A Longish Account of a Night Out

Wednesday night Stephen and I trekked to Chicago, where we enjoyed a concert by John Williams (the classical guitarist, not the composer) at the Chicago Symphony Orchestra Center. We've had these tickets since Christmas, and we enjoyed our late night away. Stephen says I should wear a t-shirt that says "I'm Blogging This," and he really has it right: the whole night I was composing a post in my head. The following is an account of our evening. I hope it's not boring for you. It was a lot of fun for me, both to experience it and relate it.

My mom and aunt arrive just before five o'clock to take care of the kids for the evening, and we breeze out the door, a little giddy with our freedom. Well, I'm as giddy as I can feel after a day of constant toddler-and-baby duty while simultaneously nursing a bad cold. My head is stuffed full of snot, and the left side feels significantly heavier than the left. I wonder if I am getting a sinus infection.

We make it to the Metra station just in time for the 5:40 train. Steve puts a dollar in the "pay for your parking" slot; this is the first time we have ever paid for parking here, and even then we're short. We've never received a ticket. Maybe our luck will run out tonight, now that we've scored a really close spot. The ticket machine spews out several dollar coins as change, and we fumble to catch them all and stuff them in our pockets. I suppose this is the most convenient form of change for the machine itself, but it's fairly inconvenient for us. We got used to primarily coin money when we were in England, but in America it just feels weird. We jingle slightly as we run up the stairs to get on the train.

Stephen steers me in the direction of the car nearest the conductor. We wander around like stupid tourists, unsure as to where we want to sit. Should we face the direction we're going? Sit next to one another? Sit across from each other? We end up going upstairs, sitting across from each other, which might have been a mistake, considering Stephen's resemblance to a long-legged cricket. It is still light outside, and we chat easily the entire trip. Steve has brought three books: one novel, Godric by Frederick Buechner, and two professional journals dealing with the field of the history of science. Later he'll have me read a short editorial in one of the journals, all about how mad they are that some part of the E.U. is trying to limit their publication freedom. It sounds serious. They have every right to be mad. It smacks of elitism.

I knit the whole time we chat, and the hour into the city flies by. We get off at the Van Buren Street station, and then promptly argue about the location of the CSO. I was here just recently with my friend, Katie, and her folks, and I know exactly where it is. Stephen read a map, sees things differently, and argues his point. We compromise and do what I think is right, and, lo and behold, there it is. (Pause for the justice of it all to sink in.) Since we have over an hour until the concert, we backtrack a few feet to a Corner Bakery. I buy a latte and a chocolate chip cookie. Stephen is surprised when I bring the goodies to the table, as we had agreed this would be a trip on the cheap. I assert that you can't go to Chicago without at least getting a little treat, and he agrees enough to eat some of the cookie. I steal Godric from him; it's quite good.

Around 7:20 we get up and head back outside. It's still light, and the wind is brisk, although we are happily wearing many less layers than the last time we were up here. The Art Institute is lit up, probably trying to look worth the $6 admission hike that is taking place soon. ($18 per person, up from the still-not-so-reasonable $12. Incidentally, I later read that this price is more expensive than the admission to the Louvre. I'm going to fly to France just to go there and make a point.) The CSO has a rather unassuming front, considering the grandeur that is the inside. The lamps hanging next to the doors are beautiful and hint at the true nature of the place.

Inside we get our tickets ripped and are directed by an usher. Our seats are in the highest balcony, and we have to climb six flights of stairs to find a bathroom, and then another two for our seats. Once we emerge in the gallery I have a slight onset of panic. It is steep. Very steep. Like Omnimax Theatre steep, times 100. I am wearing very silly black, high-heeled boots, and I regret them very much as I gingerly pick my way down to my seat, all the while terrified I am going to plunge to my death to the floor below, scarring fellow patrons as they witness the horrific result of my fashion folly. Somehow I make it without flying off the edge, and we sit and read the program and acquaint ourselves with John Williams. Stephen has a classical guitar and has taught himself to play it to a certain extent, and he has a CD of John's. It is clear this is going to be a much more intimate concert than the last I attended, which featured full orchestra, full chorus, and four opera singers. Onstage there is one chair, a microphone, a footrest, and two speakers. No music stand. Obviously everything will be from memory.

We are still half an hour from the concert starting, and we are already tired. How will we last until almost 2 AM, when our evening will end? Others are arriving, and they look much perkier than I feel. When we found our seats we wondered if perhaps the show would be sparsely attended. I suppose most people arrive just in time, because by the time the lights dim it's packed. The skinny, claustrophobic nature of the seating is apparent once we are surrounded by other concertgoers. I am glad I am not pregnant. The young men in front of us are oblivious to those behind them, and they lean forward most of the concert. The guy in front of Stephen is especially tall, broad-shouldered, and big-headed. Steve has a hard time seeing John. Oh, well. At least we can hear him.

The concert is amazing, more like a recital than a concert, or at least it would be if there were a few hundred less people and we were closer to the performer. He is a master at his craft, and he can coax so many sounds, so many emotions out of his instrument. Never once do the strings squeak, and he often leans in closely to the guitar, as if doubling over will help him achieve the perfect dynamics. He has some tuning problems, which he admits to; he says there is a distinct draft on stage. He is a soft-spoken, shy sort of person, not at all seeming the sort who has performed internationally for decades. He is an Aussie living in London, so his simple jokes seem a thousand time funnier and more intelligent than they would if said in a Chicago accent. I like him.

