A Saturday in Chicago

Ninety five stories above the streets of Chicago, I and eleven other Instagrammers sat around a large, round table. Scattered atop the table were drinking glasses and finished plates, iPhones and cameras. Remnants, really, of both our Instameet and our meal.

We’d spent the last couple of hours wandering around downtown, from Connors Park to the historic Water Tower, to Chicago Avenue and Fairbanks. We’d stopped at a coffee shop whose name now escapes me, but where I had, for once, purchased a hot beverage. I stationed myself in a corner armchair, my toes numb, cheeks rosy, and eyes open. I drank in my surroundings, sipped my cocoa.

The coffee shop had tall windows and was a clean-looking sort of place. It was white, too—but not the sterile white of hospital sheets. No, it was the fresh white of an art gallery. It was purer. Industrial. Shiny.

To my right stood several Chicago Instagrammers, individuals I had met earlier that morning. They chatted about design work, photography, weekend plans and movies, their hands curled around coffees and cappuccinos. Steam unfurled from the cups and curled upward, where it swirled with soft voices, quiet hustle, and teaspoons against china. I felt encompassed by these sounds, ones familiar to downtown coffee shops. You know, the ones in which the young arhythmically type on their laptops and glance out the window, where they watch the breath of a hat-clad pedestrian rise in a petite frozen cloud.



True enough, it was unnaturally cold for November. In the days leading up to our Chicago visit, we’d heard the words “polar vortex” used more than once. In preparation for a day in the Windy City, I’d layered jeans over leggings, my wool coat over a sweatshirt. And though I hadn’t necessarily been freezing, a cup of hot cocoa was quite welcoming. Its warmth was as smooth as the silky, peppermint-scented water with which you draw a bath.

I took a sip and leaned forward, for I was sharing my chair with Steven, one of the three Indianapolis Instagrammers with whom I had traveled. We had caught the 6:00 a.m. train to Chicago, and had dashed through the chilly darkness to the station downtown. Steven and I had sped across the sidewalk, with poor Lizzy practically sprinting to keep up with our long legs and fast strides. We had made it, though. With cold fingers and shortness of breath, we had made it to the station, where Raina had been waiting. United, the four of us began to document our adventure with selfies, both serious and awkward. In the early-morning darkness, we had red eyes and blurry faces, sure, but we had eager hearts, too.





I found my first train ride to be incredibly relaxing; Raina and I sat together, talking of historic buildings and of Instagram and of our respective work places. Steven had fallen asleep across the aisle from us, his lanky form curled against the window. Lizzy, meanwhile, had nested under her coat on the seats in front of us, deeply asleep. As the hours passed, and as the sun rose and the fields of Indiana turned gray and blue and purple and pink and, finally, a radiant gold, the four us found ourselves joking, talking, and asking questions. Lizzy spoke of her siblings. Raina talked about her last trip to Chicago. Steven asked me about my former relationship, about my engagement, and about the wedding that had never happened.

“You know what? No. I’m sorry I asked. Never mind.” He shook his hand in my direction.

“No, no, no! It’s okay!” I exclaimed, looking up from my cross-stitch project. “Really. I don’t mind. I’m okay now.”

I took a breath and divulged. “Canceling our wedding was the single-most heartbreaking and embarrassing decision I have ever had to make,” I said, completing a stitch, “but it was the best decision for us. I didn’t want either one of us to foster resent.”

We talked.

I stitched.

The train snaked north.

And I realized that these three souls, who had grown up in different states, and with different backgrounds, were more than “Instagram friends.” They had transcended beyond my phone and into my life, shaking me and filling my days with cat photos, euphemisms, and bubbly, infectious laughter. We were all still learning about each other, sure, but I realized that they knew more about me than I had previously credited them. They knew what would make me laugh. And they had checked on me during my darker days, when I was tearful and lonely. No, they weren’t “Instagram friends” anymore. They were real people with whom I had built true friendships.













