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A complete guide to Chicago in several parts – Part 3

28 August, 2007 at 8:40 am by belgianwaffle

Thursday August 9

What is the point of a contemporaneous blog when you can have a day by day adventure with me on holiday?

At 3.30 am, the Princess was up and about and by 4.00 am all three of them were romping about. At 4.30, I acted decisively and put the boys back to bed where, mercifully, they quickly fell fast asleep leaving us only one child awake. Between 4.30 and 6.30 we slept fitfully while she prodded us and whined “I want to get up”. At 6.30 I rose and we sampled “Aunt Jemima’s pancakes” saving the excitement of “Graham Crackers” for a later moment.

When the menfolk woke up, we went off to Navy Pier which Time Out and my sister’s trendy friends were a bit sniffy about but which our children enjoyed even, if it was a little bland. Michael particularly enjoyed rocking our little boat as we sailed up in the Ferris Wheel. They all liked the merry-go-round but the Princess liked it best of all and wept bitter and, very loud tears when forced to leave. I like to think that it was because she had been up since 3.30 and at the rate of one meltdown per day, I was beginning to feel that the jet lag really didn’t suit her and we headed for home in pursuit of a nap.

On the way back to the apartment, the taxi driver asked where we were from and we said that we were Irish whereupon the Princess piped up “I’m not Irish, I’m Belgian, I live in Belgium”. She’s wrong there, mind you, it requires more than being born and living there all your life to make you a Belgian. After wrestling the Princess out of the taxi and taking everyone upstairs, the Princess demanded to be allowed to put shampoo in the toilet. Permission was denied. I am sure that they could hear her indignation on all 56 floors of the building. Would she nap? No she would not, she remained awake by sheer force of iron will. Were we all getting a little tired of her imperial crankiness? Oh yes, indeed.

In the afternoon when the boys had woken up and the Princess had stopped screaming, my noble sister and I gave Mr. Waffle a break and went to Lincoln Park zoo which was absolutely lovely although it did have a slightly psychotic pacing tiger. Alas, Lincoln Park zoo had a merry-go-round which brought back to the Princess fond memories of the morning. It was closed. She stood by the gate screaming for them to open it. Her brothers joined in. The noise. The mortification. The boys were lured away by the prospect of further animals a lion, a cow, a seal, pigs, the excitement was endless and they ran in opposite directions keeping us on our toes. As a reward for her atrocious behaviour, we lured my daughter from the merry-go-round gate with a packet of opal fruits. I can only hope that this will encourage her to behave equally badly in the future. I am the definition of lax parenting.

As a reward for our afternoon of toil, once dinner was over and the boys were in bed, Mr. Waffle stayed in and persuaded the Princess that maybe, conceivably she could be just a smidgen tired and my sister and I hit the shops where, weak dollar or no, I seem to have run up a not inconsiderable bill. I was amazed again by the service. As I wandered around Ann Tyler laden with clothes, this nice woman came up and asked whether she would create a room for me or words to that effect. I was baffled; was she propositioning me, offering me interior decorating advice or did she think that I needed somewhere to stay? Nope, she took the clothes from my arm and put them in the changing room for me. Untold luxury. And then in the Gap, I needed another size and I emerged tentatively from the changing room, a nice man ran up to ask, if he could help. I said I could get what I needed from the rack but he was outraged and when I finished and went to put the stuff back on the rail, he hurried to take it from me. I was amazed, in Belgium, they’re often a bit cross with you, if you don’t put things back on the rack.

When I got home, after I had tried on all my lovely clothes, I tried to get the hang of Chicago again. Americans are stronger on North and South than I am and the different parts of town are bafflingly named things like South near inner loop.

Friday, August 10

On Friday, I noticed that Americans don’t use mobile phones much and don’t seem to text at all. Frankly it endeared them further to me. And, if you ask me, they’re not all that fat either. As Chicago is in the mid-West, I expected that there would be lots of fat people but while there were some large people about, I wasn’t shocked and appalled. This may, of course, say something about how tubby the Irish have got in recent years.

