Chi-Town, baby (a follow-up)
Overall, the trip to Chicago was fantastic. The truth, though, all lies in the details, which are delved into below.
The flight towards Chicago went fine. We flew out of Dulles airport, about ten minutes away from Brynn's place (we took a cab), and spent the time waiting for boarding watching "Lost" on my laptop, a headphone earbud for each of us. The flight was fine until around landing. Looking out the window roughly three seconds before touchdown, I noticed how close we seemed to be to the houses next to the airport. As if to respond to this, the intercom sounded, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, we...uh..." then was cut off. A sense of slight confusion swept over the cabin, until about three seconds later where the flight attendant screeched from about four rows back from us, "PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR ANKLES AND DUCK YOUR HEADS!". This was greeted with mostly more confusion, until the flight attendant repeated the command, this time with even more sheer panic in her voice. Wordlessly, everyone did just that--ducked their head and put their hands on their ankles--all the while the flight attendant repeating her command with more and more violent panic. The girl in front and across from us starting bawling. The baby in the seat behind us slept on. I gripped Brynn's hand in the most unintimate handlock I've ever shared with a girl. It was ridiculous. The truth was, I wasn't thinking "Oh my god, I'm going to die", but rather, "What the hell is going to happen to us? Are we going to skid across the runway because our landing gear didn't deploy? Are our engines shot and we're going to careen past the runway and onto the nearby highway, killing everyone in the process? Is the pilot drunk?"
This all occured--from the first flight attendant shout to the airplane stopping--in about ten seconds. We were fine.
Afterwards the entire cabin exchanged nervous laughter, as if trying to shake off the fact that everyone had a little turtle head poking out at that point. Said girl in front and across from us turned to her friend and loudly declared to her friend in tears, "I didn't even get to say I loved you!" Brynn and I hugged. The baby slept on. It was profoundly anti-climactic, even moreso when the captain got on the intercom again--"This is your captain speaking, uh...sorry about that, folks," apologizing with the same tone you'd use after you've stepped on someone's heel. He said something about a flap not coming out or something--I wasn't really listening--but I highly doubt anyone was eager to stay on that airplane for longer than we had to. All in all, the climax of the trip had occured even before the trip actually started.
Mom picked us up and drove us around Chicago, showing us the more tourist-ey sites so that we wouldn't have to walk by them later. The airport and streets were packed due to the World Series being in town that weekend (I had embarrasedly not known about this, further reiterating the fact that I am a loser), and it was really nice just arriving at the new apartment and being able to lay low for a while.
The new apartment is fantastic. I meant to take pictures of the interior and exterior, but completely forgot to do so. Our balcony overlooks a beach on the lakefront of Lake Michigan, and the apartment is large enough that it doesn't really feel like an apartment. We have a TiVO now, which I decided about five minutes after using it that I was completely in love with. TiVO rocks my face off. The apartment's located in Evanston, a small community where franchises aren't allowed, so a Wal-Mart is nowhere to be found. The new apartment is fantastic.
Saturday was mostly spent cavorting around town, first in Millenial Park (a brand-new park with sculptures and fountains that seem both modern and archaic at the same time) and then further downtown. There are pictures of all this in my webshots. The lions outside the art museum wore White Sox helmets, while the horses watching over a notable four-way intersection had comical white socks velcroed around their ankles. Every other store had a banner on its bulding wishing Chicago's baseball team the best of luck, and I was further mystified by why people enjoy watching overpayed, steroid-munching douchebags throw a white ball around. Maybe it's a reflection of the American dream and how disillusioned and devalued it is these days. Maybe I'm just a cynical weirdo who can't appreciate sports for what they are.
At one point Brynn and I stopped in the American Girl store, which my mom insisted we visit. It's a two-story, legitimately creepy store where doll upon doll stares with unblinking eyes at customers. Real-life girls were packed into the store (it seemed to me like they needed some sort of fire hazard regulation--walking was difficult at most times) and upon entering, I immediately wanted to leave. Still, I did take an amusing picture of a small army of 20 American Girl dolls standing side-by-side in a glass case. Apparently you can have a doll created your likeness, even to the point where they can wear the same outfit as you. Why you would buy a doll who looks just like you is an idea that chills me to the bone (if I were a small child I'd have some unfound fear of this doll killing me and taking over my life, but I was never really a normal kid anyway), but apparently these dolls were best-sellers.
