Sensory Overload

Well, I'm back. Again. Stein surprised me with a spontaneous trip to Chicago on Friday for our anniversary. "Do you want to go to Chicago?" he asked on the phone. "When?" I asked. "Now," he replied. And so we were off. (After I unpacked my stuff from Chicago/Baltimore and repacked the same stuff for Chicago. Wow, do I have laundry to do.)


Like the post I did on my trips to Chicago and Baltimore, I can only think about things in bullet points. This summer, I feel, has been a series of bullet points. Quick little glimpses of people and places that come and go in a flash. This weekend was no exception. On the ride home from Chicago yesterday, I realized that my senses have been overloaded with sights, sounds, and smells. I am not complaining about any of this, this summer has been really fun, but just busy. I feel like I haven't been able to capture entire moments, because small moments came and went too quickly. As much as I loathe the impending arrival of fall and then (ugh) winter, I do look forward to slowing down. (Come to think of it, didn't I say that about the beginning of summer? Well, we all know how that turned out...)

So, without further ado, here is our past weekend through my senses:

• The sight of dying trees on the side of I-94, and wondering whether it is the lack of rain we've had that led to their demise.
  
• The sound of NPR on the radio, giving us the updates on the Olympics and other pressing news.


• The sight of virtually no traffic, something that is very rare on trips to Chicago.


• The first sight of the skyline from the skyway that always reminds me I'm back in my hometown.


• The sounds of honking taxi cabs as they weave themselves through tight spots on the city streets.
  
• The sight of the lakefront from our hotel room window.


• The sight of tourists walking around downtown, craning their necks to see the tall buildings around them.
  
• The smell of the lake mixed with car exhaust, flowers, hot tar, and sunshine on my skin.


• The sound of a boy beating on a plastic bucket with drum sticks in front of the Art Institute.


• The sight of people taking dance lessons in the park, crowded onto a dance floor with barely enough room to move.


• The sight of Millennium Park filled with people walking, enjoying the sights and gathering for a concert.



• The sound of kids running through the water in Millennium Park, slipping and sliding in the fountains and water.

• The sight of the "bean" in Millennium Park and all of the buildings and blue sky reflected in it.


• The sight of a taxi cab pulling up to take us to a restaurant.
  
• The smell and feel of a hot and humid taxi cab with plastic seats in summer in the city.
  
• The sound of talking and laughter at a rooftop bar full of people enjoying the end of the work week.
  
• The sight of the bellman at the hotel waving and whistling for the next taxi to pick us up and take us to dinner.
  
• The smell of Mexican food being made at Frontera Grill while we waited for a table in the bar.
  
• The taste of mint in the mojito I sipped as we waited.
  
• The sound of glasses clinking as Stein and I toast our anniversary.


• The sight of the coveted outside table where we were seated.
  
• The taste of guacamole and chips and queso fundido with spicy chorizo.
  
• The taste of delicious marinated pork with fresh tortillas.


• The sight of the sun streaming through the curtains in our hotel room.


• The sight of traffic as we made our way out to the suburbs.


• The sound of babies as we got onto the maternity ward.
  
• The sight of baby Ellie as we arrived at Shark and Jane's hospital room.


• The sound of Ellie's coos as she slept in my arms.


• The sight of fall colors (ugh) on some of the trees along I-94.


• The sight of our home as we rounded the corner of our street.
• The sound of my sigh as I sat on our couch.