Friday morning took us to the Shedd Aquarium which was fantastic. I never went to an aquarium before I had kids but now I feel something of a veteran but this was the first time I saw dolphins dancing to “Walking on Sunshine” and leaping in the air in batches of four once Enya was finally turned off. Many of us could sympathise with that. While the boys and I watched the dolphins, the Princess and her father went to see Sponge Bob Squarepants in 4D which she deeply disliked as the seats moved and shot water at her. You have to sympathise. She was entranced by the next performance of the dolphins though and after that, to her father’s eternal relief, the cafe was opened by the authorities and he was able to get a cup of tea.

I have forgotten or suppressed the memory of what precisely started the Princess screaming in the cafe. I think someone may have touched her hummus. The boys went out in sympathy and, as their father quivered with rage and I sat there mortified and trying to dole out punishment and comfort in appropriate doses to restore silence, a very nice woman smiled at me and said “twins, I have two boys as well, it gets better, you know”. The Americans of the mid-West get a cold star for courtesy and patience, I can tell you.

After a restorative lunch with my sister while Mr. Waffle guarded the children, she and I again let Mr. Waffle off the leash and took the children to the Children’s Museum. For my money, this is not fantastic, it’s not bad but I didn’t think it was spectacular. I had a problem that many patrons do not have in that both of my sons like to drive pretend cars and two were not available together. I spent most of the afternoon with my heart in my mouth haring round the place looking for Michael who, unlike his saintly brother, would not stay where he was put while his sibling was being hoisted into the fire engine. It was only late in the day that I discovered that there were very safe closed off areas for smaller children upstairs, alas. The Princess, meanwhile spent a happy afternoon climbing up and down a netting thing supervised by her long suffering aunt.

Despite all this, her highness was not happy to leave. The battle grounds shifted until somehow I found myself with a howling Princess outside the building screaming “water, water” and I kept replying with, I thought, admirable calm “not until you say please”. Due, however, to her iron will, I shortly found myself in the ludicrous position of standing on the street holding a bottle of water over the drain out of the reach of my hot, thirsty child who was panting “water, water” between sobs in the blazing Chicago heat. Not “water please”, you note. Not a good look for me either though, you must concede. Eventually when I started actually pouring the water down the drain she said bitterly “water plea” and that had to do.

As a reward for my labours in the afternoon I went to the cinema in the evening which was freezing. Why? Harry Potter, not bad either, rather embarrassingly.

Saturday, August 11

Daniel woke up with a slight temperature and rather than cart him out, he and Mr. Waffle stayed at home while the Princess, Michael and I went to the art institute. Given her less than stellar behaviour since our arrival, I was a little nervous. I needn’t have been. They were both as good as gold. They were interested in the pictures and dutifully did not touch. The Princess looked after her little brother, entertained him and held his hand keeping him safe from hazards (the arms room held a peculiar and slightly alarming fascination for him). She was wonderful and so was he. A security guard asked what was our favourite part and said that her’s was the dolls’ houses. I knew nothing of the dolls’ houses and would never have found them. I was so charmed by the woman’s kindness. The Americans, I think I’m in love. And the houses were absolutely the best bit. The Princess and I adored them and could have stayed for hours. Michael, unfortunately, was only interested in the ones with horses visible through the windows, so that limited our capacity to linger. Rarely have I found myself in such perfect harmony with my daughter – we could have stayed there all day but, at Michael’s insistence, we left, with a good grace. It was a perfect morning.

In the afternoon, as penance, Mr. Waffle took the Princess back to the fountain and my sister and I pushed the buggy through crowded shops while I vainly sought shoes. We were both hot and crabby when we reached Oak Street and the part of town where the rich people live. I thought it might be nice to see the beach but it was tantalisingly out of reach. You might think that the lakefront would be a park devoted to pedestrians. You would have completely forgotten the American love affair with the car then. Between us and the glittering lake there was a big fat impassable road, presenting to drivers a lovely view across the lake but making these pedestrians hot dusty and disgruntled. We reached a playground and stopped to let the boys play before exhaustedly hailing a taxi for home.

