I lived in the greater Metro Detroit area for the better part of 18 years and although most of those years were in my formative, non-driving days, it's still important to note that I can count on one finger how many time I went to Chicago. Naturally, now that I live an ocean away, it's the place I go.
The trip came about because Rosa turned 40 a few days before NYE; we wanted to celebrate together on American soil for the first time ever; Chicago was a middle ground (between LA and Detroit-ish); and it turns out that flights/accommodation to Vegas, New Orleans, Florida were all significantly more expensive than a trip to the Windy City at the height of winter.
Rosa's got true California blood and so she packed several pairs of thermals for our three-day trip away. Unseasonably, when we arrived, the weather didn't even dictate a coat. Global warming, innit. And so we made for all thing Chicago. First stop, Giordano's, home to one of Chicago's greatest accomplishments: the deep dish pizza.
This is a small pizza. It contains several ingredients on a list that trigger a GERD attack, a list I flouted with wild abandonment for much of my time in the USA. I would later come to regret this culinary decision. In the short term, what's not to love about carbs layered with cheese stacked on carbs topped with sauce?
From there, we made for a drink or two, passing Redhead Piano Bar, a place Paul and I frequented years ago on a Chicago trip I never blogged. The place was legendary in that Paul showed up in Converse and they had a clear 'shoe policy.' As I turned away downtrodden asking for recommendations of where else we might go, the very kindly doorman noted: 'but we do have loaner shoes.' And a room full of them. So this became our favourite icon of the city. Since we'd arrived on a Sunday, two days before NYE, it was closed. 
This didn't stop us from our final activities of 2019: a foot massage and tamales in Wicker Park, a return to the hotel for extra layers, a late-night Thai dinner and then a voyage by public bus to Lincoln Park Zoo. 
No bother. The next morning we were meeting Kimberly, who was home for the holidays from her new life in Salt Lake City. As tradition mandates, we met at Brunch, an Orleans Street staple, and Kim regaled us with everything she learned about Mormonhood.
The time between Christmas and New Year is a bit of dead time and the city was fairly quiet. The weather took a turn towards the more expected for December and we bundled up to brave the elements. We showed Rosa the ropes, passing through Navy Pier, home to the world's first Ferris Wheel,
and heading up to Cindy's for a cocktail and view over the city.
And that was just the morning. In the afternoon we took a stroll down Michigan Avenue, took in some shopping and Rosa and I attempted a barre class at Barre Code.
Unfortunately, we accidentally booked into separate studios and so I endured 55-minutes of post-Christmas burn alone. I briefly felt virtuous before the pain set in. Post-burn we made for Quartino's, a Chicago staple, recommended by several friends of mine. The small plates Italian restaurant was stuffed to the rafters but Kim being Kim had a story involving getting booted out early the day after her wedding and she had the manager on speed dial. We picked up another one of Kim's Chicago friends and spent three hours having a very delicious, very leisurely meal. It was the perfect end to a wonderful day of reunionising.
On New Year's Eve we woke up bright and early to do something I've never done in Chicago before: go to the Shedd Aquarium! It's an institution and we loved every minute of it. The view to Lake Michigan reminded us that being inside was ideal. By 4pm, the snow had begun in earnest.
The zoo holds a 21+ party with a DJ spinning a set well away from the animals, that are all asleep anyway. Fairy lights and alcohol are plentiful and the whole thing is entirely civilised. Rosa's newfound 40-years appreciated it, as did my little old soul. At something like $12 a ticket, it was hardly breaking the bank.
After meals of deep dish pizza, spicy tamales, red wine and Thai food, I made one final drink decision that ensured a world of pain--the Bailey's hot chocolate. It seemed appropriate as we walked around toasting to the new year, the new decade. But at 4am, well after we'd arrived back to the hotel, I lay wide awake with gut wrenching stomach pain that endured into the next morning, afternoon and evening.
As Rosa and I said our midday farewells heading to separate airports, her to O'Hare and me to Midway, the pain, a dully sharp ache, continued. I felt sorry for myself the whole train ride and arrived to Midway still feeling rough. The pain was made more acute when the man at security scanned my ticket, looked up at me with big eyes and told me what I'd just figured out. I was at the wrong airport.
On the flight to Chicago, I laughed as a I eavesdropped on the man behind me tell his story of his flight disasters. He'd gone to the wrong airport and the re-booking took him to Detroit, back to Chicago and then home to LA. I scoffed at him. What kind of idiot goes to the wrong airport? Me. I was that idiot.
And so this is how I ended up speeding through Chicago, from one airport to another, in the back of a taxi driven by Irvine, my wonderful 65-year-old Jamaican-American cab driver. $100, a never-ending security queue and a sprint through the terminal later, I was reunited with Rosa, whose gate was, and I'm not joking, literally across the aisle. My flight was already boarding and so I gave her one final hug, knowing I'd be seeing her in London in a few weeks' time, followed by a May-time final trip to Valencia.
2020 had other plans. When I got back to Detroit, I jokingly quipped that I hoped the decade hadn't started as it meant to continue. Hahahaahahaha, joke's on me.
