(Second) 24 Hours in Chicago

The following morning we paid our debt to our hedonism. Barré opened the curtains and flooded the room with a menancing, bright, white sky and John Hancock much to the chagrin of my no sensitive eyes. The following hour was nebulous. I spent it drifting in and out of consciousness, tearing myself between the need for more sleep and the desire to reconquer Chicago. I tried to recall if I had done anything suitably embarrassing the prior evening and was sweetly soured that I had not.

As any good young professional, I quickly checked my email on my shiny Treo and made sure the world wasn't falling apart in my absence via my beloved Washington Post. By this time, Barré was finished with 90% of his grooming and L'Évêque was finished with 90% of his swooning. Thus, we gussied up and layered to prepare for those bitter glacial gales that Chicago, in all of its glorious hospitality, shared so readily with us.

Now, I really haven't been to Starbucks since that one chick on Westheimer nexus-of-the-universe Starbucks got that paper stuck in her cheeks (especially since I found Inversion), but of course when its 25 outside, any heated place with hot beverages will do. After a blizzard of text messages, L'Évêque joined us for light fair and we formulated our next plan...more clothes.

The Magnificent Mile provided us with no shortage of places to browse all sorts of cold weather garments. We envied their style and the warmth they promised, and lamented that we would wear such fare maybe twice a year. Thank you balmy Houston. In any case, L'Évêque of course caught no shortage of attention from passersby. I'm going to assume it was his cologne. We walked along the Chicago River, pretended the snow was cocaine, and tried to retain any heat that we could. This was rounded out by another stroll through the eerily familiar Halstead and its galleries. Modernist oil paintings corn fields, cowboys, and coy boys captured l'Évêque's heart or the very least attention. Unfortunately, a gallery owner wasn't able to capitalize on l'Evêque's receptiveness given his abrassive and less than sincere nature. This was juxtaposed by other new friends later that evening.

We later joined a friend of l'Évêque and her boyfriend. We'll call her Mittens. Mittens hails from l'Évêque's days at Rice. We arrived at a gorgeous condo on Lake Short Drive, quickly waved goodbye to our Nigerian cabby, and were whisked up to a deluxe apartment in the sky. As we walked out the elevator, the ebullient and equally sharp-tongued Mittens greets us at the glossy, and newly painted door. L'Évêque and Mittens had their requisite excited exchanges of past, present, and future, wine was poured and hearts were opened. Oh, yeah. I'll introduce you guys to HAM. If it is any reflection of Mittens, HAM is the acronym that she had given her boyfriend. It stands for Hot Asian Man. There are rumored to be sections of Chicago that don't know her Asian adonis' real name (and quite honestly I've also fallen victim as well).

In any case, we made dinner plans down the street, braved the newly falling snow, hailed a new Nigerian cabby, and arrived with new exchanges of accounting, Bangkok, and psychiatry. Dusk had apparently pounced our quintet without warning and we were once again enveloped in a inky night and snow glowing orange under the street lamps. We arrived at our restaurant. In very much the vein of the evening, we introduced ourselves to the waitress who was cousins or something-or-other with a bartender in Houston that l'Évêque and Barré knew. This didn't necessarily speed the wait for a table, but at the very least gave us no excuse for declining a round of aperitifs. The evening flowed fluidly...as did the increasingly worrisome curtains of snow outside.

"Any plans tonight?" Mitten's inquired

"Uh, yeah, we're going to take it a bit easier tonight; we're going to Second City." L'Évêque responded in a tone that lightly alluded to his valiant defense of youthfulness the prior evening.

With the assistance of Mittens we grabbed another cab (not a Nigerian) and headed to Second City. Second City is a venerable Chicago institution that serves as a feeder school for Saturday Night Live. Live comedy sketches and improv. Oodles of fun. We were fortunate to grab some tickets for "The Pratfalls of Civilization." Per usual in my friendly nature, with heaps of goodnatured sarcasm and a hope, with our tickets in hand, I asked the Matre d', "So are you going to give us some good seats?" Add wide, toothy, puppy-dog smile here.

