- We met Celena and Nick at Mercadito’s, a Mexican Restaurant in the North River area. We ate tacos and guacamole, and talked about our kids growing up, and work and probably sounded much like both of our parents when Celena and I were our kids’ ages – almost 30 years ago. But no time has passed. Celena and I are still the same people, surely. To prove it, we went to Spin to play ping-pong. I think we lasted until 11:30, maybe midnight. The place was starting to pick up just as I was considering how nice it’d be to put on my wool socks and PJs, and watch an episode of “Justified” with Jesse. As the four of us were saying goodbye, a group of kids (if you’re in your 20s, you’re a kid – enjoy it) walked by and a girl with bright eyes from the city and also from probably an Old Style or two asked us, “What is this place?” We told her, just as our Uber pulled up. The four us gave ferocious, quick hugs goodbye while the girl and her friends seemed to skip into the place, picking up where we left off.
- Lake Michigan is high. “Swelling” seems a better word to describe it. Jesse and I ran along its shore and the water did more than lap gently towards land. This water was fierce; plopping itself all the way on the sidewalk, to our ankles, sometimes splashing our knees and fingers, and with enough gumption to pull us in if we missed a step or got too close. Before we ran, I was afraid, and suggested to Jesse we run on the hotel’s treadmills, but he brought me out, as he does, and around mile 3 we had a choice to stay on the path, or take a slight detour, towards a lighthouse, with a narrow boardwalk and deep water on both sides. I nudged him toward the lighthouse. The day was grey and murky, just how I think a new year ought to begin, and if the boardwalk hadn’t ended, if Jesse hadn’t said, “We should turn around,” eyeing the water like it was alive and waiting, I could’ve run to South Bend. I’m sure of it.
- We found “After-Words,” a new and used bookstore on Illinois street. There’s a sign on the door explaining that they can’t buy any more books until they sell some of what they have. The sign was much more professionally worded than what I’ve relayed here, but the sentiment is the same, and it made me sad, but Jesse and I did our part and found some books we were happy to bring home and take good care of so that perhaps new stories could make their way on a shelf. He purchased a Micheal Lewis book, and I chose Anthony Doerr’s All the Light We Cannot See, and Maria Simple’s Where’d You Go, Bernadette.
- Growing up, I never noticed the iron newspaper stands on several of the corners along Michigan. Or maybe I did, but I just took them for granted, as I did the paperboy whose wagon scratched along our alleyway every morning before the sun rose. Until he didn’t. Then I wondered what happened. These stands are empty save for a couple of newspapers – probably The Washington Post and The New York Times – though they were built to hold 8-10 different papers. I wonder why nobody’s taken them down. They take up a lot of space. There’s nothing minimalist; nothing efficient about stories.
- We had coffee (tea for Jesse) at Dollop and another shop called Printer’s Row. The mugs at Printer’s Row looked like the same ones Jesse and I registered for at Crate and Barrel 21 years ago, on Michigan Avenue, which is now a Starbucks complete with bouncers and a line so long they need those line ribbons to direct traffic. Dollop’s cups have the “el” routes on them, and images of wind blowing among the skyscrapers. Each morning Jesse would walk down the street from our hotel and pick up two hot drinks for the both of us. He figured out how to play music from his phone through the hotel TV, and so he played John Coltrane – not too loud so I could still hear the city’s music outside. We read the books we’d found at After-Words. I can’t remember the last time he and I started our day reading together. He read me an excerpt from Micheal Lewis’ book about how people use stories to make sense of the world. I looked up from All the Light We Cannot See to listen.
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