Glenn in the Willis Tower Skydeck; The view down Nth Michigan Ave
Last time you read this column I was experiencing a nightmare at Newark International Airport, being a tourist in a city that essentially only has one tourist location, and travelling up Route 66 buying a copy of Jane Fonda’s Workout book because that’s just the sort of thing I do, apparently.
After several days of one-street towns and small cities that pride themselves on having the jail featured in The Blues Brothers (that’d be the town of Joliet, just a few kilometres away from Molene, which sound an awful lot like the people who signed the deeds couldn’t quiet spell the famous Shakespeare character and famous Dolly Parton track respectively), the rapid shift into Chicago was quite something. Chicago is a beautiful city that sits on the bank of Lake Michigan, a body of water so large that you’d be forgiven for mistaking it for an ocean. The city actually reminded me a lot of New York’s little cousin so much so that there is even a building that looks like a mini Empire State Building. The architecture here is stunning, as is the Chicago River that twists through the downtown like the Yarra does in Melbourne.
Checking into our hotel and the view was gorgeous. Well, it was when it wasn’t looking directly at the rooftop of the building next door. Those exhaust fans were picturesque as exhaust fans go! The weather decided to give us a mix of warm and sunny and blistering and cold. There’s an original joke to be made about how Chicago sure did live up to its reputation as “the windy city”, but I am not witty enough to craft it. The chilly weather certainly made my decision to spend most of the time indoors at beautiful museums and packed-to-the-rafters record stores a smart one. And boy did I ever.
Somewhere along the way I decided to buy myself a record player and start a little collection. I figure, when I finally move into a place of my own I will have so little furniture, but at least I will have the soundtrack to Two of a Kind on vinyl for thirty cents to fill the space. In the span of just several days I managed to build myself one of the most flamboyant collections you’ll ever see (hear?) Dolly, Barbra, Cyndi, and Olivia rub shoulders with Bruce Springsteen, Culture Club, and Human League. The 1980s called and they’re fabulous.
“American Gothic” (Grant Wood, 1930); “Throat” (Leslie Dill, 1994); “Mao” (Andy Warhol, 1972)
The museums on the other hand were rewarding in entirely different ways. The Art Institute of Chicago, the Museum of Contemporary Art, and the Museum of Contemporary Photography were all on the itinerary and I feel a richer person for having experienced them. The Art Institute alone features such famed works as Grant Wood’s “American Gothic”, various works by the “Mother of American Modernism”, Georgia O’Keeffe, Andy Warhol’s “Mao”, and assorted pieces by Van Gogh, Monet, and Picasso. I balked at the $23 entry fee, but by the third hour trawling the expansive floors of the magnificent space I wasn’t quite so rudely shaken.
Thankfully the flight back to New York City wasn’t as torturous as the flight out. It’s amazing how one airport (that’d be Newark, remember?) can be so completely incompetent and understaffed, while another (Chicago Midway Airport) can be remarkably efficient and painless. And then there was the plane ride itself. Whoever said women can’t be funny has obviously never flown with Karen at Southwest Airlines. She had the entire airplane in stitches as she turned the usual safety spiel into a stand-up comedy routine that made for the best flight I’ve ever been on. It was a perfect end to a wonderful sojourn away with the family (who I won’t see in the flesh for at least another year: sad). Oh, and the free pretzels. They were nice, too.
