"Obligatory" Cheesecake

Last weekend, I spent a lovely three days with one of my favorite Chicago visitors—my mom. We started the weekend just as we always do: with avocado egg rolls and cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory. I have now come to expect that when I escape the office on the Friday of mom’s arrival, we head to the John Hancock for dinner. Of course, this time we squeezed in a little shopping at Macy’s (the one on State Street—the cabbie got it right this time) beforehand, as I managed to leave the office shortly after the lunch hour. There’s just something about catching up over our favorite, un-Chicago, but highly delicious, calorie-filled meal that feels so fantastic after some time apart (Olive Garden is our Toledo version of this, primarily thanks to their peach sangria). We don’t care if it’s “just a chain,” or if it’s completely touristy to eat there. It’s our thing and we love it.

White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cheesecake w/ Caramel Sauce!

El Racing

It’s rather infrequently that I travel up to north Chicago these days. So, today, as the Red and Brown lines rushed me northward toward Ravenswood to meet Liz for coffee, and I watched the John Hancock grow increasingly diminutive, it actually felt like an extremely long journey. The path I had traced every day coming to and from work when I lived in Uptown is actually becoming unfamiliar to me now, since my life is pretty concentrated in downtown Chicago.

On my way home after coffee, after I had made my transfer from the Brown to Red line at Belmont, I was reminded of how much fun that El ride can be (forgive me for being so easily amused). Because today we got to race. At Fullerton, both the southbound Brown line and Red line trains took off at once. The Brown line was off to an early start, and for a second I thought we would lose. But it wasn’t long before the Red line smoked ‘em, as it zipped past the Brown line train, which was forced to make a stop. I love when the trains are timed just right like that, because it reminds me of riding on the Gemini roller coaster at Cedar Point, where the red and blue cars would take off together, and you’d race each other until the end of the ride (blue almost always won).

My favorite part of the simultaneous takeoff from Belmont, though, is that split-second of adrenaline when it seems as though the trains might crash into each other as they converge to run side-by-side. It always makes my breath catch in my throat for the briefest moment but then I relax when, surely enough, the trains start riding safely on their parallel courses. It’s not quite as exciting as riding a roller coaster, but it amuses me. Plus, you get to peer into the train next to you as you ride alongside each other. It would be more fun if you could taunt one another like everyone does on the Gemini, but, well, there’s urban transportation and then there’s Cedar Point.

Skyscraping

I love the sound of all eight elevators in our elevator bank whooshing up and down just past 5 p.m. on a weeknight. The speed of the cars zipping up and down mimics the urgency of the passengers heading out of the office. I imagine how it would look if you could see through the walls and watch all 48 double-decker elevators sliding past one another like some kind of amusement park ride. Honestly, the thrill of working in one of Chicago’s tallest buildings doesn’t fade. And even my more jaded co-workers have to admit how much they love looking out of the windows in our corner conference rooms. Either the lake, or the city, or both (depending which conference room you’re in), just sprawl out below your gaze. On beautiful days, those views can be very distracting.

The elevators were whooshing vigorously when I left the office today. It had been a long week, full of long hours and being sick. I felt relieved to step outside, breathe in the fresh evening air, and find the blanket of darkness that descends upon the city so early these days. While I was sad to say goodbye to Daylight Savings Time, I have been happy to walk out of the office and find the dark skies overhead. Because dark skies mean glittering city lights, and downtown Chicago might just be at her most beautiful in the night.

Even though I felt crummy, it was even nice to walk from my apartment to the John Hancock building tonight. (The weather is still quite warm for November, which makes for perfect evening walks.) Can you believe that there are apartments in the Hancock? And that they are actually affordable? Apparently so, because I just spent the evening there with a bunch of the old intern crew to celebrate Suzie’s 20 or so hours in town before she heads back to Seattle.

Now, I know that I work pretty high in the sky, but living on the 57th floor of the John Hancock is a little higher than I would want to reside. Trey (it was his apartment) told us that when it’s stormy, the wind gets so loud that you can’t even carry on a conversation in the apartment. The view’s great, but the constant creaking from the wind is a little unnerving. And you have to ride up two sets of elevators just to get home. I can just see me at the end of the work week, grumpy, feeling exhausted, battling tourists the whole way home, then having to take two elevators just to get to my apartment. Then losing sleep if it’s a stormy night? Ugh! But…it might just be worth it for the satisfaction of sharing my residence with both the Signature Room and the Cheesecake Factory.

Anyway, the thought of moving into that place is daunting enough for me to never consider moving there (not to mention zero parking). But it’s undoubtedly a great place for hosting parties.

"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.

Re-Definitions

I’m lying on the sand, atop a beach towel that’s not quite long enough for my tall frame (they never are), staring at the John Hancock building. And, for the first time in a week and a half, I only feel a twinge of sadness. Numbness would be the accurate term for what I feel at this moment. I’m still wondering if I’ll ever get an eight-hour night of sleep again, but I'm slightly comforted by the fact that my waning appetite has helped me lose nearly ten pounds.

It’s about 6 p.m. There are only a couple of hours of sunlight remaining. I’m at the beach alone, but that’s okay. This gives me time to get comfortable with being alone again. No one bothers me, aside from the occasional ogling eye. And really that’s all I want right now, in this moment—-to be left alone. I am taking time to reevaluate. The world. My life. My outlook.

I have been foolish enough to be a romantic; an idealist. I realize that anyone who’s read my blogs could have pinpointed that in a heartbeat. But I have always envisioned myself as a realist. Practical. Not to be taken by flights of fancy. After all, I always disparaged the Transcendentalists because I felt they were too often idealistic. But I learned the hard way that I was lying to myself. Deep down, I've been what is sometimes referred to as a "silly heart."

The sun is retreating and the shadows of high rises stretch up the backs of my legs. I feel their coolness, juxtaposed against the heat of my upper body, still basking in the sun. I take it in. I just want to feel that contrast, to feel my aliveness. But I wish that the sunshine wouldn’t fade so fast.

As the sun recedes, I move closer to the lake, prolonging the rays of sunshine until the shadows overtake me. I lie there until, inevitably, the light fades behind the buildings and I am left lying in shadow, with goose bumps erupting like waves across my skin. I am reluctant to leave, to let go. Of the daylight, of love, of someone with whom I'd gotten used to sharing my life. I feel the tears spilling out from behind my sunglasses, and I wonder that there’s any liquid left in my body after all these days of crying.

But even as I retreat from numbness back to sadness, I allow myself to become distracted by the gulls as they patter about, leaving webbed prints in the sand. I find myself grinning at their movements. I think to myself that they are both cute and funny-looking. But then I realize that they wouldn't look so cute if they shat on your head. And the thought of one of those birds pooping on someone’s head is so hilarious to me, that I start laughing. And as I'm lying there making myself laugh, I suddenly realize that idealists (yes, I am one) need not fear sunsets and shadows—-they’ve got plenty of sunshine within.