That evening, no sooner were the children in bed than a voice boomed into the apartment “this is the Chicago City Fire Department, this is not a drill, we have found a suspected fire in the building, go to a safe place and we will update you shortly”. Where might a safe place be? We were only moderately comforted by my sister telling us that when there is a fire in a tall building they only evacuate the floor that it’s on. I was considering whether we should wake the children and flee when my sister found lobby tv. One of the stations on our television was trained on the lobby and we were able to watch the firefighters running in and out. Well we would have been, if they hadn’t been standing around having cups of coffee. We decided it probably wasn’t a crisis, even though they did close State Street. I only really relaxed when they announced that firefighters had the blaze under control. I was mildly surprised that they didn’t describe themselves as Mayor Richard M. Daley firefighters as his name certainly seemed to be appended to pretty much any good news or even neutral news in Chicago.

We then left my sister and children in the burning building and went for lunch in the Cafe Grand Lux where we met some more nice mid-Westerners who told us about the building over the Jewel Osco being evacuated because of a fire; we were able to update them. This, and the fact that they gave us a pager to let us know when our table would be ready made it all very thrilling.
Sunday, August 12

This was the first day that the Princess slept later than 5 in the morning. Good day then. Hmm. We went to the beach. The Princess loves the beach. I love the beach. Mr Waffle hates the beach and, as far as the boys are concerned, the jury is out. It was a perfect day for it. The Princess waded out into the clear shallow water. And waded, and waded. It is shallow for miles. Would she come back when we called her? Go on, what do you think? So, boys up on hips and into the water we went. Under protest, she returned to land. We had a lot of that. Daniel did not like the sea and Michael was also a little in awe of the gentle lapping waves. The Princess and her father went to investigate food options but everything was closed except a sweet shop and there were words. We packed up but the Princess went running on her own to the sweet shop where she prostrated herself at the altar of sugar. There were further words. A kindly mother advised us that Nookies on Wells was a nice diner. After some difficulty flagging down a taxi, during which time everyone got increasingly rattier, we got there. Nookies on Wells did look nice and that may have been the reason why a long queue snaked out the door and around the side of the building. We took ourselves to Wells on Wells instead. Wells on Wells will not be getting repeat custom from us or, I suspect, anyone else but it was outdoors and water could be spilt with impunity and that, after all, was something.

The afternoon saw us exploring the swimming pool in our building which, alas was too deep for the Princess to stand in but she clung to her aunt and made progress with her noodle. Michael refused to come in and Daniel loved it, kicking his little legs out behind him like a pro. I did feel sorry for the students with their beer who had to suffer for an hour while Michael vocalised his objections to getting into the pool and howled in indignation when any of the grown-ups walked away which at any one time, two would do to save his siblings from drowning (I should explain that my sister was there too, we didn’t leave him howling alone at the edge of a deep pool).

Have you read “Cold Comfort Farm“? You will recall that Aunt Ada Doom does not like any of her family about she needs them all about her “Seth, Ezra, Harkaway..”, well that’s what our holiday was like. Michael, in particular, clung to me but didn’t like when any of us went out of sight. The Princess’s catch phrase became “How dare you go out without me?” and Daniel mistook an ethnic Chinese friend of my sister’s for our Filippina childminder and ran to her in delight only to collapse in tears on closer inspection. I suppose it was all a bit disorienting for them.

Later in the afternoon, I wanted to get the Princess out with the boys and my sister but she would not budge. “I’m buying ice cream” I said. “Off you go” she said. “If you don’t come, you won’t get any ice cream”, “OK” “What flavour ice cream will I buy your brothers?” Long meditative pause. Hah. Then she said thoughtfully “strawberry, I suggest”. Defeated I retired and in my absence she dressed herself in a nappy and the boys’ clothes, anyone attempting to psychoanalyse my daughter will be spoken to severely.

Braving my children’s disapproval I went out again to the Hancock centre which is very high indeed even by tall Chicago standards and from it our tall building looked alarmingly dumpy. Great view but, alas, the food was somewhat mediocre.

If I keep going like this we’ll never get to Vermont, will we?

A complete guide to Chicago in several parts – Part 2

27 August, 2007 at 11:32 pm by belgianwaffle

Millenium Park – Wednesday August 8

The next day the Princess got everyone up at 5.30 which, frankly, could have been a lot worse. It did mean that when we got to the supermarket dowstairs (the bizarrely named Jewel Osco) at 8.30 she was ready for a nap and we had to leave her screaming for cake in the frozen food section while we went about the remainder of our business.

