Real Pirates Exhibit at The Field Museum - Chicago, IL

One of the highlights of my trip to Chicago was the "Real Pirates: The Untold Story of the Whydah from Slave Ship to Pirate Ship" exhibit at The Field Museum. It is hard to explain just how deep my love of pirates run. I could tell you about my pirate re-enactment with paddleboats on a canal in Amsterdam, but then I'd have to kill you. So let's just suffice it to say: I love me some pirates.

The exhibit is built around the Whydah, which began as a slave ship and later was used by pirates. The opening deals primarily with the viscious tragedy of the slave trade. It describes how slaves were brutally captured, transported and sold in heartbreaking detail. Artifacts such as chains are on display and excerpts of first person narratives are posted to help viewers to understand just how real and viscious the human slave trade was. Or should I say is. Sadly, the slave trade still exists in the world although it has become less recognizable.

Pirate Captain Sam Bellamy (nicknamed "Black Bellamy") later took control of the ship. While black men were once slaves now they could be crewmen. Pirate crews were actually much more racially diverse and provided a greater sense of equality, freedom and opportunity than most people were able to find on land. The potential of riches and the chance to be one's own man encouraged many to sign the articles, or officially swear in as a pirate.

But good fortune couldn't last forever. On April 26, 1717, the Whydah sank in a storm. Of 146 crewmen, only Thomas Davis, the carpenter, and John Julian, the pilot survived. John Julian, a 16-year-old Miskito Indian, was sold into slavery. Thomas Davis was set free according to his lawyer's claim he had been pressed into piracy by Bellamy's crew because they needed another carpenter.

The exhibit was almost exculsively about the Whydah. There was not much information about piracy in general. I was disappointed to see only one sign about female pirates and that mentioned only Anne Bonney and Mary Reed by name. While I understand the need for brevity, I was disappointed that an exhibit that took so much time to show how pirates were creating a more racially equal community at sea failed to give anything more than lip service to the great freedom piracy gave women.

Agora in Grant Park - Chicago, IL

I first became familiar with Polish sculptor Magdalena Abakanowicz through her work "Standing Figures" that is visible in the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art sculpture garden, this first place I visited on The Yellow Brick Road Trip (see my first trip here). So I was happy and surprised to see "Agora" in Grant Park while waiting for a CTA bus. I immediately recognized it as the work of Abakanowicz, she has an incredibly distinctive style of creating massive faceless bodies, an anonymous crowd.


"Agora" is 106 cast iron figures, each about 9 feet tall. Abakanowicz and three assistants hand created the molds for each individual figure and then spent three years (from 2004-2006) casting them. The name comes from the crowded appearance of the figures. The word "agora" refers to an open "place of assembly" in ancient Greek cities. In early history, Greek men would gather in the agora for military duty or to hear statements from the rulers. Later, the agora became a sort of marketplace. (Fun Fact: The term agoraphobia - the fear of being in crowds, public places, or open areas - is derived from the word agora.)

Wandering through the figures is a bizarre feeling. In her work "Standing Figures" the bodies are hollowed out so you could theoretically step into them and be part of the art. But in "Agora," the figures are so towering but faceless that you really begin to feel as though you are wondering through a massive, anonymous crowd. It is an especially interesting commentary in a place like Chicago, where it is easy to become lost in the city crowd among a million other featureless faces. Sometimes, you do feel insignificant when your pressed into a packed L car, like a tiny nameless person unseen among the imposing bodies.

"Agora" is truly an amazing work and I continue to be in awe of Magdalena Abakanowicz's brilliance no matter where I find it - in Chicago or Kansas City.

God Bless America Sculpture - Chicago, IL

At the Art Institute of Chicago, you can view Grant Wood's iconic oil painting "American Gothic." Or you can walk down Michigan Avenue. You can't miss the 25-foot sculpture by J. Seward Johnson re-creating the classic image of Americana, titled "God Bless America."

75 years after Wood created the original image, Johnson designed this work for The Sculpture Foundation. It is a very realistic, grandiose, three-dimensional representation of the original. Honestly, I look back and forth from the painting to the sculpture and it really looks like the characters have stepped away from the flat surface and into the real world. The sculptor added his own little touch to the couple. At their feet is luggage marked from world travels. The suitcase is covered with bumper stickers from all the corners of the globe such as China and Bangladesh.

Seward designed this sculpture to be part people's daily lives. He said, "We are overwhelmed in the twentieth century with what technology has brought us. We need to be reminded of the warmth of the human spirit, and so examples should be present in our environments. We have to understand that our age can be a humanitarian one, and not one which relegates the human being to an alienated condition."

The sculpture is part of a rotation of works by The Sculpture Foundation on this spot. This particular work will be visible through October 2010. It is replacing another work by Johnson, "King Lear."

