It's Christmas Time In The City...

Cookie baking aside, Christmas has been more or less absent in my life this year. I haven't put up my usual decorations, since they're the one thing that's already packed into boxes right now, and I did almost all of my Christmas shopping online to save time. With all my yearly traditions falling by the wayside in the name of focusing on my move, I was insistent about preserving at least one of them: my annual trip to the Christkindlmarket with Lisa. We were going to get our sixth annual photo in front of the municipal Christmas tree no matter what.

I did allow for some flexibility in my planning this year, however. Lisa's long-distance gentleman friend was in from out of town, and she wanted to turn the evening into our first ever double date. That's right -- in some fifteen odd years of friendship, Lisa and I have never been dating at the same time, such that we could go out together with our significant others. That’s a pretty ridiculous (and embarrassing on my end) statistic, so I agreed that it was time to remedy the situation post-haste.

Justin and I met Lisa and Ben in front of the Christmas tree itself, though we had some trouble locating them amidst the throngs of visitors wishing to take advantage of the relatively temperate evening. Given the sub-arctic temps and snow we’ve encountered in previous years’ visits, tonight was probably the best weather we’ve ever experienced at the Christkindlmarket. As a result, it was also the most crowded.

Six years and still going strong!

The first order of business was to get our photo taken, so we found a spot on a quieter side of the tree, and Justin was duly tasked with the role of photographer. We usually have to bring a tripod and make numerous attempts at getting the image just right, so it was a relief to have someone to do it for us, especially someone who is a talented photographer in his own right. It only took about six attempts to get a decent image for 2011.

With our duty dispatched, it was time for food. Justin and I both had bratwurst and potato soup, though Justin’s stronger central European ancestry came through and compelled him to have sauerkraut on his. (I’ve never been able to stand sauerkraut; perhaps my 25% Italian genes are responsible for that.) I also got my yearly dose of apple strudel, featuring perfectly spiced fruit wrapped in shatteringly crisp layers of flaky pastry. It’s the culinary highlight of my annual pilgrimage, and even if I didn’t have such a deeply-rooted tradition drawing me to the Christkindlmarket, the strudel alone would make a visit worthwhile.

The only downside to the evening was that it was cut short by the market’s relatively early 8:00 closing time. Justin missed out on getting a bootful of glühwein, the traditional mulled wine served in a commemorative boot-shaped mug, due to the early cut-off time for alcoholic drinks around 7:30. It was starting to rain anyway by the time the vendors were closing up shop for the night, but it still felt like our evening ended too soon.

Me, Justin, Ben, and Lisa.

Even if it was brief, we had a lovely time with Lisa and her man. I look forward to more evenings like this as Justin and I continue to build our relationship, and Lisa navigates the post-divorce dating scene. I love seeing her so vital and happy these days, and I am so proud to call her my friend after so many years.

Let's Do The Time Warp...

Today, buried in the flurry of updates on my Facebook feed was a fascinating video posted by the museum (yes, I'm a "fan" of my place of employment on Facebook). It is a short travel video about Chicago, dating back to 1948, when a visit to the movies often included a couple short films and/or newsreels in addition to the main feature (these were the days before pre-film advertising and television at home). It was produced by MGM, so it has good production values, vibrant Technicolor views of the city, and a narration oddly reminiscent of Jimmy Stewart.

For me, it was most interesting to see how much of the city that I'm familiar with today has been constructed in the time since this film was made. South of the river, basically nothing exists east of Michigan Avenue, and there's not much going on in River North either. Street cars still ran down the center of State Street, past the Marshall Field's building that was still occupied by it's namesake and not Macy's, as it is today. The Union Stockyard (as mentioned in the unofficial city theme song, "My Kind of Town,") was still considered a major landmark. The film also discusses the popularity of recreational fishing along the lakefront, showing crowds of men casting their rods from piers on Lake Michigan. Today, the idea of eating any fish you might catch in the lake yourself is virtually unfathomable.

Most striking, in my opinion, was how dirty all the buildings were. I'm not sure if that's a factor of people still burning coal for energy, more lax emission standards for automobiles, or just a more lackadaisical attitude towards facade maintenance in pre-Daley Chicago, but light-colored buildings like the Merchandise Mart are practically unrecognizable. Still, even if the city barely looks the same compared to 63 years ago, Chicago is every bit the ideal city to live and visit that it was all those years ago.

A Matter of Taste...

Two years ago, as a part of the fiscal restructuring at work, our vacation time went from a roll-over plan in which you accrued days over time and were able to save them indefinitely, to a "use it or lose it" plan in which we're given all our days at the start of the fiscal year and we have one year to use them or they disappear. I've always been kind of ambivalent about this plan -- on the one hand, it's nice to be able to take a vacation whenever you want in the year, but on the other hand, I've found myself hoarding time because I'm concerned something will come up at the end of the year for which I'll need to use vacation time. As a result, the past two years I've hit the end of the fiscal year with a bank of unused time. I used most of mine for Katherine's visit and my trip with Justin to White Hall, but I still had two days left to use this month.

Without the funds to travel anywhere, I opted to give myself two three-day weekends, starting last week. Originally, Justin and I had hoped to take our much-rescheduled day trip to Starved Rock State Park, but again, the forecast was against us. We ended up experiencing rock formations in a different way, by seeing The Cave of Forgotten Dreams, a 3-D documentary about French Neolithic cave paintings, but I discovered that day that I'm not a big fan of Werner Herzog's work, slept through much of the movie, and therefore didn't blog about it.

Today, I opted to make slightly better use of my day off by checking out the Taste of Chicago, which opened today and runs through July 3rd. I invited Mom along for the experience, since we haven't gone to the Taste together since 2008, and as always, we adhered to my annual Tate of Chicago game plan:

• Pre-purchase tickets at Dominick's the week before the Taste begins, when they cost $6 a strip, 25% cheaper than buying them at the actual event the day of.
• Pre-game with Pepto-Bismol before leaving the house to avoid any possible retribution from your gastrointestinal tract for being subjected to so many greasy, marginally quality food products.
• Pack appropriately: take plastic utensils, especially a plastic knife for cutting up any food you intend to share, bottled water, hand sanitizer, extra paper towels, and a Tide pen for spills.
• Go early, preferably during the day on a week day, to avoid the crowds.
• Stretch your tickets as far as possible by sticking mainly to 4-ticket "Taste portions," and save full-price items for the things that are really special.
  

