You can take the girl out of the country. . .

So I survived. I made it Chicago. I made it onto the train at O’Hare. The area in which I was sitting only smelled slightly like vomit, but we won’t talk about that.

Then the adventure began. I was reading what stop the hotel info I’d printed off said to get off at and realize it’s not on the list of stops of the train I’m on. Which by the way was the only train out of O’Hare. Not a big deal, I think. I’ll just take the train downtown. The hotel can’t be that hard to find.

Fast forward an hour: I’ve made a fool of myself in front of the transit authority workers; I’ve stopped a young couple on the street and asked for their help getting to my hotel; I’ve learned that I am not fancy foodie, since the delivery menu in my hotel room included foods like “chicken liver pate on crostini,” which I ain’t eating.

So, boys and girls, while I’m truly digging my downtown Chicago hotel, the lesson we’ve all learned today is that you can take the girl out of the country, but you sure can’t take the country out of the girl.

(And Chicago: please don’t think I’m a total hick. I promise, I’m somewhat cultured. I have good taste in music, love good foods that don’t involve chicken livers, and usually don’t wander around like an idiot. Seriously!)