Jazz and Cocktails

This is old, but I didn't post it. Wrote it on 1/17/09:

Jazz has been an important part of my leisure time since my undergraduate days when I first fell in love with it (thank you, Kim). I’ve been to jazz clubs all over the Midwest, including my favorite Murphy’s Place in Toledo, the Jazz Kitchen in Indy, the Blue Wisp in Cincy, and various places in Cleveland, Muncie and Michigan. I’ve scoped out jazz in places where it’s hard to find (like Knoxville) and I’ve sacrificed my lungs to thick cigarette smoke (Rusty’s!) to immerse myself in those sweet chords. If there’s jazz, I will find it. Therefore, it’s rather astounding that I’d lived in Chicago for over four months before I finally made it to the Green Mill. Friday night, I went.

After unsuccessfully attempting to recruit a number of my Chicago friends to accompany my friend Vinny and me to the cocktail lounge, it wound up being just the two of us. I arrived first, severely overestimating the time it would take me to get from home to the Green Mill. Upon walking in I was greeted by a large, bald-headed, biker-looking guy who was really nice to me, but looked like he could pick me up with one finger and toss me out if he didn’t like the looks of me. He recited the rules of the club and then suggested I grab a drink to warm up. So, I took a seat at the bar and treated myself to an $8 white Russian (my favorite, but usually reserved for special occasions). I had plenty of time to look around and take in my surroundings. As I looked at the wood carvings hanging around the room, and watched the musicians prepare their set, I wondered if the interior looks much different now than it did in the mobster days. It’s been entirely remodeled since then, but I wonder how close they stayed to the original… My thoughts were interrupted by the bouncer, who took pity on my lack of company and tried to engage me in conversation about a dream he’d had the night before. He proceeded with all the details, ending with un-profound comments on Freud. I chose not to add my own two cents on Freud.

Anyway, I digress… So, when Vinny arrived, he was a welcome sight, rescuing me from an awkward solitude occasionally interrupted by the tales of the bald-headed bouncer. As we scouted out a good seat, one of the employees showed us to a cramped little table right up front. The lack of space wasn’t an issue—it was a perfect view! As we settled in, I looked at the people sharing our space—all elderly friends and family of the equally elderly musicians. They were clearly enjoying themselves immensely. Ha. I was enjoying myself immensely. And as I looked around at the wide range of ages filling the club, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

It may have taken me awhile to get to the Green Mill, but that Friday I was definitely destined to go because they played my song. I’ve only heard it once before. On a Carnival cruise ship, I was one of very few cruisers who spent my evenings in the jazz lounge, bobbing my head to the music. The drummer took a shine to me and asked me if I had a request. I suggested a few that they couldn’t play, so he finally told me they’d play something special for me next time I stopped by. The last night of the cruise I went down to the lounge to bask in the final night of vacation and, sure enough, they played my song. Emily. It’s such a lovely piece. When they announced it at the Green Mill, I was on cloud nine.

Needless to say, I shall be back. The Green Mill was cozy and casual, with the kind of energetic jazz pros I come to expect when I head out for an evening of jazz. Frank DeRone (the guest vocalist) name dropped all night. This guy’s sang with the greats. Like Tony Bennett. While his voice is weakened a bit by age, his heart was in it, and the Green Mill musicians carried the evening. My only complaint was that there weren’t enough bass solos. There are never enough bass solos… I’ll let is slide, though. After all, they did play my song.

Art Haven

Tonight I indulged in the Chicago Institute of Art. Yes, it’s free on Thursday nights, but it’s still an indulgence—it feels so decadent to immerse myself in that kind of beauty and genius. It’s going to be my Thursday night treat to myself once or twice a month. I looked forward to it all week, and I enjoyed myself immensely all evening.


The first time I went was on January 3, with one of my best friends, Wendy, who was visiting for New Year’s. We waited outside in a line snaking up Michigan Ave; I was impressed with the institute’s popularity. Once inside and warm, we moseyed about, primarily enjoying the Impressionists, Post-Impressionists and miniatures collection. That first visit only scratched the surface, but it piqued my determination to start visiting the museum regularly and I could hardly wait to get back on a Thursday evening. And it was such a treat tonight.


