5 posts tagged “chicago”

"Welcome to Chicago.
This town stinks like a whorehouse at low tide."

No it doesn't.  It's muggy and close, yes.  But the trees are tall and broad, like the buildings.  Much of it reminds me of London, or even New York.  The buildings are big and sepia stained.  There is sidewalk greenery and mini-fences of black metal.

It keeps its age and builds on it.

There is crime, murder and naughtiness in its past:

there are slaughterhouses, industries too.  I dared to walk on Michigan Avenue and was nearly bowled over by the foot-traffic.  The skyscrapers overlook a LAKE.

 

I'm rather taken with the place.

Sunday morning we assembled in the hotel's restaurant, The Pump Room (so very Jane Austen), for breakfast.  We took pictures of our elegant breakfasts,

discussed the bird I saw yesterday, which excited me very much becuase it wasn't either brown or gray (L.A. bird colors),

and talked about our plans for the day and our pending travels back home.

Today would be art day for me - I had big plans for the Art Institute of Chicago.  Arbed, Michelle and I went together.  Now I don't know if Michelle realized she would be our unofficial Chi-Guide, but I bless her for being so.  I bless her and bus #151.

Michelle knows her city - she knows its events, places and directions.  Do I know my city?  No.  And I don't really want to.  L.A. quite often simply gives me the pip.

The AIC had many pleasant surprises - Spanish (Cotan, Goya) and Dutch (Terborch, Rembrandt), for instance.  There was a lovely Moreau, and I sat in front of it, drinking in its shadows and jewels.  A woman sat beside me, and wanted to know what I saw in the painting.  I  said that Moreau was a symbolist painter, which was a mammoth mistake as I really don't have a good definition of symbolism...but I did what I could for her.

The Beardsley drawing which I thought the museum housed I couldn't find.  He must be looking down on me, tormenting me, coughing into his cloudy sleeve, my poor TB boy.  No matter.  It's a fine museum.

Eventually our group came to a parting of ways.  Mariser and Lord K. were driving home - I will treasure my wee amber bourbon bottle - Valerae drove as well:  we left the maid a proper tip, plus a couple of handfuls of chocolates.  I'll get the DVDs to you - oh, and payment for the room.

Arbed, our clever leader, Peg (no one took the left-over pizza?), Laurie - tiny but with a powerful hug (yes, I got writer cooties) and the Cap'n - a kinder hugger - left for their planes in the afternoon, and I hope no storms shattered their itineraries.  Brown Amazon traveled with me to the airport.  Michelle, our local, went home to do her laundry.

Everyone I know is mad at me for not taking pictures that included myself in them.  Please don't hate.

"Here endeth the lesson."

(note:  all quotes courtesy of 'The Untouchables', 1987)

"I do not approve of your methods!
Yeah, well...you're not from Chicago."

Saturday:

Late breakfast at a place which will forever be remembered as the restaurant-whose-owner-ran-after-us-to-claim-a-gratuity-which-he-said-we-never-left-although-Michelle-said-otherwise-and-was-about-to-smack-him-down-for-his-troubles.  A weird situation.  It made our visit to the Shedd Aquarium even more urgent.  We needed to see belugas.

I don't know what our Saturday schedule was precisely, but I'm pretty sure it didn't involve spending ALL DAY at the aquarium.  And yet we did.

Anyway.  The Shedd was built in 1930; its interior is a divine mixture of art deco and maritime.  A zodiac of sea creatures swam above me:

There were plaster turtles...

and marble whales:

...all decorative enough to stay safe within their media, but realistic enough to threaten to break through their aesthetic dimensions.

We all wandered where we pleased.  AmyH and I saw beluga whales

and dolphins.  We were watching the tank, waiting for whales - I'm sure many of you have been in the same position - and were about to leave when we saw them.  They had such a calming effect - we were so comforted by the belugas' white grace.  A microphone picked up their clicks and singing, sounds that might have come from dead mariners, tapping out messages from their buried grottoes.

