A trip to the Loop is a must when the weather's warm and both The Girlfriend and I have off. We take the pink line and transfer onto the green and take it all the way to Van Buren. The train cuts between iconic skyscrapers and buildings, and I often look up and peer into the offices, the many glass faces, The Girlfriend already standing by the door because the green line isn't exactly her favorite. But the streets are usually flooded with beautiful and hip dressed people, either college kids from Columbia or from Roosevelt, smoking cigarettes on the sidewalk, or sophisticated socialites sashaying down Wacker, peppered with tourists gazing up at the Willis Tower with open mouths. Truly the heart of this city, where none of its ills manage to creep in and infect the grand architecture and famous sculptures, such as Picasso's Baboon or the Winged Victory of Samothrace, a solid gold statue of a Greek goddess missing her head and arms. My favorite.
The Girlfriend and I head to the Art Institute a block away from Wabash on a free day. We stare at a ten foot painting called Cupid Chastised. I stand in front of the work of art and wait for whatever truth locked in the brushstrokes and dimensions to wash over me, but nothing happens. So I shuffle on to the next painting, same thing, stand and wait for something to happen. The Girlfriend's looking at her phone and we head back to the train and get off on Clark and Lake to join a staged protest demanding divestment from South Africa, where we meet with Jo and Hanya and head to Akira because The Girlfriend really wanted some heel-less platforms, or embroidered pointed toe heels. The girls peruse the display shelves and I'm still whistling the grave, humanist slogans from earlier as I stare out the glass facade of the store and watch a businessman across the street set his briefcase down and put his hands on a steel pillar supporting the El and slam his head against the wrought iron column until he collapses. I have to cross my eyes in order to clear the vision, and suddenly I'm famished, STARVING, and luckily the girls want to sit so we stop at The Gage, a nice little gastropub serving Irish fusion.
We're seated next to the window that faces Millennium Park and its famous Bean. For drinks Jo orders the Whiskey in the Jar, Hanya orders the lemon lime drop, The Girlfriend orders an Irish Coffee, and I order, off menu, a mojito, Ernest Hemingway's favorite drink. Jo's head quickly locks on a man limping by our window and she grimaces, actually clutches her stomach like just looking at the bum pains her, and she says she hates the way our society treats its homeless, and I chime in, saying homeless really is a problematic word, it connotes they are at a deficit. She should really be saying Temporarily displaced. To no one in particular, I add that Siri fails to provide answers when you ask what to do after you've been raped. I ask if anyone's going to the anti-Trump rally and The Girlfriend asks if any organizations are going to provide childcare for parents who wish to go, even though she doesn't have any kids. I'm like, uh, I'm not sure, and she shakes her head at this, upset at the lack of infrastructure and support from the community.
The plus to taking the train is that you can move around without worrying about your car. But for those coming from further out: Always opt for valet. That way you don't have to struggle looking for a parking spot. And then you won't have to run out and pay 10 dollars for another 2 hours. You don't have to keep interrupting your day. This can go further. You don't have to stop for the college kids who ask you to sign their petition. You don't have to take the camera from tourists wanting to pose outside the Art Institute. You don't have to tip the bucket boys. You don't have to give every homeless person money. The sun turns and every pane on the Willis Tower gleams. Two men dressed like the Blues Brothers, wearing sunglasses, drive their 1974 Monaco down Michigan Avenue with a huge bullhorn strapped to the top, seemingly ignored by pedestrians and shoppers. You don't have to live up to anyone's expectations. You don't have to believe in ideas that make you sad or tormented, and you don't have to feel emotions that others try to manipulate you into feeling. You don't have to strive for something that's not very interesting to you. You don't have to be anything you don't want to be. You don't have to become illuminated. You don't have to do anything. My eyes lock with Hanya across the table and I feel my face short-circuit. The mood strikes me to lay in the grass at Grant Park. Maybe after lunch. read more