Once we’d stocked up with a couple of gallons of milk, we took ourselves to millenium park which in what can only be called an embarrassing overrun was opened in 2004 (explain that mayor Daley). There was free kiddie entertainment. A woman in a jumper (!) with a guitar sang popular favourites which our pale, sweaty, jet lagged kiddies lapped up. A new favourite is a number called lemondrops and gumdrops which, like Hershey bars, is unknown in our part of the world. It involves singing while sticking out your tongue. Oh fabulous. Then we went to the Crown Fountain where the children ran about getting absolutely sopping. How they loved it. I think it may have been the highlight of the Princess’s life to date.

For lunch, we went to the Park Bar Grill where I had my first taste of the American service industry. We were escorted with our dripping children to a table pre-equipped with two high-chairs, six glasses of ice water (did I mention my long suffering sister was there too, somebody had to chase the children around the fountain) three packets of colouring pencils and placemats to colour in. It occurred to me that everyone in Chicago had been really pleasant to us which helped us to survive the exhaustion. Honestly, the poor Americans when they arrive in Europe with their families, my heart goes out to them. Funnily enough though, many of the service industry people were not from the US but somehow the values seemed to be omnipresent. Our doorman was from Bihac and I was tempted to tell him about the time I spent in Banja Luka but somehow, all things considered, I decided best not. The lady running the kiddie train on Navy Pier was from Nepal. One of our taxi drivers was from Cameroon another was from Nigeria and told us that he had a brother who was a nurse in Ghent.  In fact, the only place to find locals was in the shops. I digress. So there we were trying to work out what a PBJ sandwich was in the restaurant and a polite French waitress (ha, ha) came up and explained that it was peanut butter and jelly. I wish she had also reminded us that chips are crisps and we would probably not have gone for quite so many side orders of chips. The Princess had her second meltdown of the day when she dropped her hot dog and would not accept half of Daniel’s instead. “I only want a whole hot dog” she wailed “get me another hot dog”. If only we had had a strategy to deal with jet lag.

Domestic disaster

That evening after a trip to the lego shop to equip the children with small sharp objects with which to strike each other, we went to my sister’s apartment which is lovely but small when you add five of us to it, particularly when three of us are hell bent on destruction. I think my sister was slightly shell shocked by the level of damage three small children could inflict though she bore it stoically only wincing slightly as they spurned the dinner she had prepared in favour of determined efforts to ingest the small glass balls strewn attractively round her fireplace. To be fair, their attempt to dismantle the apartment was somewhat assisted by a kind colleague of my sister’s who had given her a number of things for the children to play with including a cart (enormous yoke for pushing kids around in, never seen the like before, think covered wagon from cowboy films of your youth) which, to everyone’s alarm, they pushed around with great gusto and refused to yield up to the authorities.

By this point, the children had moved to West Coast time and were all refusing to go to bed though it was nearly nine.

A complete guide to Chicago in several parts – Part 1

15 August, 2007 at 6:09 am by belgianwaffle

Getting there

The most trying part of the journey was almost certainly in Dublin airport where I struggled to contain the children while Mr. Waffle struggled with the American immigration forms. In my ongoing and (I know at some level) surely mistaken belief that the boys shouldn’t be cooped up just because they are small I released them from their buggy. They hurtled round the airport uttering excited shrieks of glee and I hurtled after them. The Princess sat shrieking that somebody had better read her the “Frog Princess” or there would be trouble. Every time I ran past her she became more insistent and people began to look at us nervously wondering who would actually get the thrill of sitting near us. When the Princess’s indignation reached glass shattering pitch, I decided to restrain the boys. While the Princess screamed “Frog Princess, Frog Princess” and glasses shattered all over the airport, I wrestled a howling Daniel into the buggy. He was somewhat manhandled in my anxiety to stop the Princess’s screaming and my concern that Michael would be gone from sight before Daniel was secure. Mr. Waffle ended up abandoning the forms and haring after Michael while poor Daniel got sick from the shock of being treated so peremptorily and the words “Frog Princess” were chanted in the background by the increasingly ratty Greek chorus and I collapsed in tears. “Right, I’ll read the ‘Frog Princess’, give it to me. Sniff. Are you happy now?” “Yes.”

With such a beginning, you might have thought that the 8 hour flight would be absolutely dreadful. In fact, the Princess was reasonably well behaved and the boys slept a bit though we did spend a couple of hours chasing them round the bulkhead. Also the fact that the battery was flat on our 160 euro mini DVD player purchased specifically for the trip was, let us say, unfortunate.