I got the story on Nickel the Snapping Turtle from AmyH (which didn't surprise me, as no on can resist talking to an outgoing strawberry blonde).  Hit by a car (the turtle, not AmyH), she was rescued and given a home at the aquarium.  X-rays revealed that she had swallowed a nickel, which must have added to her problems.  But it also gave her a name.

A small, lush aquarium.  There were penguins, which I said were like banjoes:  one you couldn't be sad while listening to it, the others you couldn't be sad looking at them.

And there were many other characters, besides:

 

Eventually we returned to our Palatial Suite to meet up with the others and decide on dinner.  It was a vexing topic:  some for pizza, some not.  I'm not fond of Chicago-style pizza, so I went with Brown Amazon and Valerae to Spring - a former Russian bathhouse from the early 1920's. 

Spring retained the old outer facade, and inside still had the tile that once housed sweating Russians.  The food was excellent; I forgot the cocktail that the others had, but it was strawberry-based and looked crisp and refreshing.  I had a sazerac - because it is an old classic, and because it had absinthe.  BrownA tried some rather toxic white wine ("This is horrible - try it!") as well.  

Back home.  Time for presents!  Arbed made post-its and refrigerator magnets for everyone to commerate our weekend.  She also brought some goodies to be given to whomever asked first.  The suited rabbit suited me, and the pancake pin I thought Boyfriend would appreciate.  The mini-whiskey came courtesy of Mariser, Milord and Kentucky:

For the tacky gift exclange, I claimed for myself a pair of Philadelphia socks from the Cap'n.  They hide my large feet admirably:

I brought a trio of gifts, the most successful being a bottle opener in the shape of a bikini-clad woman.  Milord asked for her immediately.  But first, she was passed around for everyone to observe (the destiny of many an unfortunate woman) and when she came back to me, all warm with everyone's fondling, she was finally given to the lucky Lord K.

By this time people were sinking fast.  Thick, humid weather, tons of walking, Vox excitement - it takes a lot out of a person.  And yet, Valerae and I stayed up talking until past 1AM.

(end of Part Two)

Non sequiturs.  They're fun:  tiny morsels of nonsense that were once in context, but once taken from that safe haven, become examples of Silly, although they are representative of actual conversations.

The title of this post was spoken by Valerae while describing her stay at Indy House.  The events behind that statement, well, I am not at liberty to reveal.  Val is small, but she will hit me, because she told me so.

Anyway.  I heard this quote, and many others, on Friday afternoon, in the grand, muggy, smudged,

tall

city of Chicago.  A selection of Vox friends had gathered there for "Squee 2009".

Squee.  Not a noun.  Occasionally an adjective.  Quite often a verb.  Always an exclamation.  Its origins come from http://www.cuteoverload.com.  When a person is overloaded by The Cute (KITTENS!!!)...squee is the type of nonsensical yelp one will exclaim.  Try it:  look at a kitten and see what happens.

"That's the Chicago way."

Chicago weather all this past week had been rather aggressive.  Arbed, AmyH, Laurie, Cap'n - all their flights had to be diverted or delayed, poor children.  My flight was a 4.5 hr. non-stop (bless you Southwest!) flight from Los Angeles.  LAX was surprisingly calm at 9AM, and the only thing of interest I saw was a rabbi standing at the window, reading his prayers, and bowing to the cloudy sky.

Still, as I later told Arbed, I hope never to travel with myself again.  My worrying was a revelation - I don't think there was a single thing that escaped my anxiety.  All quite for nothing.

Arbed, through threats of violence I think, got us into the poshest hotel (Ambassador East):

in the poshest part of the city (The Gold Coast - a name that made me expect to see either Andrew Carnagie or Blueboard walking through our neighborhood).

Valerae and I had The Frank Sinatra Suite.  Oh.  Hell Yes.  How deluxe was this place?  our extra roll of toilet paper was gift wrapped.