Cloud Gate in Millennium Park - Chicago, IL

Like the Swedish American Museum, Millennium Park is another one of those places I have seen or passed a million times while living in Chicago but rarely (if ever) visited.

The first I was ever near Millennium Park while I lived in Chicago was my freshman year of college when I reviewed The Millennium Perk coffee shop (Get the "Friends" reference? It's okay. I didn't get it the first time either. Go look it up. I'll wait...Done? All right then, back to my story). I went one evening to have a cup of coffee, got lost on the L, managed to eventually find the place, take my notes and go back to my dorm to type everything up. That was my first encounter. After that, my only encounter with Millennium Park was working across the street from it for three months in an office building on Michigan Avenue. I passed it and forgot it was there. But that just shows you how in the hustle and bustle of life, we don't see the amazing attractions that are really there until we come back as a tourist.

After Anna had kindly indulged me visiting some shops I missed and watched while I spent way too much money on stuff I probably don't need, we went to meet Nick in Millennium Park. That's when I saw the Cloud Gate on the AT&T Plaza.

The Cloud Gate is an 110-ton elliptical stainless steel sculpture to reflect the Chicago skyline and the passing of the clouds overhead. Designed byBritish artist Anish Kapoor, it is made from highly shined, seamlessly forged steel plates to create a 66-feet long, 33-feet high sculpture inspired by liquid mercury. As you approach it, you see your reflection in the surface. But more than that - you see yourself as part of the park crowd. You see you, the other people, the city, the sky. It is a surreal experience to see not just your own shape but your position in the world around you reflected back. Visitors are invited to touch the sculpture and are even able to pass through it under a 12-foot archway.

As you approach it, you see your reflection in the mirror-like surface. But more than that - you see yourself as part of the park crowd. You see you, the other people, the city, the sky. It is a surreal experience to see not just your own shape but your position in the world around you reflected back.

I don't know how I missed this for so many years. But I thought about that a lot in Chicago, amazed by what I discovered through the eyes of a tourist that I had missed for so many years as a resident. I wonder what I would have seen in the Cloud Gate years ago? Would I have seen my reflection as a natural part of the city - the people and the buildings just as much part of my image as my face? Or was the strange feeling I had looking into that distorted mirror only possible because I was only a visitor now. Passing through the Cloud Gate, passing through the city, and disappearing like a cloud from the skyline to let the permanent and the forever gaze upon their unmarred reflections in the mirror.

Andersonville Dalecarlian Horse - Chicago, IL

For years I have walked past a large painted sculpture of a horse in Andersonville and never had the slightest clue what it meant. But thanks to a very nice woman at the Swedish American Museum gift shop, I now know.

Throughout the shop and the museum, I had seen small, painted wooden horses. Curious, I asked her what they meant. She told me the Dalecarlian Horse (or Dalahäst in Swedish) was carved by Swedish men during the winter to pass the time. When they had finished, they would paint them bright colors and give them to the children to play with. Eventually, they become the national toy and a symbol for Sweden.


After Anna and I left the museum and started walking up the street for coffee, I saw the giant Dalecarlian Horse on the sidewalk. I was shocked! I had always known the statue was there, but like so many things I had simply forgotten about it and let my curiosity about its meaning dwindle away until it was nothing more than the occasional idle musing. Now, I finally understood what the horse on the corner meant. Like the Swedish flag on the water tower, it was a tribute to the heritage of Andersonville immigrants.

I've taken the image of the Dalecarlian Horse has a reminder not to let questions go unasked. Even if they may seem silly or inconsiquential, there may be an interesting story I would never know if I didn't bother to ask.

On a side note, I have since learned that while this is a large Dalecarlian horse it is not the largest. The world's largest Dalecarlian horse is actually made of concrete, not wood, and located in Avesta Municipality, Sweden. It is 13 meters (over 42 feet) tall and weighs 67 tons.

Swedish American Museum - Chicago, IL

I've done it again! I'm traveling too much and too fast for the blog to keep up! I'm currently in Katy, Texas with my friend Anna visiting her family, but still have so much more to tell about our time in Chicago. So I'll eventually get to our current adventures. In the mean time, I'll tell you a little more about our visit to the Windy City. (Fun fact: The windy city nickname has nothing to do with the weather, it is actually a reference to the blowhard politicians.)

When I lived in the Andersonville neighborhood, I used to walk by the Swedish American Museum several times a day but I never stopped to visit it. I always planned to eventually go inside, but after so many times I just kept walking past and sort of forgot it was there. Like the Swedish flag painted on the water tower or any number of roadside attractions, you get so used to seeing them everyday you just seem to stop seeing them. But on this visit, I was a tourist and after a lovely meal at Ann Sather, Anna and I decided to finally see the museum.