There was hardly anyone there! Here I was sauntering about, taking in all this magnificence, and I did’t have feign interest in a mediocre painting while I waited for the crowd to move away from the piece I actually want to see; I didn’t have to battle my way past school tour throngs; I didn’t even have to feel the pressure of that personal space invader who tries to dictate how long you enjoy a particular paining. And when I giggled aloud at those ridiculously adult faces the Renaissance artists painted on their babies, there was no one (or hardly anyone) there to hear me. In fact, most of the crowds were concentrated in the Impressionists galleries, so I just avoided that entire section. Much of the time it really was just the art and me (well, and the occasional curator.) I’ve never had that kind of experience in a museum, much less a museum of this caliber. I’ve never had the silence of a museum like I did tonight. It was all art and no distraction. It was perfect.

Ignoring my most favorite pointillists, I instead threaded through Buddhist and Hindu sculptures, Greek pottery, and the 18th-century galleries. I spent considerable time gazing at paintings with bright colors or colorful characters. I skipped the violent and the drab. I got lost. And then I stumbled upon the American decorative arts gallery…


Needless to say, I now have a new favorite gallery. After my first visit, I was sure nothing could trump the miniatures collection, but once I came across the people-sized versions of the furniture I love in those little glass cases, I was even more entranced. I have a thing for antique furniture, particularly Victorian (okay, so I have a penchant for all things Victorian). Honestly, I can’t get enough of the way the fabric puckers neatly under those fabric-covered buttons that create dimples in chair cushions and sofa backs. And I have a fondness for excellent woodwork: my grandpa used to build furniture, and I understand and respect the level of artistry that goes into those amazingly carved chair legs, desk frames, tables. So, to see the beauties at the art institute was such a treat! There’s a particularly brilliant green sofa with button dimples all over it, framed in a rich chocolate wood. It’s Victorian and looks a tad uncomfortable, but I fell immediately in love with it and wanted to take it home with me (fashion over function, as the Victorians would have wanted it). I should have taken a picture, but that would only have drained its brilliance and shrunk it down to cheap reproduction. That sofa is now among my favorite pieces the museum.


I’d intended to save the best for last, so the miniatures were my final stop. I could spend all day peering my voyeuristic eyes into those tiny parlors and ballrooms. I’m so impressed by the detail. I chose my favorites (two French salons circa 1740-ish and a Victorian parlor) and then made speedy work to leave the museum. Not because I was ready to leave my haven from the hustle and bustle, but because I’d worn about five layers as armor against the -30 degree wind chill outside, and those layers were starting to feel extremely uncomfortable in the nice warm museum. So, I headed back upstairs, reluctantly bundled myself up, and stepped back into reality.

Early Winter Snow

It’s frustrating that I always feel at my most poetic on my walk home in the evenings (from the Wilson stop, no less). Strands of words fill my head, just right for describing the worlds around and within me, but I cannot get to a pen and paper (or computer) quickly enough to get them down. When I try to fit the pieces back together at home, they become all mismatched and stubborn.

It snowed two days ago. That crisp, white, fluffy kind that reminds you of your childhood: building snowmen in the yard, making snow angels, and sledding. When I was walking home with the snow falling all around me on Tuesday, I felt inspired, and the words were there. Since then, I’ve been trying to capture the mixture of giddiness and contentment I felt as I tromped through the snow that night, but the words that captured the moment so perfectly then have escaped me once again.

Odd, how something like snow can put all your pieces back together—even the ones you thought you’d forgotten. Maybe it’s not snow for some people. Maybe for normal people it’s a gorgeous, sunny-warm day. But for me it was snow this time. I knew I was on top of the world when I felt this inconsolable urge to do torjetes in the snow, because I associate very little unhappiness with ballet. I wish I had done them (though the combination of frozen muscles, lack of practice, and slick sidewalks may not have ended so gracefully.) So, there I was, smiling and stomping through the snow like a six-year-old, wanting to break out into dance, and thinking up these perfect strands of words in my head. My two greatest passions in this whole wide world had rushed into me at the sight and feel of snow.

And, yes, I know that many people hate snow. And it’s no fun when you have to drive in it (I am sorry for those of you who were stuck on the highways for six hours that night.) But I am relishing the first time in years that I don’t have to drive in it—all I have to do is play in it!