We lucked out with perfect weather for the day as well; I find a slightly cool, overcast day is actually better for festival-going than a sunny day in the mid-90s. No worrying about getting sunburned or dehydrated, and the "bad" weather helps keep the crowds at bay.

Am I the only person who thinks photo-bombing is a seriously annoying trend?

In keeping with tradition, I made sure to get my annual pickle on a stick from the Vienna Beef tent. I swear that they're smaller than they used to be when I was a kid, but the taste still takes me right back to my childhood. Unfortunately, drippy pickles are meant for summer days, and aren't really compatible with long-sleeved apparel -- I had to be careful not to make a huge pickle-scented mess of myself.

Since people seemed to enjoy the photo collage from my birthday dim-sum, I thought I'd make another from my Taste photos. From the upper right hand corner: pulled chicken sandwich from Smoke Daddy, doubtlessly one of the most popular stands at the Taste; fried green beans from Harold's Chicken Shack -- these had my vote for second-best thing I ate today, the batter was mildly spicy and really flavorful, and fried green beans are a burgeoning obsession of mine in general; Brazilian sausage from Texas de Brazil, which was tasty, but small and the bun was actually cold from being in the refrigerator; mini-Maxwell Street Polish from Bobak Sausage and Bakery, a Chicago classic; Loukaneko, or Greek sausage, from Pegasus, which was kind of forgettable, but easily the best value in terms of size out of all the Taste Portions we sampled; the obligatory pierogis from Kasia's Deli, one of my perennial faves at the Taste; and apple dumplings from O'Briens that were kind of a throwaway item, and tasted like the apple pies from McDonald's.

In the center is my favorite item of the entire day, which, embarrassingly, came from Garrett's Popcorn, but at least it was a new product that they were debuting for the first time at the Taste, and not something I'd eaten before: caramel vanilla swirl ice cream with caramel corn topping. I had to shell out a full eight tickets for it, but it was worth it. Garrett's is amazing all on its own, and it makes a surprisingly delicious ice cream topping. I wouldn't have thought it, but I'm totally going to recreate this at home with some vanilla ice cream the next time I bring home a bag of Garrett's.

I don't think Mom was very happy about my self-portrait request...

Like any year, there were hits (the ice cream from Garrett's) and misses (a Taste portion of fudge from The Fudge Pot that was overly sweet and barely tasted of chocolate at all), but it was still a fun way to pass an afternoon. It was nice to see a lot of new establishments there this year, in addition to the places I look forward to eating from every year. I'm also particularly proud that I purchased exactly the right number of tickets; we used every single one and for the first time in several years, there were no leftovers. Perfect budgeting + perfect weather + good food = perfect summer afternoon in Chicago.

Together Again - Part Two

After spending the first day of Katherine's visit exploring the neighborhood of Chinatown on the city's Near South Side, I decided that for our second day together, we would head north to Andersonville to partake in some delicious cinnamon buns at Ann Sather, followed by scratching another item off my Chicago bucket list -- a visit to Rosehill Cemetery.

Depending on how well you know me, you may or may not be aware of my aesthetic inclination towards the macabre. Generally speaking, I prefer my art creepy, surreal, and often of German Expressionist extraction. Hanging in my apartment is one Czech woodblock print of weeping nuns, and an etching waiting to be hung on the wall depicts the figure of Death looming over a sleeping man. Similarly, I have what some people consider to be a strange affinity for visiting cemeteries. Funerary art and iconography fascinates me, and I genuinely enjoy visiting cemeteries of different eras to study how people memorialize the dead. During my travels, I often seek out interesting or historically significant burial grounds, and just like with my ongoing church exploration project, I treat my hometown no differently.

An interest in cemeteries is one of the things that Katherine and I have long had in common. We made an effort in college to visit at least one St. Louis area graveyard a year, and when we came to Chicago during Spring Break of our senior year, I took Katherine to see Graceland Cemetery, where all the wealthiest Chicagoans of the Gilded Age are buried. Marshall Field and his descendents are there, along with the Palmer family of hoteliers and the Armour meat-packing heirs. This was a group of people who was accustomed to the best in life (as my visit to their neighborhood church bore out), and their taste for luxury carried over to their wishes for the afterlife as well. It's one of the most architecturally important cemeteries in America, and I highly recommend checking it out even if cemeteries aren't ordinarily your thing. The History Museum offers tours, and there is also a helpful guidebook you can purchase at the cemetery itself.

Rosehill is Chicago's other great historic graveyard, as it contains the final resting places of some of Chicago's earliest citizens. Their remains were moved to Rosehill after the Great Chicago Fire, when the city decided to tackle the public health threat posed by having its existing cemeteries along the edge of the lakefront (the source of all the city's drinking water), in the area that is now Lincoln Park, by moving all human remains further northwest. As a result, Rosehill features graves, tombs, and other monuments that are of astonishing age given the relative youth of the city in general.

The gate to Rosehill was designed by William H. Boyington, the same architect who created the Chicago Water Tower. It was added to the U.S. Register of Historic Landmarks in 1975.

Due to its age and the time of its construction, Rosehill is the final resting place of the largest number of Civil War veterans in the Chicagoland area.

I found this to be a particularly polite euphemism for death.

One of my favorite monuments at Rosehill featured these two dogs, one at attention and one taking a rest. I don't know if the couple buried here were avid dog lovers or if their choice was motivated by a different type of symbolism, but I thought it had a great deal of charm and personality.

There aren't quite as many locally famous people buried at Rosehill as there are at Graceland, but the cemetery does boast a few big names: Jack Brickhouse, Oscar Mayer, Aaron Montgomery Ward, Burr Tillstrom of Kukla, Fran, and Ollie fame, former Vice President Charles G. Dawes, and a number of obscure former Chicago mayors. Not too shabby...

As the largest cemetery in Chicago, it took us the better part of the day to traverse Rosehill's extensive grounds, so after we'd worked up a sufficient appetite, we headed back downtown for the requisite deep dish pizza experience at Giordano's. Truly, no visit to Chicago is complete without the pizza, and even for a local who experiences deep dish on a semi-regular basis, taking out-of-towners to eat it never seems to get old. In this case, the long wait time works in your favor, as it gives you ample time to rest from a long day of local tourism and enjoy unhurried conversation with your guests. Besides, with the day I've scheduled for tomorrow, we're going to be glad we took it easy this evening...

