Chicago with a Side of Bronchitis

A few weeks ago, I was called to Chicago for work. And even though it meant leaving toasty Palma de Mallorca, I was looking forward to a few days in the Windy City. Though, given my terrible luck on this particular trip, it should be called “The Wayward Interruptions, Navigational Detours, and Yawns City.”

🎶 Leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again 🎶

My tale begins, as so many do, on a plane. Not in the air, mind you, but on the tarmac. A tiny, rebellious bulb had refused to light in the cockpit.* “Really, universe?” I thought, trying to channel my inner calm, “You’re grounding a giant plane for a single unlit light bulb?”

Everyone was all, “It’s just a minor issue, right?” Two hours later, after watching a parade of puzzled technicians come and go, scratching their heads and an emergency catering delivery of water bottles and snacks, we were all pretty sure it wasn’t.

Then the pilot announced that the local technicians weren’t up to the task, so they’d be sending a United technician. From London. Now, if you know me, you know I’m bad at math, but even I figured out, using only my fingers and toes,** this plane would absolutely not be the one that would take us all over the Atlantic.

You'd think United would have a Plan B. They do not. Everyone was put on a bus back to the terminal and forced back through Immigration to claim their previously checked bags and wrassle with making alternate plans. By lining up at the United service desk? No, they don’t have one in Palma. Oh, then by lining up at the United check-in desk? Again, no, they’d sent the one gate agent home. Maybe a partner airline? [shaking my head]

On the bright side, I had a powerful and magical travel agent*** to help. You know, after I’d woken him up from a sound sleep at 4 in the morning. I’d peeked at the United app on my phone, and I was pretty sure it’d be an easy rebooking to Chicago via Frankfurt. Just a quick hop over to Germany and then on my way to America. How bad could it be?

Clearly, I’m just a simple boy from Oregon. Naïve in the ways of the world. And airlines.

The flight to Frankfurt didn’t leave for another six hours, so I wandered from one airport lounge to another in the Palma airport looking for something tasty to eat. I did not find it.

Um, no...just no

The late flight to Frankfurt meant an overnight stay. No worries, I thought, they have hotels attached to the airport. Easy! Except that the Frankfurt airport is not so much an airport as it is a small city designed by a sadist playing a twisted game of hide-and-seek. Oh, and because it was already 9 at night, the airport was bereft of employees.

Lugging a suitcase and fighting off bronchitis† while navigating this behemoth felt like a level of hell Dante forgot to write about. I could see the hotel. It’s right there! But it took me 45 minutes to find out how to reach it. My head hit the pillow about 10—and then got up off the pillow 6 hours later for an 8 a.m. flight.

You can hear the sadness echo

By the time I wheezed my way into Chicago, my bronchitis was back with a vengeance and seemed to be saying, “Told you so, dumbass.” But what's travel without a dash of drama and self-inflicted misery?

I figured I’d get through three days of work if I marshalled my strength and went to bed every night about 6. But a friend from Seattle†† texted that she, too, would be in Chicago the very next night. Serendipity! I started to weasel out, but honestly, we hadn’t seen each other since we left the Northwest. So a visit, albeit a short one, was in order. Also, she plied me with a Z-Pak and prednisone, medicines I’m pretty sure European doctors have only read about in fairy tales.

Krista!!!

I limped through the next few days, counting the hours until I could be back in Palma to finish the long list of things I still wanted to do. But no. Rick called the morning of the day I was supposed to leave. He was alarmed that my persistent cough now resembled that of a dying sea cow, so he insisted I stay in Chicago for a few days to get better before boarding a short series of flying petri dishes to get back to him.

So there I was. Stuck in Chicago. And I thought, “Self, if you’re going to suffer through bronchitis, you might as well do it in style. But, you know, with restraint.”

On the first day, I decided to visit two houses built in the 1890s—the Nickerson House (now the Driehaus Museum) and the Glessner House. I figured it couldn’t be all that taxing to slowly wander around inside other people’s houses. And these two couldn’t be more different.

The Nickerson House is a Gilded Age gem built in 1883. Nickerson clearly told the architects, "Use every design in the book!" Inside and out, “opulence” is an understatement. Marble, stained glass, and art that makes you double-take. Visual drama everywhere you turn. Nickerson was a banker back in the day, and he wanted to throw awesome parties.

The Glessner House, on the other hand, is a stoic hero by comparison. Built in 1887 by the ever-so-talented Henry Hobson Richardson, this place has that medieval castle vibe.††† Stone walls, rounded arches, and an attitude that yawns at the posh designs of its time. It’s grand, but warm and cozy, with woodwork that feels like a hug and a courtyard that's sunlight's best friend. Cozy reading nook dreams! Glessner was the force behind International Harvester farm equipment with a big family, so he was way more interested in hanging out at home.

In between touring those two houses, the Chicago Tribute building beckoned. “Look at me!” it screamed from not that far away. Never one to say “no” to a fancy building’s come-on, I did. It’s a pretty imposing building, I must say. When you get up close, you realize that it’s dotted with random stones from historical sites around the world, which seemed like an odd architectural ornamentation to me. “Look how quirky and historically relevant I am!” It was like the building had attended a history-themed party and come back with pockets full of stolen souvenirs. I mean, did they dispatch an army of interns to pry off chunks of famous historical icons?