She straightened her back, peered above her black-rimmed glasses, and loosely grasped her wax pencil between her fingers as a night-walker would a cigarette in front of her john. With a startling sobriety and a Midwestern economy of words she responded, "You know we don't give good seats when people ask for them." Add the nervous laughter of our Houston trio here. Fortunately, my apparent faux pas was not punished, and received what could be described as three very decent seats. We close enough to the stage to fear involuntarily participation but were thankfully not subjected to such. The show was hilarious and random. My favorite was the unrelenting (and of course, cute) Niki Lindgren, the hilarious jihadi "comedy terrorists," and what can only be described as a miraculous impromptu opera performance from a visiting Japanese audience member with a shirt that ready, "I'm kinda a big deal." Agreed. The couple in front of us reeked of first-date. She was tepid and less than engaging thin blonde who managed to keep her coat on the entire performance. I'm sure she thought of it as her armor against her date. He was a docile (and terribly hopeful) 30-something that smelled of Old Spice and defeat. When the show had slow spots, it was at the very least entertaining to watch those two. Despite their somber mood, the rest of the show was hysterically funny.

For those in the know, I have this habit of crying when I laugh too hard, and I was in no short supply that evening. I worried that my hard lemonade would dehydrate me, but fortunately it didn't have nearly enough alcohol to be in any real danger. We glowed after the show and were off like a prom dress.

"Damn."
We gazed outside to what can only be described as Siberia. The earlier fiercely billowing snow portended the oppressive and unrelenting force just outside the theater. Each yard seemed like a mile. My initial frivolity hardened to memories of shoveling these blankets in front of us, slipping unexpectedly to find the bottom of my shoes acquainting themselves with the brisk air, and the odd sensation of not having sensation or control of my previously dexterous fingers. We trudged through the stuff and eventually found (read as stole) a cab to our now beloved homebase Sofitel Water Tower. As it was about 2am or so, we quietly retired to a well-deserved slumber.

The next day?

We fed our exhaustion at a New Orleans style brunch, had a quick tour of the impressive Art Institute of Chicago, and of course bade farewell (for a few days) to l'Évêque as he was to stay for a little more business and pleasure.

Clearly the best three day weekend I've had in these 6 months as "Dr. Webster."

First 24 Hours in Chicago

As on homage to the New York Times' "36 Hours in ____"I thought I'd share similarly for my rather impromptu getaway to the Windy City.

I must admit I was a bit reticent at the thought of a rather rash decision to go to Chicago. Usually my trips are planned a bit more methodically. However, given my new modus operandi of Do if you have no reason not to do, I surrendered my compulsions to control to a really exciting prospect.

At my favorite wine bar, La Carafe, my favorite pedigreed PMB4 and I were joined by the gregarious Barré. As the Malbec flowed, so did conversations about life as a psychiatry resident, an amazing free party Barré scored with, and of course travel. Travel is a recent sore spot for me as my ex-lover wanderlust has been malevolently murdered by my beloved and jealous Menninger Department of Psychiatry. My stories of Bangkok and Beijing, Buenos Aires and beautiful Paris are the only remaining vestiges of a life once lived with a well-worn passport. But I digress.

"Yeah, I'm going to Chicago in two weeks...Hey, you wanna go?"

Add the startled, faltering thoughts of yours truly. "...Chicago. What reason do I have NOT to go...nope....nothing yet..."

An abrupt "Yyy..Yeah!" freed itself from the cold grip of my superego and leaped from my tongue joyously in an octave unfamiliar since 8th grade.

And thus 60 Hours in Chicago was borne.

I nervously filed for my first vacation day since starting residency six months ago and thus, Barré and our friend l'Evêque set off to a road less traveled. Actually that's a bit untrue. They've got Continental Elite status, and were bumped to First Class, and Chicago is nothing less than a thoroughfare.

"Um...excuse me. Yeah, someone in First sent you a screwdriver...I mean, you can have it if you want. They already paid for it." A rather reluctant stewardess intimated as my fellow coach passenger in the aisle seat casually glanced at his watch.

Yeah, I know its 8:20, but you know its been that sort of week.

After we braved an hour subway ride into town, given Barré's amazing rewards points we were able to drop our bags at the ubermodern and swank Sofitel Chicago Water Tower. Though cabbing it was clearly the yuppie thing to do, slumming it to the Sofitel seemed to ironically delicious to pass. Our eyes widened as we were accosted by a huge window that seemed to leap to the street and invite the terrifyingly large Hancock building intrusively close.