As we stepped out of the heat and into the cool museum, we were promptly shaken down by a little old lady with a think Swedish accent. She reminded us they requested donations. We asked if we could use a debit card since neither of us had any cash handy, but in a very stern yet grandmotherly voice she reminded us that the museum requested "donations." So our adventure began after we went to the ATM across the street and gave the little only lady our "donations."

The first floor features the special exhibit "Roundtrip: New York-Gotland" by Peter Åström, a Swedish-born artist who has been living in New York since the mid 1970s. According to the museum website, the exhibit "depicts his Swedish and American locations and lifestyles in the bustling city to the natural countryside." Truthfully, we didn't get it. I thought the paintings looked like they were done by a drunk five-year-old. Anna couldn't figure out why a crude drawing of a duck cost four figures. So we quickly moved on to the second floor, which was about Swedish immigration to Chicago and the prominent Swedes who helped to make the city, the country and the world great.



The exhibit begins by telling the story of Swedish immigration. People certainly didn't leave their homes to cross an ocean - they were driven there by hardship, crop failures and promises of a better life or at least a more fruitful struggle. The displays continue and follow the immigrants journey across the sea, the place they craved for themselves in American society, the traditions and heritage they maintained despite their diaspora and the amazing Swedes who changed Chicago, the country and the world. It would be impossible for me to tell every story I leaned in my visit or even convey even the smallest amount of knowledge I gained. There was simply too much. Instead I will offer the one story that moved me the most and encourage you to pay a visit to the museum yourself, should you ever get a chance.

The most fascinating exhibit was the room dedicated to the life of Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish humanitarian and diplomat who worked from Hungary to save thousands of Jewish lives during the Holocaust. He was asked to save as many lives as possible. In return, he was granted generous liberty and freedom with how he went about accomplishing his mission - essentially given license to do whatever it took such as bribing an official - to save lives. He issued "protective passports" to Jews in the country, though they were not legal the documents looked official and saved many from being sent to death camps. He rented 32 buildings, claiming they were covered by diplomatic immunity, and hid almost 10,000 people within them. Once, he even saved dozens of Jews already on a train headed for Auschwitz by handing out the protective passports while armed Nazis looked on, dumbfounded by his determination and bravado.


Though Wallenberg saved tens of thousands of lives, he was detained by the Soviet Union and never seen again. It is unclear when he actually died. The exhibit in the Swedish American Museum does not mention the controversy regarding his death year, whether it was in 1945 or in a Russian prison in 1957, only his great works. I was amazed reading the plaques in his honor and the numerous stories of his heroic acheivements. If you ever have an opportunity to visit the museum, I cannot encourage you enough to stop in this room and take your time examining all you can about this extraordinary Swedish man.

After a somber moment of reflection, Anna and I took the elevator up to the third floor to look at the children's museum. We considered making a visit but realized when we saw it that despite our child-like hearts, we were definitely too old to play there. Instead, we finished off our tour with a visit to the gift shop so we could buy our own Swedish toys.

It was a wonderful visit to a wonderful museum. My only regret is that I never went sooner, perhaps when I was living only a few steps away and might have been able to make more visits.

Ann Sather Andersonville Restaurant - Chicago, IL

Whenever I go to Chicago, there is one and only one restaurant I must eat at - Ann Sather. It is the best breakfast/brunch restaurant in the city of Chicago and if anyone tells you otherwise then they are dirty, dirty liars.



Ann Sather is a Swedish restaurant founded over 60 years ago in Chicago, known for serving huge portions of the richest, most decadent food you have ever savored. It has four locations around the city, but I always prefer the one in Andersonville for two reasons. First, the neighborhood is known for its Swedish cultural presence so it feels right to go to a Swedish restaurant in that atmosphere. Second, it is MY Ann Sather. I lived in Andersonville and still feel like it is my restaurant in my neighborhood, even if I did move away a year ago.

On my first afternoon in the city, we decided to enjoy a late brunch/early lunch with a trip to the best Ann Sather in the city - my Ann Sather. Normally it would be impossible to decide what to eat - if you are ever in Chicago, I recommend multiple meals there so you can appreciate the full range of their menu. There are real Swedish Pancakes with Lingonberries, French Toast, Omelets, etc. and all of massive proportions. Seriously, I have never seen someone actually finish a meal at Ann Sather.

Anna and I settled on the Crab Cake Eggs Benedict (which were amazing!) but there is one item you simply must order if you eat at Ann Sather - the cinnamon rolls. They are the greatest cinnamon rolls ever tasted, ever baked, ever conceived of being baked! Two are in an order and each one is bigger than my fist. Order them as a meal, as a side, a la carte - whatever! Just make sure you taste the greatest cinammon roll you will ever have at Ann Sather Andersonville Restaurant in Chicago.

