Date Night in Chicago. Or: So When do You Wear Your Nice Shoes?

Saturday was date night. I love date nights. Put on something chic, Clerg even wore a shirt and a nice jacket for me. Only my going-out-shoes will have to wait for better times. Here, the distances, like everything else, are so oversized that I cannot imagine taking my heels on a three-mile walk to the restaurant. I have not seen many other women wearing them, either, so I guess this is the way to do it here.

We took this picture for the pink ribbon - I think whoever is the marketing chief of the breast cancer campaign is a genius. The whole city is pink.

So we went for the American classic - movie & dinner. I have this little Lonely Planet guide book and even if it is a bit nerdy, it`s my true friend and companion in the city. The cinemas are just like in Tallinn (only bigger, that is) and just like everywhere else, I was massively disturbed by people eating next to and behind us. This lady on my right was literally chewing herself through the first half of the movie, and not quietly, no, but chips out of a very cracking bag. Ironically, she was not even fat. I promised myself to congratulate her on her digestion at the end of the movie, but the Moneyball was so good that instead, I was weeping like a baby and clearly softened by Brad Pitt`s great appearance.

It is said (and not only in the guide book) that Chicago is famous for its deep-dish pizza. So we went to check out two of the most talked about pizzerias. While at the Giordano`s, you would wait behind the door until your number gets yelled out, we chose to stand in a proper line at the Gino`s East. We were clearly overdressed, and did have our doubts about all this but it was not cold, and the fellow-waiters who all seemed Americans (thank you, Lonely Planet) made an interesting entertainment. Right behind us, for example, there was a young mother trying to tame her husband and two little kids, who, clearly, did not grasp the idea of having to poshly wait to get a slice of pizza. I tried to figure out if flirting with the doorman would get us in any sooner. No such luck. Then again, I guess I was not that persuasive with Clerg on my side. After about forty minutes we made it inside to wait on a bench, and then to our table, and another hour later, we had this in front of us:

I think all this waiting has to be to work up one`s appetite. We managed to eat two slices each and the rest was neatly packed in a box to take home. When we left, the queue had disappeared.

PS. When we got home from our date night, the trees in front of the entrance were lit pink. I told you, a genius.

PPS. Yesterday, when I walked in the streets at the time people went home from work, I finally figured out how the ladies of the city do it with their heels. They have all changed their nice shoes to sneakers (or, in some cases, flip-flops) on the street to their pant suits or skirts!