Experienced, Imagined, and Delightfullly in Between

Chicago.

Yup. Again.

Thanks to an insanely light schedule on sleep medicine (seriously people, I’ve have had stress dreams), I was able make a quick four-day sojourn to recreate that amazing and dizzying weekend in Paris of yesteryear. Yup, that one. Remember the pics? Ribs, my favorite Ethiopian is an intern up in Chicago, and her college friend Dubai was doing another world tour with a stop in the Windy City. The stars aligned, the gods smiled, and it was PERFECT time to meet up.

So, I arrive at O’Hare, and am instantly reminded of my last trip in December to Chi-town (here, and here) with L’Éveque and Barré. Out of the airport, I get my 3-day visitor pass, hop on the CTA, and am whisked towards Ribka’s current digs in South Loop (it would be much more accurate to say I was very slowly rolled toward the South Loop as anyone knows who takes the lamentable Blue Line to and from the O’Hare). In any case, I escape from the bowels of the red line and am thrust to the less-than-bustling street at Roosevelt.

I am quickly reacquainted with winter despite the very recent vernal equinox. Out comes my trusty black scarf, leather gloves, and billed skully. Next comes a shabby black Honda that suggested a recent snow (or in Ribs’ case, no time for car washes). The car stopped at the green turning lane complete with Ribs clad in her best scrubs, East African cordiality, and light post-call veil of fatigue.

Talk of marginally competent nurses, 3am pages, frenetic days and other red badges of interns filled the frigid Japanese auto and laughter soon followed to an audience of slowly passing orange tinted street lights. SOOO, wonderful to see Ribs after a 8 month absence.
We arrive at her kick-ass apartment in South Loop which provides remarkable unobstructed views of the inky blue Lake Michigan and its counterpoint, glittering phallic representations of capitalism thrusting toward the sky. As a suitable start to the weekend, and merciful end to Ribs’ insane clinical day, we enjoyed a kir royale (one part crème de cassis and five parts champagne) for old times sake and light conversation. Her gregarious Eritrean husband and I insisted that she retire to bed (girl’s gotta work the next day).

I’m always in awe of Aman. While remaining perfectly engaging and affable, he’s able to tactfully explore a seemingly inexhaustible supply of financial, engineering, political, and cultural information. There was Calatrava’s new Chicago building, the arriving snows, planetariums, and of course Abisha (Ethiopian and Eritrean) everything. Always enjoy a great exchange.

Brrrriiiiiiinnnnng.
“OMFG! I’m hurrr! We r going to hubbard and state, o callahans?”

12:41a. First text message arrives from Dubai. His number spills over the lines of my phone betraying its transatlantic origin. Apparently he’s just arrived in Chicago from visiting family in California and is already getting started with shenanigans.

After a short and unconvincing assertion to Aman that I should call it a night, Aman gave me instructions for the best area to catch a cab. I of course briskly made my way toward the cabs and onward toward the aforementioned Irish bar. Off I went to my Pakistani, Dubai-native Sverge-phile, Londoner, and as the text indirectly suggested, some friends of his. The kir royale has the pleasant affect of providing suitable bastion against the bitter cold of Chicago, and the grand dame welcomes my arrival with her dizzying city lights. As we arrive closer, I point my South Asian cabby in the direction of O’Callahans across the street. The squeal of his brakes is quickly followed by the course cold sound of my Hamilton across the Plexiglas threshold. My excitement burgeons as I approach the Irish bar, and I’m asked for ID.

I effortlessly reach into my pocket to flash my Texas driver’s license. My excitement is quickly replaced by an increased sense of doom as I can NOT find it. Thankfully, the bouncers were in now mood for waiting and just asked my age and ushered me in. Though, it was a comfort that I wouldn’t have to be returning to Ribs’ immediately, I was understandably haunted by images of my lonely ID being trampled on the floor of Intercontinental by the flip-flops of sunburned Floridians, and the unwashed toes of intrepid Hare Krishnas. But alas, there are more important matters.

