The Windy City

In a redbrick cottage in a house just outside Chicago in a room with yellow walls, I fell asleep between a blanket with big red flowers on the four poster bed with the pineapple finials. In the morning there was grapefruit and peanut butter toast and a walk to the train station, passed bare oak trees, stark against the winter sky.

In the city there's the river, dark and winding, rolling under bridges and between buildings tall enough to mingle with the clouds. And always the sound of the train rushing by, clickity clack, clickity clack.

On an unusually warm day, I took in a 365 degree aerial view of the Second City, 36 stories up, thanks to a great connection at an award-winning architecture firm. I asked questions about buildings. He answered with dates, fast facts and names of famous films. We could see north towards the suburbs and out across the Lake.

Saturday, we drove to Michigan, stopping for an early lunch. At night, we went into town for dinner. While we waited for our table to be called, we strolled the streets and stopped in shops to keep from freezing. Sunday there was a blizzard. All six of us sat snug inside while the wind howled and the snow fell in record speed. For dinner, there was salmon and mashed potatoes and bite-sized chocolate chip cookies for dessert.

We woke early Monday. It took at least a half an hour to unearth the car from all the white. The roads were slick and snow-covered. Cars inched cautiously towards their destinations. Trees and power lines lay flat like soldiers in final surrender to Winter's War.

Back in the City, frigid white waves rose up from the lake 10 feet high. They hurled towards the shore, relentlessly crashing then pulling out again. I bundled up and went for a run in the neighborhood by the University, getting lost in the symmetry of the old houses: porticoes and broken pediment facades, secret alley ways, brick paths to courtyards lined with box woods and planters tangled in frozen ivy.

After a short walk into town, I ate soup at a local bakery and watched shoppers file in and out, stomping snowy boots upon entry. For dinner we went to a small trattoria and shared gnocchi while Dean Martin sang sweetly from the speakers and white lights illuminated the frescoed walls.

In the room with the yellow walls, I packed my bags, stacking fabric samples and sorting catalogs to be shipped home the following morning. I got a ride to the train station where I dragged my bags from the platform one at a time. We met for lunch in the lobby and I caught the train for the airport. I watched the cityscape turn from stacked skyscrapers and clusters of apartments to sprawling suburbs before the train dipped underground and up into Terminal 2. We lifted off into blue sky.