12/20/08 Beach Party

For a while I was putting up selections from my dinner parties, and sort of stopped. However, some of my best dinner parties have been held over the past year, so I'm starting to add them again.

In December, to celebrate the darkest evening of the year I had a dinner party at my place, which included fish and a swim in the building pool. Hence, it was a beach party held at a most surprising time of the year. The menu was mostly French, since my previous dinner parties were Spanish and Italian. Many of the recipes came from Alain Ducasse's cookbooks.  Here was the menu

1. Canapés: Simple eggplant spread or mustard on what I think is the best French bread in Chicago: the bread at Fox & Obel. 

2. Quiche au fromage et épinard: I usually strive to always serve something different at my dinner parties, but this quiche is one of the standards of my repertoire, and I usually put on a little show removing the quiche from a pan.  

3. Pavé de loup au endives cuites et crues, sucs de loup aux truffes: the main course of the night, a recipe adapted from one of Alain Ducasse's classic dishes. It is hard to go wrong with black truffles, sea bass, and endives. For the recipe I used a Chilean sea bass. The fish was actually not cooking properly, so I made a bed from the vegetables, and then covered the fish in broth, and cooked it for an extra ten minutes. The resulting fish was absolutely perfect. I even surprised myself.  

4. Foie Gras au Cognac: My original intention was to make a rather elaborate recipe from Alain Ducasse: Petit pâté choud de colvert de Sologne et foie gras en pithiviers, sauce rouennaise. But by the time we finished the fish and quiche, every one was pretty full, so my improvisation of searing the Foie Gras in a pan, and then covering it in Cognac, was just right.

5. Petits pots de thé au jasmin: custard infused with Jasmine tea. Another recipe from Alain Ducasse.

6. Une surprise: the late Frank LaCatena discovered a marvelous creation by combining enough eggs to feed an army with cream and fresh basil. One scoop is all you need! 

Eating good French food on a cold snowy day in Chicago after swimming in a pool. It's a combination difficult to beat!

 

Close Encounters of the Automobile Kind

This week I was riding along Michigan Avenue in Chicago on my blue Miyata bicycle. It was a beautiful day, and as I passed a bicycle shop I noted the, "Gas sucks. Ride a bike," sign, I was happy to think that I was getting green points for doing something that I enjoy anyway. As I approached the intersection with 13th street, a car traveling in the other direction -- which had stopped at the intersection stop line -- suddenly bolted forward and made a left-hand turn into my lane, and instead of passing through the intersection, the vehicle suddenly stopped, blocking my entire lane. I tried to brake but did not have the time to respond and ended up plowing into the automobile wedging my front tire underneath the rear car tire, and going head first over my handlebars and onto the trunk. Fortunately, by the time I hit the car I managed to slow enough that I didn't even get bruised, but I still managed to destroy the fork on my bicycle, and scratch up the car a bit with my handlebars. I was mad, since it is illegal to make a sudden turn into traffic when a bicycle is approaching, for this very reason. To quote the Illinois Rules of the Road:

"When a motorist is turning left and there is a bicyclist entering the intersection from the opposite direction, the driver should wait for the bicyclist to pass before making the turn. Also, if a motorist is sharing the left turn lane with a bicyclist, stay behind them until they have safely completed their turn."

I probably would have lost my cool with the driver, but I then looked at the vehicle I hit, and it was a Chicago police car! Yes, a police car without sirens or anything suddenly pulled into my lane. The officers were first a little angry at what happened, as if I had deliberately run into them. But it probably dawned on them fairly quickly what had happened, and one of the officers became quite apologetic, explaining that they had to stop since a pedestrian had just stepped onto the crosswalk. They both then became very conscientious about whether I was alright, and spent some time looking after me, which I appreciated. I also appreciated that there was a bike shop right there at the scene of the accident that was able to replace my fork in about an hour.

