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Published: September 3rd 2007
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The Big Bean
Millenium Park Admittedly, we did make it hard on ourselves.
In the four years since I had been in the States, I had forgotten the fact that customer service in this country is like one of those legends passed through the ages, a distant memory I wasn’t sure had actually once existed, or if I had simply dreamed it up. Like gramophones and black and white tv’s, customer service in the country of me, myself and I, was an outdated myth, and almost completely non-existent. Nevertheless, we fronted up at the bagel counter the next sunny Chicago morning, and proceeded to make a mess of what, in retrospect, was a very simple order of toasted bagels with our various preference of condiments.
In our defence, how were we supposed to know that the condiments were kept tucked away on a table on the side? Not a huge, dramatic mistake to make in the scheme of things really, and so came our muddled order of ‘one cinnamon and raisin bagel with butter, one plain bagel with cream cheese but no butter’, and so on, and so forth. Clearly the guy behind the counter thought we were just another lot of dumb tourists.
Which, of course, we were, although ironically this is a title usually reserved for American’s on the backpacker trail and not us beer-swilling Aussies. Not that I do that, for the record. Swill beer, that is.
But I’m over exaggerating. The guy at the service counter wasn’t so bad, a rolled eye and a ‘can they actually be serious?’ look or two. We grabbed our bagels and sat at the counters, relishing our bagels which we love to eat whenever we get the chance because it’s such a difficult commodity to find amongst our usual Melbourne haunts.
After chatting a while to cousin Kumar and his girlfriend Sarah, the family headed off down to Millennium Park, the big ticket item in Chicago town. Millennium Park is - well, a park - but with the added bonus of what is commonly known as ‘The Big Bean’ thrown into the mix.
Although I thought Australia was the authority on Big Inanimate objects (Big Banana, Big Pineapple, Big Dog-On-The-Tuckerbox), The Big Bean was actually fairly impressive. I’m not sure what it was actually
supposed to be - modern art, I suspect. But standing innocuously in the middle of the pavement,
it displayed a stunning reflection of the Chicago skyline, with all it’s beautifully architectured structures that were rebuilt after the big fire in 1871.
We wandered through the park for a while, watched the kids playing in the fountains and the strangers / American celebrities we’d never heard of randomly light up the big screens as kids splashed and squealed in front of them. In one corner of the park was a big open air theatre, where members of a band were warming up in preparation for some big show later that night. A stroll through the floral arrangements on the other side of the park, and our little daytrip was complete.
Later that evening we headed on to Priya’s Wedding Rehearsal. Met David for the first time; the husband to be. A sweet guy, and clearly devoted to Priya. Alisha and Sophia running around in their pretty dresses as only little kids can, adults trying to explain to them that as flower girls they would be expected to walk up the isle in front of Priya scattering petals, which is a difficult thing to understand when you’re four and seven and no-one in your life before has
ever told you that they actually
want you to make a mess.
After the rehearsals were over, on to the dinner room for our rehearsal dinner. Interesting - we have to rehearse how to eat? I’m sure there’s more to it than that, but regardless, the food is wonderful and it’s nice to be surrounded by the extended family again.
A bit worryingly, at one point during the night I thought it might be nice to have a small glass of the free alcohol that was being offered around. When the waiters came over to our table, they offered some to my dad, glanced at me, and then made as if to move on without even a backward glance.
A bit perturbed, I asked for a glass of wine. Instantly I was asked for some identification.
Now I realised in the United States the legal drinking age is 21. That’s all very well, but I’ve been the legal drinking age in my own country for five years now, and over two years as per US law! I suppose in some ways it could be flattering to be considered less than 21, and I suppose it may
even be understandable if I was bumming around casually in jeans and t-shirt heading to the cinema to watch the latest animated Pixar film. But when you’re all dolled up with the makeup piled on and fancy dress with ridiculously heeled shoes, the least a waiter could do is acknowledge your legal adult status! Alas, my wallet was tucked safely away in the hotel along with my age identification, so the half glass of wine I was requesting was defiantly out of the question. I’m told that ‘one day’ I’ll be thankful that people constantly think I look younger than I actually am. Although knowing me, I’ll probably look 20 years old right up until the moment I hit 30 and then suddenly people will assume I’m 40 instead.
‘Cause it’d be just my luck, wouldn’t it?
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