Road Maps and Reclamation

Chicago seemed incredibly vast to me when I first moved here one year ago Labor Day. Everywhere and everything in the city was new and I didn’t realize how conveniently concentrated so many restaurants, stores and entertainment venues were, and that neighborhoods really weren’t as far apart as they were in my head. I mean, if you took a look at a single square mile in Chicago, you’d be amazed at the wealth of resources therein, and how many neighborhoods would fall within the bounds.

The whole time I lived in Uptown, I felt somewhat removed from the hustle and bustle of the city. Even after I moved farther south, however, it took awhile for Chicago to shrink in size for me, and I have only recently gained a more realistic perspective on this city.

In June, I moved to downtown Chicago, because it’s something I’d wanted my whole life. But then I didn’t really take the time to immerse myself in the reality of my dream coming true, to sink my teeth into it, to savor it, to make it mine. I allowed my devotion to someone else to overshadow the fact that I was reaching goals I’d set for myself many years ago. Even after I stopped spending so many hours in the suburbs with my now ex-boyfriend, I managed to cloister myself up in my apartment, preferring to grieve over the relationship in solitude. Sure, I still did things in the city—I’ve always be fairly adept at doing things on my own and my blogs reflect the continued enjoyment I was deriving from Chicago—but a certain degree of confidence was lacking, my view was restricted, and I still wasn’t living the city to its fullest. I had allowed myself to feel, and become, defeated. The way I felt was incongruous with the person that I know myself to be and it didn’t fit with the place in which I was living; to use a hackneyed metaphor, I felt like a fish out of water.

When I finally started to explore, I learned that so many of the places to which my ex would drive us are practically right around the corner from me. Zanies is a casual four or five blocks away, as is the Cold Stone Creamery across the street where we’d all gone for ice cream before a show a few months ago. I mean, Old Town is, literally, right around the corner, and I adore its charm and character! I don’t know how I could have left it sit there unexplored when I lived so close by. Lincoln Park is also a hop, skip and a jump away. I had a vague understanding that all these things weren’t really that far away, I just didn’t realize how incredibly close they actually were. This is partly due to the fact that God did not endow me with directional sense, but undoubtedly it had a bit more to do with the fact that I just kind of let my ex do all the driving, and I was along for the ride (a pretty wonderful ride, really, but in retrospect I should have asserted myself a bit more).

I don’t know why the healing process is taking so long, or why it has taken me so long to start reclaiming Chicago since the break-up, but I do believe that something started this past weekend. I have a long way to go, but the wheels of change are in motion, and I feel a sense of the confidence I’d lost rekindling inside me. Sometimes you can get lost in another person and lose sight of the world around you. You can forfeit pieces of yourself not because someone else asks you to, but because you just get so wrapped up (even when you’ve convinced yourself that you’ll never be one of those people). You can let friends slip away so that when it’s all over, you find yourself alone and heartbroken, in a big city that suddenly feels remarkably empty. I mean, we all know I have a terrible sense of direction, but this time, I allowed myself to get almost irreconcilably lost.

Luckily, however, there are people in life who will toss you a road map when everything around you starts to look unfamiliar. Having Wendy here this past weekend, combined with my mom’s visit the weekend before, was the boost I needed to pull my invented view of Chicago out of my head and wrangle its intimidating size and emptiness down to the inviting sense of reality for which I’d moved to the Windy City in the first place. It’s so very true that we get by with a little help from our friends.

Fresh Water Feats And Salt Water Eats

Adequately explaining the Chicago Architecture Society’s architecture river cruise is a bit of a challenge. Since I know my words won't do it justice, I'll spare you the sweeping descriptions. What I do want to say is that just about everyone who lives in Chicago recommends this tour, and many of them have taken it multiple times (and have enjoyed it every time). The tours are led by volunteer docents who really know their Chicago buildings. Each structure has its own tale, and you really start to notice the juxtaposition of modern against classical, the contrasts of triangles against squares, the effect of exposed parking garages, etc., etc., etc. I craned my neck over and over taking a zillion pictures, which I won’t post here because those don’t adequately describe the experience either. It's really interesting, beautiful and amazing. (Such bland adjectives.)

