Chicago, the New Age, but what would Frank Lloyd Wright say?

Really, it’s hardly even jetlag- a hop, a skip or a jump across to the Windy City. Or, more accurately, the blizzard-ravaged city whose towers are even now shrouded in fog and the dark of night. I don’t have pictures, really, of any of this. A couple shots of the Milton quote in the fairy tale of the Tribune tower, a couple of glances out of a window double times what d.c. could ever boast.  I remember the city covered in schooners full of snow; the swirl of single malts at the Gage down by the park with the museums all lined up in a row.  For once I had phone calls to remind me that I have a home to come back to. And yet again, the stilettos were packed up for reasons of inclement weather. One of these days, I will dance in a museum or on ruins and come out smiling.

For those wondering, I was out on an externship at chicago.decider.com, where I learned that even if you put a jetlag addict into an office, she’ll find a way to escape back to potsherds. A byline or two was had, which is beyond exciting. It also means that I have things to consider for this future of mine, which I have seen through so many security zones and stamps aplenty.

Also, I now know that people can have jobs with titles like “Mixologist” and set green chartreuse and absinthe ablaze. Just because. Oh, and then you drizzle that on top of a silver gin fizz and call it a Neptune’s Wrath. (Chicago’s speakeasy, the Violet Hour, and the magic fingers of Toby Maloney. Go.)