So, Saturday. As usual, I was useless for most of it. As of 2 p.m., I was still in bed reading desultorily until I decided to call my brother and ask his advice for a gift for
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luckymarty. He expressed approval of my whimsical notion of heading down to the
National Museum of Mexican Art and searching for something appropriately ghoulish among the
objets for sale in the gift shop. In my head, I had a particular black ceramic skull that I'd long admired, but I soon realised I'd better not get fixated on any particular handicraft, since who knew what exactly they had in stock.
monshu checked their hours and warned me that I'd better hustle if I wanted to get down there before closing. Apparently, GOD HIMSELF approved of my mission, because my CTA karma was nothing short of miraculous. In short order, I caught both an express bus and a Pink Line train. The total travel time from
monshu to Museo was just under an hour, which is unheard of. Not only that, they had exactly the skulls I had in mind exactly where I remembered them being; I was so flushed with success, I bought another item to commemorate the happy event of his betrothal as well.
The only downside was that I now found myself with more than two hours to kill before setting out to Oak Park for the festivities--and that turns out to be no downside at all when you're in Pilsen, which I described to
monshu as "probably my favourite neighbourhood that I never go to". Now that Lincoln Square and Wicker Park have become so ferociously gentrified, Pilsen feels more refreshing than ever. Every time I go, I uncover some new delight and find myself once again amazed at the community's capacity to preserve its own character in the face of the forces of urban renewal.
The main temporary gallery was closed and I was finished with the exhibit of animal subjects from the permanent collection (featuring several pieces by
Jacobo Ojeda, the woodcarver whose work we all fell in love with last year) in short order, so I struck out in search of a street vendor selling
champurrado. But the fading light on the brickwork facades was so captivating, I ended up wandering east all the way to Racine before doubling back along
calle dieciocho. All the vendors seemed to have packed up for the day, so I found myself at Casa del Pueblo on Blue Island where--true to the recommendation of the cashier at Tienda Tzintzuntzan--they had a hot, rich
champurrado for a coupla bucks. The thick atole base held the heat so well that it took me more than a half hour to drink, a few small sips at a time, without burning myself.
In order not to show up starving at
lhn and
prilicla's, I stopped to pick up a Oaxacan tamale at a coffee shop and ate the whole huge thing while waiting for the train north. Even after a substantial wait at Ashland, I was in downtown Oak Park five minutes before 7 p.m. On a kinder day, I would've lounged in the park for a bit prior to imposing myself, but the sun was down, the wind was picking up, and I was happy to seek shelter. If my trio of hosts weren't equally happy to see me, then they are damn fine actors, one and all. I virtuously resisted their ridiculously indulgent cheese plate only to undo it all with the caramels my sister-in-law came bearing later.
As you can see
( picture behind the cut ), the gift elicited precisely the degree of chagrin I was hoping for. The popular consensus seemed to be that the grinning couple would make a perfect cake-topper, even if it isn't atop a
pastel de tres leches. Seems I'm in for it two years hence when I hit forty. I say, "Bring it on, bitches!" I also had my nails done and at least one X-Kryptonite (a concoction of
ladysophis2k8's that's far tastier than it has any right being given the ingredients) more than I should've--which goes a way toward explaining how I could sleep for nine hours the next morning without even half intending to.
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