I think I have found the perfect train to take to the city. It arrives downtown just past nine, so there are only a handful of commuters, but no bands of tourists either, for it leaves a little too early for the casual traveler and arrives before most of the sights to see are open. Interestingly, the majority of the travelers in my car are, like myself, women traveling alone. On my usual trains I am frequently the only woman in my car (except on Cubs game days or weekends, when families appear in greater numbers).

There is a greater sense of calm in the world outside the train window. I counted at least twelve blue herons fishing in a marsh alongside the tracks near the beginning of my journey. We have a resident blue heron in the ponds near our house and several more in the nearby river, but herons always recall vacation for me. It�s not just their large and impressive physiques, but my early association of these birds with the marshland areas near where my family has vacationed since I was a child. The herons seemed a good omen, and the rhythm of the phrase �herons in the marsh� had me contemplating Stein�s �pigeons on the grass, alas.� However, as all my early-morning, caffeine-deprived brain could come up with was �Herons in the marsh, how harsh!� � not really the sentiment I was after � I abandoned any further efforts at poetic expression in favor of feminist theory.

Nothing sucks the poetry out of my soul like reading feminist theory. So of course it makes perfect sense to be working in the field of women�s studies. Critics analyse (not wise).

Passing a racetrack, I saw grooms and jockeys preparing their horses for the days. Some are feeding grooming them outside the stables. Others canter in endless loops around the dusty track. It looks like rain. Horses in the park � it�s dark.

I have just determined that in order to attend the course I am supposed to audit twice a week this fall, I well need to leave my house at 6 a.m. Harriet�s lack of sleep. Eep!

� � � � �

My day has restored the poetry to my soul. I spent an incredibly pleasant four hours sitting at a wide wooden table in a small office in the heart of the symphony administration building. The office is shared by the archivist F. and his assistant C. It was in a state of highly organized clutter. On a top shelf, so high it was barely visible a sinewy Richard Hunt sculpture towered over a collection of matryoshka dolls of symphony conductors, all looking very stern in their painted tails. On another shelf was a neon sign reading Symphonie Fantastique next to a disembodied bronze head depicting one of the symphony�s former conductors. Beneath were rows and rows of reference books, bound volumes of programs, and assorted audio visual media.

One of the great joys of working in archives is finding in the archivists people who are genuinely interested and excited about your work. It turned out that the films I requested, which include the event I�m writing about for my conference paper, are the earliest footage of the symphony, made in the early 1930s. They were silent home movies made by a former symphony player. As the person who made the films was in the orchestra in most of the rehearsals filmed, the footage was primarily of musicians doing what musicians do in the moments of downtime as people arrive at rehearsals, get settled, tune up their instruments and wait for the conductor to begin. I don�t know if I can communicate to you what it�s like to have been working so intensely with people you�ve never seen or met for such a long time as I have with my dissertation project, and suddenly see them in action. Up until now, the only pictures I�ve seen of most of them are posed publicity shots. But I�ve read a wealth of interviews, letters, contracts, and I begin to feel like they are old friends. It was actually moving to see the footage which showed them acting like regular people � mugging for the camera, scratching their noses, smoking cigarettes, chatting confidentially with their stand partners, holding rabbit ears over one another�s heads as the camera focused on them. There was one particularly great scene that began as a shot of a bassoon quartet rehearsing but shortly after they began, one of the bassoons stood up and started pretending to shoot the other members of the quartet with his bassoon, as they all fell on the floor laughing. There was another scene of the personnel manager passing out paychecks, where the players hammed it up, kissing their checks, falling on their knees to thank the check-giver. It was both entertaining and humanizing.

In addition to the films, I worked through a pile of manuscripts and cassettes I had requested as well as a few other things F. thought I might be interested in. He seemed tho think I�d be able to get the video I wanted for my conference presentation. I filled out release forms, agreed to send them copies of my paper and dissertation, when complete, and headed out into the sunlight, which had broken through the morning�s clouds.

I headed over to Millennium Park and was overwhelmed by it all. It�s magic. I felt like I was grinning from ear to ear the entire hour I spent exploring it. It is clearly the center of all the action at the moment, but not, I think just because it�s new and provocative, but because it�s, well, FUN. I entered from southwest corner, where the towers are and could hear the shrieking of children from a block away, even over Michigan Avenue traffic. The reflecting pool between the tower fountains was full of children in soaked clothes, some, clearly prepared, in bathing suits, as well as adults � mostly women/mothers with their shoes off and their pant legs rolled up � splashing around and trying to dodge the occasional jet of water protruding from the mouth of one of the heads projected on the towers. I could barely stand to tear myself away from the scene, but I knew my time was limited and I wanted to see the bandshell. I headed north passed Cloudgate (better known as the bean). A crowd was gathered around it. Some were trying to find themselves in their reflections, others looked at buildings. Still others were watching workers soldering underneath the bean�s bend � it actually forms a low arch that, when the work is completed (I assume), you could walk under.

I had been a bit worried about the bandshell, not because of Gehry�s wicked curves, but because of the enclosed lawn. One of the things I always loved about going to concerts at the old shell was the openness, and the views of the city. True, the orientation of the new shell and its more northern location makes the view a little less spectacular, but it�s still pretty great. The lawn is still vast enough for crowds. The lattice of a roof that serves to hold the speakers for the amplification system, is delicate and frames views of the sky. It doesn�t cut off, nor does it, as I feared, make sound when rushed by the lake breezes. The back enclosure, an instant forest of arborvitae that separates the shell�s space from the Lurie garden, is friendly, almost cozy feeling. I crossed the lawn and walked out partway onto the serpentine bridge over Columbus Drive for the pleasure of walking back and looking at the city, a view that changes with each bend of the serpent�s spine. I headed to the Lurie garden and discovered a miniature canal, criss-crossed by small bridges and filled with coins like a wishing well. Children splashed and sailed boats quickly improvised out of milk cartons. The garden itself is still embryonic, newly planted and raw. It appeared to be entirely planted with native species of plants, based on the ones with which I�m familiar. I walked past the bean again and peered through the glass entrance to the Harris Theater. I was, at one point, involved with some of the planning meetings for the long-awaited Chicago Music and Dance theater project, of which this is the end result. But I couldn�t get inside for a peek � that will have to wait for another day. I followed the Randolph sidewalk into a twisting curve around the back of the peristyle in the Spirit of Music garden and decided to take a pass on the photo exhibit I found at the bottom. I walked back to the train, passing the Daley Plaza farmer�s market, where I used to do most of my summer grocery shopping. I managed to catch an earlier train home than usual, despite an extra half hour of archival work and some free time � the combination of taking an early train in and working in a much more convenient location.

And now, many pleasures lie ahead. I am now heading home to get ready for the evening�s trip to the ballpark (Baseball in the sun. What fun!). Also tomorrow is my birthday and some sort of surprise is afoot, because AJ is very excited but has been sworn to secrecy. He simply bursts into fits of giggles every time the word �birthday� is mentioned and yells, �Oh, boy!� (Happy little boy. Oh, joy.)

[Sorry, the boy just woke up -- no time to add links to Millennium park!]

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