But this underscores something that many people already know: bikers rarely get the privileges that the "Rules of the Road" are supposed to afford us. When a bicycle is on the road, it is a vehicle just like any other vehicle, and it has all the rights and privileges of a car. This means that if you are driving a car and there is a bicycle in the middle of your lane slowing you down: that bicycle has the right of way, and although most bicyclists will pull toward the side of the road to let you pass, a driver has no right to demand it. But I can't count the number of times that a car has honked at me, or intentionally passed me as closely as possible as if to punish me, or yelled at me as if I shouldn't be on the road. And I am someone who actually uses hand-signals, and tries to yield to automobiles whenever possible. The assumptions many drivers in Chicago make seems to be entirely based on relative size: autos, just like SUVs seem to announce to the world "I'm bigger than you, so get out of my way." The problem for cyclists is sometimes you just can't.

Ironically, a few days before hitting the police car I was outlining some basic rules of politeness. I reproduce the sections pertaining to bicycles and cars, since they seem pertinent to this entry.

When biking on a major road, a cyclist generally stays as far as possible to the right-hand side of the road. However, there are specific circumstances when a biker will not do this, and automobile drivers should recognize these circumstances.

(1) For instance, when there is a line of parked cars on the right-hand side of the road, the cyclist will generally bike three to five feet from the line of cars. Rest assured, this is for good purpose, and there is no need to honk for the biker to get over. The problem is that it is often difficult to tell when a car is occupied or not, and if an occupant decides to disembark from the vehicle, a door will open. This door, although perhaps posing less danger to an automobile, can pose a significant danger to a cyclist, and bikers have been killed both by having to suddenly sway into traffic, and by actually slamming into that opened piece of metal and glass at 30-40 miles an hour. Please respect the cyclist's space.

(2) If a biker is going to make a left-hand turn, whatever happens, the cyclist will have to cut across the lane, and should signal to do so. I realize that letting a cyclist cross your lane may sometimes be inconvenient, but it is far more inconvenient if you deliberately prevent the cyclist from doing so. Not only will the cyclist possibly be injured or killed, but in such case the authorities may prevent you from getting to your destination for a very long time.

(3) Finally, a cyclist will often get into the middle of the road before stopping at a red traffic light when there is a right-turn lane. This is because in many states automobiles can make right-hand turns before a red light. The cyclist is being polite and lawful by allowing the cars to do so. Again, if you harass a biker for doing this, you may end up suffering the next time you need to make a right-hand turn.

Ingmar Bergman's Persona

This past week I've had the chance to watch Persona for the first time. It's an amazing movie, and probably one of the greatest movies of the past century. Ingmar Bergman said it was one of the two movies in which he pushed the genre as far as he could (the other being Cries and Whispers (Swedish "Viskningar och rop" [See the Wikipedia article with the citation from Jerry Vermilye), and it can be startling the first time that one sees it. But even if one doesn't get it the first few times, one has to marvel at the details. There is the cinematography: the lighting in the scene when Elisabet is falling asleep, the wonderful blend of light and shadow in the scene when Elisabet comes to Alma's room, the powerful shots of Fårö island. There is the music: haunting at times (Elisabet falling asleep), percussive at others (the music after the scene with the broken glass), and omitted at other moments. There is the aesthetic coherence of the work: the way that photographs, old film clips, and textures merge into a single work. The acting: how the actresses manage to mingle sanity and hysterics, the way they interact with one another, and the way words -- such as in the scene when Alma describes sex on the beach -- can be a powerful way of conveying emotion. And finally, there are moments where Bergman's shows unusual brilliance as a director: the way he can turn a photograph into a movie, the way he can created a single ambiguous face from the two actress' faces, and the way he orchestrates the scene(s) when Alma discusses Elisabet's child. Finally, there is a feature of the movie that really appeals to me: the fact that Bergman incorporates enough detail and ambiguity that the film hovers just beyond comprehension. Unlike a director who spells out every detail for his audience, Bergman is intentionally creating a mystery.

Even a mystery, however, is capable of some degree of interpretation, and hence I'd like to present some thoughts on the film tonight. It is important to recognize, however, that any interpretation of the film is going to fail to capture the full meaning and force of the work. This goes far beyond the normal caveat for the medium. I think Bergman is using themes creatively, and organically, combining them in interesting ways, and hence it isn't the job of an interpretation to fully explain the film, but rather to provide insight into the work that can be used as a stepping-stone for further exploration and interpretation. Also, I would urge anyone reading this post to see the movie before you read what follows. Part of what Bergman is working with is shock and bewilderment, and so I think it is useful to experience it. The first time I watched the film I wasn't even sure I was watching the right film at the beginning!

