4. The Best Tour of Chicago
4
The Best Tour of Chicago
Daisy
If I play my cards right today, we should win a lot of points with Asher. Lucy has already left for work when I walk out into the mild spring air, enjoying the warm sun on my face.
I meet Asher in front of his hotel, and somehow, he’s even hotter than yesterday, even though he’s wearing the exact same coat and scarf along with a pair of jeans.
“Should we grab some coffee?” I ask as we begin our stroll down Michigan Avenue.
“Sure.”
We step into a nearby coffee shop, and I greet the barista. “Hi. I'll have a quad espresso with steamed almond milk, one pump of hazelnut, two pumps of vanilla, and a sprinkle of cinnamon, please.”
The guy nods, then turns to Asher, who says, “Just coffee. Black.”
I pay, tipping generously—just like I always do when I get my favorite coffee—and walk to the pick-up area. I can sense Asher gawking at me, so I cast him a side glance. “What? I’m very particular about my drink order.”
“I can see that,” he says with a chuckle.
We grab our coffee and walk back outside. As we meander down the sidewalk, I point out every building I’m familiar with, even if it’s just the fun facts.
“Do you really know everything about every building in Chicago?” he asks, his tone almost accusatory.
I take a sip of my delicious coffee. “Is that a bad thing?”
“It’s just a lot.”
I scoff. “It’s my job. Don’t you know the ins and outs of New York architecture?” Besides, I can’t help it. Accumulating facts is what I do.
“Maybe,” he says, tilting his head back to gaze up at a historical building. “What’s this one?”
“Chicago Cultural Center. We’ ll swing by later to see its gorgeous Tiffany glass dome—the largest in the world. But let’s go to the Art Institute first. It’s always more crowded in the afternoon.”
“Sounds good.”
We skirt the edge of Millennium Park, avoiding the hustle and bustle of the morning rush, and I slow down to admire the flowers blooming in the planters at the center of the road. Spring is such a special time in Chicago. It’s as if the entire city is coming back to life after a long hibernation.
“Here it is,” I say, pointing at the towering limestone facade. “One of the Expo’s two remnants. You can also see the influence of ancient Greece and Rome in the triangular pediment with acroteria, the statues, or even the friezes, which are similar to the ones on the Parthenon in Athens.”
“What about the bronze lions? Are they original elements from the World Expo too?” he asks, examining the South Lion.
I nod, leaning against the structure. “This one’s called Hunter, and the other one is Rebel.”
“Wait.” His brown eyebrows knit together. “They have names?”
“Not officially.” I grin. “But I baptized them. See how this one looks like he’s about to pounce on some prey? That’s why I call him Hunter.” W e walk to the other lion. “And see how Rebel looks defiant, stoic almost?”
Asher frowns, but a chuckle escapes at the same time. A weird combination, but it works.
I release a breath. “Should we go inside? I love the Art Institute. It’s one of the oldest and largest art museums in the country.”
“Really?” He arches an eyebrow. “I was going to say it looks like a smaller Met.”
“Well, the Met is bigger, yes.” I avert my eyes.
“By a long shot, I’m guessing,” he adds as we enter the museum. “Unless the levels are buried deep underground.”
“They’re not.” I breathe a short sigh. “There are more wings in the back that you can’t see from here, but yes, the Met is more than twice the size of the Art Institute.”
“Well,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “I guess that point goes to New York, then.”
“So,” I venture as we exit the building. “What did you think?”
“Hmm,” he says, pretending to think about it long and hard. “It was cute, but when you’ve been to the Met, this place is definitely not as impressive.”
“ Cute ,” I say, the word burning my throat and my face. “Are you serious?”
A deep chuckle rumbles out of him. “It’s not going to be that easy to convince me, Red.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Red?”
He shrugs. “It just came out. Suits you.”
I roll my eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has called me that. “Are you ready for lunch? Three hours of walking really works up your appetite. I’m starving.”
“I’m always ready for food.”
“Oh! I know a great Chicago hot dog cart not far from here.”