Why stick to regular stones when you can pepper your façade with snippets of world history?

After touring the Glessner House, for which I was late, earning a “tsk” from the docent, I wandered back to town along the Wabash Art Corridor. Not as interesting as I’d hoped. I mean, it was seriously meh. Let's just say that I'd recently had bronchitis-induced hallucinations that were more entertaining. I liked the bubble-blowing moose, but the rest seemed less than.

There was a silver lining, though. Or at least a caffeinated one. The Palmer House was not too far off my path home, so I stopped to try the world’s best (or at least the first) brownie.º With an espresso martini. “To bronchitis!” I toasted to some odd looks. I should learn to make my solo toasts using my inside voice.

My second day in Chicago was all about rest and recuperation. But I’d seen an ad for an architecture boat tour. I mean, it’d just be sitting, right? Exactly like bed rest, but floaty, like on a waterbed. If you ever want to rest up from a terrible cold, or worse, with a stunning skyline winking at you, I highly recommend it.ºº

Boat tour of Chicago!

By the third day, the medley of meds, art, and stubbornness seemed to be working. Feeling adventurous and just a tad more energetic, I ventured out to see the Chicago Cultural Center. Oh man, it was like diving into a pot of cultural gold. Giddy, I decided to extend my outdoor adventure to walk along the lake through Millennium and Grant Parks. What a gorgeous day for it.

Vitamin D is good for curing what ails you, right?

Looping around back into the city, I found myself in front of the Art Institute. Earlier, when Krista asked and then my mom asked, I’d insisted I absolutely would not go to the Art Institute because every time I’ve ever been to Chicago, I think to myself, “Oh, I should go to the Art Institute” and then go to the Art Institute only to wander around happily until I come through the door to that one room where I come face-to-face with that giant Seurat and realize, “Oh, man…I’ve been here before!” Every time. Like my own private Groundhog Day.

But there I was. In front of the Art Institute. And I thought to myself, “Well, I mean, they probably have some new stuff, right?” So I did go in. And I’m happy I did. Sure, I went by to make sure that Seurat is still there (it is), but there was, as I suspected, a lot of new awesome stuff to see—including a special exhibit of ghosts and demons in Japanese prints and a showcase of wild, surrealistic pieces by a Spaniard who fled to Mexico City in the early 1940s, Remedios Varo.

I mean, it IS the Art Institute

Then I went back to my hotel room to pack and fall into bed. Was it Chicago’s charm, the magic of art and architecture, or just the Z-Pak and prednisone that made me better? Who knows? But as I took off for Glasgow, where Rick was waiting for me, I was pretty happy I’d stayed for an extra few days. Serendipity, indeed.

Though I could’ve done without the bronchitis part.

* This, unfortunately, reminded me rather unpleasantly of our ill-fated trip from San Francisco to Budapest not 4 months ago when we were delayed by two days because “a thingy won’t thing,” according to the pilot then.

** And it’s a good think I was wearing flip-flops or I never would’ve figured it out.

*** Hi, José!

† Did I forget to mention that I still had the bronchitis? It was, as they say in Spain, no bueno.

†† Hi, Krista!

††† Despite being a remarkable example of Richardsonian Romanesque architecture and a testament to the Glessners' taste and vision, the house was admittedly very different from the other mansions on Prairie Avenue, which were mostly designed in classical or Gothic styles. The Glessner House was more austere and fortress-like. Some of the neighbors did not appreciate this unconventional design, feeling that it clashed with the elegance of the neighborhood (oh to be rich and out of touch). One of them was George Pullman, the railroad magnate and inventor of the Pullman sleeping car, who lived across the street in a palatial residence that was a magnificent example of Second Empire architecture. He’s quoted as saying, "I do not know what I have ever done to have that thing staring me in the face every time I go out of my door." He even tried to buy the Glessner House to tear it down, but the Glessners refused to sell. Hahaha! He still had to get up every morning and look at it when he went out to collect the paper (I assume—but maybe rich people have someone to do that for them). Today, the Glessner House is one of the few surviving structures on Prairie Avenue and a National Historic Landmark. It’s open to the public as a museum and cultural center, where visitors can learn more about the history, art, and architecture of the Gilded Age. Is Pullman’s? No, it is not. Hahahahaha! What a Gilded Age dork!

º No kidding. This hotel takes credit for inventing the brownie. In 1893, Bertha Palmer wanted staff to create a unique dessert for ladies attending the Chicago World's Fair—something cake-like but portable. The result? The Palmer House Brownie with an apricot glaze and walnuts, a recipe still used at the hotel's restaurant today.

ºº The tour was awesome, the buildings were cool, and the weather couldn’t be beat. But my favorite part of the ENTIRE thing was when the docent pointed out that Chicago faces Lake Michigan, which is, “The largest of the Great Lakes to lie entirely within the United States.” Um…it has to be the largest, right? Because it’s also the ONLY one of the Great Lakes to lie entirely within the United States.