Friday in Chicagoland

The unfortunate thing about floor to ceiling windows is that let it a hot tranny mess load of light in the AM. My eyelids protested in vain against a flood of piercing and cold white light as I stumbled across the hall to take the most urgent tinkle of my adult life.

After washing les mains in lavatory, I let out a very substantial, "WHA?"

It was snowing.

This makes 2/3 times I travel to Chicago in what seems and endless barrage of snow. No, matters. It does look gorgeous from the 17th floor, but lacks any true threat to my now, comfortable and infinitely less urgent constitution.

Back to sleep... and sleep.....and sleep.

DAMN! I woke up hella late. My ambitious plans for tackling phase three of my Chicago personal tour is quickly evaporating. I haven't woken up this late since....well...probably the day after Ribka's Halloween party with the Mexicans and Poles. Always a footnote. Guided tour of Southside Chicago will have to make due with the Japanese tourists today.

Self-tour of DuSable Museum it is. Decided.

shower

vigorous vents and dents

cower...

ravenous brunch of crunch

I ponder why orange juice always taste funny after toothpaste as I put on my wooly armor in silence. Ribs is working, the Man is gone to see his beautiful mamma in Minnesota. Keys in pocket, I confidently saunter out the front to meet my new companion niège. She's kinda cold.

Taxi it is.

Blocks blocks and blocks roll by anonymously. There's a cool steely yet gossamer el-train tunnel to the left with a near perfect modern compliment building below and beside it. Birds flutter in the white sky. Michigan Ave spills into deeper numbers, we cross a crystalline Washington Park, and arrive....kinda.

I pay the cabby who insists the 80s groupthink-designed rear entrance is the front entrance. "You tryin' to go to the museum? You gotta go around to the front."

Humbly, back to the slush I trotted around to a remarkable granite-heavy front. Its a bit bewildering considering I can't make out road, from park, from sidewalk. This could be a gaudy backside for all I know à la pre-Diddy, J.Lo.

I museo-dork around but am disappointed. I misspelled Word docu indicates that the gallery of the second floor is closed and I'm forced to take the elevator town passed a terribly romanticized account of African history. There I people watch, wondering who are these other fellows visiting a museum on a Friday at 4pm. Student, hospital visitor (next door to U.Chicago hospitals), and security. Some of the art is compelling, but then I shutter to think what the National Museum of the African-American will look like when its completed in DC. Let is not be stale. You'd think with an amazing history as the gateway from the South for the American urbanization of the Negro, they'd have more stuff.

Always good to see a fellow alumnus MLK,Jr. and his speech. Very pleasantly surprised to see my favorite African American artist Henry Ossawa Tanner. Okeedoke. Time to leave.

Peruse the gift-shop, lose my hat, found my hat. Left gift-shop sans purchases. I bundle again, by now an expert at a quick exit from zero and decide to ditch the idea of taxi. I see what looks to be the U. of Chicago hospital where Ribs works, but quickly dismiss the implausibility of being so near where she works.

I take a very pleasant stroll through the park, and obviously bother some geese. How on earth do they stay so warm in that cold water? Texts from the boys indicating imbibes and Mar's place, so I decide to head downtown to meet up with Ribs later and grab some tea.

What was life before cheap internet phones? Googlemapped, the funky sounding Argo Tea Café. Hopped on trains, texted with Ribka briefly on the train about plans, as she planned to be off by 6pm. Walk around a bit the Loop and am delighted by the bustling activity. If the weather were in Houston, grandmas and abuelas would admonish any attempt to navigate, or God-forbid, enjoy it. I unwrap at a more-corporate-than-I'd-like tea shop. Order a tea and chicken wrap made by a infectiously bubbly barista and somehow end up spending somewhere north of $10? Who says this country is cheap? Then I recall that my friends that say that earn Euros or Pounds.

Using my table-getting skills honed in Atlanta coffee-shops as a study and tea-addicted college and medical school student. I snag one with a nice view of the shops denizens. There was a SoCal sounding duo to my right who insisted that their 'No War in Nepal' fundraising shirts be 'cute.' I withheld a small gag, but the Asian one was hot, so the male within me gave her special dispensation. There was a motley crew of gents to the left who for the life of me I could NOT figure out what they were up to. My phone indicates that Ribs will be on her way back home soon and its a mess of a day.