He stops dead in his tracks, giving me a pointed look. “Wait. First pizza, and now hot dogs? Don’t you have any original food here in Chicago?”
I blink rapidly. “Excuse me, but New York doesn’t have a monopoly on hot dogs. Plus, I heard yours have sauerkraut on them.”
“As they should.” He scoffs. “What do you put on yours?”
“You’ll see.” I smirk. “And you’ll thank me later.”
We walk to the hot dog cart, and I insist on ordering for both of us. Don’t want to risk him asking for ketchup or something. He’d definitely get us kicked out of the park. Believe it or not, I’m only half joking. Hot dogs are taken very seriously in Chicago.
“There you go,” I say, handing him our famous hot dog. Pure beef sausage, sweet pickle relish, onions, tomato slices, pickles, peppers, and celery salt. “Eat this, and tell me how much better it is than the ones in New York.”
He examines the hot dog, then fixes his eyes on me. “No ketchup, huh?”
I force out a breath. “New Yorkers,” I say, shaking my head.
“What?” He puffs out a laugh. “It’s a pretty standard hot dog ingredient. This is America, after all.”
That draws a smile out of me. “Just try it. You’ll see.”
We eat in silence, but I can’t resist glancing at him to check his reaction. He finishes it in three bites and throws his napkin in the nearby trash can.
“So?” I ask, arching an eyebrow before finishing mine.
“Meh. It was all right. A bit much, if you ask me. New York hot dogs are tastier, and they don’t require as many ingredients.”
I fold my arms. “You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” he says, tilting his he ad. “I’m just stating the truth. If Chicago wants to convince me, it’ll have to try harder than that.”
“Oh, it will,” I say, holding his gaze. “Chicago is nothing if not resilient.”
The corners of his lips twitch. “Let’s keep going, then.”
Getting up, we continue our walk. “Here is the Chicago Athletic Association building,” I say as we’re crossing the road. I relay some facts about the Venetian Gothic architecture, and I can see I’ve piqued his interest. Until he tells me it doesn’t beat a Venetian Gothic building in Tribeca that he loves so much.
We arrive in front of the Cultural Center, but before we can step inside, my phone rings. It’s my brother, Zane.
“Go on in,” I tell Asher. “I’ll take this real quick and meet you inside.”
With a short nod, he saunters into the building.
I press my phone to my ear. “Hey, Zane. What’s up?”
“Hey, sis,” my brother’s deep voice rumbles through the receiver. “Just a little nervous.”
“Oh, right!” I exclaim, remembering that he’s planning to propose to his girlfriend today. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
He grunts in response—his usual form of communication, which makes this whole marriage proposal thing even crazier. Who knew my mountain caveman of a brother would find his match? Especially giv en how their relationship started.
“Are the dogs ready?” I ask.
“They are. It’s almost as if they sense something is happening today,” he says with a low chuckle. “What about you? What’s new?”
“Been busy. I’m showing a prospective job candidate around the city, trying to wow him into moving here.”
“Really? How’s that going?”
I sigh. “It’s going. I mean, he challenges everything I show him, saying New York is better. But I have faith.”
Zane chuckles. “Wow, okay. Sounds like you’re having fun.”
I bite my lip. “I am,” I admit.
“So, what’s going on with you, aside from this new assignment?”
I pause, knowing exactly what he’s getting at, but there’s no need to tell him Todd found my new number. It’d spoil his big day, and he’d just badger me to get a restraining order against Todd when I know it’s pointless. Todd would only take that as a challenge and pursue me even more. Avoidance is the only thing that has ever worked with him. Not to mention, a restraining order wouldn’t be very effective. With so many friends at the mayor’s office, Todd doesn’t live by the same rules as the rest of us. “Nothing much!” I nod eagerly, hoping that some of that energy will transfer through the phone. “But I have to go. My guest is waiting for me. Say hi to Ivy, and send me some pictures!”
Zane chuckles. “Will do.”