Chicago Midway International Airport - Chicago, IL

Friday, I boarded a direct flight from Kansas City International Airport to Midway Airport in Chicago at 5pm. I arrived almost five hours later. Why, you ask? How did a flight that shouldn't take more than an hour last that long?

At first everything seemed normal. I was settled in with my seat belt fastened, my tray in its upright and locked position. I was enthusiastically reading my copy of Dave Egger's "A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius," which I am happy to say is heartbreaking, very funny and quite possibly genius (though I don't think it has been such a work of genius that I have staggered.) Then suddenly, the captain announced we were landed in St. Louis. I checked the time and it was 6:20pm. Yes, we should be landing right about now. But not in St. Louis. Why the hell are we in St. Louis.

People began frantically calling their loved one's from the airstrip to report this strange turn of events. But we had no answers. We were told the plane was refueling. But what does that mean? Is there something wrong with the plane? How could we run out of fuel? Why the HELL are we in St. Louis? Luckily, the very kind people at Southwest Airlines let us off the plane to get food. Well, other people got food. I quickly found the airport smoking lounge and began filling my lungs with that sweet, sweet nicotine as quickly as possible.

I made friends with some fellow wayward travelers and found some answers. Apparently, bad weather in Chicago had diverted a number of flights to this airport. I was among the lucky ones who were not missing their connecting flights. I met a speech therapist who was flying to Chicago to help plan a pregnant friend's baby shower. She had only moved to Kansas City a little while ago, to join her boyfriend after four months of long distance courtship. I met the head nurse of a hospital who was going to Chicago to see her daughter who had a futures trading internship. I met a couple who had been enjoying their in-flight drinks a little too much and had since decided they didn't care how long they were stranded in the airport as long as they could buy more liquor.

Then came that joyous announcement - our plane was reboarding! We had been cleared for takeoff! We were finally going to make it to Chicago! When I finally landed in Midway, I checked the time. Given when I had left my house to go to KCI and the time I landed in Chicago, it had taken me a little over seven hours. To drive to Chicago, would have taken eight and a half. So I'm not sure whether I made the best travel arrangements, but I did enjoy the opportunity to sit quietly and enjoy Dave Eggers.

Total Trip Time: 7 hours (including drive to the airport)
Total Distance Traveled: 500 miles
Soundtrack: "I Wanna Be Sedated" The Ramones

Road Trip Philosophy - Never Ride the L After Midnight

When I lived in Chicago, I had a love/hate relationship with public transportation. I loved that there was always a way to get around without a car. But it was also inconvinient, dangerous and took a lot longer to get where you were going. Most of these flaws were exacerbated by my own incompitence. There were times I rode an hour on a bus before realizing I was going the wrong way. There was also the time I discovered myself stranded when I learned the Purple Line stops running at a certain time and I would have to pay a ridiculous cab fare to get home.

But one rule I learned for certain: Never ride the L after midnight. For some reason when the clock strikes twelve, the L becomes a very scary place. During the day, criminal activities are largely limited to the illegal gambling games like three card monty - you know, the sort of things that never really hurt anybody and are actually entertaining to watch while you ride. But at night something happens where are the creepy, crazy people of the city seem to find their place on the L! There are the people openly smoking crack and dealing drugs, the skinheads on their way home from a bar (or crossburning, whichever) who decide to shout obscenities, the guy who tries to hit on you to impress his frat brothers not realized he got a little vomit on his Delta Iota Kappa sweatshirt, the underage drunk girls trying to keep their tops up and their miniskirts down, and of course the fatalist schizophrenic foretelling our "Doom!"

Riding the L back in the day with my lovely friend Bess

My worst experience on the L was late at night with my sister who had just come to visit me in Chicago for the first time. We were on the 95th/Dan Ryan Red Line when a very inebriated man who probably hadn't washed in a month sat down next to me. I reminded my sister of public transportation rule number one: ignore everyone around you. So we pretended he wasn't there.

After a couple minutes though, a guy across from me kept trying to catch my eye. I finally gave up and made eye contact, then he pointed to the drunk man next to me. The drunk man next to me who was fondly my skirt. The drunk man next to me who having realized he was busted, decided to go for broke and try to fondle my thigh.

Needless to say, I jumped up and grabbed my sister to move us to different seats. A couple minutes later though, I peeked back over to the man to see if he was still there. He was. And he was...pleasuring himself. Needless to say, both my sister and I were permanently traumatized that the man who had been attempting to feel me up only moments ago had now decided to publicly....um, enjoy...himself.

I told you. Never ride the L after midnight. Or else a drunk and possibly homeless man will use you in ways you really wish you didn't know about.