So with these caveats in mind, I think I am partial to the interpretation that at some level all the female characters within the film are the very same person. This might be suggested by the title, since a "persona" was originally an ancient Greek theatrical mask, and it so happened in Greek drama that the same actor wore different masks, and in a similar fashion the character at the heart of Persona may be merely expressed in multiple masks. The unity of Alma (played by actress Bibi Andersson) and Elisabet's (played by Liv Ullmann) personalities is underscored by the merging of the two actresses' faces towards the end of the work, and the way that Alma can know things about Elisabet's character that no one could possibly know under the circumstances. Also, there is the way that Elisabet is present but does not respond when Alma is making love to Elisabet's husband; or the fact that both Alma and Elisabet deal with similar issues, such as pregnancy and its results (I think that it is fairly clear that the boy in the beginning fits into both their stories). Other pieces of evidence are the end of the movie: we see Elisabet packing up a suitcase, we see Alma closing up the summer house, but we don't see Alma packing or Elisabet closing up the summer house, and only one person clearly leaves the island.

Further, with the addition of the Doctor at the outset one has the makings of a fairly persuasive Freudian tripartite psyche. In this interpretation, Alma is the Ego, Elisabet the Id, and the Doctor the Super-Ego. At first this may seem unlikely, but there is a lot detail at least pushing in this direction. Like our unconscious, Elisabet does not speak. She just experiences emotions, and reacts. There are two possible exceptions to this: first, when Alma is drunk at the table and apparently incapable of separating herself from Elisabet, and secondly, and more importantly when Alma starts to throw boiling water at Elisabet. In this latter case the words that are spoken are less thought-out content, and more some sort of primal reflex to danger (and importantly not necessarily coming from Elisabet, but from somewhere else). And the Doctor is an interesting force overseeing the relationship between Alma and Elisabet. At the outset, it is the doctor who hears Alma's fears and who is Alma's authority figure, and the Doctor is the one who gives permission for Elisabet to carry out her desires -- a permission that is spoken of almost as a punishment. Further she mediates between Alma and Elisabet, and it is when Elisabet writes a note to the Doctor (or is it Alma? It is ambiguous: note how it is difficult to see how many pages the note has, as if Alma is looking at the same note in a manifold of different ways), revealing everything Alma has been saying from a dominant viewpoint, that the movie comes to a climax. As if one part of the psyche is "telling on" the other. Finally, the vampire theme can also fit into this interpretation, since one might see the final arm biting episode as a decision on Alma's part to accept the drives and impulses of the Id. This approach also opens the door to seeing the movie as an exploration of mental illness, and the classical move of the ego to fail to accept the Id. It is possible that the movie even goes further, and is specifically dealing with a kind of schizophrenia, although this is perhaps going too far. Sometimes the difference between sanity and insanity is only a matter of degree.

The interpretation I've outlined makes sense of a lot of the film, but it omits a lot as well. Clearly the film also has something to say about the doctor-patient relationship and the phenomenon of transference. And, there are other layers. For instance, there is the vampire theme that occurs again and again throughout. Obviously, saying the Id is a vampire preying on the ego makes some sense, but the drama pushes this to such limits that it clearly goes beyond the Freudian paradigm. And if the Freudian interpretation makes sense, the paradigm is clearly warped by making the three parts of the soul three different people with different personalities, hopes and fears. There are also the sexual tones between Elisabet and Alma that requires some explanation.

And finally, the tripartite soul interpretation tells nothing about the self-conscious film-making that occurs This adds further depth to the film throughout: the fact that it begins with early 20th Century films, that pictures, television, and radio all have prominent roles within the story, that Bergman repeatedly underscores that it is a movie by showing the film reel, and that we sometimes even get to see the people filming the story.

