Look Up

Last week, when I was showing off my town to visitors, I made sure we stopped at the old Marshall Field’s store. As soon as we pushed through the heavy doors at the Washington Street entrance, our senses were bombarded with all things Christmas. Silver and red ornaments hung opulently from all directions. Early Christmas shoppers were milling about the perfume counter dousing their wrists with Estee Lauder or whatever fragrance is being advertised as the hot scent to be wearing this year. Small tables of Frango mints, in assorted-sized boxes, pre-wrapped in holiday paper, were wedged into the intersections of high traffic aisles.

“Look up,” I said, raising my head up then rolling my eyes in the same direction. With all the commotion on the ground level, I did not want my guests to miss the world’s largest Tiffany glass dome ceiling, the main reason I brought them to this spot.

A few days later, I reflected on another time in my life when I used to give myself these same instructions. “Look up.” I didn’t use these words to help me rally my best thoughts during challenging times. I wasn’t trying to tell myself to look on the bright side of things. Yet, actually looking up after emptying my mind filled me with a feeling of connectedness and oddly led me to my own sort of spiritual optimism.

Maybe ten years ago, I would take myself on a walking meditation almost every morning at around 6:30, before the streets became crowded. As I walked through my neighborhood -- west on School Street, north on Campbell, back east on Grace – I would set my focus on different “objects” along my path. An object was anything I saw that occupied space in my consciousness: a fencepost or a flowerpot, a wind chime or window casement. I might have set my gaze on a car tire and then seconds later take in the whole car it belonged to. I would hold my attention on each object for a second or two and count off increasing numbers in my head. I would frame each unique image until it registered in my mind, then let it go and focus on the next thing that came into view.

It was like Roto Rooter-ing my mind. Every image, every object, just poured through me. I never got attached to any thing I saw, no matter how captivating the sparkling arc of water was as it sprayed from the lawn sprinkler or how much my neighbor’s full mailbox seemed to suggest a story.

And when my mind was good and empty, I would tell myself, “Look up.” I did, and I would see amazing things. Or, maybe what I saw just seemed amazing to me because I was so empty of thoughts and I was so ready to see things from above ground-level. I remember looking up to see old pairs of gym shoes, tied at the laces, hanging over a telephone wire. How did they get up there? I used to look up at the perfect time to see planes flying directly over me, and I swear I didn’t hear any engines hum. Or, I’d look up to see a blanket of clouds that I decided looked like Ted Koppel’s hair. I just knew that when I’d look up, there’d be something to see.

“Look up.”

I’d tell myself to “look up” mostly to change perspective. And choosing to change your perspective is no small thing.

Just in Time

Almost every Thanksgiving, my cousin from New York comes to town. He stays at my sister’s house in the ‘burbs. She assigns him small tasks like setting the table or buying flowers. He’ll gripe or joke about taking such orders while, after all, he is on vacation, but we all know he loves it. Like most people, I think, he loves to contribute.

This year, he arranged to have a friend of his from Kansas meet up with him in Chicago and share a holiday meal with our family. So, I got an extra job this season. I created a little tour of my town for us to take the day before Turkey Day. I love showing off Chicago. My cousin’s friend likes seeing gi-normous buildings, a big change from Toronto, Kansas. And, I think it’s good for my sister to get kitchen hands unfamiliar with her traffic patterns out of her kitchen on the eve of her annual feast.

Well, yes, I am a part-time city highlights guide here in Chicago, and I didn’t have to refer to Fodor’s or Lonely Planet or any Googled guides to come up with ideas, but planning a day to spend with William and Jean Marie was a little different than my usual routine. I gave their visit a lot of thought. I wanted to take them to places I love, and I wanted to give them a feeling for Chicago.

I met them at the commuter train station then we walked over to visit the great hall at Union Station. We looked for the staircase where, in the famous scene from the movie, The Untouchables, the baby buggy bounced down the steps in slow motion while Elliott Ness’s posse had a shoot-out with members of Capone’s gang. We stopped at the Federal Reserve Bank where they give a short talk, point out a collection of three dollar bills and hand out souvenir packages of shredded money they took out of circulation ($364 worth). We went to the Chapel in the Sky, a lesser known tourist attraction in town, a 40 seat Methodist chapel at the top of an office building. It’s in the Guinness Book of World Records as the tallest church in the world.