"Damnit."

Barré hit his head on the glass.

"Did you see that?" An incredulous Louisiana native points to the evidence of his miscalculation , a small smudge on an otherwise immaculate window pane.
First? Deep dish pizza of course. Our waiter was slower and more elusive than information from the Bush Administration. Drinks at the John Hancock Building? Of course. Why pay $20 for an imbibeless observatory when you can get $12 drinks at the bar above it? Food coma followed, a preparatory nap was ordered, and then off to have tapas with my med school campadre and Nashville-London-Saudi Arabia native, Dr. Mathew (she's the one with the staw in her mouth). She and her more-than-enjoyable co-resident joined our Houston-based trio for tapas at the delicious Café Iberico. Sangría flowed as did sentences like "One of my favorite Ugandan pop stars...," "She's so not Mexican...", and "In my unbiased opinion as a mental health professional, he's an asshole because..."

Bliss.

Bliss was followed by a rather cozy ride to Lincoln park to hang with l'Évêque's former co-worker's friend's birthday party. Yup. That's how we roll. Fortunately my attentions were concentrated on learning about life in Chicago from the two emergency medicine residents and of course singing along to the one-man band with a spars coterie of corn-fed Anglos. This is John Mayer country.

We parted ways with my fellow brown people, and the trifecta cabbed it suitably to Halstead. Although partially out of my element, I had an amazing time. The music was somewhere between P. Diddy and Daft Punk but my friend Tom Collins took care of that. Of note, never accept drinks called "Screaming Nazi" from even your closest friends.

Relatedly l'Évêque found true love on the dance floor in the form of a rather youthful looking 29 year-old with convenient digs around the corner. I must say, I've either underestimated l'Évêque's cologne or overestimated his superego.

"Did you see that?" An incredulous Maryland native points to the evidence of his miscalculation , a small smudge on otherwise immaculate Carmex. Clearly some of use know how to have more fun than others.

The 27 degree wind seemed naive and coquettish as Barré and I stumble blissfully to the street buzzing with new pairs. It seemed the intoxicating mix of music, frigid temperatures, and Chicago sensibility allowed for hasty excuses to begin parties of their own. Houston sensibility allowed us to hail a cab to be whisked warmly to homebase, the Sofitel.

That was just the first day.

Non Sequitur

Absolutely ecstatic. Hopefully this photo will one day be used as a photographic metaphor for two future Menninger Department of Psychiatry graduates. Certainly its got to be a lot more compelling than those stodgy Freud photos. Kheli khoob Arashjoon!

Joie de Vivre

First and foremost, its been quite the hectic few weeks. Here are some of the highlights:

1. Fender bender mi madre's Mercedes (fixed).
   
2. More call than the law allows (three left).
   
3. Patient's that won't talk to me, or talk FAR too much (committed, and medicated)
   
4. Triple booked appointments (mercifully canceled)
   
5. Ms. Ella's passing (expected and cathartic)

Fortunately, its also been amazing:

1. 60 amazing hours in snowy Chicago with Barré and L'Évêque (that I can recall)
   
2. Balmy December evenings in Houston (merci à Inversion Coffee and my parents above)
   
3. A thoroughly polished pecan pie recipe (merci à Mme Ella)
4. Amazing post-Grand Rounds conversations (19th century French artists' depictions of the mentally ill)
5. Great new additions to our class next year (gotta love those Persians)

So in short an absolute whirlwind. The recent passing of my grandmother certainly has put in focus the fragility and preciousness of life. As such, I've redoubled my efforts toward the pursuit of happiness. Its amazing what can be done when your thinking shifts from, "Why?" to "Why not?"

The result has been an amazing macroweekend (read three-day weekend) in Chicago; this was my first vacation day in 6 months. Increased efforts toward writing with Psychiatric Journals in mind. More meetings with faculty for career development, and meeting with friends for social development. Lastly, and most importantly, more savory and satisfying morsels of the marrow of life.

I've got three more psychiatry calls left before I head to the dark side (6 months of non-psychiatry) and I'm trying to convince myself that these endeavors will not fall victim to rotations that do not value quality of life. In any case, I'll certainly try. At the very least, my fellow psychophile, Leroy will join me on Neurology come January.

I certainly hope the future remains as bright as it seems.