My Kind of Town

We ran a story about 5-star restaurants in Chicago.

One of my new Domino magazines featured a story on adorable shops in different neighborhoods of Chicago.

Our IT guy is on vacation this week. In Chicago.

Last night at the gym, the TV was on ESPN, which was showing the Cubs home game. In Chicago.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something.

It was a year ago that I declared Chicago dead to me. I had just returned from a trip there to visit an old friend that turned out to be less than I expected (the trip and the friend). It actually didn't hit me until after I got back and was telling people about it, trying to play it up because even as I was describing it, it dawned on me how incredibly lame it was. I didn't see any sites. I didn't shop. I certainly didn't have any 5-star cuisine.

So I declared Chicago dead to me. And it has taken me a while to realize that it wasn't Chicago's fault. The city put its best foot forward. The weather was great. It should have been the perfect summer weekend. It wasn't Chicago's fault that it didn't turn out that way.

It's not Chicago's fault that even though I was asked what I liked to eat for breakfast (a bagel or an English muffin, I'm not picky), I had to root around a cupboard for an old box of crackers to sustain me until we got to a great sports bar in Wisconsin.

It's not Chicago's fault that I can't watch Groundhog Day anymore, because my tour of the town where it was filmed turned into a tour of every bar in town. And everyone who worked at every bar knew my host by name. He said it was like he was the mayor. Well, if Otis Campbell was the mayor then sure, why not. And, by coincidence, the Cubs were on the road in Atlanta, where I was living at the time. So the game was on the TVs in every bar. He took great pleasure in announcing to anyone who would listen what a huge Braves fan I was (I don't even like baseball). Because nothing makes a guest feel comfortable like riling up the home team.

It's not Chicago's fault I didn't go on a tour of Wrigley Field. I mean, why would I want to tour one of the most historic ball parks in the world when we could go sit at "world famous" Cubby Bear's across the street. Because bars in Wrigleyville on a Sunday afternoon when the Cubs are out of town are just an experience not to be missed! But, I guess as long as it serves Old Style, it counts as a tourist attraction.

It's not Chicago's fault that I didn't go to the top of the John Hancock Building. Why would I want to do that on a clear summer day, when we could search for a bar so world famous that five people he stopped in the street had no clue what he was talking about. I don't even remember the name of it.

But I do remember that right then, in the middle of the sidewalk on that beautiful summer day, was when my resentment started to grow. I suggested to my host that it might be possible that he had a drinking problem. I wasn't even half kidding, but he laughed it off and dragged me off toward a waitress mailing a letter, which led us to—you guessed it—the bar where she worked.

BUT, it's not Chicago's fault that he develops oddly personal relationships with anyone standing behind a bar.

By the time we left Chicago to drive back to his house, I was so ready to go home, I would have asked him to swing by the airport and drop me off if some of my favorite things weren't at his house, and some new things bought just for the trip. Although I was wearing my Keens at the time. Love those shoes. Yep, in my suitcase, up on a table, so hopefully the cats wouldn't pee on my stuff.

By the time I got home to Atlanta and described my trip to friends, I realized that I had taken time off work and gone out of town just to keep someone company on a two state pub crawl. That was apparently the whole plan, but I didn't find out until I had gotten there. All of the fun got sucked out in a haze of beer. If I had known, I would have stayed home. I could have done a pub crawl in Atlanta. At least then I could have slept in my own bed instead of one in a room that smelled like cat box.

But that isn't Chicago's fault. It was partly my fault. I had expectations of having a great time with someone I've known since Kindergarten. But, when I came home, I realized that I don't think that friend even exists anymore. He's been replaced by someone I call Drunky McFratboy, living life like every day is Spring Break and he just turned 21. Or maybe he's always been that person. When you only see someone once every two years, and talk sporadically on the phone, do you really know them? I am here to say no, probably not. We're two different people on two separate paths.

I guess I have Chicago to thank for figuring that out.