Here is the news from the BBC. This is ... MY KIND OF TOWN
THERE’S an old Zsa Zsa Gabor comment about money, love and happiness, which goes: ‘I’ve been poor and I’ve been rich, and I’d rather be rich and unhappy than poor and unhappy.’ Well, let me rework that to apply to Chicago. I’ve been to the Windy City in winter and been happy, and I’ve been to Chicago in summer and been happy – and let me tell you, summer is better.
Unless, that is, you want to test how effective your 11-tog, downlined coat really is, or discover how long it takes before your jaw starts seizing up. I had last been in Chicago in January doing a report on Barack Obama’s legacy in his home city, and within 30 seconds of being outside, my mouth started constricting so I was unable to speak properly. So if that is your idea of fun, then by all means come in the depths of winter.
But if you want to see this vibrant city, perched on the western edge of Lake Michigan, in all its glory, summer is the time to be here. The climate is much nicer than in New York, and infinitely preferable to the soupy, swampy, sweaty heat of Washington, where I live.
It is also an architectural gem. Think New York, but without the claustrophobia. It is somehow airier, lighter and cleaner.
Our hotel, the London House, was slap-bang in the middle in the city, overlooking the Chicago River and some of the most iconic buildings – the Art Deco Wrigley, the Tribune building, and Marina City, a pair of towers that look like two upturned corns on the cob. And unmistakably, across the river from us, was a building with the letters T-R-U-M-P – I don’t know who he is, but I’m guessing he’s important.
Actually, from our hotel window, we could only see the l etters R-U-M-P – it must have been the back side of the building.
But if you really want to get to understand the array of extraordinary buildings and evolution of the city, take the Architecture Foundation river t our. It is a 90-minute boat ride, and is fantastic, opening your eyes to the forward thinking in developing and utilising urban space.
That is most noticeable on the footpaths along the river, which are fabulous. On the evening we arrived, there was a festival for all the micro-breweries in the city. It’s
called Friday Night Flights (I have no idea why). For a few dollars you are given a small plastic cup, and a card which is punched as you sample the bewildering array of pale ales, Belgian-style beers and stouts on the delightfully landscaped water’s edge.
While you drink and watch the setting sun glint off the tall glass-and-steel buildings, the river taxis plough up and down.
From there, where having a thick beard, piercings and tattoos seemed de rigueur, we went to Millennium Park, and a different crowd.
There was a classical concert, Beethoven’s 9th, taking place in the park. And what a joy. But don’t think a little bandstand, and a few people uncomfortably perched on shooting sticks. The Jay Pritzker Palladium is the best concert hall you’ve ever been to. And it’s outdoors.
Designed by architect Frank Gehry, it looks like a giant grey steel armadillo whose shell has been ripped open – all jagged edges and undulations – to reveal an inner sanctum of light wood where the orchestra sat to transport us. There were thousands there – the wellto-do in the posh seats and, beyond them, the picnickers with blankets and hampers.
While the sublime music played, occasionally would intrude the distant sound of a police siren, or a helicopter. I thought it was magical.
A more noisy intrusion came when we were at Wrigley Field. It is one of America’s most iconic stadiums, home to the Chicago Cubs baseball team. It is real old-school.
Matches used to take place during the day, and if the Cubs had won they would fly a W from the flagpole, so that workers on their way home on the train, which still rattles above the street next to the ground, would know if their team had been victorious.
The tradition persists. Our day at the game (the Cubs won) coincided with the Chicago air and sea show, so every now and then, as the pitcher stood on the
mound waiting to launch a curveball or slider, a formation of F-16 fighters would scream overhead.
The game is like rounders, but with knobs on. And watching US sport is always entertaining. You’re never going to die of hunger – the supply of hot dogs, pretzels and beers never stops, all brought to your seat. We took the train back into the city – another thing not to miss while you’re there.
Chicago has excellent restaurants, and two stood out for us. Ema was started by a former volleyball player who lived in the Middle East for a number of years. It is Mediterranean cooking at its best, with ingredients sourced from local farmers’ markets, and this airy place hummed all night.
The other was Cindy’s. It’s on the top floor of a historic building, overlooking Millennium Park.
Hanging in the restaurant is a Warhol of said Cindy (also a Pritzker – this is one big and powerful Chicago family). From the terrace there are fabulous views of the park and lake.
A boat trip on the lake is also a wonderful way to spend a morning – particularly when the sun is shining and the humidity is low. There is great shopping on Michigan Avenue – more or less anything you would find on 5th Avenue in New York is there. And if you want a Greenwich Village/ SoHo vibe, go to the River North area of Chicago. It is teeming with restaurants, clubs, noise and bustle.
Now the confession: we didn’t get to any of the city’s world-class museums, we hardly did any shopping, and there are loads more restaurants I want to try. I also didn’t get to listen to any blues music.
And now the heresy (and say this quietly): why go to dirty, expensive, rude, crammed New York when you’ve got the jewel that is Chicago?
Jon Sopel’s memoir on life in America, If Only They Didn’t Speak English, is published by BBC Books.