You Know What? I Didn't Even Have Any Cake.

Lari Pittman's The Senseless Cycle,

Tender and Benign, Bring Great Comfort (1988)*

This past Saturday, the 30th, was my 27th birthday. My husband, unbeknownst to me, had been working busily behind the scenes on an overnight getaway for just the two of us. Considering our past week, it could not have come at a better time.

He took me just a short train ride away, to our favorite city: Chicago. He was giving me the Magnificent Mile.

We started at Art Institute, specifically the new Modern Art wing, which neither of us had been to yet since its recent unveiling. The past few times we'd been to the Art Institute we'd had to deal with the strange detours that this huge undertaking presented to the general flow and feel of the museum, so it was nice to have it all back in order, with a breathtakingly lovely wing to show for all those months of strangeness.

This trip we stuck to the Modern wing exclusively, having been to the rest of the museum recently, so we took lots of time drinking in the collection in its new housing. We found this poster for Shakespeare's Globe Theatre in London particularly amusing:

Why amusing? Well, this poster advertised plays put on during the 2003-2004 season. We both studied at Oxford in 2003 and were happy to visit the Globe and see two of the very plays featured here. How's that for fun?

After a leisurely afternoon in the Modern wing, we walked (yes, walked) all the way down to our hotel, the Hilton just behind the John Hancock. I don't even want to think how far a walk that is. It's ludicrous, especially in Chicago, especially in the dead of winter. It was hella cold. But we wanted to do it, despite the jingle of bus fare in our pockets, and we enjoyed it.

For supper we ate escargot and duck at Bistro 110. We were really going for the whole French experience, you see. We slept well and uninterrupted in a comfy, king-sized bed (I didn't bump into The Professor the entire night!), oblivious to the fact that, during those blissfully sleepy hours, our son B was going through Fever Crisis Mode (fever speak, sweating through cold washcloths, all the dramatic stuff) and rendering my poor parents sleepless.

Such is the ignorant bliss of birthday getaways!

The next morning we got ready and headed out, warming up over a shared scone and coffee at a Starbucks before heading back south.

And The Professor never tires of this particular juncture of architecture.

That would be me walking toward that tree,

which is just in front of the entrance to the

Wrigley Building--the arch on the right.

This is me trying to communicate "I'm cold

over here, stop taking so many

d*** pictures" using only body language.

We like the Tribune, you see.

After enjoying a brisk (translation: still hella cold) jaunt (translation: ohmygosh, we walked that again?) all the way back to the Art Institute, we followed the upper walkway to Terzo Piano, the restaurant located in the upper Modern Wing. S had gotten an 11:30 brunch reservation, and we were not disappointed. Not only was the food delicious and edgy (at least for stodgy old us), the view was breathtaking. I was nervous about looking gauche around all the cool, fashionable people eating around us (I swear Robert Downey, Jr. was at the table behind us), so I whipped out my camera only once in an attempt to capture just the view we were enjoying.

It of course doesn't do our perspective justice, but you get the idea. It was wonderful.

When we finished brunch, we wandered around some more, hung out in another coffee shop, and then caught the 2:30 train back home. And now BAM! we're thrown right back into life, as if that little interlude didn't occur, and really, if it weren't for these fun photos, I'd think it all a happy memory.

Best. Birthday. Ever.

*This was my favorite piece in the entire Modern wing. Something within it reverberated with something deep within me. I have half a mind to waltz in sometime and nonchalantly stick it under my coat. Except I think it maybe wouldn't fit on any walls of our home. Or under my coat.