Day One in Chicago

February is the month of love. You either hate it or love it. Christmas decorations fade from storefront windows and doors, though some of my neighbors have yet to realize Christmas was over two months ago, and Valentine hearts go up in their places, along with chocolates and cupids, teddies, and anything else bleeding romance.

When I was younger, Valentine's Day was just another reason to envy the people in love and relationships. Sure, I had a date here and there, but it was never anything to call Mom about. I didn't actively participate in Valentine's Day until I started dating Swimster; unless you count exchanging some scribble on a pink piece of paper for a handmade sparkling broach from J.P. in Los Altos, California when I was four. My mom and I still believe J.P. stole the broach from his mother. I think it's sitting in a dusty shoebox, amid old clothes and rocking horses, in my attic in Connecticut, though the memory of the moment is not dusty.

Twenty-three years later, I am in a relationship with a grown man, but I think he would still give me his mother's broach as a sign of his affection. Hawkeye was the first one to suggest getting together for Valentine's Day. I was shocked. Since when does the guy beat me to the romantic punch? It's a nice change for me - not having to suggest every plan - and it's one of the reasons Hawkeye and I get on so well.

I could have headed to Seattle, but we felt it would be easier to meet ''halfway.'' This year's Valentine's destination was Chicago. Valentine's Day fell in the middle of the week so we opted to celebrate the weekend prior.

My dad couldn't believe we planned a trip to Chicago in February.

"Are you crazy?" he yelped.



I had to remind him that I am impervious to cold weather. It doesn't and never will bother me. I don't know how I inherited this characteristic. Both my parents are chemically dependent on sunshine. Just moments ago I spoke to my mom and she was baking outside in Carmel like a "raisin," according to my dad.

Hawkeye made reservations for us to stay at the Ambassador East Hotel. I highly recommend it. On more than one occasion, Hawkeye stopped to tell members of the staff how polite, amicable and helpful they were. He travels all over the world for his job, and sees all kind of awful service. We felt like we were royalty in this hotel. It slightly reminded me of the old Plaza that I miss so much. Ambassador East is a fraction of the size of Manhattan's favorite former landmark, but it has the same classic luxurious feel.

After we dumped our bags in our room, Hawkeye and I decided to go fill our bellies. We were flying all morning, avoiding airport and airplane food, and we were starving. The initial plan was to meet up with Hawkeye's friend from college CB. After some suggestive coaxing, CB was going to drive us around the city for a quick tour, since it was my maiden voyage to the Windy City.

Pump Room, 1301 N. State Street, 312-266-0360, Ambassador East Hotel,

Instead of venturing out in the cold, Hawkeye and I headed downstairs to our hotel's historic Pump Room. We ordered a couple beverages - me and my welcome martini and Hawkeye and his beer.

I complimented the bartender on my perfectly dirty martini, while Hawkeye enjoyed his local ale. Shortly after we ordered our first cocktail, CB showed up. Once Hawkeye asked him if he wanted a beer, I knew we were history. CB and Hawkeye hadn't seen each other in a long time and I knew there were many beers to be had and stories to be told.

"Have you seen ...?"

"God, that trip when you..."

They kept the conversation rated G at first, but I knew after an evening of vacation drinks, I would acquire some very valuable information.

As they gabbed I went ahead and ordered. I wanted something small but substantial so we would still have the room to eat dinner at a decent hour. I went for the pizza. It was a good choice, and I enjoyed my decision for the remainder of the trip. The leftovers sat in our mini bar and served as the perfect snack to my late night and early morning cravings. It was covered in onions, mushrooms, peppers and shredded pork. CB suggested there was a taste of truffle oil. The pizza was delicious, if you're a fan of cold pizza, which I am in the mornings, but I would have preferred to have at least a couple bites of blazing hot pizza. It must have been sitting in the window for a while.


John Hancock Center, 875 N. Michigan Avenue

After the Pump Room, we headed out on our next mission. CB wanted to take us to the John Hancock Center. I was thrilled because that was one of the places BigBlueBabe told me I had to go to. It's like New York's Rockefeller Center, as far as the view is concerned, and like the Rainbow Room, as far as food and drink are concerned, only you're about 30 stories higher in the Hancock's Signature Room.

If there's a long line to get up to the Signature Room when you visit, don't be discouraged. The line moves quickly, which is probably a result of the expensive drinks up top. People tend to shuffle in and out when they find they're paying more on a round of drinks than they are on a night's stay in one of the city's hotels. Expensive drinks aside, the view is definitely worth a stop. We were sitting in the infield at first, away from the windows, until CB spotted a group getting up from their window seat. He hopped up before I even knew he left and snagged the seat. I think I was talking to myself for a few minutes before I realized he'd gone.

Nice work, CB!

I'd never seen anything like it. The John Hancock Center dwarfs all other buildings in its vicinity. I felt like I was in a helicopter. I was barely paying attention to the conversation at the table the whole time because all I could do was stare out the window in awe at the frosted city below us.

After a couple drinks, we started chuckling at a curious phenomenon that kept occurring at our table. My back was to a wall and apparently there was a large mirror behind me. CB observed that people repeatedly came up to our table, expecting to find another annex of the restaurant, before they realized they were indeed looking at themselves in a mirror. The person would then try to play off his or her mistake, adjust a hair, a wrinkle or a piece of clothing, then be on their way. We started keeping tabs. I think we were at eight before we realized it was time for us to go. We took a few pictures of the view and chowed on some tender beef skewers before we said goodbye to the city from above.

Frontera Grill, 445 N. Clark Street, 312-661-1434


Our second to final stop of the evening was a chic Mexican restaurant called Frontera. On account of the noise in the restaurant and the several cocktails I'd consumed up to this point, I couldn't tell you what I ordered. But I do know we sat at the bar with a sassy but charismatic old bartender who barked at me like a German shepherd when I tried ordering tacos. He preached that I could get tacos at any dumpy Mexican place, why would I want to get them in Rick Bayless' place, when there were so many more exciting options?

"Fine!" I replied, "You pick then, Senor Maestro!"

And this was his choice for me. It was a plate of fresh fish, though I have to say it wasn't nearly as good as the cocktails they served. We each ordered fancy pink margaritas up and they upstaged everything else.

Here was Hawkeye's dinner. When in doubt, he orders chicken. Though, no fair, when he ordered, the waiter accepted his choice.

"And the lights...go off...in the city!"

And for me, they went off, anyway. Our last and final stop of the evening was a bar and forgive me, I suffer from drunk-nesia and cannot remember its name.

Where is CB when I need him?

To be continued...and hopefully before any more cocktails and before our second trip to Chicago in April.