We walked to Macy’s flagship store in Chicago, still called Marshall Fields, its original name, by locals. At one entrance is an incredible art glass ceiling designed by Tiffany. It is made of over 1.6 million pieces of hand-blown Favrile glass, a real wow. We saw more Tiffany glass at the Cultural Center then walked to Daley Plaza where we stood with hundreds of freezing Chicagoans and watched the official Christmas tree lighting ceremony. After an introduction by actress Joan Cusack, the mayor flipped the switch that turned on a generous coat of lights covering a 70 foot tall, star-topped blue spruce. We finished the evening with a wonderful dinner at a Turkish restaurant in my neighborhood and a mesmerizing classical guitar performance at Katerina’s.

I was amazed at how everything we did flowed into the next thing. I was so happy that my guests enjoyed what I had planned for them and even more thrilled that other things I could not possibly have imagined came together at the perfect time.

Right after the lights were turned on to illuminate the city’s official Christmas tree, fireworks went off over City Hall and a small flock of doves was set loose to fly down Washington Street. When we got to the el train platform to take the brown line back to my neighborhood, we still had a sort of childlike fireworks hangover. (It takes a while to remember proper English after “Oooh” and “Ahhh” is all you can utter.) As our train was approaching from one direction, we looked in the other direction just in time to see the CTA’s Christmas train, a short chain of cars decorated for special holiday runs. I had heard about it, but I had never seen it before.

We blinked our eyes. We shook our heads. We reached for our cameras. We grinned stupidly at each other. How lucky!

Arriving anywhere just in time to see something stupendously beautiful, outrageously silly, or simply rare is no small thing.

Excess...In Moderation

“Did you bring your camera?” my friend Holly asked me after we were seated in one of the second floor dining rooms. “Are you going to shoot some food porn?”

I had never heard the expression before, but I understood what she meant. Was I going to photograph a dish that could inspire an appreciation for the sensuality of food? Was I going to bookmark the memory of lust and expectation I had when sitting down for this meal? I let out a chuckle.

I had been to New Orleans about a half dozen times. At a Halloween party, hosted by friends of friends 32 years ago, I met a man whom I later married. On another visit, I went to an official Mardi Gras ball given by a large krewe. On more than one visit, I partied with the street people in Jackson Square. One spring, I took my mother down to the Crescent City where I pointed out the official streetcar named Desire and shared a wonderful meal at The Court of Two Sisters. But having brunch at Commanders Palace was still an unchecked experience on my “must do” list.

A heightened state of anticipation hit us as soon as we walked in. Although we tried to wait patiently in line at the hosts’ station, we snapped into movement the first time we heard the waitstaff captain exhale, “Follow me,” even though he was talking to a party two reservations before ours.

A three-piece combo, consisting of trumpet, sax and bass strolled between the different dining rooms taking requests and playing classics like St. James Infirmary. The dining room itself was papered in a muted yellow and was trimmed with thin white chair rails. Sets of colorful balloons were anchored to window sills and table centerpieces. We asked one of the hosts, “What’s the occasion? Why the balloons?” He blinked at us as if our question did not make sense.

“What do you mean?” he asked rhetorically. “It’s brunch.”

We started with mimosas, the best I ever had; the perfect blend of freshly squeezed O.J. and champagne that was more than a cut above black bottle bubbly. I had a trifecta of soups; some sort of vegetable concoction featuring produce I probably would never be able to find in Illinois, chicken and andouille gumbo, and turtle soup. Sample-sized portions were served in three delicate white demitasse cups on an immaculate over-sized plate. Our waiter gave me a short but comprehensive lecture on the difference between redfish and drum; neither a bad bet coated in a pecan crust and floated in a shallow pool of cream sauce. (I went with the drum fish.) And for dessert – European dark chocolate cake with perfectly round and robust blackberries drizzled with a Bordeaux reduction. Argyle Wolf-Knap (Is that not the best name for a sommelier?) recommended a Sancerre which spring boarded me out of my sauvignon blanc rut and had me mumbling the sounds of savoring through most of the meal. (Num-num-num.)

I refused to let myself dwell on how I catapulted over the recommended daily allowance of carbohydrates in my first course alone. I thanked God for my credit card as I added a reasonably generous gratuity for Argyle’s extra level of service. (He gave me his card and invited me to email with any type of wine question I might think of.) I reminded myself that a little splurging was good. After all, I didn’t do this every day. This was a special meal. A special pleasure.

Taking a whole afternoon to eat a meal in a sunny yellow, balloon festooned room while musicians play favorite tunes is no small thing.

I Think That I Shall Never See

I assume we all had to learn Joyce Kilmer’s poem about trees when we were in grade school.

