Fireworks at Lake Michigan...

I enjoy a summer special event just as much as the next gal. Well, sort of. Call me civilized, but craning to catch a glimpse of rich pseudo sailor's boats among a throng of people holding glowsticks and folding chairs standing in line for greasy ribs while being eaten alive by mosquitoes and then standing in another line for the port-a-potty amidst an olfactory cocktail of beer, bugspray and body odor is not my idea of a good time.

Clarification: in Chicago, it is practically a requirement to spend time outdoors and attend overcrowded events open to the public during the mere six weeks out of the year when the weather is not too humid, rainy, snowy, or frigid.

For the first time in my life I attended Venetian Night, a half-century old Chicago tradition that began when the first Mayor Daley decided the stunning Lake Michigan waterfront should be highlighted by wealthy, nautically-inclined Chicagoans who wanted to parade their opulently decorated boats in front of the ogling common folk.

In the good old days, there was a parade and a beauty pageant in addition to the lakefront procession. Even my mother claims to have ridden on a Venetian Night boat in her 16th year. Today there are Hawaiian themed boats and conga drum boats and ghetto fabulous boats.

The city galvanizes around such events: cops on horseback, white and orange security barriers, and the obligatory Good Humor trucks line all the major roads. Exclusive buildings block off their lawns and set up security to make room for residents and keep the riff raff out, while those living in such buildings watch the display from their umpteenth floor balconies with a view of the lake. Such events seem to bring out the best and worst of the city.

There is always that guy who clogs up pedestrian traffic because he lost his bluetooth in the middle of a crowded sidewalk and the annoying suburban couples who think its oh-so-cool to be in the city but have no idea how to navigate urban terrain or hold their liquor. And then there are the lanky Midwestern transplants wearing cokebottle glasses and tapered jeans from Iowa or an equivalent state that I will never so much as drive through attempting to walk their bikes through a wall of (mostly overweight) individuals (because biker guys believe shrinking their green footprint takes precedence over inconveniencing tons of people)while some pregnant lady dragging her six kids in a red wagon to an illegally parked Escalade that probably by now has the boot is vying for the same narrow piece of sidewalk.

That being said, there is no place like Chicago in summer, and while this entire blog might be a strange riff off of a Kayne West lyric, its still something that in a post-9/11 world a diverse American city can host an event that kinda sort makes people of all walks of life feel like they belong to something.

God Bless America

Place: Back home
Location: Chicago
Coordinates: beer gut and big tushie

Observation #1
In the weeks leading up to my return, many of my foreign co-workers and I salivated over the smell of summer wafting across the Atlantic. Home was merely the place chock full of the foods we couldn't find in Istanbul (or only the crappier, more expensive versions). A long time ago in a land far, far away, people known as Americans ate things like sushi, pork, and real fake Mexican foods. Friends from both coasts strived to loose a few kilos before leaving for the states so they'd have a little wiggle room for the draft beer, bacon, and burritos. One week in and I'm already feeling the effects of deep dish pizza, ice cream, and returning to a mythologized homeland.

Observation #2
The not-so-suble comparison between the United States and the rest of the world? Everything is bigger. The buildings, the portions, the size of our land masses, our politician's heads and of course, the people. The other obvious distinction: the options. Instead of 2 brands of aspirin there are 27. Everything from lattes to legwarmers can be tailor made.I was desperately craving dessert the other night(some things stay the same no matter where you are) and I had my choice of pinkberry-esque fro-yo, coldstone ice cream, chocolate fondue, and the desserts available at five different types of ethnic restaurants - all within a two block radius.There is nothing innately better about American desserts as opposed to Turkish desserts (well, Ghiradeli ice cream aside); they are not necessarily fancier or or fresher or cheaper. The mere fact that there were so many of them made the situation all the more appealing.

Observation #3
I've been dreaming of my first trip back to Trader Joe's. I had visions of sweet and savory trail mix, frozen masala veggie burgers, thirteen different types of pasta sauce and products with tea tree oil dancing in my head. When I got there, I was more amazed by the bizarro families feeding their children soy ice cream and dried cranberries as their idea of a 'treat.' Grocery shopping seemed like more of a marker of one's identity than a practical trip down the frozen foods aisle. Are you a soy or dairy kind of girl? Is your cart filled with organic beer or vitamin water? Fresh veggies or frozen teriyaki stir fry? So many options, so many ways to define oneself. Why not just get a cute little star or heart tattooed on your foot? Then you'll be really original/

These comforts are like a fluffy pillow - you can't wait to sink your head in and melt into soft downy bliss, but as soon as you do you run the risk of being suffocated by duck feathers. Because, upon returning home, when you don't have to worry about how you will formulate your next sentence or if the cockroaches will be coming back, then you have time to spend five minute with the freezer door open debating between criss cut fries and potato wedges.

And I wonder: will I feed my children soy or regular ice cream?