Blinded By The Light...

Generally speaking, the holidays are a time of traditions. Year after year, we repeat a series of rituals that have personal, familial, or religious significance to us. As much time as this occupies, it can be hard to make space for new events in an already crowded field of commitments, but this year, there was one thing on my Chicago to-do list that I felt I needed to squeeze into my holiday agenda -- the Zoo Lights at the Lincoln Park Zoo.

Each year, the zoo puts up a vast quantity of Christmas lights and opens its doors to the public after hours to display them. Admission is free (though parking is not), and patrons are treated to a glorious holiday illumination, along with the chance to glimpse the animals in a new way. Nocturnal animals come to life in the evening, and other animals snooze away in an adorable fashion. I had never been to see the Zoo Lights before, and I was determined to scratch it off my list in 2010.

Justin and I went together, and Mother Nature smiled upon us for our visit, bringing an end to a day of snow just in time for us to get an unobstructed view of the lights. The snow may have made for treacherous walking on the zoo's sidewalks (presumably they were not salted because the chemicals would be bad for the animals if they leached into the soil?), but it was still fun to stroll around in the brisk night air, taking in the festive lights with my sweetheart. Of course, it helped that I don't mind the cold; besides, it just gave us another excuse to hold hands.

The lights were far more impressive than the other display I've seen in Chicago, at the Botanic Gardens. There were far more lights at the zoo, and I appreciated the childlike explosion of color that characterized their style. In fact, there was something about the landscape that made me feel as if I were walking through a Dr. Seuss book, in the best possible way. I know this month is busy for all of us, but if you're in the city and you have a spare evening to indulge your inner child, I highly recommend making a trek out into the cold to catch the Zoo Lights while you still can.

Cross-Town Rivalry...

Lauren once told me a story about the day she and her husband moved to Chicago. They had arrived at the airport and caught a taxi into the city. Their chatty cabbie was curious -- would the new transplants become Cubs fans or follow the White Sox? When they informed him where they would be living, the driver told them that their fate was sealed: they were destined to be Cubs fans.

This tale is illustrative of the pervasiveness of the North Side/South Side rivalry in Chicago culture. Although I lean slightly to the side of the Cubs, having been reared in the northern suburbs, I'm generally happy to see any Chicago team doing well. This sort of fair weather fandom is not looked upon with much kindness in my fair city, but it does relieve some of the angst that more rabid fans experience during the annual Cross-Town Classic, when the Cubs face the White Sox for bragging rights. In this unique situation, I can truly say that I'm happy no matter who wins, because a victory for Chicago is guaranteed.

I find it inexplicably amusing that the game is listed as Chicago vs. Cubs. Who decided that the Sox get to be "Chicago?"

Out of the three game series held at Wrigley this weekend, I snapped up Dad's tickets for Sunday, and invited along Mireya, the most hardcore Cubs fan I know, her brother, who matches her enthusiasm, and Zac, so that I'd have somebody to converse with while Mireya and her brother were absorbed in the game.

I contemplated wearing a neutral color, so as to not take sides in this Chicago-style civil war, but I figured Mireya might never speak to me again if I failed to support her beloved team.

Mostly, Zac and I were mind-numbingly bored during game, as the play stretched on without any scoring until the 7th inning. Mireya, her brother, and the fans around us seemed inexplicably excited as we sat and praised the game for at least moving along at a brisk clip. Finally, the 9th inning rolled around and after a series of anguished cries, Mireya finally explained that the Cubs had been pitching a no-hitter until the top of the 9th. Apparently, this was a big deal, and very exciting. The term, "pitchers' duel" was thrown around liberally. This too was evidently a good thing. I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm no baseball fan; I was bored out of my mind. Give me a bunch of home runs over a low-scoring game any day.

The tension of the no-hitter drummed up plenty of acrimony among the spectators, and one Sox fan was thrown out of the stadium for throwing something onto the field. Still, there was one thing that both sets of fans could agree on -- the momentous achievement of the Chicago Blackhawks in winning the Stanley Cup. Not only were a large percentage of the fans clad in the Hawk's signature red, the Blackhawks were actually on hand to throw out the ceremonial first pitch and sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th inning stretch. We missed the former because we arrived at the stadium a few minutes late (although still early enough to get the free rally towels that they were distributing, which ended up proving useful for wiping off the water that had accumulated on the seats after an entire week of rain), but we did get to witness the harmony of both North Siders and South Siders coming together to support a team from the West Side during the 7th inning stretch.

The Hawks were even nice enough to bring along their trophy for the fans. It's tiny, but it's there, in the center of this photo.

Perhaps some of the Blackhawks' good fortune rubbed off on the Cubs, because they won the day, after losing the first two games in the series. This fact was not lost on Mireya, who pointed out that I have a perfect record of my own: the Cubs have won every home game that I have attended since I started going to games a couple years ago. I, however, was mostly just glad to have someone to share in my pain over the unleashing of that epic earworm, "Go, Cubs, Go!" following the Cubs' win. Zac and I discovered something else that we have in common tonight besides a general disinterest in the sport of baseball -- he can't stand the Cubs' victory anthem either. At least now I won't be the only one suffering through a week of having it stuck in my head. It's true what they say; misery loves company...

Rainbow Bright...

Last summer, I spent a couple of posts talking about my burgeoning obsession with one Vincent P. Falk, Chicago's own Riverace. His eccentricity appeals both to my love of kitsch, and my profound appreciation for all thing unique to this fair city. Although I had yet to spot him in 2010, I still found myself thinking of him whenever I crossed one of the bridges over the Chicago River, and I would find myself looking, even when I knew it was too cold to be tour boat season. Therefore, when I was conducting my monthly perusal of the Gene Siskel Film Center's screenings and saw that they would be hosting a showing of Vincent: A Life In Color, the locally-produced documentary about the life of Vincent Falk, it quickly became a must-see.

Although I went into Vincent hoping to learn more about the life of Mr. Falk and garner some insight into why he feels compelled to put on his "fashion shows" for the city and its visitors, I must confess, I came away from the film feeling less certain of Mr. Falk and his motivations than ever before. In the portrait painted of him in the film, Mr. Falk comes across as the kind of man who is largely unknowable, even to his closest associates. He deflects attempts at interpersonal intimacy with jokes, and despite all of the attention he purposefully draws to himself, he seems deeply uncomfortable with one-on-one contact.

