Blown Away in Chicago
Day 1 in Chi-Town
River North, Streeterville, Millenium Park, and Mag Mile
The first word that came to mind, uncontested, matter-of-factly, was grit. Chicago is gritty. From first step off the plane to shutting the door of my hotel room, everything had a distinct sharpness to it, from the whipping wind jolting me out of (and quite far away from) DC’s gentler slide from one season to the next, to the unmistakable accent of the airport police officer that fell into step with me, asking what brought me to town as he helped me with directions.
The exchange went something like this:
Cop: “So what brings you tah Chi-caaa-goh, miss? You hee fuh work?”
Me: “I’m visiting for fun!”
Cop: “By yah-self??”
Me: “Yes, sir!"
Cop: “But whaddya doin’heeee…”
Me: “Just that I’ve never been to Chicago, and I wanted to come see it myself - I love taking trips like this.”
Cop: (still baffled) “So ye come awll the way out’heeee??”
Me: “You got it!”
Cop: “Ehh good fuh you, I guess…”
Couldn’t resist. :)
In fact, I couldn’t help but think of similarly gritty Hungary, from my debut trip to Eastern Europe - in my mind, home and origin story of the Popeyes and gruff bearded pipe-wielding sailors and ultimate caricatures of all things gritty.
Also, Chicago, you chilly! I’d been warned repeatedly of the cold and wind, and for good reason. My Hudsons, I love you long time, but thou art no bueno in this town’s version of “upper twenties,” as they now feel about as thin as sausage casing on my legs. Ladies and gentlemen, Long Johns season is officially upon us.
So after checking in, I allowed myself an indulgence of flopping onto my massive bed and zoning out on various digital jaunty romps before taking a hot shower to thaw out and throwing on this new Dior red lip for a night out to dinner. And a brief gape at this view, from the perch of my bed:
Chicago’s River North & Streeterville
…and me, nestled between the two.
Now as I write this I find myself at the Hampton Social, as recommended by one of my Raleigh girlfriends, Mercedes (shameless plug, you should shop her store here. Yep. She’s a freggin’ business owner.)
I was promised picturesqueness and a neon pink sign touting “Rose all Day,” so I braved the cold and walked from my hotel to this beautiful spot that sits unassumingly on Hubbard (where my new policeman friend had recommended visiting for bars and restaurants).
Breezy hangout serving seafood & beach-themed cocktails in stylish, nautical surroundings.
This was apt.
Think the tale as old as time pairing of "old” (think brick walls overlaid with massive industrial sliding metal doors, exposed ceiling piping, inlaid wood plank ceiling, white porcelain chandeliers, vintage wood lanterns, wicker style chairs I’d find at flea markets or estate sales) with “new” (palm frond wallpaper, criss-cross fairy lights in the ceiling, macramé plant hangers, white paint over the brick, succulent-lined shelving, other variant greenery that breaths even more life into the space.) The end, people. The. end.
I walked in to live music, a steady din of a frigid Friday night, but a Friday night nonetheless. Acoustic covers have long been the lifeblood of my musical preferences, and here I am, melting into a puddle listening to a “Mirrors” cover whilst sipping the house rosé. The end again.
On my shivery speed-walk home, I stopped for a donut - which, as it turns out, is the best donut I’ve ever had in my life. Am I exaggerating? That’s a swift no…I’m not. The good news, at least, is that every subsequent donut that’s not from Firecracker Donuts will be a crushing disappointment, and therefore not worth the calories.
Now I find myself wanting to burrow, and wondering where a gal can find a solid cup of hot chocolate around here. Any suggestions?
That donut will have to do for now. Tah!