I tend to be an anti-reductionist, so I don't want to see this movie as reduced to an exploration of a particular psychological paradigm. If that is all the movie was, then it would not be nearly so interesting. Rather the film involves all these interpretations: the tripartite soul, the doctor-patient relationship and transference, the vampire theme, a summer on an island, a relationship between two people, and all the extra ambiguity Bergman has packed into the film. It is the multitude of meanings, the exquisite detail of location and human interaction, and the way that all the components grow into one another like an organic whole that makes this movie the remarkable creation that it is.

Lightning Storms in Chicago

One of the most impressive things about living in Chicago is witnessing the thunderstorms. Thunderstorms are a fairly routine event during the summer, and they have a tendency to arrive on time around 4:30 in the afternoon (right when most of us have to get home from work, actually), although they can come at other times. Storms tend to be quick and powerful, but sometimes we can get multicell storms the last for hours.

Growing up in Vermont lightning storms were far less common, and were of a far more mellow variety, although my family tended to treat them with respect. I remember watching the approaching storms on the weather channel, and then helping my mom and dad unplug all the television sets and major electronic items. Then we would occasionally stay up late with the lights off waiting to see a flash or two on the horizon.

Now that I think about it I suppose I have witnessed some impressive thunderstorms of the East Coast variety. For instance, I remember sitting in an apartment on a high floor in a high-rise in Pittsburgh when lightning went past horizontally and even in an upwards direction. When I was in grade school I wrote an essay on a storm I saw from a sailboat. The storm was perfectly in synch with a priest singing Latin words to Pachelbel's Canon, making for an amazing effect. Then there was a time when I was in a tent on the top of a hill in a lightning storm and I got to witness a tree fall not twenty feet away. I suppose if it fell the other way I might not be here. In a more reflective fashion, I remember watching thunderstorms out on the bay in Provincetown from my bedroom windows. The open bay meant you could see bolts many miles out in the distance.

Well, none of these storms compare even remotely to what Chicago can dish out in a typical summer. There is even a whole new vocabulary that an East Coaster has to learn full of terms like "microbursts," "downbursts," "mesocyclones," "supercells with rotation" -- and it is in Chicago that I first got in the habit of checking the NOAA severe weather alerts, and it's also where I heard my first real tornado siren. Midwestern storms are far more serious than anything I've seen on the East Coast, although it's true that someone from Arkansas or northern Indiana might think I've seen nothing yet.

But even what Chicago can dish out can be pretty impressive. A case in point: earlier this week, a series of thunderstorms went through Chicago and left 300,000 people in the surrounding areas without power. They were accompanied by tornado warnings with even a few touchdowns. And here's the best indicator I could come up with: I got to see the Sears Tower get hit by over twenty thunderbolts in a little over an hour, occurring for the most part at regular one and a half to two minute intervals! The rhythm was so regular that I was able to predict the next bolt with a high degree of accuracy, and hence I was able to catch the bolts on film. Some of the strikes were more impressive than others. Unfortunately, I missed the most impressive hits: at least two or three times when a bolt hit the Sears Tower it was followed by a shower of sparks all throughout the surrounding area. I'll have to leave that effect to your imagination.

Recording lightning bolts on film was also a very interesting experience, since it disclosed a far more complicated phenomenon than what I saw with my naked eye. or instance, on film, a single bolt reveals itself to have been a complicated series of bolts all directed at the same place. And one can see that a single bolt often has different power levels throughout the striking process.

Well, it was quite a storm, and I had the perfect view point to witness it. Hence, in this post I can offer you some highlights of the show. All these photographs represent a "single" hit on the Sears Tower in the actual order of the sequence. I also have three film clips. The first one is in real time so you can listen to the boom of the thunder afterwards. The second two have been slowed down slightly so you can appreciate the complexity of the event.

People often compare Chicago to New York. I suppose it comes with the territory of still claiming to be "second city." But there are a few things that Chicago does better than New York, and one of these has got to be the lightning storms. Although I suppose for some people that might make it worse?

Regardless, enjoy the clips from a safe distance!

Slow Motion Lightning Strike

Slow Motion Cloud to Cloud Lightning

New Apartment!!