I couldn't shake the impression that he might be suffering from a highly functional form of autism. He holds a job with Cook County, working as a computer programmer with the Department of Management Information Systems (a job which he came to, interestingly, after the decline of disco ended his career as a DJ in a series of gay bars and go-go clubs) in which he demonstrates a high aptitude for incredibly detail-oriented work. He has cultivated a number of hobbies (including audio equipment and, of course, suit collecting), which he pursues with near obsessive zeal. And yet, he seems unable to truly connect to other people.

The film provides no simple answers to the mystery of Mr. Falk, but it does raise a somewhat upsetting question -- what if Mr. Falk is simply a master of self-promotion, in the vein of such reality television stars as Kate Gosselin, who seeks to extend his 15 minutes of fame in whatever way he can? In the documentary, Mr. Falk is seen staking out local news studios, where he stands behind the glass, jostling past young children to get his face on camera. He makes appearances on other television and radio programs, and stalks the WGN announcers who perform in the public studio in the Tribune Building. Is his self-display truly an altruistic act, designed to brighten the days of its beholders, or is it a means to an end for a man for whom fame has become another one of his obsessions?

I'm not sure that the filmmaker intended to portray Mr. Falk in anything but a positive light -- indeed, the tone of the film is generally celebratory. I suppose, however, that the mark of any good documentary is not merely to explore a subject, but to raise questions and propose new interpretive frameworks for understanding that subject. Much as I would have preferred to maintain my simplistic admiration of Mr. Falk, I now think of him in more complex, and thereby more human terms. If for no other reason than that, Vincent: A Life in Color should be counted as a success.

Hot Diggity Dog...

It occurs to me that somehow I have failed to mention that I have been on vacation for nearly two weeks. Or a staycation, rather. With my time at the museum drawing to a close in a couple months, I needed to make a serious dent in my remaining vacation time, but a tax withholding error left me too broke to actually travel anywhere in my time off. So I've been biding my time at home, conducting some spring cleaning, relaxing, and spending time with friends. Enjoyable as it has been, I still felt that I needed to go somewhere to give my time off some validation, so I turned to my special to-do list, and settled upon a pilgrimage to Hot Doug's.

As I have mentioned in the past, Hot Doug's is an epicenter of foodie culture in Chicago. It's been featured on Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations, and pretty much every food publication in the United States. It's kind of a big deal. To say that it's also hard to get to is putting it mildly. The distance and hassle associated with getting there has always been a dealbreaker in my ongoing curiosity regarding Hot Doug's, but one of the perks of spending the week doing household projects with my mom meant that I finally had somebody to go with me who has a car and doesn't mind driving in the city.

Today we made the drive up to the city's northwest side to visit Hot Doug's, so far into the neighborhoods that we actually found free street parking -- something I had long-believed to be an urban legend. Better yet, since it was a drizzly, moderately cold afternoon on a weekday, the line wasn't even out the door when we arrived! We squeezed just inside the door, but I'm still counting it as a victory.

The restaurant was so small I couldn't get far enough away from the wall-mounted menu to capture the entire thing, but here were some of the specials from our visit.

Once inside, the experience was a little daunting. There were so many things I wanted to try, but only so much stomach real estate available to hold it all. The specials list offered a cornucopia of temptations, as did the regular menu, and that didn't even include the game meat sausage of the week and a special "celebrity sausage" -- another special offering named after a famous personality. I was intimidated to be sure. I was also nervous about the actual ordering process.

Forever enshrined on the adjacent wall is this famous-in-foodie-circles quote, often cited by Anthony Bourdain.

From everything I'd read about proprietor Doug Sohn, who maintains idiosyncratic hours at his shop, and does everything on his own terms including serving illegal meat*, I was expecting a gruff, curmudgeonly man to greet us at the counter when we went to order. Mr. Sohn, however, was a complete pleasure. He was warm and patient with us when we still hadn't quite made up our minds about what to order, and were not versed in the proper way to order it. Whereas most Chicago hot dog establishments cater to a loyal clientel who know the ins and outs of their quirky ordering systems and do not take kindly to uninitiated newcomers, Hot Doug's proved to be a refreshing bastion of good service.

My elk sausage, left, and Mom's weisswurst, right. I didn't get a photo of her Chicago-style dog because she started eating it before I could get to it.

I ultimately decided to go with the weekly game sausage: elk with a topping of raclette cheese (a Swiss peasant cheese usually toasted over an open flame and served on bread) and bacon-garlic mayonnaise, and an order of cheese fries. Since it wasn't the weekend, Hot Doug's legendary duck fat fries weren't on the menu, but I'd heard enough good things about their regular fries that I wanted to try them anyway. Mom decided to go with a basic Chicago-style dog from their regular menu, and a weisswurst with mustard and horseradish cheddar cheese.

My elk sausage was meaty and gamey, with a nice snap to the casing, but not quite as flavorful as I would have liked. I also found the raclette to be a little overwhelming, even though it was relatively mild in flavor. There was simply too much of it there. Plus, the heat from the sausage alone wasn't enough to melt it, and raclette is almost exclusively served warm. I almost regret not going with one of the spicier options on the menu -- I suspect I might have found more aggressive flavors there. The fries, while good, weren't as crispy as I would have liked, which might have been attributable to the presence of the cheese sauce, which was rather tasty. Still, I wouldn't choose the cheese fries at Hot Doug's over my all-time favorites from Michael's in Highland Park. The tastiest item that I sampled from our order was Mom's weisswurst; the sausage itself tasted just like the ones I had in Bavaria, mild and herbal, with just the right amount of punch from the mustard and cheese, even if the non-sweet mustard wasn't authentic to the typical Bavarian presentation.

Overall, I was pleased with my experience at Hot Doug's, but I wasn't completely blown away. With all the hype the establishment recieves, and the years I have spent longing to check it out for myself, there was really no way it could live up to my expectations. It was good, to be sure, but not life-changingly good. I would certainly return to try other items on the menu, but I'll have no trouble waiting for the stars to align for someone to drive me there on a weekday so I don't have to endure the weekend line. Plus, for that matter, if I were to schlep up to that neighborhood again, I'd be more likely to first try Kuma's Corner, the legendary Chicago burger joint, which is just a couple blocks away from Hot Doug's. For now, however, that item on my to-do list is going to have to wait...