After two years in Knoxville, it sure feels good to be back in the Midwest where we get more than an inch of snowfall and most of us know how to drive in it. And, even better than being in the general Midwest, it’s amazing to be in Chicago at wintertime. Because when you’re downtown walking past the Macy’s window displays, or snaking through the Krist Kindl Markt, or rushing along beneath the strings of lights adorning Michigan Avenue, with snow falling on your head, it really feels like Christmas.

Before you get the idea that I’m a complete idealist, let me assure you that I don’t love the gray slush that follows the pristine snowfall. Today I sloshed to and from work looking at the gray mush piled up like dirty mashed potatoes along the sidewalk. It turns my stomach a little, and reveals the city’s pollutants in an unavoidable way. I realize that by February, the slush and ice and cold may be more than I can bear. But for now, I’m going to savor it just a little bit longer…

Obama Rally (overdue)

I never had the opportunity to document the Chicago Obama rally. It's long overdue, but the moment still resonates throughout the city and the nation. I think I've been afraid to write about it because I don't know how my words could do it justice. Let me start by apologizing for the inadequacy of words, and by saying that it was, perhaps, the most important political event I will attend in my lifetime.

Despite my excitement about Obama and this election, when November 4 arrived, I was not convinced that I should attend the rally. All day at work, I changed my mind by the hour. One moment I was going to go and be an active part of the most historical election in U.S. history. The next moment I was imagining gun shots and bombs. A mixture of 9/11, MLK and JFK images whipped up fear in my mind. I really was worried (and I wasn't alone), and vacillated all day. When I left work, I wasn't going to go, and convinced my friends it was the sensible decision. An hour after that, I was putting my persuasion skills to the test, urging the same friends to ignore what I'd said earlier, that we HAD to go, that this was history and we were HERE. In Chicago!

Finally, after a scrumptious dinner, eyes glued to CNN as the early voting results rolled in, the four of us found ourselves on the El, headed downtown. On the train, the excitement and optimism were palpable. Everyone texted back and forth with friends, capturing election updates, sharing information with new-found friends all around them. We were on the train when I found out that Obama took Ohio. I was elated. It made up for the depression I'd felt when my home state had re-elected Bush; when I'd felt that my vote for John Kerry hadn't counted; when I was embarrassed to admit that I was an Ohioan. This night, I was proud of my state, and of my country. I have always been grateful to live in the United States, but I have not often felt proud of my country. It was a new experience. And I savored it.

Emptying out of the train, we headed up to the packed streets, where that same anticipation we'd felt on the El was now emanating from thousands of people. On every corner, vendors were selling overpriced Obama wares (I bought a pink T-shirt proclaiming, "Obama President 2008" after haggling with the seller), and Dunkin Donuts provided us all with free donuts. It felt like some kind of carnival, only there weren't many kids. Just excitement everywhere.

When we finally poured into the grassy area of Grant Park (the part not reserved for ticket-holders [those lucky dogs!]), we all vied for spots close to the jumbotrons. But people weren't aggressive. Again, a sense of solidarity swept through the crowd. It was a shock to all of us when, shortly after staking out our spots, Obama was declared the winner. It happened so fast! We all remembered 2004, when we'd gone to bed uncertain who'd won the election. Waiting and waiting for official counts. This time it just happened. Smoothly. As if there had never been a doubt that Obama would become our next president.

The crowd erupted and immediately I knew that I had no concerns for my safety. I have never seen so many people crammed into such a small space be so happy and so unabashedly display their elation. I felt it like electricity through my whole body. I felt like a Christmas tree.

We were all relatively respectful during McCain's speech, considering the circumstances, but could not wait to hear from Obama. If his win seemed swift, the anticipation of his speech seemed to last for eons. It seemed as though we heard words spilling from all these mouths that didn't matter, and we only wanted to hear one man speak. And when he finally did, all of us struggled to keep it together--I couldn't restrain my tears, and as I looked around, I saw moisture spilling from so many eager eyes. One man weaved through the crowd just sobbing, reaching out to people around him, unable to contain his emotion. We all understood that what was happening was a momentous change for our country. Obama fed our starved spirits with hope for our future and the future of our children. It sounds cliche, but he was a beacon of hope, shining light out on every one of us. This is not an exaggeration. The tears, smiles, emotion, and widespread good will radiating from every square inch of the park proved it.

