I lost my heart in Chicago.

Ah, Chicago. First, I guess I should apologize for not posting from Chicago, like I said I would. But, see, it's hard to type when you've got a drink glued to your left hand and a fork glued to your right.

Anyway, after a bit of a bumpy start, my trip to Chicago began with an early morning flight from LaGuardia to Midway, and a bleary-eyed train ride to the Loop. Whereupon I got off at my stop and proceeded to walk a few blocks in the exact wrong direction, even after getting guidance from the CTA staff, in an attempt to find the Allegro (171 W. Randolph, between LaSalle and Wells). See "eyed, bleary."

Eventually, I found it, and it was good: lobby richly decorated with royal-hued velvet chaises, gracious staff, all the tootsie rolls you can stomach, and free wine reception from 5-6 pm, every day. The room was more than adequate, with lots of nice little touches--Aveda toiletries, a down blanket and down pillows rather than the standard poly-fill comforters and pillows you find in most hotels, lovely, retro decor that matches the rest of the hotel. I'll likely stay there again if/when I go back.

After checking in, I dropped off my bags and went in search of food, since I had gotten into the city so early there were no rooms ready. I stumbled around in the cold for about an hour before ending up at Monday's, one of apparently several Chicago barsterants, for my favorite diner food: french toast, poached eggs, coffee, hashbrowns. It was good. Then I went back to the Allegro, went up to my room, and passed the hell out.

In the afternoon, following a few coordinatory (it's a word now) phone calls to Shasta and TDMM, I got myself out of bed, mildly tarted up, and set off to meet Shasta for the real beginning of my Chicago adventure, because that's when I met Shasta and Carlos. That's right, I met Shasta and Carlos! Be jealous. Be very, very jealous. This post should totally be called the Shasta and Carlos Tour. That or the Whorin', Brawlin' and Drinkin' Tour. Or Nosh-N-Slosh '05.

Some notes on the lovely and talented Shasta MacNasty:

1. Has a speaking voice that could talk a starving man out of a ham sammich. Seriously, it's perfect--feminine but not girlie, no regional twang, the woman should do voice-overs.
2. Whip-smart. Which is clear from her blog.
3. Purty, purty, purty. Ten-billion watt smile, and just a lady, in her heels and gloss.
4. Funny as a muhfuggah.

Some notes on the lovely and talented Carlos:

1. Not nearly as serious as he might at first appear to be.
2. Funny as a muhfuggah.
3. Can out-shop, -eat, -travel and -drink me. I want to be Carlos when I grow up.
4. His laugh is priceless. I'd pay money to hear it.

These two were the most kick-ass (perhaps Shasta would joke, most krunkest) hosts/guides to Chicago. I luh' dem bofe, too.

I met up with Shasta at 5, and she took me to her after-work hangout, the Venice Cafe (250 S. Wacker Dr. Wacker is the best street name ever.), where, during happy hour from 5-7ish, the pizza is free and the drink is cheap. And the barman, Bill, is one sexy MF. Holy crap, he might be the hottest bar guy (I dunno if he owns it, manages it, or just works at it, but he makes VC worth visiting) I've ever met, not least because he might be the first one I've met who didn't seem at all skeevy or shitty, as most bar-running types tend (and often have) to be. Actually, he seemed quite sweet. Hm. We likey the Bill. Um, anyway. So, yeah, Venice Cafe. You should go.

Shasta and I chatted about life and compared fancy shoes, since we'd both had the same idea and worn our favorite new tarty shoes to meet each other, ha! And then Carlos came, and the fun just grew by leaps and bounds, because he too is lovely and talented, and fun as all get-out.

After a round, we headed back to the Allegro to drop off a key for my friend, TDMM, and grabbed a drink at Encore, the lounge in the Allegro, for more chat and drinky-drink. The mixmasters at Encore made perhaps the best lemon drop I've had to date, at totally reasonable prices. Shasta had an apple-tini that she said was okay. Carlos might have been the big winner at Encore, though, since we made him get the Chai-tini, which I thought was both yummilicious and brilliant, because, really, how do you top alcoholic chai? You don't. Trust me.

Aaaaaaaand on to stop #3, Volare (201 East Grand St.), where we met up with three of Carlos' work friends, who were predominantly German, and lots of fun. Where we waited, in the cold, for a good 45 minutes, even with reservations, for a table. And where I had some of the best Italian food I think I've ever had in my life. I have much love for Volare. The waitstaff was fabulously attentive once we were seated, made excellent recommendations, and the food was fantastic. I think my favorite dish was the rotolini di melanzane, ricotta rolled in eggplant, topped with a tomato sauce. Simple, but really, really good. Shasta said her fettucine alfredo was the best she'd ever had. They also poured a mean black martini, the drink Carlos turned me on to. Fabulous.

In all, we spent almost three hours at Volare, noshing and drinking and generally talking trash. Topics included: The movie Beauty Shop, how to find a good grappa, the "Sprockets" SNL skit, and Kanye West.

Around 11, two-thirds of us headed over to Fado Irish Pub to meet up with TDMM and her charming gentleman friend, P, who had been hitting the Irish bars since she'd pulled into town at 6. Boy were they in the thick of a drinkin' good time. Which was perfect, because so were we. Blah blah blah, more drink and chuckles. Oh, also, this is where I lost my heart. Heart nosering. I told you I needed a budget for those damned things.

Sometime after 1, TDMM and P decided they needed food, so, after bidding Shasta and the last of Carlos' work friends to be hanging with us good night, TDMM. P, Carlos and I headed over to Mother Hubbard's (5 West Hubbard) for a lot of water and some Mexican food, the quality of which I honestly cannot for the life of me recall. Oh, and the friends of some heffa named Rhonda tried to start some lynch-mob shit by claiming one of us said "fuck Rhonda," even though none of us had ever met her, had never spoken to them, nor had we even looked in their direction at any point in the evening for long enough to register their existence as sentient beings until Rhonda had the nerve to roll up on us asking if we'd said something about fucking Rhonda. No, no we didn't. Someone said "Fuck me runnin'!" but only a drunken asshole drunker than us who was trying to start some shit would have gotten "fuck Rhonda" from that. None of the fuckers who tried to start shit apologized, though Rhonda was genial enough about it. So, yeah, fuck Rhonda's friends. Bitches.

TDMM and I parted company with the fellas around 3, stumbled up to our room and passed out for a bit of shut eye. And that was Nosh-N-Slosh Day One in a really, really long nutshell. Like, the brazil nutshell of travel journaling. Yeah.

Day one pros: lot of good food, companionship and drink.
Day one chuckles: Saw a sign that referred to soda as "pop." Silly midwesterners.
Day one cons: smoking still allowed indoors in Chicago. I had forgotten what that was like, having spent the bulk of the last 5 years of my life in cities that prohibit smoking in any public establishment.
Brawls started: 0.5. See "Rhonda, fucking friends."
Drinky-drink tally: not tellin'.
Calorie tab: sod off.