After a several-hour delay in San Francisco (which is still practically EARLY by SFO standards) and a rather exciting descent through storm clouds into the Medord airport, I finally made it home from Chicago Saturday night. Although it’s nice to come home to fresh air and open roads, I do really love the energy, architecture, and food in large cities. I was explaining this to the gentleman next to me on the flight home, and he suggested that I keep an apartment in the city as well as a house in the country.
Thanks, sir. I’ll have the butler phone my architect as soon as he’s finished fetching my crown from the vault.
We had a free morning the day after we arrived and the weather was beautiful, so my coworkers and I went into full tourist-mode. We took a tour of the Willis (formerly Sears) Tower and then walked around taking photos.
Then we hurried back to the hotel, put on our nice clothes, and got to work. Which is pretty much what we did for the remainder of the trip, with the exception of some late-night drinks. And a random excursion to the bowling alley next to the hotel so I could get a pint of 312, one of my favorite Chicago-area beers that I can never find on the west coast.
I tried to go to bed at a reasonable hour on my last night, since I had to be up early for my flight home. I settled into bed to watch some TV around 9:30 p.m., which is when my neighbors decided to throw a party in their room. My first reaction was to call the front desk and be like MY ROOM SMELLS LIKE POT AND I CAN’T HEAR MY STORIES, but I was kind of embarrassed since it wasn’t even 10 p.m. on a Friday. Oh and I’m 28, not 90.
Around 10 p.m. I started to get passive aggressive. I turned the volume up on Dateline so loud I’m sure the entire Chicagoland area could have heard the riveting story of two families torn apart by a torrid affair, if it weren’t for the aristocrats in the room next door calling each other whores and blasting classics such as Lil Wayne’s “Shit Stains.” Still, I hesitated to call the front desk because of the fairly early hour. I was also afraid that since drugs were clearly involved security would need to talk to me for some reason, and I was wearing pajama pants and a T-shirt featuring anthropomorphized junk food:
I finally caved and called the front desk when I heard a woman yell, “I’ll kill you, bitch!” followed by a loud thump. Security arrived shortly thereafter, and I tiptoed over to listen to their conversation through my door:
“Security, open up!”
“We were just sleeping, sir.”
“I know you’re not sleeping because I just heard you shout that you were going to kill somebody.”
“She said she was going to throw my weed out the window!”
And as I sat there listening to the cops break up a domestic dispute in my hot dog shirt, I felt like I was already back at home.