It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. The highlights included a scenic river tour of Chicago’s famous architecture, showcased by a local expert who would not take tips. Instead, he directed us to donate to his organization. That’s inspiring.
While the weekend wasn’t the culinary feast I had initially expected, the best meal of the weekend came at Harry Caray’s, which I thought was going to be a burger joint for tourists. The white tablecloth fine dining experience surprised me. They served a rich and creamy repast I won’t soon forget. I guess I should have known; Harry himself displayed a girth that belied a love of good food.
The point of the weekend was to see the musical play Sunny Afternoon, about The Kinks’ early years, at the Shakespeare Theater at Navy Pier. It did not disappoint, but I admit to being a fan of their music (all performed live on stage), so that didn’t hurt.
I also spent time (but not enough) at the Art Institute of Chicago, where American Gothic, Nighthawks, and many more famous paintings were on exhibit. I recommend this art museum, if that’s you’re thing. Even if it’s not your thing, go to view the tiny room exhibit. Wow. Five stars—or smiley faces, if you’re a fan of my book, Don’t Even Go There.
The worst of the weekend was supposed to be another highlight: a Sunday afternoon baseball game at Wrigley Field. Unfortunately, the temperature hovered around minus-six … at least that’s what it felt like.
During a rain delay that made the day even more miserable, my girlfriend and I separated for a bathroom break. By the time I returned, after fighting through the current of mingling fans, she had a whole section of brand new friends shouting for me: “Mark! Bloom! Mark! Bloom!” I felt like a celebrity … for a moment.
Shortly thereafter, damp and slightly frozen, we left the Cozy Confines of Wrigley in search of a stiff drink. Chicago did not disappoint in that respect. I offer a tip of the cap to Gus Sip and Dip on West Hubbard.
This is Mark before the show: full of optimism. The musical was great, but of course, it let out late. We loitered in the lobby to watch the actors stroll past. Then, getting back to the hotel turned into an adventure: It took two buses and a walk. In Downtown Chicago. At night.
It’s not that I was scared, just disoriented. I’ve navigated big cities before. The scariest person I encountered was the overly helpful bus driver. At first, he was all smiles. “I can take you to where you want to go.” But after we got on, he called me up to the front of the bus—like a teacher calling a troublesome student to the front of the class. Then he explained that I was on the wrong bus and what I had to do to catch the right bus.
Even after I got off at the right stop (with his verbal insistance) , he called me back to the bus just to tell what number bus to look for. Again. I may have looked like a drunk white man who didn’t know Chicago from Sheboygan, but I know how to take a goddamn bus. Pardon my French.
The night ended happily enough in the hotel bar, like many of the other nights whenever and wherever I’m traveling. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. What you do when you travel is up to you. But if you don’t like to drink, here’s a tip from a seasoned traveler: Don’t travel with me. Catch you next time.