*When the Chicago City Council banned the sale of foie gras in the city in 2006 citing animal cruelty in its production, Doug Sohn introduced a foie gras-topped sausage that he refused to remove from the menu for the duration of the ban. He is often pointed to as one of the leading reasons that the ban was repealed in 2008.

The Luck of the Chi-rish...

It is said that every Chicagoan is Irish on St. Patrick's Day. Irish-Americans have held the reigns of city government in Chicago for almost a full century, and as a result, St. Patrick's Day is essentially a civic holiday here. Of course, we celebrate in all the requisite ways -- green beer, green bagels, corned beef and potatoes, raucous public drunkenness, and, up until this year, two separate parades -- but Chicago boasts one way of marking the holiday that is uniquely ours. You see, Chicagoans love to dump stuff in the Chicago River, and St. Patrick's Day is no exception. In fact, it is the perfect excuse to dye our river green.

Please note that I did absolutely no color enhancing of this photo. They get the river that green.

The greening of the river is a Chicago tradition that dates back to the age of that most legendary of Chicago politicians, Richard J. Daley. However, he bears little involvement in the story of its inception, as the dyeing of the river is actually a privately-sponsored event, devised and executed by a local plumbers' union. Legend has it that one day, back in 1961, a plumber was using a special dye to detect the source of waste water that was leaking into the Chicago River. When he discovered that the dye was reacting with the river water to turn it a vibrant shade of green, he went to his supervisor and the two of them hatched a plan to dye the entire river green for St. Patrick's Day. They conferred with the city, got its approval, and a tradition was born.

It was actually kind of a miserable, foggy day, but the lack of sunlight made the river appear even more phosphorescent.

Over the years, the plumbers' union has tinkered with the formulation. In the early days of the river dyeing, they would add so much dye that the river would be green for nearly an entire week. Over time, the amount has been reduced to keep the river green for just a day, and the dye itself has been changed to a more environmentally-friendly formulation. Interestingly, the dye itself is bright orange, and it only turns green when it mixes with the water. The dye is distributed by a crew on a loaned fire rescue boat, whose white coveralls are largely orange by the time the spectacle is completed. That crew is followed by two other volunteers in a motorboat, who run circles and zigzags through the water to churn it up and distribute the dye, turning the river into a vibrant carpet of green.

Lauren and I, with my festive novelty headband.

Shockingly, despite my 21 years of living in Chicago, I had never gone to watch the dyeing of the river before, so I met up with Lauren to take in the spectacle. Despite the horrendous weather, there was actually a rather sizable crowd accumulated along the banks of the river, many of whom were clad in elaborate green costumes, face paint, and wigs. Chicagoans are hardcore about their annual day of being honorary Irishmen! Lauren and I might have adopted a more low-key approach to the event, but we were nonetheless impressed by the river dyeing. It really turns a phenomenal shade of neon green, slightly unnerving though it may be. I might not want to think too hard about the ramifications of all that dye (I'll just take their word for it that it's environmentally sound), but it gives me no small amount of joy to have witnessed such a unique piece of Chicagocana this weekend...

Happy 173rd Birthday Chicago...

Perhaps one of the greatest, and most cherished perks in the world of office jobs is the food -- donuts at meetings, cake for birthdays and special celebrations, breakfasts for departing colleagues, you get the idea. However, ever since we entered another new era of cost-cutting at the museum, those perks (along with the size of the staff), have been dwindling. Nowadays, it seems like the only time we get any special treats is when yet another coworker is saying goodbye, or when I bring my leftover baked goods so that I don't end up eating them all myself. Times are lean around the office, in every sense of the word.

Today, however, presented one of the rare remaining opportunities to satiate our collective sweet tooths on the museum's dime: Chicago's birthday. Every year, the museum hosts a big celebration in honor of the anniversary of the city's founding, complete with singing children's choirs, appearances by local politicians, and, of course, birthday cake. Thankfully, the museum always orders too much cake, so the extras are distributed to the staff after the public gets the initial stab at it. This year's cake was provided by Bleeding Heart Bakery, and although I didn't see what it looked like before it was cut, I was pleased with the vanilla bean cake with vanilla buttercream filling. I usually don't care for bakery cakes, but this one was definitely a pleasant surprise.

So, in honor of the date of my beloved city's founding (and the excuse to eat cake that it provides), here are a few of my favorite quotes about Chicago:

I give you Chicago. It is not London and Harvard. It is not Paris and buttermilk. It is American in every chittling and sparerib. It is alive from snout to tail. - H.L. Mencken

Hog butcher for the world,
Tool maker, stacker of wheat,
Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of big shoulders.
- Carl Sandburg

It is hopeless for the occasional visitor to keep up with Chicago -- she outgrows his prophecies faster than he can make them. She is always a novelty; for she is never the Chicago you saw when you passed through the last time. - Mark Twain

Chicago is a city of contradictions, of private visions haphazardly overlaid and linked together. If the city was unhappy with itself yesterday -- and invariably it was -- it will reinvent itself today. - Pat Colander

New York is one of the capitals of the world and Los Angeles is a constellation of plastic, San Francisco is a lady, Boston has become urban renewal, Philadelphia and Baltimore and Washington wink like dull diamonds in the smog of Eastern Megalopolis, and New Orleans is unremarkable beyond the French Quarter. Detroit is a one-trade town, Pittsburgh has lost its golden triangle, St. Louis has become the golden arch of the corporation, and nights in Kansas City close early. The oil depletion allowance makes Houston and Dallas naught but checkerboards for this sort of game. But Chicago is a great American city. Perhaps it is the last of the great American cities. - Normal Mailer

Börk, Börk, Börk...

In a Stickies note in the corner of my desktop, I keep a very important to-do list. But, instead of appointments and deadlines, this list details a collection of experiences I would like to have in my beloved city. There are festivals, parades, public events, and even restaurants that I have yet to try, but feel like I should in order to be a better Chicagoan. This weekend, with the assistance of Lauren, I was able to scratch a new item off my list by having breakfast at Ann Sather, a Chicago dining institution.

Ann Sather is a 63 year-old Swedish restaurant on the city's North Side, owned and operated by a Chicago alderman, who purchased the location from Ann Sather herself, and successfully turned the popular breakfast spot into a local franchise. Its claim to fame is its cinnamon buns, which, despite 24 years of living in the city, and the fact that they are offered at Taste of Chicago, I had never sampled.