Arrival and Orientation

We arrived at lunch time which was evening for us, if you see what I mean. My saintly sister met us at the airport with the car seats which she had begged to ensure our children’s safety; unfortunately, their installation had defeated her and we got to sweat over them in the car park and experience the legendary Chicago humidity for ourselves. On the way in, I was struck by how run down the city looked. When you arrive into one of the richest countries in the world, you expect it to look affluent. But it didn’t. My sister said that Chicago is the most blue collar of the big American cities. Something for Mayor Richard M. Daley to look into. We’ll be coming back to him later.

The apartment was located in a convenient downtown location but designed more for corporate workers than families. This was evident from the fact that they didn’t offer baby cots, the rooms were done in tasteful shades of beige and it was really a very pleasant place to be. My sister had sourced child cots and bought food and milk, presents for the children and a mobile phone so our needs were met. There was also a supermarket downstairs which was open 18 hours a day selling milk in gallon bottles (a gallon is 3.78 litres, way, hay, hay). We spent the afternoon unpacking and extolling the virtues of air conditioning. We put the children to bed, made my sister cook us dinner and sat back and admired the impressive view of the Chicago skyline from our 29th floor fastness.

And on a completely separate note, netnanny will not allow me to access my comments from this computer as they are clearly awash with what I see other people call p**n on their blogs. Sigh.

Moving on

6 August, 2007 at 2:32 pm by belgianwaffle

We have had a lovely time in Ireland.  Mostly because our families have given us many breaks by very kindly keeping our children away from us.  I think one of the saddest things about living abroad is that our children see least of the people who love them most (other than us, clearly) and it is great to see them getting to know their grandparents and aunts and uncles better.  My parents-in-law have borne the brunt of the child minding as we have spent most of our time in Dublin though my mother did Trojan work with the Princess in Cork, there is only one of her.  I think the parents-in-law are almost burnt out.  When I came back from Cork earlier in the week, my poor father-in-law who had spent the day with the boys met me in the hall and welcomed me with tears in his eyes before rushing out to the pub like a greyhound out of a trap. My mother-in-law has been tied to the house for ten days now reading stories, inventing new games and preventing fresh dangers.  She only ever gets out with at least one infant in tow.

It’s probably just as well that we’re off to Chicago in the morning.


6 August, 2007 at 12:02 am by belgianwaffle

There was an article in the paper recently pointing out that 80% of people who live in Cork were born there.  Cork people don’t leave much and they don’t like “blow-ins” either.

The Princess and I went to my parents in Cork earlier in the week leaving Mr. Waffle and his parents in Dublin tending the boys.  The boom has been very kind to Cork.  Cork was always at its best in the Summer and the work done in the centre of the city has made it really attractive.  It felt bright and cheery and affluent.  I grew up in Cork in the 70s and 80s and then it was grim with factories closing down and boarded up shopfronts, the turnaround seems extraordinary.  In the past when people said that they were visiting Cork, I would say, disloyally, the county is beautiful but the city is not so interesting but that is no longer true and I am delighted and, bizarrely, proud.

I haven’t lived in Cork since 1992 (when I finished my training as a solicitor which featured a great deal of work in receivership and liquidation, I spent much of my time at the door of creditors’ meetings trying feebly to exclude journalists, really, is it any wonder I gave up law?) and so my trips home to my parents are always pleasantly tinged with nostalgia but this time more than usual, perhaps because I didn’t have all the children there to distract me.  The weather was beautiful and we went to the beach in Youghal, something I haven’t done since I was a child.  The beach was lovely and the Princess enjoyed it but it was rough and what with the beer drinkers and the boys playing football who hit me in the face with the ball, I don’t think I’ll be rushing back.  Youghal, the town, is great though.  Tourists always go to West Cork which is beautiful but East Cork is charming and Youghal has lots of history, if you are so inclined.  Sir Walter Raleigh had lands there and, as my mother never tires of telling me, when I was three months old I went there in a papoose with the Cork Historical and Archaelogical Society which at the time seems to have been composed largely of elderly spinster sisters.  My mother is proud of the revolution she started; it was good for me too because by the time I was 7 or 8, there was a gang of children on all the outings and we were able to race around wedge shaped gallery graves while our parents, grandparents and elderly aunts sat on shooting sticks listening politely to some archaeologist expounding on the significance of the site.  There is a place called “the Red House” in Youghal and the Princess and I wandered past it and I saw that it was built by the Uniacke family – there are lots of Uniackes in Cork.  For the first time it occurred to me that Uniacke is not a particularly Irish sounding name, does O’Uniacke sound good to you?  My loving husband is always saying that Cork names are very odd, perhaps he’s right.  My own particular favourite is Clayton Love.