Just make sure you’re dressed appropriately and prepare for all kinds of weather. We all knew it was chilly when we started out—hence my decision to wear jeans and a sweater—but during the course of the tour the sun retreated and pretty soon the city was draped in clouds, and the cool lake breezes became down-right chilling (not a good thing for someone coming down with a head cold). I enjoyed the first three quarters of the tour, but by the last twenty minutes or so, I really couldn’t wait to get off that boat. Which is a shame because it was such a great tour. I could have gone below, but seriously, I didn’t want to miss something! Afterward, mom and I practically raced to the El (it’s always warm down there), but I loved how, even in our hurry, mom was pointing out the lines of the buildings along the way. She loved that architecture tour, and that was really important to me.

We thawed out while waiting for the red line, and were soon headed to an early dinner at Half Shell, a restaurant to which I’d been waiting to take my mom since the first time I’d eaten there. Okay, I’m not going to give you another restaurant review—well, not exactly—but this place seriously has the best crab legs in town (and I’m not the only one who knows it—be prepared to wait, or go for early dinner). The first time I went there, I devoured my whole plate of crab legs (that’s a BIG crab and a half) and knew that the other crab-lover in my life—mom—would appreciate this place as much as I did. It’s not much for ambiance. In fact, the whole thing is set up in the basement of what appears to be an old house (the tip off—a bathtub in the women’s restroom). The service isn’t great, either. But there’s a full bar and, well, the crab legs make up for all of it. I’m not going to sit here and say that you’re going to achieve that Zen experience you might feel when you’re eating crab legs in Maine or Boston, but when you live in the Midwest, Half Shell is pretty damn near the best you will find. (I hear the clams and oysters are great, too, but you really couldn’t pay me to eat those, no matter how delicious they’re purported to be.)


Half Shell is the perfect place to make a mess of yourself while you’re mastering the art of crab shell-cracking. Both times I’ve eaten at Half Shell I’ve left a messy table of butter spillings, crab shells, and bits of meat strewn across the table, and walked out the door picking bits of dinner off of me. No, I’m really not a pig. Crab is messy. And it’s well worth it!

They definitely have a sense of humor at Half Shell. When you’ve finished consuming every last bit of crab meat you can free from its exoskeleton, you find a plate of carbs buried underneath. French fries and three slices of bread (okay, and a slice of tomato and a pickle, too) await you when you’ve finished your crab legs. Of course, nobody ever eats those soggy things after the scrumptiousness that is the crab legs (okay, shhhh, don’t tell anyone, but I totally eat the fries). Even if you don’t eat that part, though, don’t leave your sucker behind. Yes, they bury a lollipop underneath, too, and somehow it’s the perfect dessert after a plate of crab legs.

Tea for Two

Despite the fact that I started to feel pretty miserable on Friday afternoon—wouldn’t you know it, I came down with a nasty summer cold just as my mom arrived in Chicago—I was determined to show her a good time in the city. Granted, we found ourselves eating at a restaurant near my apartment and then crashing early on Friday evening instead of checking out the Art Institute's new Modern Wing, and Sunday didn’t wind up including a visit to the Lincoln Park Zoo or a walk on the beach, but I managed a pretty jam-packed day on Saturday, so all was not lost.

After a Saturday morning filled with shopping on State Street, we headed to a cute little restaurant I’ve always wanted to try—Russian Tea Time. Now, I have passed this place dozens of times, but for some reason (perhaps the cold meds) could not remember the street on which it was located. I knew it was somewhere near Grant Park/the Art Institute, and that it sat on the south side of an east-west street between Wabash and Michigan. I just figured we’d see it if we walked a few blocks. Well, we walked a few blocks. We did not see it. My mom, who is highly familiar with my terrible sense of direction, started suggesting that we just go grab a sandwich someplace else. But when I get something in my head, I’m determined to do it, come hell or high water. So, I swallowed my pride and started asking people. The clerk at CVS: “Never heard of it.” A clerk at Seven Eleven: “No [raising an eyebrow at me]. I have no idea where that is. And no, we don’t have a phone book.” The bell-hop at a nameless hotel: “I've been asked this before. I don't know exactly, but you have to go north. It’s on Michigan Avenue, toward Randolph.” I knew that was wrong the second he said it. It’s not on Michigan—this I knew—but since I clearly wasn’t finding it on my own, I’d decided to roll with it for a block or two. Of course, that was to no avail. Mom was being a good sport, but I could tell she was ready to sit down; however, like I said, I was determined. So we kept going south until, finally, I peered around the corner at Michigan and Adams, and there it was! Imagine that--it was in exactly the place where I'd seen it before.


