April 21, 2015

The Undocumented Hours of Chicago


For someone with a blog, I have become impressively bad at taking pictures. For example, the six pictures in this post are the only six pictures I have from my weekend in Chicago. And five of those pictures were taken either within the first hour after arriving ("Yay, we're in Chicago!") or the last hour before we left ("Boo, we're leaving Chicago.").

(And if we're being totally honest, Derrick took two of them.)

Now, while these two documented hours were lovely, the problem here is that there were about 46 other hours of lovely (if not lovelier) activities that will never grace the internet.

There was the sixth hour after arriving, when Derrick, two friends, and I decided it was time to eat 3/4 of a pig at "q."

There was the seventh hour, when I patted myself on the back for having the foresight to wear leggings to that event.


There was the eleventh hour, when I fell asleep in a garden apartment next to Derrick for the first time in almost two months.

There was seventeenth hour, when Derrick and I decided that our only brunching experience of the trip would be spent at George Street Pub, the most unassuming little sports bar in Lakeview with a shockingly tasty bacon Bloody Mary and a sappy amount of happy memories.

There was the nineteenth hour, when Derrick and my synchronization left a bit to be desired and he slammed an Uber trunk on my face.


There was the nineteenth point one hour, when Derrick wouldn't stop apologizing.

There was the twentieth hour, when we checked into the Red Roof Inn downtown and marveled at the fact that the bathroom was small enough that we could sit on the toilet and use the sink at the same time.

There was the twenty-fourth hour, when the sandwich-making girl at Soupbox got a little saucy and gave my boyfriend a heart-shaped grilled cheese with his pasta fagioli soup.

The twenty-ninth hour, when all of my dreams were realized over a Cochinita taco and cheap wine at Taco Joint.

The forty-first hour, when checking out of the Red Roof Inn took 15 minutes because we had to wait for the semi-professional rap team to get their keys.

The forty-second hour, right before I made the unconscious decision to ruin 1/6th of the pictures from the trip with a badly timed blink.


The forty-seventh hour at the airport, when I pretended to have something in my eyes.

The forty-seventh and two minutes hour, when I said screw it and just cried about leaving Derrick again.

The forty-eighth hour, watching Chicago get smaller and smaller from a Southwest airplane window.


All I can say is that despite my lack of evidence, it was the perfect two days in the Windy City.

... But I guess you're just going to have to take my word for it.