived at Macy’s on State, and after checking three different Starbucks in the store and not finding mom, I called her again. “Mom, I’m at Starbucks on the bottom floor, but I don’t see you. There’s a Starbucks on practically every floor of this store. What if we meet at the Lush counter?” Mom, excitedly: "Oh, perfect! I know where that is!" Okay, so we decided to meet at Lush. After waiting for ten minutes, trying to dodge the over-zealous, socially-awkward salesman, and trying to fight the nausea of bath bomb and shower gel olfactory overload, she called me. “I’m at Lush,” she said. “So am I,” I replied. Then, I was sure: “Which Macy’s are you at??” Mom: “I don’t know. I told the taxi driver Macy’s on State. The big Macy’s. And he told me there wasn’t one and so I’m at Macy’s.” Me: “Are you at Water Tower Place??” Mom: “Yes.”

Now, we had had the discussion the evening before that she did NOT want to be at the Macy’s on Michigan Ave., but the one on State Street. She told the cab driver exactly what I told her to tell him. And, instead of bringing her to the Macy’s everybody knows, he firmly informed her that there wasn’t a Macy’s on State Street (yes, he actually said this), and drove her to the one farthest away so that he could make a few extra bucks. I was really angry. When I finally made my way up to Water Tower Place, she proceeded to tell me that she had had to lug her own heavy luggage in and out of the trunk of the taxi cab as well. I was livid. My mom has a lot of back trouble. Yes, she should have spoken up. But come on, you see a short little woman lugging a big suitcase from Union Station, you stop to pick her up, and all you can bother to do is pop the trunk for her? And then you tell her there’s no Macy’s on State Street? She got took in every sense of the phrase. Of course, she didn’t realize what had happened until later, but if she’d given me the name of the taxi company, the number of the cab and the name of the driver, you can bet I would be including all that information here, as well as calling someone to tell them off.

So, my advice to you if you’re traveling to Chicago—know exactly where you’re headed beforehand, and don’t let a taxi driver convince you that you’re wrong. I’ve taken cabs a half dozen times in the city, and almost every time the driver had no idea to what location I was referring. Of course, now I wonder if they just pretend they don’t know where they’re going so they can conveniently “get lost” and charge you, the unsuspecting patron, three times what it should actually cost to get from point A to point B.

Luckily, she and I were so happy to see each other that we let the whole situation roll off, and headed to the John Hancock for some Cheesecake Factory avocado egg rolls and some cookies n cream cheesecake. You’re right. It’s not a unique Chicago restaurant in any sense of the word. But we don’t have one back home, and it’s been a tradition every time she comes to town that we eat there. I was glad to fill up on conversation and cheesecake. But I have to admit, I was still a little P.O.ed at the anonymous cab driver who took my mom for a ride.