One of these days, we have to go to Chicago voluntarily. Our three visits to the city have all been courtesy of United Airlines flight delays, missed connections, and nasty Midwestern thunderstorms.
We always take the Blue Line into town, stock up on umbrellas and tooth brushes we’ll never use again, eat a fabulous lunch at Gibson’s Steakhouse, then wander around in an under-washed daze until it’s time to head back to the friendly skies. We always promise we’ll come back soon, because we know we’ll probably have little say in the matter. But we never quite get around to intentionally buying the tickets.
The one massive drawback for the city is the distance to the nearest ocean. Lake Michigan just doesn’t cut it—there is no salt in the air to dilute the boatloads of allergens. But to repeat the usual cliché, the place more than makes up for it with the people you meet. Chicagoans are without doubt the nicest, most open and friendly human beings to ever tread the earth. And no one anywhere grills a better steak.
The photo of the L in downtown says it all—both as to our state of mind and as to the mob of cars who waited patiently (seriously, without even honking!!!) while we stood in the middle of the street with a green light to get the shot. If we tried that in Los Angeles, we’d be posting this posthumously.
Whistling Frank Sinatra as we speak…