Gaining My Bearings

Chicago is very well laid-out, but I get lost constantly. Actually, I’m starting to get better about finding my way, and have far fewer instances of driving (or walking) around fruitlessly searching for a road I’ve missed despite my best efforts to follow the directions provided by friends, mapquest, or people on the street. I have the worst sense of direction, a characteristic that has caused me great embarrassment. I sometimes wonder if directional sense is directly related to self-confidence. When I’m somewhere different, or if I have someone in my car that makes me nervous, I feel somewhat defenseless, and very unsure of myself. And then I get lost. But when I first arrived here, I even got lost going back to places I’d already been to. It worsened after my break-up at the end of September. During the past two weeks, however, despite being very ill with strep throat part of that time, I noticed my thoughts decreasingly focused on that old relationship, and my confidence increasing. I’ve only gotten turned around twice since then. I even drove myself to my new doctor’s office with a 102 degree temperature, feeling like crap, into busy downtown and back home again without a hitch. This may sound like a small feat, but it was a pretty big deal to me.

Let me also add that when I drove into Chicago for my interview in August, it was the worst traffic I’d ever driven in in my life. It was a Sunday evening, and I got caught in Cubs traffic, mixed with people driving to the beach, and, in my neighborhood, going to one of the many theatres for Sunday evening shows. On I-90, on the way in, traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and I had to learn, immediately, how to be aggressive in switching lanes. I was tense and nervous and, go figure, I got lost. To be fair, Yahoo! Maps gave me the wrong directions (again) and after I’d missed my exit, I got off at Wacker, recognizing the street name from my brief glances at the Chicago map online. I managed to maneuver us to Lake Shore Drive (which was insane with traffic) and then, my mom called the hotel to get directions and they gave us the wrong directions, because they thought we were heading north, when we were headed south. When I saw that we were about to merge back onto I-90 (and pay more tolls!!) I swerved over and got off at the last exit, spitting out a few expletives in the process. Finally, the hotel gave us the proper directions, and I got back on Lake Shore going north and we made our way to the hotel.

Once we were there, we didn’t want to leave. I felt as though my pores were emanating stress. But, we had to go check out some apartments I’d found on Craigslist, because I didn’t want to have to come back to Chicago just to do that if I got the job. So, after calling my now roommate for directions, we ended up back on Lake Shore drive, and got completely trapped in Cubs traffic. It took us about 45 minutes to get to where I now live (it should have taken about 20.) Anyway, to make a long story short, I have never again seen traffic in the city as bad as I experienced that day. But it made me extremely nervous about driving in Chicago at all, and I’m still getting over it. I fully expected Chicago traffic to be that way all the time; thank God it’s not.

The diagonal streets do not help me out when I miss a street and try to turn around by making three right turns. I want to make a box to get back to the street I was on and go back the way I came, but then a diagonal street pops up and suddenly I’m on some street I’ve never heard of. And there are some places where three streets intersect all at once (like Halstead, Lincoln and Fullerton) where you don’t know what the hell to do because the street signs are impossible to read and you have four possible ways to turn (if you don’t want to go straight.) So, it’s not entirely my fault that I get lost, and sometimes end up on a completely different street than the one I thought I was on. I really need to invest in a compass. I understand north, south, east and west better in this city than I ever had in my life. As long as I know which way I’m headed, I can usually figure out how to get where I’m going. But I don’t have an innate sense of where the lake is (my east reference, of course), so I sometimes don’t know which direction I’m going. And I always forget which way the street numbers are supposed to go if you’re traveling west.

Luckily, I generally only drive on the weekends. I rely on public transportation the great majority of the time. I do get confused, however, when I get off at a new stop and have to head, say, west on a street. I often don’t know if right is west, or left.

It’s embarrassing to get lost, especially when you’re trying to fit in. But I, at least, should give myself a break. After all, I’ve only been living here for two months. I’m still feeling out the situation, like baby roots just creeping out into the soil, looking for the best route to water. I am still uncertain about my future in this city, my place here, and which people I should get close to. I have times when I feel lost—literally and figuratively. But those moments force me to search, until I find my way back home. And I learn something each time. So, I may get lost a dozen more times in the next couple of months, but eventually I’ll have gotten lost so many times I’ll know my way around the whole city! And then, maybe, I’ll have my bearings.