Multi-tasker that I am, I try to knit while listening, but for the first time in my short knitting career I learn just how loud a hobby it is. My needles are wooden, so they don't clack, but every time I pull the yarn or move it across the length of the needle, it makes a screechy, stretchy sort of sound. In the hushed, darkened atmosphere of the concert hall, I might as well be talking loudly on my cell phone or whistling. I set the knitting on my lap, attempting it a few more times before finally giving up. I have been working on this scarf for a long time. My tulips are starting to come up in the back flower bed. It is no longer scarf weather.

Intermission comes, and we wander to the gallery lobby, where we people watch and gaze out the front window to the imposing, impressive form that is the art museum. I inhale the aroma of a lady's spiked coffee, and it smells divine. A young man with Middle Eastern features and long hair and a full beard sips a glass of red wine. Everyone is here. Old, young, frumpy, trendy, smart, dull, bewildered, savvy, dressy, casual. I like it. It makes for good people watching.

The second half of the concert is good, too, though I am droopy and tired and a little beside myself with feelings of inadequacy, since the knitting it noisy and I can't do anything with my hands and instead must sit and, you know, simply enjoy the music. When he finishes the audience applauds for an encore, and he obliges. He plays something more typical to classical guitar music, at least in the general public's experience. I wonder if the rest of his program is designed to break that mold and expand our horizons, so to speak. Everything is performed, as anticipated, from memory. We discuss this on the way home. Stephen asks if there was ever a point in my musical training where I could have sat down and performed on either the piano or bassoon for an extended period of time without looking at music. Yes, there was, and I did it, too, my senior year of high school. I had a senior recital, and I managed to schedule it on the same day as prom. I performed in our town's Methodist church, where my piano teacher attended, and the only sheet music I used was for my bassoon piece, a Mozart. My bassoon instructor and my parents each gave me beautiful bouquets, and afterward I rushed out to get my hair done before my date arrived for the big night. We took my Fiat convertible. I had a blast.

When the encore ends we walk back to the station. It is 10:32 and we have missed the 10:20 train. The next one won't come until 11:20, so we sit on a hard bench and wait. I call Mom, who assures me that they're ready for a late night. They are saints. My mom has to work in the morning. Stephen reads and I knit, grateful that knitting is suddenly a quiet hobby again. I voice my craving for something, anything, to eat, especially anything from Taco Bell or, perhaps, a Snickers bar. I never eat Snickers bars. Why does this sound so good? There are no vending machines, which strikes me as odd. The Metra seems concerned with nothing but effectively transporting humans. The stations, with the notable exception of Millennium station, are bare-boned and leaky, featuring stark bathrooms and uncomfortable seating. Often they aren't even heated. Maybe they tried vending machines in the past and it just didn't work out. Maybe too many conductors were caught with Snickers bars.

When our train finally comes we are exhausted, and we each fall asleep for a time, precariously propped up against one another. This trip feels five times longer than the first, though we make it in the typical hour. I do some more people watching when I wake up with a crick in my neck. Another fun spectrum of humanity is evident in this car alone. Not everyone seems tired, and I wonder why everyone else is riding this late. One man in particular strikes me as interesting: he is older, in his sixties perhaps, and dressed in business attire, complete with shiny black shoes, a smart trench coat, and a briefcase. He is alert and smiling, and toward the end of his ride pulls out his cell phone, which he uses to call his friend, Jim, to ask for a ride from the station. His name is Sergio. I like that name very much. I hope Jim was expecting this call. It is officially tomorrow, and Sergio needs a ride home.

We finally pull into University Park station, the last on the line, where we shiver once we step off. University Park is one of the unheated ones. I guess they don't expect you to have to wait for an extended period to board a train. We haven't received a parking ticket--our luck holds--and our teeth chatter in the cold car as we pull out and make our way home. We have to stop for fuel, and Stephen returns from paying for it with a Snickers bar, which we cheerfully share. We have more energy now than we did on the train ride home, and we talk about stupid things, like how embarrassing it would be to have gas in the Symphony Center, where you are sitting so close to your neighbor that you are practically on his lap. We agree that having gas there would be mortifying. Steve says he would have blamed it on John Williams. He says it in his trademark funny voice, and it cracks me up. I love my husband so much, for so many reasons, even for this stupid thing that he says.

We make it home by 1:20 in the morning, and we find my sleepy mother and aunt stretched on the couches in the living room, still cheerful and happy that we have enjoyed ourselves so much. The tickets were a Christmas present from my parents, and we thank my mom again and again for the gift and for the babysitting. I thank my aunt, too, but she is so in love with my children that she brushes off my compliments with a smile not often seen so early in the morning. I think she would have stayed this late for less compelling reasons. I think she needs grandkids of her own.

I check on the kids, who are all sleeping peacefully for the moment. The boys are mirror images in their separate beds, and I pull their blankets back on them, careful not to wake them. Charlotte looks so sweet and trusting in her crib; she clutches at her blanket and sucks on her fingers of her right hand. I make my way back downstairs, where I wash my face and change into my pajamas. Stephen and I debate the merits of brushing our teeth versus the time it will take, and we decide on brushing them, since we just ate that Snickers bar. This makes our getting-ready time approximately 2.5 minutes longer than it would have been if we would have just skipped the brushing, and by the time we're done, we are liquid we're so tired.

We slide into bed, where we kiss each other sleepily and then burrow down in the cool sheets. The cat tries to perch on Stephen's shoulder, and I give both baby monitors the evil eye, daring anyone to deprive us of our precious few hours of sleep. We fall asleep hard, happy for our night. Also, we're happy we don't do this too often. We're exhausted. What a good thing we have just experienced.