Sweet Home...

I was doing so well, too.

There I was, sitting in La Platea, enjoying my mosto while spilling all I could about my beloved Chicago. The eager ears across the table belonged to a young Salmantina who's just been awarded a stipend to work as an intern at the Spanish tourism office on Michigan Avenue.

She'd already checked out the websites I'd recommended and read a tourist guide cover to cover.

The museums look spectacular!, she cooed.
-And there's so much culture! Festivals and blues and jazz and theatre! A symphony! And opera!

The novio brought up architecture and weekend destinations and trips they might take together when he visits. We talked universities, and art and shopping, ethnic food and 7 nights of live music.

I thought she'd faint at the prospect of skating outdoors in Millenium Park.

We did the practical, too, which, so you know, my fellow Americans, centered around health insurance, US health care costs and how she'll handle them for a year.

And then I did it.
I assured her the food would be wonderful. Contrary to Spanish popular opinion, I told her, Americans do not live on hamburgers alone.

Of course not, she laughed. Or hot dogs.

OK, well, hot dogs.
That's another topic all together.

The woman's been duly trained in the selection and eating of a classic Chicago Hot Dog. Should she wander by Demon Dogs or Plush Pup or Weiner's Circle, this Salmantina's prepared.

And I am more than ready to bite into my next Chicago char polish.

Sigh. In January.



Image from Vienna Beef, where you can read all about Chicago dogs.