I pack, contemplate getting her some tea, but realize the silliness of training it back to South Loop then walking it for 20 minutes to deliver tepid tea. Besides, second busted locale of the day.

Train,

Michigan Ave,

18th,

doorman wave

keys,

hat,

scarf,

plop

Ribka phones ahead to summon her emergency reserve of champagne for another kir royale. Most of been a worse than expected. I doggedly tried to force the champagne in the ice maker and eventually became victorious. Poured the pumpkin seeds in the bowl and readied the glasses. The door begins to click and echo against the shiny wood floors and a exhausted and yet smiling Ribka drags through the door.

We sit after agreeing on the proper color for a kir royale and toast to a quasi-nasty day complete. She is now off...for a day. We catalogue "one of the the worst 10 days of [her] residency" and trade med stories again. I caught of guard a bit as Ribs used to pride herself for her lack of med-speak, but realize that she's seen far worse than I. Hugs. Pumpkin seeds. Well-worn decisions.

86'd the idea of deep dish in favor of one of my holy trinities of food, Ethiopian (beside Soulfood, and coconutty North Indian). Fitting. We leave late per usual, and indulged in some nostalgia on our way to the Northside to meet some of her friends.

We get a sweet parking spot right in front of the restaurant and cater-corner to my beloved Green Mill of my first pre-blog Chicago trip in 2004. We wait at the bar for inordinate amount of time for a table considering Ribs speaks Amharic and is a regular. Her friends arrive in pairs and are cooler than I expect. The Asian holds back a biting humor that I bathe in, and the other is another example of the delightfully blunt Jewish woman I seem to keep running into these days.

We finally snag a table and palm the honey wine to the table despite it looking a bit déclassé. We've got needs. Ribs orders per usual and we slip into a quasi-uncomfortable med speak, but quickly lighten things. Ribs protests that she still hasn't seen Dubai and insists on having the upper hand in the matter of meeting. Dubai, always adroit obliges and shows up after ping pong with Berlin, Mar, and Mar's cherubic man Cob.

At first echoed Ribs concern that these two groups may not mix well, given Dubai's fine taste in friends and exquisite adaptability it was HILARIOUS. The sharp Asian tirelessly attempted to fix Mar's zipper on his jacket; I was more concerned that his jacket was obscenely thin and quickly lost interest in Asian's success. Berlin gushed. He waxed poetic about the glories of Germany and its punctilious mass transit. He's had a few elixirs and is exudes his patented pleasant sea of calm. Dubai entertains. Mar is Mar, and still no time to really get to talk to J yet. Ribs' other friend silently joins the table amidst platters wot, kitfo, enjera, and numbers 12, 14, and 20. I'm not even sure what her voice sounds like, but Ribs insists she's good people. Good enough for me.

Time to party.

Ribs bids farewell to her medicine girls and we join our United Colors of Benetton crew for a lively night out. We leave a frou frou place for another, then in favor of grungy cross-town trek. Dubai notably and justifiably raises concerns about the distance. We bitch and whinge but it brings the former Paris redux and better focus. LOVE it.

Ribs tells Dubai that I'm visiting Paris April and he goes through his mental calendar. Busy guy. We scratch our heads for a reredux given limited time and joke about meeting in Fiji or something. Then I realize the plausibility of this happening and am warmed. We arrive at the country bar turned poppy palace for after hours, and then realize that this may be were L'Évêque concluded his evening during the December Chicagoing. Huh. I can see it. We have to stand outside for 1o minutes or so but are perplexed, then surprised, and then thankful for these incandescent heaters. Niiiiiiiiice.

Dancing with Ribs as Mar and J wiggle at the periphery. Dubai towers and bubbles and again I take in the scene and moment. Berlin, who is normally good for a nice exchange, even at a bar, has remained sentinel and is committed to having a little fun in the States. Night ends with another line at the coat check. We spill out the door. Most of us conclude the night.

Ribs demonstrates the lower friction coefficient of black ice, and we somehow manage get upstairs before passing out.

Keys, jacket, scarf, shirt, longjohns, jeans, bed crash.

End of day two.