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.