We also stopped in H&M, a clothing store that's sort of like a cross between Urban Outfitters and Ralph Lauren. The store was packed, probably due to the fact that there was some sale or another going on, and it seemed to me that at least half the guys shopping around in the men's section were gay. One guy, I noticed, spent the entire half hour I was in there observing how a charcoal trenchcoat fit him in a full-length mirror in the center of the store. I liked their clothing but bought nothing, finally conceding that Chicago, like New York, is filled with a lot of generically attractive people who dress better than you, look better than you, and know more than you. Residents of Chicago are, however, slightly friendlier than New Yorkers, and most definitely bathe more regularly than dwellers of Manhattan. I would choose Chicago over New York City any day of the week.
Dinner was eaten at a spectacular restaraunt whose name I've forgotten. We ate with the Runyons, who were visiting Mary at Columbia for parent's weekend, and the whole ordeal was a pleasant surprise times ten. As usual, Maier spent most of the time talking, although in between monologues Mary and I caught up a bit on what everyone back home's been up to (turns out both of us are pretty much in the dark on what's going with half of our friends). Mary talked about how Columbia's a great fit, Robyn's an excellent roommate, and college so far is great. I talked about Brighton Beach, how sophomore year is exponentially better than freshman year, and also filled everyone in on Seth. Maier loudly whispered to me "Is he gay?" to which I laughed violently. I love the Runyons.
Sunday morning we ate breakfast at Barnum & Bagel, a Jewish diner with (I kid you not) a circus theme. Clown heads decorated the trim around the ceiling, and the menus were accented with dancing monkeys and giraffes chowing down on potato pancakes and french toast. Most of the customers appeared to roughly three centuries old, and the entire dining experience was vaugely creepy. The food was good, though, and the service was charmingly unfriendly. Apparently my dad had called earlier that morning and asked if the restaraunt was open for breakfast that day, to which the surly Jewish woman on the other end responded, "Why wouldn't we be?!?" My dad blinked, timidly asked, "Do I have to answer that question?", and was promptly hung up on. My parents know all the best dining locales in only two months of Illinois residency, it would seem.
The flight home was tame, as was the two-hour drive back to Harrisonburg (which afforded a spectacular view of the sunset for half the drive). I fell asleep to Rufus Wainwright sixty miles outside the city limits and Brynn rousted me awake outside my dorm, where I am now typing this and wishing I was back in Chicago, curled up on the couch with Brynn and Roy, watching MXC on TiVO. Then again, I suppose if I was allowed to do that constantly, I wouldn't be allowed to call it 'fall break'.
The flight towards Chicago went fine. We flew out of Dulles airport, about ten minutes away from Brynn's place (we took a cab), and spent the time waiting for boarding watching "Lost" on my laptop, a headphone earbud for each of us. The flight was fine until around landing. Looking out the window roughly three seconds before touchdown, I noticed how close we seemed to be to the houses next to the airport. As if to respond to this, the intercom sounded, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, we...uh..." then was cut off. A sense of slight confusion swept over the cabin, until about three seconds later where the flight attendant screeched from about four rows back from us, "PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR ANKLES AND DUCK YOUR HEADS!". This was greeted with mostly more confusion, until the flight attendant repeated the command, this time with even more sheer panic in her voice. Wordlessly, everyone did just that--ducked their head and put their hands on their ankles--all the while the flight attendant repeating her command with more and more violent panic. The girl in front and across from us starting bawling. The baby in the seat behind us slept on. I gripped Brynn's hand in the most unintimate handlock I've ever shared with a girl. It was ridiculous. The truth was, I wasn't thinking "Oh my god, I'm going to die", but rather, "What the hell is going to happen to us? Are we going to skid across the runway because our landing gear didn't deploy? Are our engines shot and we're going to careen past the runway and onto the nearby highway, killing everyone in the process? Is the pilot drunk?"
This all occured--from the first flight attendant shout to the airplane stopping--in about ten seconds. We were fine.
Afterwards the entire cabin exchanged nervous laughter, as if trying to shake off the fact that everyone had a little turtle head poking out at that point. Said girl in front and across from us turned to her friend and loudly declared to her friend in tears, "I didn't even get to say I loved you!" Brynn and I hugged. The baby slept on. It was profoundly anti-climactic, even moreso when the captain got on the intercom again--"This is your captain speaking, uh...sorry about that, folks," apologizing with the same tone you'd use after you've stepped on someone's heel. He said something about a flap not coming out or something--I wasn't really listening--but I highly doubt anyone was eager to stay on that airplane for longer than we had to. All in all, the climax of the trip had occured even before the trip actually started.