My aunt who lives next door to my parents hired at enormous expense (rather annoyingly, she refused to reveal how enormous despite stringent cross-questioning from her nosy niece) a professional declutterer.  When I heard this from my mother my first thought was that I couldn’t believe that there was enough business in Cork to keep a (presumably very expensive) professional declutterer going and my second was, what will happen to the family photos.  I need not have worried.  When I called in to my aunt that evening she had a little pouch of items for me.  A Cork Free Press newspaper from the week of the 1916 rising preserved by my grandfather.  A photograph of my grandmother and her sister in white dresses and ringlets from about 1904 and, for me, best of all a picture taken of my father’s family in 1930.  It’s a wonderful picture.  My grandparents moved to America shortly after my father was born (my grandfather had injudiciously chosen to fight for the losing side in the civil war and what with one thing and another, getting right out of Cork seemed to him to be a good idea – when the depression started, they came back).  They lived in California.  It seems to me that the photo is not at all like equivalent Irish photos and it is almost impossible to believe that there is less than 30 years between the formally posed solemn picture of my grandmother and her sister in their white lace dresses and ringlets and this lovely picture.  My father, who was five, is smiling winsomely at the camera looking very all American and can do and he has a hand resting on my grandmother’s knee.  She is smiling at the baby (my aunt) sitting on the edge of the chair who is staring, somewhat solemnly, at the camera.  My grandfather is standing beside her smiling over her head at the baby.  The composition works very well and they all look very modern though tasteful, I hasten to add.  My grandfather was younger than I am now when he died and he was, of course, totally unknown to me and I find myself staring at the photo trying vainly to work out what he was thinking.

On Tuesday we went to Garretstown where I spent much of my youth risking hypothermia and the Princess and I went swimming for the second day in a row.  On Wednesday before going back to relieve the troops in Dublin we went to an exhibition of Seamus Murphy sculptures in the Crawford.  I was very taken with it but the Princess was much more impressed with the plaster casts of ancient Greek sculptures which I suppose shows a truer appreciation of great art.  They broadcast an old documentary which I found fascinating.  It was from 1969 which was the year I was born and there was lots of footage in Cork.  Alas, 35 minutes and 16 seconds was considerably beyond the Princess’s tolerance for learning about sculpture and seeing views of Cork.   What was interesting to me was how very little had changed, everything in the film was still there and maybe Cudmore’s* is now Vodafone but the building is the same, even the people seemed more or less the same (all that intolerance of blow-ins).  Really, only the cars were different.  I am indebted to my mother for the Cork detail that the sculptor’s son and a young woman had a baby together and, as they were not married, it was an enormous scandal.  It was the 60s and, trust me here, I doubt it was very swinging in Cork.  Anyhow, the sculptor’s son wanted to move in with the young woman’s parents and the baby but her parents (though the mother was French, there’s a blow-in and a half) drew the line at this.   That’s Cork, everyone knows everyone else’s business and it’s dreadful and wonderful in equal measure.

A couple of days later in Dublin I overheard the following deeply annoying conversation between two Dubliners

Him: Of course, country communities can tend to be exclusive rather than inclusive.  If you’re 20 miles down the road, you’re a foreigner.

Her: Although Cork is the worst, you’re always a blow-in there.

(Just because it’s true doesn’t mean that they have to be smug about it)

Him: How’s John getting on in the new job?

Her: Oh, he finds it very dull and slow, it’s not at all the pace he’s used to, public sector, of course, what do you expect?

A kick in the teeth for the public sector for good measure.  Snort.

* If you’re from Cork, this link is fascinating: http://www.corkpastandpresent.ie/places/patrick_directory.shtml

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