Asher
“So, what are we doing now?” I ask, a smile spreading on my lips. “I can’t wait to prove how New York is superior to Chicago again. It’s kind of fun.” It’s true. Because when I do, it ignites a fire in Daisy, and suddenly, she’s not the sweet girl she usually is. She switches to mama-bear mode, ready to take me down, and I love it. It’s like I’m getting a glimpse of the real Daisy, and I’m greedy for more.
Her cheeks flush. “As if. You just need to take those ‘I love New York’ goggles off and open your eyes to what’s around you. New York has nothing on Chicago.”
And there it is again—all fired up.
“So, are we going to the office today?” I need to stay focused on the task at hand. Being here is all good fun, but every moment out of the office is a lost opportunity for digging.
“We don’t need to,” she say s. “Maybe tomorrow. Right now, it’s time for the best tour in Chicago.”
“Oh, really?”
“Absolutely.” Her dazzling smile widens. “It’s the city’s top attraction.”
I offer her a side smirk. “You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
We make our way toward the river, then go down on the docks, where a long line has formed.
“Oh,” I say, realization setting in. “This is the architecture boat tour, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” She nods. “Stay in line. I have to grab something real quick. If it starts boarding, go on and save me a seat.”
Soon after she leaves, an attendant asks the guests to board, so I snag a front row seat, saving one for her. The engine starts, but she’s still nowhere to be found. I’m beginning to wonder if she stood me up when I hear Daisy’s voice magnified by a microphone.
“Hello, everyone,” she chirps with her usual enthusiasm. “Welcome aboard.” She walks from the back of the boat to the front, then nods at me.
My jaw almost drops. This girl is full of surprises, isn’t she?
She begins the tour, and everyone is enthralled by her speech. I can’t blame them. You can practically feel her passion, her love for the city and t he architecture. I could stay here for hours listening to her.
“How many of you know about the 1871 Great Chicago Fire?” she asks, and most people on the boat nod. “Well, that tragic event is the reason why Chicago is called ‘The Second City’: because it was built twice.”
I raise my hand, unable to pass up the opportunity to see the fire roaring in her eyes.
“Yes?” she asks, her brows furrowed.
“Is that really true? I always thought it was because Chicago was second best to New York,” I say with a smug smile.
A few tourists chuckle, and Daisy is clearly forcing herself to do the same. “Right. I’m guessing you’re from New York?” she retorts, her cheeks redder than ever.
“I am,” I say, biting my lip to keep from laughing.
Moving on, she talks about Burnham’s projects and how they changed the entire urban landscape after the fire. She lists his most famous Chicago buildings, and I can’t help but take the bait.
“Isn’t Daniel Burnham the architect who designed the Flatiron in New York?” I cut in, not bothering to raise my hand this time.
“Yes, that’s correct,” she says, subtly rolling her eyes.
“Just checking. I found it weir d that you weren’t mentioning it, since it’s his most famous building.”
Her nostrils flare, and I can feel the blood pumping harder in my veins. “Well, we’re not in New York, are we?” she says, winking at me. “We’re highlighting Chicago’s architecture. Now, the Marina City Towers,” she continues, gesturing to the towers on her left. “Designed by architect Bertrand Goldberg, these famous towers don’t have a single right angle in their entire construction. Goldberg believed that since no right angles exist in nature, none should exist in architecture. The towers were designed to bring middle-class Chicagoans back to the city after years of migration to the suburbs. These residential towers were packed with every amenity you can dream of—movie theater, swimming pool, ice rink, bowling alley. You name it. But furnishing these apartments was the tricky part, owing to their unusual pizza shape, and residents had to be creative.”
“Aren’t they petal shaped?” I butt in again, unable to resist.
“Pizza, pie, petals—call them whatever you want,” she says, her eyes blazing as they burn into me. “But I personally love calling them pizza slices. We are in Chicago, after all.” She winks again, making my stomach do a backflip. I have to hand it to her. There might be a hint of red on her cheeks, but she’s holding her own pretty well—to my utmost enjoyment.