Well, it has been a long time since I last posted something on this blog. I suppose this is the standard place in the blogworld to come up with some pretentious phrase, like, "I've been too busy doing absolutely fabulous and fantastic things that you will make you terribly jealous to write in my blog." Whether they've been fantastic or not, I'll leave up to you, but honestly, I've been so busy lately that I forgot that I even had a blog. It dawned on me when the latest bill arrived, and I was like, "Oh yah, I have one of those things."


Actually, it has been more than a half a year since I've written anything longer than a paragraph or two here, and a lot has happened in that half a year, more than I can possibly relate in a single blog entry. But that's part of the reason that the art of the catalog was invented. There were parties in New York, hiking in Vermont, the all night music festival in Chicago called Looptopia, the Chicago Blues Festival that played in my apartment (more on that in a moment), beautiful runs along the lake, great bike rides at 2 AM, runs with famous rock stars (well, they were singing, I was running past), the possibility of being put on a more serious track in my company, days when all of Lake Michigan was covered with ice, early mornings hours when tugboats broke through it, hours of working on my dissertation, presenting papers at workshops, a number of fabulous dinner parties chez moi, connections with old friends and new, and some beautiful moonlit nights.


But the biggest piece of news is probably something that you've all heard about by this point, but since the whole story hasn't been told, it's perhaps worth most of this blog entry. In a nutshell, I moved. Until the beginning of this past month I've lived in a rather extraordinary arrangement for a graduate student. As you know, after having lived for most of a decade in a graduate student apartment in Hyde Park, last fall I decided to move into something a bit better. My apartment in Hyde Park was reasonably nice. It was a one bedroom with one of the larger kitchen spaces I've found near the U of C. It had lots of closet space, and it came furnished with a set of a few comfortable, if slightly dilapidated pieces of furniture. But the apartment was rather expensive, falling apart, and after five years, rather depressing. So, I started checking out other neighborhoods, I searched, I walked into almost every high rise in downtown Chicago, and finally found my bit of paradise.


Compared to my old apartment the new place was stunning. It was on the 39th floor overlooking Lake Michigan, it had all the appliances one would want, including a washer/dryer, central air, a full gym with indoor swimming pool, and the layout was perfect for me. And what's more it had fantastic views. From my windows I could see the sun rise in the morning, observe entire yacht races far out on the lake (The Kennedy's presidential yacht even moors nearby), watch the fireworks when they went off twice a week, and perhaps most spectacularly, watch the moon as it cast it's light over the lake early in the morning. And not only was the apartment on one of the best pieces of real estate in the most expensive zip code in Chicago (11th most expensive zip code in America, by the way), but it also was built on top of what is arguably the greatest grocery store in the world, Fox & Obel. And all this for about $200 more per month than a dilapidated university apartment building.




There was one further detail about the building that was sort of amusing. Although I'm not entirely sure from whence this all started, people sometimes talk about me having a thing for redheads. I'm not entirely sure if it is true, but if it is, perhaps it's the Irish in me, or maybe it can be attributed to some of the relationships/crushes I've had, or perhaps watching Mike Hammer with my dad in my formative years, or perhaps people just assume there's something Charlie Brown about me. Well, whether you think I have a thing for redheads or not, one evening in my little piece of paradise I ran into a cute redhead on the elevator, and noted that she pressed the button for the 57th floor. After a little investigation I decided that she was probably married, so alas it was not to be. Then a couple months later I got on the same elevator, and a second cute redhead got on the elevator with what I take was her boyfriend. I was amazed to discover that she also pressed the button to go to the 57th floor. Finally, one night when I went out to get some groceries for a friend and I, I returned and an even cuter redhead got on the elevator. And guess what? She also was going to the 57th floor. All this made me think that I was living in my own personal castle Anthrax from Monty Python's The Holy Grail: "Welcome to the 57th floor. We are but eight score young redheads, all between twenty-three and thirty-four years of age with college degrees . . . "


Anyway, back to the apartment. How did I do it? How could a graduate student afford paradise? Well, my paradise had fine print. I could rent a $300,000 apartment overlooking Lake Michigan for as long as I wanted, but if the unit sold—and the real estate agents were trying to sell it—I would have to move out within 30 days. Yes, if the unit sold I would not only have to find another place to live, but apply, be approved, and move everything I own into the new place in less than 30 days. But the building management went out of their way to assure me that things were not that bad, and that if there was another unit available in the building, I could move into it in no time. I wouldn't even have to reserve the elevator. It seemed a reasonable risk, so I signed the contract. I just hoped that it wouldn't sell, and that if it did at least not when I was busy.