For me, cinnamon rolls are serious business. Cinnamon is my favorite spice, but more than that, cinnamon rolls are powerfully linked in my mind with my grandmother. Grandma Betsy, the family baker and role model for my own kitchen aspirations, has always had cinnamon rolls for breakfast when we go visit. She makes them up when nobody is around and she has ample time, then individually freezes them so they would ready if anybody wants one. Just pop one in the microwave, and there is sweet, oozy, yeasty, cinnamon-y goodness at the ready. She might never stick to the same recipe more than once, but 95% of the time, her creations are magical.

Since I'm not quite ready to take a stab at making them myself, I was more than willing to let Ann Sather do the work for me, and I was delighted to find that the restaurant's reputation for excellence was well-founded. Their rolls were pure perfection; I didn't even mind the deluge of icing, and that's saying a lot. Astonishingly, two cinnamon buns constitute one side dish -- a side dish which would constitute a meal unto itself for any normal mortal. Still, I couldn't resist the siren song of sampling traditional Swedish fare for the first time.

After all, how often does life present you with the opportunity to eat Swedish food, outside of Sweden? It is moments like this that make me appreciate all the unique opportunites afforded by living in a major metropolis...

Since my other plans for the day involved eating again in a few hours, Lauren and I decided to split a Swedish Breakfast sampler, which consisted of a Swedish meatball (naturally), a Swedish pancake served with the obligatory lingonberry jam, eggs, and a piece of potato sausage. Our fantastic waitress even went the extra mile by splitting our food onto two plates for us so we wouldn't have to fight over the more choice morsels. Surprisingly, given my profound love of what Anthony Bordain terms "meat in tube form," the potato sausage was not my favorite part of the entree. Although I love potatoes, and I love sausage, I think it is better that they never combine in a single, homogenously textured meat product. The Swedish meatball was much tastier, and it was certainly nothing like this:

I was definitely glad that I finally had the chance to check out Ann Sather, even if we had settled upon the ungodly hour of 9:30 on a weekend to do it. But, I must concede the wisdom of Lauren's plan: as we left at 10:30, a formidable line had formed. It seemed the entirity of it was populated by people reading to each other from Chicago travel guides, trying to convince their travel companions of the import of the Ann Sather experience when they could probably obtain food much more quickly elsewhere. I almost wanted to tell them that after waiting 24 years myself, Ann Sather would be well-worth the wait.

Santa Claus Is Coming To Town...

I have a longstanding love-hate relationship with the CTA, one that has most definitely been treading into hate territory the past week since I sprained my foot at the hands of an overly aggressive bus driver. However, in spite of all my present mass transit rage, there is still one aspect of the CTA that I'm willing to celebrate, one which remains untouched by the deprivations of the current economic crisis, and of which I can muster no criticisms: the Holiday Train. Today, I stood twenty minutes on the platform waiting, sprained foot and all, for the annual Holiday Train to make one of it's three scheduled appearances on the Red Line to catch a glimpse of Santa.

Every December, the CTA rolls out a festively decorated train, complete with a flatbed bearing Santa, his sleigh, and his reindeer. It travels each of the eight train lines on different days, and the CTA provides estimated times of arrival online so that you can coordinate your travel accordingly. I've never caught it when it was going in a direction I needed to travel, so I've never had the occasion to ride it, but I am sufficiently cheered by its mere presence that I don't feel any sense of loss over it.

I became aware of the Holiday Train during my first holiday season living in the city. I had been doing some Christmas shopping, and was waiting for a southbound train to head home. While I waited, a northbound train started pulling into the station, emanating Christmas music. I turned to find the source of the sound when I saw Santa speed by, surrounded by a blur of lights. It was there and gone so quickly, and I was so surprised, I almost wondered if I was hallucinating the entire thing. Of course, I didn't have the presence of mind to take a photo, so I had only my memories as a reminder of the event. I subsequently researched the phenomenon and discovered that I had inadvertently stumbled upon a Chicago tradition.

Last year I didn't manage to catch the train again, but this year I made a point of squeezing it into my December schedule. I felt a little ridiculous waiting for it, as I was clearly the only adult there not accompanied by children, but it was totally worth it. The train pulled into the station with its music blaring, and a very jolly Santa greeting all the passersby. CTA staff dressed as elves passed out candy and oversaw the passengers boarding the train so that the train would not leave anyone at the station. I was sufficiently cheered by its arrival, but the best reactions came from the unsuspecting commuters waiting on the platform to catch their usual ride home. They shrieked with joy, whipping out cell phone cameras and calling friends to tell them about their experience. It was pretty fantastic.

I was particularly pleased to see that the CTA staged the Holiday Train again this year, despite all the budget shortfalls. The Christmas tree in Daley Plaza might have been a complete disappointment, but the CTA (which fails at so many things in general) managed to bear the standard in defending our municipal holiday traditions. Goodness knows we could all use a little extra holiday cheer this year.

My Kind of Town...

After returning from Boston last week, I expressed my displeasure with the city on Facebook, prompting a response from an old college acquaintance who lives there now. We exchanged barbs about our respective cities of residence, and he challenged me to defend my assertion that Chicago is the greatest American city. Since I am quite passionate about my hometown, and work at an institution that advances knowledge of the city, I composed a rather lengthy essay on the perks of Chicago that effectively silenced his criticism. Since many of my readers here also live outside of the Chicagoland area, I thought I'd pass my thoughts along to all of you.

Chicago is great because of its...

Culture
Chicago is home to some of the greatest cultural institutions in the United States, and the world at large. The Art Institute has one of the foremost collections of Impressionist, Post-Impressionist, and American art in the world. With the recent opening of the Modern Wing, their Contemporary and Modern European collections have an incredible new showcase. Chicago is also home to numerous other world-class museums, including the Field Museum of Natural History, the Shedd Aquarium, and the Museum of Science and Industry, not to mention the dozens of smaller institutions like the Adler Planetarium, the Museum of Contemporary Art, the Chicago History Museum, the Dusable Museum of African American History, the National Museum of Mexican Art, and the Vietnam Veterans' Art Museum.

Chicago fosters a vibrant music, theater, and dance scene. Several recent productions, including Aida, and The Producers have chosen to premiere in Chicago before heading to Broadway. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra and the Lyric Opera are among the country's best in their respective fields. Chicago is also home to a number of music festivals during the summer, such as Pitchfork and Lollapalooza, and the ongoing free summer concert series held in Millennium Park.

