I think it should be the Golden Rule of travelling. The less popular, less visited, quieter destination will always be n times nicer than the famous, touristy, commercialised places. Hence, Chicago is a lot quieter, a lot less crowded, a lot more laid-back, and a lot more enjoyable than the hustle and bustle of New York.

I decided to stroll down to the Art Institute of Chicago, not far from my hostel in the expansive Grant Park. On the way I stumbled across the Taste of Chicago festival.

I had intended to save it for later, but I realised there’s simply no way (and no point) to ignore it, so I bought 12 tickets for $8. There are tons of stalls selling food from all over, at prices ranging from 4 tickets for a sampler dish to 8 or 9 for a full snack. I bought some tasty enchiladas for 8 tickets, and later on a surprisingly large mini meatball sub for 4 tickets.

I’m very surprised to realise that over the past two days I’ve spent something like seven or eight hours in three different art galleries. But there’s something about them I love. Seeing paintings in their true habitat: seeing the real thing, with brush strokes and swirls of thickly-applied paint rising off the surface, and every new gallery offering something to catch your eye: a classic that you’ve seen in print a hundred times, or a painting you’ve never laid eyes on before but which draws your attention now.

The Art Institute of Chicago had a good selection ranging from Greek to Chinese to American and European art. Unfortunately, due to renovation, a great deal was closed off (including the 20th century American galleries, which feature the truly awesome Nighthawks).

And here it is, Ferris Bueller fans:

I like the way the high ISO on the first photo has created a great deal of noise, echoing the divisionism of Seurat’s painting.

I like this guy. (Not shown: Jesus)

Jupiter is so totally giving up on women.

In a side gallery there were works about homosexuality and AIDS. The pile of sweets is the first piece of art that I ever ate. Visitors are invited to eat from the pile and contemplate how the diminishing mound reflects the deterioration of a terminal AIDS patient.

This is by the famed gay artist David Wojnarowicz.

An extract:

One day this kid will get larger. One day this kid will come to know something that causes a sensation equivalent to the separation of the earth from its axis. One day this kid will reach a point where he senses a division that isn’t mathematical.

…

One day this kid will begin to experience all this activity in his environment and that activity and information will compel him to commit suicide or submit to danger in hopes of being murdered or submit to silence end invisibility. Or one day this kid will talk. When he begins to talk, men who develop a fear of this kid will attempt to silence him with strangling, fists, prison, suffocation, rape, intimidation, drugging, ropes, guns, laws, menace, roving gangs, bottles, knives, religion, decapitation, and immolation by fire.

I left the Institute and returned to the festival, where the distant sound of Chaka Kahn could be heard. If you don’t know the name (I admit remembering only my dad mentioning her once or twice) you’ll certainly know her hit I’m Every Woman.

Chilling on the grass, watching the world go by and listening to Mrs Kahn certainly endeared me to the Windy City. (Or was it endeared to me? I don’t know.)