Well, sure enough, in the seventh week of classes this past spring, when I was working almost full time at my company, teaching a class, grading papers, meeting with professors about my dissertation, and having absolutely no time to do anything, I got the notice under my door that the unit had sold. That meant that I had 30 days to pull off something close to a miracle. I went to talk to my building's management, and discovered that they did not have any available apartments, so I'd have to move to a different building. That very weekend I went out looking for a place, and, to my disappointment, none of the buildings I wanted to live in had apartments available. I looked through Craigslist, and every time I inquired about an apartment it had either already sold or I couldn't move into it for at least a couple months. Finally, when all hope seemed lost an advertisement came up on Craigslist: a studio with "Million Dollar Views." I applied for it immediately, but was not really hoping for much, since it was probably already taken, and surely an apartment with a million dollar view would sell in no time. But to my surprise the very next day I received a message that it was available and I could view the place that day. I had planned on looking at a half dozen other apartments, but after seeing the view from this particular unit, I almost decided on the spot it was where I was going to live. What I actually did was tell the owner I was interested, wandered out into the park, made a few phone calls to my sister, and then called the owner back to say that I would take the place.


Of course, this was only half the ordeal. The next stage was trying to figure out the day I was going to move. This turned out to be more of a challenge than I initially thought. When I applied for this new apartment, I had looked at the elevator sign-up sheet in the new building, and saw that it was completely free the entire week. This meant that all I would need to do is find a day during that week when my old building would let me reserve an elevator to move out. So I went to my old building and discovered there was indeed one day that week I could move. So, I went back to the new building to book the elevator and discovered to my horror that in the meantime the freight elevator was taken off line the entire week! Apparently, a building manager also looked at the same elevator sign-up sheet, and decided that it would be a most excellent time to repair the elevator. So, the only day I could move in was well after I had to be out of my new building. This is actually the recipe for a disaster move: move everything out of the apartment onto a truck, then from a truck into storage (which would have to be rented for a month), then back onto the truck, and then into my new apartment. I had gone through that hell before, and I didn't want to see it again. So I had to begin negotiations between the two buildings. Negotiations involved walking back and forth between the buildings a half dozen times throughout an entire afternoon. Finally, after getting concessions from each management company, I got my solution: if my landlord was willing to let me move in three days before my lease began, I could move out of my first building one day and into the second building the next. Finally the move was possible.


But then the second challenge had to be met. In between teaching classes, writing my dissertation, working in the research firm, and trying to live a normal life, I had to put everything I own into boxes. Then I had to move all these boxes onto a truck, then off of a truck, then into my new building. Thank god I had some friends to help me. The heroes in this operation included my friends Brian, Manasi, and Janet. The four of us managed to perform the whole operation, and everyone was a hero. Brian probably lifted just about every box into the truck, and also took me out to the U-Haul place in the middle of a not very nice neighborhood; Manasi pulled off the miracle of moving boxes that were bigger than she was with her collapsible luggage cart, and Janet was there at the end of the first day to move boxes, and be sure everything worked out alright. Actually, Janet was also my voice of reason, and even paid for my dinner when I thought I was taking her out to dinner. And the next day, when Manasi and Brian had scheduling conflicts, she came through in a big way, and the two of us on our own managed to move everything I own from the truck, up the elevator and into the apartment in under five hours. Everything including ten book shelves, two dining room tables, eight chairs, a full-sized keyboard and stand, a stand-up copier, about 20 boxes of appliances and kitchen supplies, all my blankets, and last but not least, 50 boxes of books. Mind you Janet is not a very big woman—quite petite actually—but she earned super-hero status by lifting dozens of boxes that were bigger than she was, and at one moment single-handedly moving enormous bookshelves off of the truck without the slightest complaint. To say that I owe her one is an understatement. I owe her dozens and dozens, and probably couldn't have handled the situation without her. Anyway, a thanks to you all! And next time I'll get movers : )


