August 17, 2006
Chicago
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Lazy summers are a great time for taking road trips, and also a good time to bite your tongue, suck it up and learn once and for all: men don’t ask for directions.

My boyfriend and I drove to Chicago last Friday to meet his parents for a minute-by-minute fun filled weekend.

His parents did all the heavy lifting: they made the hotel and dinner reservations; plans to hit the Gold Coast Art Fair; and bought tickets to “War” at The Second City.

Basically, all we had to do was remember to pack our toothbrushes, which we both forgot.

For the most part I am, some would say, a super planner, and it’s difficult relinquishing that role.

The only task I had for the entire trip was to print directions to the hotel off of mapquest.com, thus butchering my work ethic.

But I held those directions, my sole responsibility, tightly as we burned up the Dan Ryan, and, nearing our exit, a few times I gently nudged: Honey, you might want to get into the right lane soon. Honey…um, honey…

We were looking for Exit 51A: the hotel was a straight shot downtown from there.

Four exits before our designated route (good God, men are predictable), my boyfriend said, “I’ve had enough of this traffic; let’s get off on this exit and make it an adventure.”

Thereupon, a small hell broke loose in my bloodstream.

We had a dinner deadline; I needed a shower; I wanted a nap; I had drunk way too much water.

Things that make you go: damn it!

I kept a smile plastered to my face; an hour, and what seemed like hundreds of U-turns later, we arrived at the hotel.

I didn’t need to say “I told you so” because he knew; oh, how he knew.

But if anything can help shake off travel debacles and boyfriends who let you waste an entire sheet of paper with directions printed on it (I am so kidding right now), Chicago is it.

Within minutes of dropping my bag in the room, I shed my infantile hubris and we all ate at Gene & Georgetti’s, the St. Elmo’s Steakhouse of Chicago.

I had a fat steak and a belly to prove it, which is pretty good work if you can get it.

Thankfully, I walked off the steak on my way to chocolate truffles at the Fudge Pot, then nightcaps atop the John Hancock building.

Indy is a good place but, oh, Chicago, couldn’t you move to town?