Numerous films have been set in, or filmed in Chicago. To name a few: Ferris Bueller's Day Off, Risky Business, The Blues Brothers, Batman Begins, and The Dark Knight. And, I'm not really sure that it qualifies as culture, but Oprah lives and films here, and she's one of the most powerful women in America.

Food
We have deep dish pizza. End of story.

Seriously though, Chicago is often pointed to as the rising star of the American culinary scene. The city is home to Alinea, often cited as one of the best restaurants in the world, much less the United States, and the restaurants of other James Beard Award-winning chefs such as Laurent Gras (L20) and Paul Kahan (Blackbird, Avec, The Publican). Rick Bayless has all of his restaurants in Chicago. You can also find any ethnic food you might desire in one of Chicago's neighborhoods, such as Chinatown, Pilsen (Mexican), Humbolt Park (Puerto Rican), Devon Street (Indian), Greektown, Little Italy, and others.

We also have Chicago-style hot dogs.

Lake Michigan
Our lake is so big, you can't even see the other side of it. We might as well live on the ocean. We have beaches. But we also get the benefits of being in the middle of the country, like being a major transportation hub, and reasonable flight times to the edges of the country.

Architecture, and Public Art
Chicagoans invented the skyscraper. We have the tallest one in the country
(although we were dumb enough to let them rename it the Willis Tower), and some particularly fetching exemplar such as the Tribune Tower and the Carbide & Carbon Building. The city boasts two phenomenal ceilings designed by Tiffany: the glass dome of the Chicago Cultural Center, and the mosaic ceiling in the old Marshall Field flagship store (now a Macy's.) The city is also home to public art furnished by some of the greatest artists in the world. Daley Plaza contains the famous Picasso statue, nearby is a statue by Joan Miro, and Millennium Park features the popular Crown Fountain designed by Spanish artist Jaume Plenza, along with Cloud Gate, which has become a symbol of the city, not to mention the new band shell designed by Frank Gehry.

Sports
I'll be the first to admit, I could care less about this aspect of Chicago. Still, we have two baseball teams with fanatical followings, a football team with a historic stadium, an occasionally decent hockey team, and what was once a legendary basketball team. We had Michael Jordan back in the day.

City Planning
Because our city burned to the ground in 1871, we were able to start fresh with modern theories of city planning. The vast majority of our streets run north/south and east/west. You'd have to be an idiot to get lost here. Older cities (like Boston) have a more idiosyncratic layout that is somewhat European in its sensibility. City planning also gave us our large swath of lakefront parks, collectively referred to as the city's front lawn.

Politics
Say what you will about Chicago politics, but you can't deny that they keep things interesting. Richard M. Daley is a legend. He may wield near dictatorial power over the city, but he gets things done. Time proclaimed him the best mayor of any major US city in 2005. We're also the hometown of President Obama, the most powerful politician in the world.

Sure, Chicago has its flaws. Every city does. No place is perfect. But I happen to think Chicago comes pretty close, and despite all my travels, I can't think of another place I'd rather put down roots for any extended period of time.

Me And Da Mare...

This morning, ever with his eye on advancing my career, Dad dragged me to a fundraising breakfast for the Special Olympics, which was, coincidentally, hosted by one of the non-museum partners from my project at work. All of the political elites in state and city government were expected to attend, and many of them were there: Governor Pat Quinn, numerous Chicago Aldermen, including Ed Burke, Dean of the City Council, and Hizzoner, Mayor Richard M. Daley himself. I did some productive networking with several VIPs who we are seeking to interview for the project, but I think that Dad's principle reason for bringing me along was his single-minded determination to get a photo of me with the Mayor.

Of course, as perhaps the most inhibited person I know, I'd been looking forward to this breakfast with intense trepidation, from the fear of looking like a fawning groupie in front of the city's highest elected official, but Dad was undeterred. He marched me right up to the Mayor, prodded me to get aggressive about moving in for the photo, and snapped the picture. No flash, completely blurry, no good. By then, another person had moved in to get face time with the Mayor, but Dad sent me right back for a second picture. I might have been mortified, but Dad was shameless enough for the both of us, and he ultimately got the shot.

I finally found a photo op for my favorite new dress, even if you can't get the full effect here. I've been saving it for just this occasion, determined to make it my "meeting the Mayor" dress.

So, here I am with the Mayor. It never ceases to amaze me that he isn't very tall. As a politician with virtually unchecked power in his domain, Mayor Daley has always been built up to epic proportions in my mind. I've met him twice now (both Dad's doing), and both times I was shocked by his height. Granted, I had heels on in this photo, but not particularly high ones, and I am the same height as Hizzoner.

(Between you and me, it's pretty neat to have a picture of me with Mayor Daley. He's a Chicago legend. Occasionally, even if he forces me to get way outside of my comfort zone, Dad does have some good ideas. Just don't tell him I said that.)

A Serendipitous Sighting...

Tonight was a beautiful, temperate evening in the city of Chicago. Dad decided to seize the moment to meet his friend, Mr. Horan, for a drink after work at the Park Grill, and he invited me along to meet them for dinner. It was an average meal at our regular haunt, although we broke with tradition by taking a seat on the crowded outdoor patio to soak up one of the waning days of summer. We were engaged in a bit of inattentive people-watching, when a commotion caught the crowd's attention. I glanced over, and grabbed Dad's arm. "Look, that's him!"

Once again, I found myself in the presence of the famous Vincent Falk.

That morning, I had glanced at my camera as it sat on the desk, fresh from yesterday's upload of Macy's photos. "Meh, maybe I'll just leave it here today," I thought, "I'm not doing anything today, and I really ought to charge the battery." But I dutifully packed it anyway, thinking, "If I don't bring it, I'll regret it." I never expected to be right, but indeed I was. 

Mr. Falk came dancing and spinning down the walkway in front of the restaurant, sporting a powder blue suit, hot pink shirt and matching pocket square. I fumbled for my camera, and Dad, ever the risk-taker, asked Mr. Falk if I could take a picture before he danced away. I was half-mortified, and forgot to turn on the flash, resulting in a grainy photo, but I got my proof that I had seen him with my own eyes. I can't believe my good fortune:  I've spotted him twice in one month, after going years without seeing him at all! 

