It’s fucking cold in Chicago. But I love it anyway.

Chicago.  It’s not Seattle.  The streets are not crowded with wafer thin androgynous boys peeled from the shiny covers of fashion magazines.  The thick moustache is still popular here.  The people want to talk to you.  They’re interested.   Friendly but not too nice.  And by nice I mean fake.  Honest, to the point, cutting right through the bullshit and just saying what’s on their mind.  The way I like it.  Pub after pub filled with boisterous conversations about politics and the city and strong opinions all around, strong looping gesticulations in a cacophony of well intentioned argument.  Mostly well intentioned.  And unlike my own city there’s no assumption or requirements as to what side you’re on.  And if there is a bubble, I don’t have a good sense of what that might be yet.

We chose February to visit because it was convenient.  Touching down in a winter storm warning and a low of 4 degrees.  And a wind that makes your face feel like alien leather.  It’s cold.  But the city just keeps chugging along.  And aside from the trapper hat I had to go to 9 stores to find, the cold and snow really didn’t slow us down that much.


















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