Immediately I spot Dubai, whom I haven’t seen in a year. I honestly hesitate thinking that it should be nearly impossible to spot him so quickly, but then I remember that he is 6’3” or thereabouts.

“Whatsup! I can’t believe I’m seeing you in your home country!” As always his language and observations are spot on. Stout American embraces and rapid exchanges and updates flurried about:

Me:
Psychiatry internship.
Flights.
Spring in Houston.
Ribs’ horrible day.
South Loop.
Vanilla Stoli and Coke.

Dubai:
ARUP engineering.
More flights.
Balmy California.
Swimming.
Cowboy boots.
Vodka soda.

Then introductions. Since I always love first impressions, I'll share them. First introduction was to his high-energy fellow Stanford alum, whom we'll call Mar. Mar is half Euro-Jewish and half Pakistani, and besides South Asian heritage, shares Dubai’s indefatigable nature; I instantly understood why these two fellows were friends. Instantly and equally intense and pleasant. Certainly a rare combination. Mar was just getting over a cold, but despite the scratchy nature of his voice, he did not hesitate to share it. Mar just matched into Emergency Medicine in New York seemed very bright and driven and self-confessed a very limited attention span (Emergency Medicine jackpot). His level of excitement was abuzz. That level is usually reserved for beauty pageant winners and oil execs after Ahmadinejad admonitions. I think I may like this guy.

Next up was Berlin; he was strangely a sea of calm amidst the maelstrom of energy and friendly inebriation of his amigos more than happily provided. Perhaps it was the liberal use of his pearly smile, or maybe it was the warmth of his words for Germany. Homeboy really likes Germany. Whatever it is, his neatly shabby flaxen coif and brow ring belies his very type-A job. I think I may like this guy.

There were other intros of course, but they came too late after my Vanilla stoli to have made a lasting impression unfortunately. The Irish pub, which like many places in Chicago was white as the snow is certain. We garnered no shortage of looks of course, not simply because of our unusual excitement. As a Black man in America, it becomes easy to shrug off the expectations and enjoy oneself, which I thoroughly participated in. I was delighted by Mar's excitement for New York as I recall my own anniversary of excitement, Match Day 2007. My thoughts that I would like this fellow were confirmed when I realize he reminds me of my best Cape Verdean Rhode Islander friend from college. I have a brief word with Berlin, and a briefer word with others, and before I know it I'm in a cab.
Poor cabby. Five 20 somethings with frontal lobe disinhibition, and not even a word of protest. Chicagoans are stout creatures. Goodness knows where we were going, though I thought that this would be an excellent point to chronicle the journey. This picture is one that was pretty indicative of Mar. "Fierce." This is of course one of 7 phrases that Dubai recounts as being used ridiculously often this trip. I digress.

We are whisked to some quasi-1980s building with a cavernous lobby, motionless and emotionless guards redolent of those Chinese guards in front of Tiananmen that time in Beijing. "Oh its the Hilton." K. Thanks. Berlin is apparently spending some Euro on the digs and we listen to "music." I was having trouble figuring out exactly what genre or even language to no avail. Dubai prophetically protested against the loud American decibel level, and Mar protested against his protests. There was smack about London and Europe thrashed about, Berlin and a ginger remained content. All I could think was that this situation was terribly random. Just the way I like it.

"KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK."

Yeah, so at least it wasn't the po-pos, but we instantly knew what a 3am knock on the door meant. As Americans, we most undemocratically selected the foreigner, Dubai, to answer to perhaps charm whomever was at the door with his exotic accent. Deferential, and apologetic, Dubai managed to shoo homeboy away. The vast majority of us elected to scram for the evening (as it was closer to 4am now). Dubai was staying with Mar and they walked back to his place, and I cabbed it back to Ribs'.

Waved at the doorman, walked to 17th floor door, fiddled with the door. Keys, jacket, scarf, shirt, longjohns, jeans, bed, crash.

End of day one.