“I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree…”

While driving between New Orleans and Lafayette, Louisiana, along the old River Road, I felt every word of that poem to my bones. Three hundred year old live oaks punctuated the landscape. We had to stop our car and look at Oak Alley, one of the most well-known plantations along the route. It was breathtaking to see the way these incredible “beings” formed an almost tunnel-like entrance to the main house. Their trunks were as thick as houses themselves, and, as their leafy branches arched over the brick road entrance to the manor house, touching maybe seventy-five feet above the ground, narrow rays of light pierced through the greenery in spots, making the scene look somehow otherworldly.

And there were hidden treasures, an abundance of great trees, on the back grounds of the many Tara-like homes just across the highway from the levee. Behind St. Joseph, a Creole sugar plantation that was built around 1850, there were two wide oaks set barely a few feet apart from each other. Reminding me of an old married couple, I marveled at how they managed to grow tall and reach out in their own directions while their roots must have braided themselves together deep into the earth.

Last April, I visited a friend near Sedona. I saw Cathedral Rock and Bell Rock, Thunder Mountain and other majestic formations chiseled into the red clay; all of them amazing, But for me, I can’t think of anything that makes me feel as close to God as a tree.

I am somehow comforted by their service and deeply touched by their beauty. I like the fact that they provide homes for birds. They give us shade. They infuse the atmosphere with oxygen. They make everyone breathe easier.

I am even more affected by some of their symbolic functions, or maybe I should say, lessons. Trees teach us how to age gracefully. Many seem to become more beautiful the longer they live. They show us that we CAN adapt to our environment, regardless of the challenges. I have seen trees grow on the sides of rocks. They always seek the light. Even on steep grades, on the sides of mountains, they insist on growing straight up. Like the pair of ancient oaks I saw behind the main house at St. Josephs, I think, by their nature, trees find a way to make the most from what is given to them – sunlight and water. I like to think they express their gratitude simply by living and growing.

Standing next to a three hundred year old oak is no small thing.

The Same Everywhere

The other week, I went on a long anticipated travel adventure with a friend.

I’ve been a big fan of Cajun and Zydeco music for years. At a Redstick Ramblers concert last year, here in Chicago, Kevin, the lead fiddler, a red-bearded gentle bear of a man, invited the entire audience to come down to Lahf-yet Looz-ee-anna for the Blackpot Festival and Gumbo Cook-off. I plastered the last weekend of October dates all over my office as inspiration. When I accepted the fact that I would not be visiting South America this fall, there was no way I was going to miss the Blackpot Festival.

A friend and I flew down to the Big Easy Thursday, October 28th. The plan was to hang out in the French Quarter and warehouse district that day then pick up a car to drive to Lafayette Friday morning. We’d leave Lafayette Sunday morning and drive back to N’awlins on Halloween, in time for brunch at Commanders Palace in the Garden District and then catch a small voodoo festival on Dumaine Street around sunset.

The minute I walked off the plane I was excited. I have a very special fondness for New Orleans, a town with more soul than any I can imagine. Ah, what to do first… There were plenty of antique shops and museums. I had never been to City Park before. Weeks ago, I contemplated going on some cemetery and haunted house tours. But, after we made an important lunch stop to have oyster po’boy sandwiches and Abita Amber at the Acme Oyster House, all we wanted to do was BE in New Orleans. We simply walked around the Quarter, in and out of shops and art galleries, trying to jog our respective memories on past New Orleans adventures and remember our local geography. Was The Kitchen Witch where we thought it would be? Did St. Ann Street cut over all the way to Decatur Street? What was the best route to the Café du Monde?

Being in a new place with no particular destination is a joy. My friend and I exercised the simplest form of democracy. After we looked in the windows of specialty stores and galleries, we would look up at each other with unattached openness. We didn’t have to ask out loud. We negotiated the “Do you want to go in?” question by expression alone -- one door at a time.

And it seemed that the local school children were given the afternoon off to trick ‘r treat among the small shops in the Quarter. The spirit of surprise and generosity were everywhere. I saw fairy princesses and Darth Vaders, hobos and bumblebees, skeletons, and knights in shining aluminum. The shopkeepers would comment appropriately on how beautiful or frightful their visitors were and dole out handfuls of candy from their waiting supply.

I thought about how a similar ritual was taking place on North Lincoln Avenue and Roscoe Street in my own neighborhood. The business owners would be finding the appeals of costumed children as enjoyable as ringing up their registers.

And I couldn’t help but recall the adage about people being the same everywhere. This, of course, is true. Thing is, when I travel, I’m not the same.

Traveling makes you look at things in a fresh way. It’s a chance to see how people celebrate different traditions and demonstrate how they belong to their tribe. It’s also a chance to see without looking. When you’re out of your own routine and have no agenda or place where you have to be, you can really settle into the being-ness of where you are.

Appreciating the way a little trip opens your eyes and heart is no small thing.