It must have been fate. I very nearly missed Dad's call with the invitation to come out; I could have decided to stay home and eat chicken salad, as planned; we could have sat inside, as we almost always do. A thousand things could have transpired to cause me to miss seeing Mr. Falk again. You never know what life has in store for you. In the immortal words of one of my favorite movies, Risky Business, "Sometimes, you gotta say, 'What the fuck?'" If you are open to the opportunities life presents, occasionally, the rewards can be truly surprising.

Fields Forever...

The Beatles may have written about "Strawberry Fields," but I speak of the eternal greatest of a Fields of a different origin: Marshall Field's. The local retail giant may have gone defunct in 2005, after selling out to Macy's, but true Chicagoans will always hold Marshall Field's close to their hearts. The former flagship location on State Street is a poignant reminder of the glory days of the past, when Frango Mints were a Chicago-only treat that made a great gift for out-of-town friends and relatives, an afternoon luncheon at the Walnut Room was the height of sophistication, and the customer was always right. Now, particularly in this economic slump, one can scarcely find a salesperson on duty at Macy's, and they are chronically short on shopping bags at the State Street store. Nevertheless, Mom and I made a bargain-hunting pilgrimage this afternoon.

I do feel some slight pangs of guilt at patronizing the corporation that killed the illustrious Marshall Field's, but there is one thing in particular that keeps drawing me to the State Street store, besides the constant onslaught of coupons Macy's sends to my apartment: the building itself. Opened in 1907, the second incarnation of Field's (the first was destroyed in the Chicago Fire) featured a glorious mosaic ceiling designed by none other than Louis Comfort Tiffany himself. There are no architectural features that I love more than mosaics and stained-glass windows, so what could possibly be better than a mosaic ceiling designed by the 20th century's foremost artisan of glass? Nothing.

This ceiling covered the central atrium of the original department store, and was Tiffany's first, and largest ceiling project utilizing the irridescent favrile glass for which he would later become famous. The ceiling was relegated to a corner of the store when the building was expanded to the size of a full city block in 1914, but I tend to think that the move increases its magical qualities. The store is intentionally difficult to navigate -- in your effort to find what you are looking for, you will pass the maximum amount of other merchandise. Therefore, I often come upon the Tiffany atrium on accident, continuously being reminded of its presence. It always takes my breath away.

It is, without a doubt, one of my favorite places in the city. If I weren't so terrified of standing next to the railings in large atria (seriously, the scene where Tai gets dangled over the ledge at the mall in Clueless scarred me for life), I could spend hours looking at it.

While we were at Macy's, we also hunted down an exhibit of costumes worn by Miss Piggy. Mom, as many of you are aware, is a bit of a Muppet aficionado, so the installation was a bit of a must-see, since we were at the store anyhow. It turned out to be smaller than we had expected, consisting of only five costumes, but the workmanship was impressive for such tiny garments.


Each outfit was created by such real-life designers as Jason Wu and Burberry. My favorite ensemble was the Sex and the City-inspired look with the printed trench coat (center, in the above photo), while Mom preferred the sequined gown paired with the hot-pink feather boa. I will say, there was a certain je ne sais quois about that ensemble which really captured the essence of Miss Piggy. I will also say that the pig really knows her jewelry! She had some very enviable baubles to complement her porcine couture.

Even if the Macy's experience lacks some of the polish and the panache of the Marshall Field era, the State Street store does offer up a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. It may be a little bittersweet to be reminded of what the city has lost in the absence of Marshall Field's, but life must go on. If it can go on in the very cute art nouveau-inspired dress that I picked up today, all the better.

Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life...

Life, it would seem, is an endless cycle of routines. I get up every day at the same time, leave for work at the same time, engage in a similar set of work-related tasks for eight hours, and then, on the majority of days, I return home to a solitary evening of television and surfing the web. I have been keeping myself a bit busier of late; as it turns out, starting this blog has been a tremendous source of motivation to get out and do interesting things, so that I'll have something to write about. Generally speaking, however, my life is subject to the normal ebb and flow of daily life, and it is comfortable, if somewhat tedious.

That is why it is so important to look for joy in the small things, the innocuous events that provide a little relief from the typical routine. Last week, for instance, I was sitting on the bus, vacantly staring out the window, when a commotion caught my eye. A man was standing in the middle of the State Street Bridge in a bright yellow suit and turquoise shirt, waving his jacket in the air and twirling around. At first, I was dismissive. I thought, "Meh, just another crazy," but then, like a flash, I realized that I was in the presence of Suit Man, aka Riverace, aka Vincent Falk. If I had been wearing more comfortable shoes, I would have jumped off the bus at that very stop, backtracked, and taken a picture. I'm still kicking myself that I didn't do it anyway.

You see, Mr. Falk is a Chicago legend. There is even a documentary about him.

Okay, so I stole this one from Flickr. He's at least wearing the same outfit.

Blind from birth in one eye, and legally blind in the other, Mr. Falk has had a hard life. He was abandoned by his mother, raised in orphanages and foster homes, until he finally found a good foster family who adopted him. He was often picked on as a child for his disability, and pursued a line of work where he could spend a great deal of time alone: computer sciences. Despite his tragic origins, he chooses to spread joy to others. He has adopted a technicolor wardrobe of ostentatious suits, selected because the bright colors are easiest for him to see. He spends his free time, in the warmer months, as a one-man welcome wagon for the city of Chicago. Mr. Falk stands on the State Street and Michigan Avenue bridges in his flamboyant ensembles, using a monocle to scout out approaching cruise ships. As they near, Mr. Falk performs a whirling dance routine for the tourists.

Some speculate that he does his little dance to break down barriers. I like to think that he is claiming ownership of people's stares. If people are going to gawk at him, at least it's because he is performing for them, not because they are poking fun at his disability. It's on his own terms. Mr. Falk, however, claims that he just likes to cheer people up, and that he certainly does.

In all my years of life in the city, I had never seen him before. Ever since I first read about him in the Chicago Tribune a couple years ago, I had been on the lookout. I was starting to wonder if he was real, or just another urban legend. Now I have seen him with my own eyes, albeit just a glimpse, but the experience made my entire day. His wacky ebullience is infectious. Not only is he a one man attraction for tourists, he also provides a moment of escape for the jaded locals who go about their days on autopilot, screening out the life of the city all around them. Seeing him, in his kaleidoscopic swirl, I was jarred into paying attention to my surroundings. For an instant, I was living in the moment, and outside of my routine. I think that would brighten anyone's day.