By the early afternoon, Valerae, Michelle, Mariser, Milord, Peg o' T. (is the magneta cap finished?), Arbed and my good self had gathered in our suite to talk, discuss, converse.  We are, of course, an abundantly witty group.  We were concerned about the thunderstoms that kept BrownA, AmyH, Laurie and the Cap'n grounded.  But then we also had our concerns about where we should have our dinner.

We ate at Carmine's - a good, Mafiatastic name.  We couldn't decide on the nationality of our waiter - certainly not Italian, though he put on a good show ("Yes ladies, you have a good conversation?").  We were later joined by the charming and devastating Brown Amazon. Our group was slowly becoming a complete one.

Afters, we stopped to buy a few nibbly bits, for our late-night talkiness:

This, plus a glass of merlot at dinner, and many refills of peach-apricot chardonney, courtesy of Valerae, led to a tiny bout of queasiness on Saturday morning.  I staggered into our living room for a handful of pretzals to sop up all that naughty liquor.

(end of Part One) 

Many years ago, when my college days were still a distant memory, and not a near-myth, I went to a friend's wedding.  There was much to celebrate and I remember an acquaintance who consumed eleven whiskey sours.

The reception migrated, like a flock of noisy geese, to a handful of hotel rooms.  I was seated on a couch.  Suddenly a guy - whom I knew vaguely - ran up to me.  He said, 'I bet no one's ever did this to you before', took my shoe off, filled it with wine...and then drank from it.  That strange little act was like a microcosm of a very strange little day.

He was right.  No one had ever taken a sip from my shoe before.  On one hand, it was a flattering thing, as it was customary to toast a lady's beauty by drinking from her shoe (although he didn't mention anything about that).  On the othe rhand, the first woman to be so honored was a prostitute.  Of course he probably didn't know that.  But I do. 

At the turn of the twentieth century America was still shuddering her coarse coat from her shoulders.  She had become wealthy with immoral speed, too quickly to have a proper wash:  her fingers were stained with blood, with steel, with coal, with polluted steam.  Her cities, like their occupants, were loud and wild. 

This was the age of 'conspicuous consumption', and it was just as loud, wild, and immoral.  On February 1, 1900, the finest mansion in Chicago was opened:  the Everleigh Club.  Fifty rooms were distributed along three stories. Walls were layered with unsubtle brocades, painted linens and burnt velvets.  The cut glass of the chandeliers cast diamonds of light that made the rooms tremble.  There was an art gallery, a library and three orchestras providing living background music.  The beds - and there were many of them - were plush and brass, with in-laid swatches of marble and blankets like clouds, edged with golden tassels that brushed the floor.

The Everleigh Club was run by two sisters, Ada and Minna; and it was the poshest bordello in Chicago.  It was the genteel alternative to the rougher houses which had previously been a gentleman's only outlet.  Those establishments featured 'strip and whip' parties (don't ask) and their patrons were frequently drugged with morphine and robbed.

But Ada and Minna had created something quite different.  A richly appointed retreat where a man could eat, drink, relax and be entertained by charming women imported from every corner of the United States.  Its reputation grew, and soon royal blood came to join the blue bloods.

In 1902 Prince Heinrich of Prussia - brother of the annoying Kaiser Wilhelm II - visited the Club.  Charming and easy-going, he had already been invited to many glittering, silken events, but...the Everleigh had been recommended.  So, the sisters had obligingly planned an elegant bacchanalia for him, with dining and dancing, and the lushest of feminine accompaniments.

During the course of one of the dances, one of the girls' shoes flew off, knocking over a glass of champagne.  When the shoe was earthbound once more, there was still some wine within it.  An inspired member of the prince's entourage drank the remaining champagne.  Then, the entire group rose, each member taking a shoe from the girl he was with.  They extended the dainty vessels for the waiters to fill.  The toasted their prince, and drank from their prostitutes' shoes.

Now.  Picture that beautiful, mad, decadent assembly.  Then, fast forward 90 years to me, sitting on a couch that was not my own, and staring stupidly at my empty, sodden shoe.