We went in and sat down for a leisurely lunch before our architecture tour on the river. With lively Russian music playing in the background, we were seated at a lovely table with white linens and fresh bread. It was a perfect day for tea—chilly, not at all like mid-August—so we each ordered the Jasmine tea. It was delicious and soothing to my scratchy, under-the-weather throat. For lunch, my mom opted for stuffed mushroom caps, while I tried something new—-pumpkin vareniky. Just as the tea was exquisite, my taste buds were entirely satisfied with the vareniky. Similar to a pierogi, the dumplings were stuffed with pumpkin and onion and sprinkled with cinnamon. They were served with sour cream, and I was in heaven. I recommend this dish to anyone who loves all things pumpkin (which is definitely me).


Then, when I thought we were through, my mom nudged me in the direction of dessert (I try to resist, I really do!). We decided to split the Napolean torte and wow. That’s all I can say. Layers of thick pastry and rich cream drizzled with raspberry sauce. Decadence. I have no vested interest in Russian Tea Time, and I am telling you anyway—-go there! I’m sure you’ll leave feeling as completely satisfied as we did when we stepped out the door.

"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.

"Turn! Turn! Turn!"

Please don’t tell me that summer is almost over. You can say it, but I won’t listen. I’ll stick my fingers in my ears and loudly hum some Manfred Mann (kudos, if you get that reference). Okay, maybe I’ll be a tad more mature about about it than all that, but all this talk of summer’s ending and school's starting is starting to seep in, so I would appreciate it if everyone would just indulge me and pretend that summer is still going to continue for a few more months. I mean, technically, since going back to school is no longer part of my seasonal schedule, summer doesn’t really end for me yet. Most likely, the sunshine and warm temperatures will last until the end of September (maybe longer). But Chicago’s summertime events are all ending. The free concerts, outdoor movies, exercise classes at the park, etc. You name it, they’re all winding down. So, even if I can ignore the fact that a lot of my friends are kicking off the new school year (as teachers or as continuing grad students) and my young cousins are hopping back on yellow buses with book bags chock full of new school supplies, I can’t ignore the fact that Chicago says summer is ending, too.

It’s not that I don’t like fall. In fact, autumn is my favorite season. It’s a season of new beginnings (so many years of school have transferred my sense of new beginnings from spring to fall). The trees are beautiful, the temperatures are just right, fall fashions are my favorite of the year… But I guess I just feel like I got cheated this summer. While most of my reluctance to accept fall stems from the fact that events in my personal life made for a rather depressing summer, I think that a lot of people can empathize with a sense of being cheated out of much of summertime because the weather was so disappointing for the first half of the season (not to mention we had a ridiculously late spring, following a looong and frigid winter). I feel a desperate urge to cling to every ounce of sunshine we’ll get before the gloomy winter weather sets in. I mean, at least we have Christmastime, but each day of autumn will inch us closer to the doldrums of January, February, and March. (It made me cringe just to write those two sentences--sorry to bring up winter.) I feel myself facing that old familiar struggle with time. Where part of me wants to hold it back, while another part of me wants to race it forward, but inevitably I have no control whatsoever since I will never exist anyplace but the present, and the present will always belong to the progression of time.

So, I’m just going to hang out and try to squeeze every ounce of summer I can out of the final weeks of the season. I’m going to remember that autumn is inevitable, that it really is my favorite season, and that time heals all, so its advancement will only do me well. And finally, I’m going to do what I always do—investigate, gather information, and plan. After all, Chicago doesn’t stop providing a wealth of events and activities just because Labor Day hits. Every season holds something in which to find joy.