William Ratigan told me a story once of an old Great Lakes captain. He had been sailing the pleasant, sunny climates of Huron and Michigan, but his true love was Lake Superior, with all of it's majestically rough wilderness, it's terribly inclement weather, and it's ferociously unforgiving beaches.
He traveled back to his native habitat of Superior, buttoning up his jacket against the cold and looking cheerfully at the grey, overcast clouds as if they were old friends. He breathed in the cold whipping air as if he were relishing the smoke of a choice cigar.
"Now that's what I call living" he said. "None of your monotonous blues skies around here!"
Many people love more what is considered to be less. For me, my return to Chicago is yet another example of this strange phenomenon, along with my lo-fi music affinity and my penchant for Ramen as a side to filet mignon rather then baked potato. In a beauty contest of the world's great cities, Chicago has her make-up off and she still is drop dead gorgeous.
I found the most fantastic fountain the other night, in a not terribly busy area towards where the Lake and River meet. Chicago certainly is gorgeous, with all her unexpected nooks.
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