Mom picked us up and drove us around Chicago, showing us the more tourist-ey sites so that we wouldn't have to walk by them later. The airport and streets were packed due to the World Series being in town that weekend (I had embarrasedly not known about this, further reiterating the fact that I am a loser), and it was really nice just arriving at the new apartment and being able to lay low for a while.
The new apartment is fantastic. I meant to take pictures of the interior and exterior, but completely forgot to do so. Our balcony overlooks a beach on the lakefront of Lake Michigan, and the apartment is large enough that it doesn't really feel like an apartment. We have a TiVO now, which I decided about five minutes after using it that I was completely in love with. TiVO rocks my face off. The apartment's located in Evanston, a small community where franchises aren't allowed, so a Wal-Mart is nowhere to be found. The new apartment is fantastic.
Saturday was mostly spent cavorting around town, first in Millenial Park (a brand-new park with sculptures and fountains that seem both modern and archaic at the same time) and then further downtown. There are pictures of all this in my webshots. The lions outside the art museum wore White Sox helmets, while the horses watching over a notable four-way intersection had comical white socks velcroed around their ankles. Every other store had a banner on its bulding wishing Chicago's baseball team the best of luck, and I was further mystified by why people enjoy watching overpayed, steroid-munching douchebags throw a white ball around. Maybe it's a reflection of the American dream and how disillusioned and devalued it is these days. Maybe I'm just a cynical weirdo who can't appreciate sports for what they are.
At one point Brynn and I stopped in the American Girl store, which my mom insisted we visit. It's a two-story, legitimately creepy store where doll upon doll stares with unblinking eyes at customers. Real-life girls were packed into the store (it seemed to me like they needed some sort of fire hazard regulation--walking was difficult at most times) and upon entering, I immediately wanted to leave. Still, I did take an amusing picture of a small army of 20 American Girl dolls standing side-by-side in a glass case. Apparently you can have a doll created your likeness, even to the point where they can wear the same outfit as you. Why you would buy a doll who looks just like you is an idea that chills me to the bone (if I were a small child I'd have some unfound fear of this doll killing me and taking over my life, but I was never really a normal kid anyway), but apparently these dolls were best-sellers.
We also stopped in H&M, a clothing store that's sort of like a cross between Urban Outfitters and Ralph Lauren. The store was packed, probably due to the fact that there was some sale or another going on, and it seemed to me that at least half the guys shopping around in the men's section were gay. One guy, I noticed, spent the entire half hour I was in there observing how a charcoal trenchcoat fit him in a full-length mirror in the center of the store. I liked their clothing but bought nothing, finally conceding that Chicago, like New York, is filled with a lot of generically attractive people who dress better than you, look better than you, and know more than you. Residents of Chicago are, however, slightly friendlier than New Yorkers, and most definitely bathe more regularly than dwellers of Manhattan. I would choose Chicago over New York City any day of the week.
Dinner was eaten at a spectacular restaraunt whose name I've forgotten. We ate with the Runyons, who were visiting Mary at Columbia for parent's weekend, and the whole ordeal was a pleasant surprise times ten. As usual, Maier spent most of the time talking, although in between monologues Mary and I caught up a bit on what everyone back home's been up to (turns out both of us are pretty much in the dark on what's going with half of our friends). Mary talked about how Columbia's a great fit, Robyn's an excellent roommate, and college so far is great. I talked about Brighton Beach, how sophomore year is exponentially better than freshman year, and also filled everyone in on Seth. Maier loudly whispered to me "Is he gay?" to which I laughed violently. I love the Runyons.
Sunday morning we ate breakfast at Barnum & Bagel, a Jewish diner with (I kid you not) a circus theme. Clown heads decorated the trim around the ceiling, and the menus were accented with dancing monkeys and giraffes chowing down on potato pancakes and french toast. Most of the customers appeared to roughly three centuries old, and the entire dining experience was vaugely creepy. The food was good, though, and the service was charmingly unfriendly. Apparently my dad had called earlier that morning and asked if the restaraunt was open for breakfast that day, to which the surly Jewish woman on the other end responded, "Why wouldn't we be?!?" My dad blinked, timidly asked, "Do I have to answer that question?", and was promptly hung up on. My parents know all the best dining locales in only two months of Illinois residency, it would seem.
The flight home was tame, as was the two-hour drive back to Harrisonburg (which afforded a spectacular view of the sunset for half the drive). I fell asleep to Rufus Wainwright sixty miles outside the city limits and Brynn rousted me awake outside my dorm, where I am now typing this and wishing I was back in Chicago, curled up on the couch with Brynn and Roy, watching MXC on TiVO. Then again, I suppose if I was allowed to do that constantly, I wouldn't be allowed to call it 'fall break'.