When in the Windy City... Part II, or, How I Yearn to Be a City Girl

Well, this has been somewhat delayed (surprise). I am long since back in the BR, but immediately following my return I was knocked to the bowels of Hell and back by midterm week. Serves me right for having so much damn fun, I guess. None of my classes even actually have midterm exams, so not exactly sure what happened there. After (barely) surviving that, I had an excellent weekend of decompression, free from troublesome "thinking" and as a result am again trying to stay on my feet during another hectic (but infinitely more manageable) week. So close to that big tasseled finish line that I can almost taste the ink on my diploma.

The Bean! So shiny!

In any case, here are some more reasons I love Chicago, even aside from the word-tastic bonanza that was AWP. Though I had nothing against the city before visiting, the thought of moving there had never even skittered across my mind. Now not only has it crossed my mind, it has stopped to pointedly lounge there. Chicago is now officially An Option. Why?

First: TRAINS. And buses, but mostly trains.
Let me get this straight: I hate driving. Yes, the autonomous convenience is nice. The act itself is unobjectionable to me, if tedious. But then there's parking. And ill-timed lights. And roadwork. And thousands of other people with questionable cognitive function, each operating a couple tins of high-speed metal mere feet from yours. And all of the other peeves that while I'm driving make my sanity die a thousand tiny deaths. But above and beyond all that, there is the personal hell of relying on my navigational skills to find the best (or any) route from point A to point B. I've lived in this city my whole life and I'm still perpetually one wrong turn away from a "WHERE AM I" panic attack. Been to a place half a dozen times? Nope, I will still need detailed directions, preferably with a map and homing beacon. I really can't emphasize enough how comically unavoidable it is for me to get utterly lost.
But: Chicago. New city, big city. And I have to get from home base to downtown and back, and all the jukejoints and eateries in between (more on those in a sec) all by myself and without the smarmy but indispensable guidance of a smart phone (luckily, my radiant hostess was always but a frantic text away). And   I did it. Nigh flawlessly, at that. Why? Because of the boundless marvel that is the Chicago Transit Authority and their blessed rainbow of trains. Trains that run every few minutes, that pick you up and drop you off at whichever of the well-marked fixed stops on that line is most convenient to you. Probably it is within spitting distance of wherever you need to be. Even if you need to walk a few blocks, it's not a problem, because Chicago is laid out on a grid, like any decent city should be. Despite Chicagoians disconcerting insistence on navigating by cardinal directions (again, turns out this works on a grid), I always managed to get where I needed to be, without even a tiny nervous breakdown. It was like a switch flipped in my head--all of a sudden figuring out where things were made sense. I could locate and correctly utilize the major streets in my home-base neighborhood, Logan Square, not to mention the whole damn Blue Line, in less than a day. It was nothing short of a miracle. When I realized this, I nearly wept with joy. Trains, man.

[If I had one, I would insert a picture here of me hugging a train]

Instead, some "art" at the Logan Street station. Our neighborhood had no shortage of mustaches.

Also: tasty, tasty things. Everywhere. 

I was constantly sampling the eatums and drinkums around Chicago, and never once was I disappointed by a recommendation or an outing (well, excluding that taco place, but I wasn't even supposed to be there and even that wasn't atrocious). Not only was I not disappointed, I devoured with gusto and crumb-spewing exclamations of glee most everything within reach (other tables' food was off-limits, but there were some close calls). And all this considering most of what I ordered was well out of my gustatory comfort, normally a cause of great hesitation. It must be said: Absolutely no regrets.

Sample dishes: -pizza with tomato, mozzarella, fresh basil & balsamic reduction--I had been craving this since Italy and had no idea until that moment (from The Boiler Room); 

-gouda, walnut, & apple omelet, and a beermosa! (from The Handlebar);

-ridiculously delicious vegan Italian meatball sub (from Native Foods) 

-late-night chicken hoagie (from Marble, the nicest "dive" bar I've ever been to);

-black pepper, fig, and vanilla latte--sounds weird, but stupid tasty (from Cafe Mustache)

Those are just some highlights. And that's not even counting all of the enticing beers and fabulously decadent cocktails I demolished around town.

And last but never least: excellent friend in an excellent neighborhood.

I had the extreme good fortune to have my dear friend Amanda Sager put me up at her place for the weekend and take the best care of my little Southern belle self. Like I said, I was enamored with the city (I've always maintained that I'm secretly a Yankee), but I could never have done it without her unceasing generosity. And I was lucky enough to live out of her charming apartment in a neighborhood I immediately adored. 

Representative street, taken as a "shortcut" through Logan Square

A train station on the corner and another close by, great bars, coffee and eats everywhere, and lots of good people. I couldn't ask for too much more. Sure, I'd have to buy some wool socks and an extra set of thermals or three, but even as I stepped into Baton Rouge (75 and sunny on the first week of March), I already missed the bluster and fun of Chicago. Will definitely be back.