When Cinderella went pub crawling

Saturday night presented me with one of the more surreal series of events I've ever been involved in.

The evening actually began around 3pm when Irene and I volunteered (yes, you read that right) for a Human Rights Gala (yes, you read that right too). Wearing hideous black tshirts that you could easily fit 2 people into, we sweltered in the lobby of the Hyatt Regency Hotel in Chicago directing Gala guests to the registration desk and VIP reception. The Hotel was an absolute dump and reminiscent of a resort in Miami Beach, in terms of both decor and patronage. Our well dressed guests all looked absolutely lost and very grateful to see our smiling faces at the top of the escalator. Unbeknownst to me though, I actually sent several people to the wrong room for the VIP reception before the event. But no one complained about that. Everyone was too busy whining about the general dodginess of the venue. I know that was what Irene and I complained about.

Admittedly the Grand Ballroom was well decorated and much cooler than the sauna/lobby, and by the time all the guests were seated, Irene and I had sore feet and sore backs and we were ready for a very stiff drink. Fortunately the event was particularly well represented in terms of volunteers, so we got to hang out in Volunteers HQ for a while, chatting to the Volunteers Coordinator. Rather craftily, Irene and me let it slip that we had 2 birthday parties to get to that night, and the Coordinator released us early. Before he'd even finished his sentence, we were out the door and down the street, casting our jumbo tshirts off as we fled.

Pausing for a restorative margarita on the way to the subway, we reflected on the good karma of volunteering, versus the bad karma of bailing early. Realising that the two probably cancelled each other out, we downed our margaritas and jumped on the train bound for the groovy Wicker Park bar that our friends were already at.

Once we got off the train, Rene and I were feeling grossly under-dressed, given that we were both wearing the national costume of the Volunteer (white top, black pants). Fearing someone may mistake us for a waitress at some stage during the night, we raced into "American Apparel" and bought a tshirt each. I ripped the price tag off, threw myself into the fitting room and donned my new purple top without even thinking twice. Within about 3 minutes, we were back on the sidewalk and taking a short diversion to Salud, a neat little tequila lounge where Irene's pal works.
From the relative comfort of Salud's outdoor seating area, Rene and I assessed our situation. We were feeling better about our clothes, and starting to love life all the more as our drinks worked their magic.

But before long, we were off and walking to Iggy's to reunite with our friends. The rooftop cabanas were fabulous and the United Nations of Chicago (aka my friends) were all in fine form.

Fast forward a few hours, and you'll be none too surprised to find Irene, Pete, and myself stumbling down Lincoln Avenue after a rather confusing taxi ride. It was at that point that I got the heel of one of my brand new Anne Klein shoes stuck in a grate on the pavement. After some rather awkward manoeuvering, I freed my shoe, but not before the little heel fell through the grate to the dankness below. I cursed and shook my fist at the grate, much to the delight of some patrons sitting at a nearby pub. Smug sober people.

With my newly-acquired wiggly walk (a la Marilyn Monroe), I made it to MaxBar, shimmied up the stairs to the VIP area (naturally), and took up residence on a couch where I pretty much stayed until I took myself home a short while later. It was a fabulous night but if I'm going to reprise it, I will need a "disco nap" in the afternoon, and perhaps someone to carry me across grates.