The Answer, My Friend, Is Blowing in the Windy City

I was in Chicago this past weekend for fun(ny) pursuits with one of my improv groups.

I love that city. The food is delightful; the fashion is superb; and the architecture is some of my favorite. I got to eat, shop, and gaze, with a dash of stage time thrown in, so all in all, a plumb peach of a time.

Here were some highlights:

We stayed in a house near Wrigley Field, and so, during a huge majority of the weekend, there were clusters of people drinking, wearing Cubs paraphernalia, and generally rabblerousing and carousing.

One night, on the way back to our house, we stopped at a pizza place around 1:40 a.m. to try and satisfy our appetites. As a prime example of some of the colorful characters we encountered, the low-slung jeans guy in line in front of us could not remember how many slices of pizza he had just ordered five minutes ago. Then when the cashier asked him to sign his credit card receipt, to oblige, he started circling numbers on it. Then he tried to take three slices even though he only paid for one, none of which he remembered ordering. Awesome.

This heavenly item at Southport Grocery & Cafe called the Grown Up Pop Tart. It's described as "Warm & filled with berry preserves, marscapone cheese and roasted vanilla walnuts (featuring preserves & our house-made roasted vanilla walnuts from the grocery)". We got one for the table (thanks be to Michelle for my new favorite concept). It was ridiculously good.


Their cupcakes were also no joke to ogle:

The group house was something else. It was very nice, with a back yard and plenty of refined tastes. There was even a baby crib in which I really wanted to sleep, but I firmly resisted my fetal impulses. Much of the art in the house was pretty bizarre, but this was my favorite. I am sucker for googly eyes.

I bumped into someone I knew every single day I walked around the city. It reinforced my beliefs re: small worlds & after all, et al. Even as I was homeward bound, I ran into one person on my way to catch a cab to O'Hare, and then I ran into two people I knew from D.C. at my flight gate who had also, unbeknownst to me, been in Chicago for the weekend. There was also a kiosk in the airport that was like Starbuck's but everything was made with tea instead of coffee. I'm telling you! Destiny! All of it! (Or what buzzkill scientists like to call weird but mere coincidences.)

THE END.