One amusing note about the move was when Janet and I first got on the elevator. My building actually has a fair number of retirees in it, and the first one we encountered in the elevator was a large old man who breathed very deeply and looked at us out of the corner of his eyes. It was actually marvelous, since he looked just like the radish spirit from Spirited Away. I suppose the reference was reinforced even more by the fact that just the evening before I watched a boat crossing lake Michigan towards my old apartment that looked just like a boat from that movie. If you haven't seen Spirited Away, you should really check it out. It is an awesome movie. I suppose I just like the aesthetic: there are sparse scenes with enormous beauty, like the scene when they take the train through the water.


So there you have it, my eviction from paradise. But after having lived in my new apartment for two months I can honestly say that I have moved from paradise to Shangri-La. My new apartment may even be better than my old one. For one thing, the view is equally stunning. From my full wall of windows I can see almost the entire skyline of the loop in Chicago from McCormick Place, past the museums and the aquarium, past the harbor, through the south loop, throughout the full expanse of Grant Park including the bean, all the way north to the new Trump Tower. In fact, when the Trump Tower is finished I will be able to see the three tallest buildings in North America from my windows (well, with the possible exception of the CN tower in Toronto). Location-wise I think it is the equivalent of being at the corner of Central Park West in New York City. And since the apartment faces southwest I can see most of the approaching weather fronts and the spectacular lightning storms the Midwest sends our way. The apartment layout is even better in many respects than my last one, and it has all the appliances I need, again including the marvelous power of a washer and dryer. The building is on a peninsula by the lake, and it also has a full athletic club with racquetball courts, and an indoor swimming pool with a speaker system that plays classical music, lots of public spaces, and even a grocery store. But perhaps what is better than all of that is the fact that it has green spaces. Even now, as I write this e-mail I'm sitting in a little outdoor courtyard surrounded by trees, and complete with hammocks. Not bad for downtown Chicago.


Oh, and yes, to follow up on the comment about the Chicago Blues Festival. My apartment is located directly parallel to the main stage of the Grant Park music festivals, so I'm technically in the back row at all the concerts. So when the Chicago Blues Festival happened earlier this month, I was able to listen to the louder acts from my apartment windows. Not bad for a graduate student dig. And amusingly enough, the first morning that I was in my apartment I woke up to singers praising the Lord at the Chicago Gospel Festival. A rather nice welcome if you ask me.


So, the story has a happy ending. And now all my friends still have a nice place to stay in the city, complete with a good inflatable guest bed.


One final epilogue. On the last day I spent in my old apartment there was a wonderful fireworks show in front of my windows while I packed the last things and cleaned the apartment. This was followed by a gorgeous lightning storm from the windows of my new apartment later that night. So let me end the tale with a video clip of the celebration.

7/22/07 Roman Dinner

And yet another post from my dinner parties. This was my second dinner featuring Rome, and was held in honor of the departure of my friends Brian and Judy for the Big Apple. We also had gone to see the movie Ratatouille the week before, so I prepared the zucchini in the style of the featured dish from that movie.

1. Insalata Verde e Pomodorini Canditi

2. Primi Piatti: Tonnarelli al Tè Verde con Gamberi e Pomodorini Canditi

(Based on a recipe from the Roman cook Paolo Londero at the Hotel Hassler)

3. Contorni: Zucchine in Padella con Aceto e Peperoncino

(Traditional Roman dish, served in the style of Rat-atouille)

4. Secondi Piatti: Agnello alla Cacciatora

(Based on a traditional recipe from the Roman restaurant Checchino dal 1887)

4. Dolci: Crema di Tè a Gelsomino

(OK, this is a simple French recipe from Alain Ducasse, but I think it will be a nice variation on the Tonnarelli dish)

The highlight of the meal was the pasta made with green tea, which made a sensational combination with the roasted tomatoes and shrimp. The zucchini dish was very similar to the Roman Zucchini dish I served a few weeks before, but I added more vinegar, stacked the zucchini like the ratatouille dish from the movie, and baked the columns in the oven. I also thought the Jasmine custards came out well: the tea added just enough flavor to liven up the desert.