Back in the Signature Room, I stood at a window, numb to the sounds and chatter of nearby tables. One thousand feet below me were the people of the city. I watched them—the locals, the tourists, the transplants—and theorized that there were millions of tiny alternate universes. Most of them were small, I assumed, but could overlap.

As I watched the cars below me, I thought about the people in them—some were smoking, I was sure, and others, I imagined, were singing to the radio as they inched up Michigan. I watched the cars stop and go, stop and go, change lanes, and turn west. There were people racing to mid-afternoon meet-ups, and people shuffling shopping bags and packages, and people flagging down taxis which other people were driving, day in and day out, and there were people with headphones and iPhones and hats and scarves and gloves and there was me, forehead pressed against the glass, living my own universe ninety five stories above them.





I turned from the window and returned to the table where Raina, Steven, and nine Chicago Instagrammers were seated. (Lizzy and her sister had opted for pizza.) I sat down and looked, in turn, at everyone. We were of different backgrounds, and of different ethnicities, and of different upbringings. We had different stories, and different music preferences, and different favorite foods and we each had our own reason to be in Chicago that day, that year, that lifetime. Around that table, our worlds kaleidoscoped into the most colorful of Venn Diagrams.

Maybe, to an outsider, we didn’t have much in common. But at that moment, we had the Signature Room. And we had Chicago.

Third Annual Ornament Swap

It’s time for the third-annual ornament swap!

The swap is an international event in which two individuals trade holiday ornaments through the mail. The ornaments themselves can be handmade, store-bought, vintage, crafted, or nontraditional. (If you're curious to see what sorts of ornaments have been swapped in the past, you can view the 2012 showcase here and the 2013 showcase here.) In each of the previous years, approximately 80 swappers participated. Individuals from the United States, Canada, Great Britain, Ireland, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, Trinidad, Spain, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, Italy, and Romania have all joined in on the swap!

Interested in joining? You can sign up by following the instructions below. Please know that anyone can join! You don’t have to have a blog or a Twitter or an Instagram or a Pinterest. You just need to be a person. (Even my mom took part in last year’s swap!)

TO JOIN THE SWAP: 

Email me at d.marie755@gmail.com with the subject line ORNAMENT SWAP. 

Include your postal address AND your shipping preferences (international or domestic).

The last day to sign up for the swap is Nov. 10. (I plan to have everyone partnered by Nov. 15. Ornaments must be mailed by Dec. 1.)

Ornaments can be purchased or created, vintage or handmade! They can be whatever you would like them to be ... but they shouldn't cost more than $10 to $12. It's the holiday season, so it's understandable that things are going to get hectic! However, please think about what sort of ornament would stun your partner when he or she unwraps and unravels the packaging.

Include a note with your ornament. Tell your partner a little more about yourself. About the ornament. About your favorite Christmas traditions. A short, sweet or funny Christmas poem. Song lyrics. A quote. A laundry list of why you love Christmas. A laundry list of all the nicknames you have for your cat.

Lastly, have fun! Enjoy getting to know another swapper during what is considered to be "the most wonderful time of the year." And be sure to snap a photo (or two or five) of your new ornament. Come mid-December, I'll showcase the entire exchange here.

Thanks for joining!

Georgia (and eight other states) on my Mind: a Road Trip Preview

Brent was the soft-voiced, square-jawed, and dangerously charming boy I met at community college. He had virulent black hair, an irrevocable love for words, and the envious ability to write. For Brent, writing was as involuntary, as instinctive, as it was for me to laugh at his jokes. Back then, we emailed poems and Teddy Roosevelt anecdotes to each other, using song lyrics as our subject lines. Once, I received an email with the subject line, "Still in peaceful dreams I see the road leads back to you." 

"I've much to do, Dawn," Brent had started his email. "Alack, I cannot focus. I can't think, Dawn. I've got Georgia on my mind."

Now, seven years after Brent sent that particular message, I, too, have Georgia on my mind.



