He and I toured The Art Institute, The Museum of Contemporary Art (where we were both wowed by the Rudolf Stingel exhibit), attended the Symphony, attempted a film at the Gene Siskel Film Center, but were ultimately turned-off by all the film geeks in black turtlenecks filling the lobby, had cocktails atop the John Hancock Center, ate a Giordano's stuffed pizza, brunched al fresco, took the "el" at least 15 times, bar hopped and smoked a whole lot of cigarettes. Phew!
Oddly, looking back on this flurry of urbane activity, I have to say my favorite was stumbling upon The Puppet Bike. An adult-sized tricycle toting a painted box big enough to hold a puppeteer who works kitty cat hand puppets that dance and take a moment to pose for photographs or bow when a passer-by drops money in their donation box. Come Thursday when I've settled into the usual routine and I'm thinking, "This's it?," you just might find me standing on the corner of Randolph and Michigan looking for reprieve in the eyes of a fuzzy hand puppet.