As a collector of things that were once valuable to other, more distant people, I feel as if my collecting is rather intrusive.  I read other people's books.  I read their letters.  I admire their postcards.  I wear their jewelry.  I stare at their photographs:  mentally critiquing their clothes, stance and expressions - as if I might still contact them and offer a lesson or two in self-improvement.  I really am so dreadfully nosey.

One other thing I intrude upon is past graduations, prying into the earnest thoughts and faces of students from long ago.  I collect yearbooks.

The first one I ever bought was from 1914, owned by Catherine Stewart, and I hope she doesn't mind.  It commemorated the class of Hyde Park High School, in Chicago.  It was called 'The Aitchpe' and cost me $5.00 (it is interesting to note that a member of the following year's graduating class was Amelia Earhart...and that book has been valued at $3,500). 

How serious those 17 and 18 year-olds were!  Back then, youth was a shortcut to adulthood, not a time to pause and gambol.  They were proud to be at school:  not every child was guaranteed a high school education - admission would be a product of their hard work, yes, but of the sacrifices made by their parents, too.  Many sons instead stayed home to help their fathers, to become clerks for the family business.  Daughters stayed home to cut the crusts of tea sandwiches.

Their somber faces reflected how they felt a grown-up should look.  There were no youthful fashions:  boys wore ties and starched collars, girls wore a fichu of lace around their necks, or possibly a moderate ruffle.  They wanted their school to be a microcosm of thte adult world.  Their portraits were either demure or dramatic - many of the girls had perfected a dark, theatrical profile - while only a flip few allowed themselves a suggestion of a smile.

What I found especially charming about this book was that next to each photo was not only the name, college-to-be, list of teams of clubs, but a quotation - a careful choice of the student's, no doubt.  Some I recognized, but others were complete mysteries - perhaps a line from a favorite book, long out-of-print?

"Only seven days a week to primp!"
"So sweet and fair, but on the square."
"Quiet and solitary as an oyster."
"Cupid is a knavish lad,/Thus to make poor maidens mad." (oh, Kenneth Moore - soon to grace the University of Chicago!) 

What quotation would you choose?

Signatures had not yet developed to the heights attained when I was in junior and high school, and was signing in every book, 'When you get married and get a divorce/Come to my stable and marry my horse.'  No, a signature was usually just a name, and occasionally a verse or a thought, painfully sincere:

'Count me as a brick in your chimney of friendship.'
'The world is so full of a thousand things/I am sure we should all be as happy as kings.' (from Dorothy 'Higgie' Higgins)

And Maud Ayer asks, 'N'oubliez pas votre amie dans la classe de Francais.'

The curriculum was elaborate:  besides the injuries to relaxation that one has come to expect from school, there was Botany, Astronomy, Political Economy, Latin, Debating, Zoology, Forge, Sewing (teaching girls to 'make and wash silk dresses, spring and winter hats, and a complete set of undergarments'), Civics ('The purpose of the study of Civics is to make intelligent citizens.')...

There were clubs:

The Senior Girls Society began the new year with a 'Baby Party.'  The football party featured a duet by 'Mutt an Chop.'

The Junior Girls Society presented 'Hyde Park's World Renowned Circus', which included clowns that 'afforded continual amusement.'

The French Club featured charades.

The Pythagorean Club encountered some trouble with more advanced mathematics, such as College Algebra and Trigonometry.

The Honor Society found the current thought amongst teachers that they 'should trust to the honesty of the student' was impractical, and 'exhorted the instructors' to do otherwise and to 'destroy in every way possible the opportunity and incentive to cheat.'

The Astronomy Society called their subject 'the most sublime of the sciences.'  

This tiny hothouse of self-importance and impatience!  New adults quick-grown within a petri dish of auditoriums and brick!

All of this - to fall victim to a War that would begin in less than a month.  And in less than three years the boys in this yearbook would be young men, signing up to do their duty, to be sent to the forests of the Meuse-Argonne, to stumble through the early mist at Chateau Thierry, to march through the tangle of Belleau Wood, to follow the French tanks into Cantigny...