There are the cobbled streets of Savannah's River Walk, which is aflutter with tourists, locals, and the bubbling of fountains. There is the Spanish moss that hangs from the trees like lace, swaying in the breeze, this way and that, giving breath to the oaks it decorates. And there's Bonaventure Cemetery, as curious and sinister as a Flannery O'Connor story.

But it isn't just Georgia that's on my mind.



After an eleven-day road trip that took Ty and Zoe and I through nine states and two time zones, I'm thinking of New Orleans and Memphis and Charleston, too. And I'm thinking of our quick jaunt through Asheville, where we missed our opportunity to stay at a place called The Mountaineer Inn, whose neon cowboy sign made Ty sigh regrettably, "Dude. Duuuuuuuuude."

Asheville was windy that night, and drizzly. We had spent the last seven hours navigating the moody Smoky Mountains, but were not dressed for the weather. And so we changed in the car, changed into jeans and flannel while hipsters with dalmatians strolled past us.

And New Orleans? A friend of Ty's had told us that New Orleans would smell of booze and piss, but that he wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'd still live there in a heartbeat," he'd said.

For the sake of our senses, though, we didn't encounter any atrocious odors. However, we'd been advised by a man we'd met in Mississippi to be careful.

"If yeh thin' someone is uh man, yeh prob'ly wrong," he had told us. "Yeh may thin' someone is uh woman, but they ain't uh woman! An' vice versuh!"

He'd told us that we'd see everything and everyone. And, sure, we did run into our fair share of characters in the French Quarter, but what I remember most are the street musicians, and the architecture, and the balconies, and the used bookstores where Ty and I stole kisses among stacks of books that smelled as if Kennedy were still in office.





I remember, too, the waves crashing arhythmically upon the South Carolina shore, bringing with them the scent of seaweed, salt, and dead crabs. And I remember laughing and gripping both Ty and Zoe's hands at the drag show in Savannah, yelling over the bass of an Arctic Monkeys song, "I can't be the only one who's slightly turned on by this, right?" And I remember, also, our nights in the hotels rooms, where we nursed beers and played drunken Chutes and Ladders. We made our own version of Apples to Apples, too, and stayed up, watching John Oliver and talking about feelings. And it's those late hours, when laughter brought us to tears and hyperventilation, that I never want to forget.
 












Pocketing Chicago


I'm trying to fit together vignettes of our latest trip to Le Windy City, trying to jam together pieces of contrasting colors before I even have the border connected. Then again, Chicago isn't about borders. It's not about looking at the box and determining where, exactly, a portrait of a moment belongs. No, Chicago is the whole mess of pieces, dumped out and mixed together, some upside-down and some right-side up. It's not meant to make sense. If you were to finish the puzzle, you'd only be able to run your hands over the glossy surface. You'd see the picture, but you wouldn't be able to dig your hands into the pieces, into the dust, and stir and mix and turn over and get hung up on corners and oddly-shaped nooks. That's what Chicago isthe hidden gems, the cafes just around the corner. I mean, sure, it's about Buckingham Fountain and the John Hancock and walks on Michigan Avenue and deep-dish pizza. Chicago is all of those things, too. But it's also about feet hitting the streets at various rhythms, pulsing toward their own errands, their own destinations. It's about the language and color and culture of three million people all trying to find their place in this double-sided puzzle. It's about adventure. It's about anonymity. It's about the clatter of the 'L' above Damen Street, and the platform, and the gritty steps that smooth the soles of my shoes like sandpaper. It's about riding the Brown Line to Wiener Circle, where I had my my first Chicago-style hot dog, with onions and pickles and mustard that Ty wiped from the corner of my mouth with his thumb. I fed a pigeon a fry, let the breeze take my hair, and wanted, desperately, to tuck the city into my pocket, bury it beneath my Ventra card.

... Then again, I doubt I have room for the city in my pocket, for even a ChapStick is too big in these women's jeans.






 









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