As I headed out the door, I knew I was overdressed despite substituting a cotton shirt for my standard-issue black wool turtleneck. Yet those warm currents pulled me forward; there was no turning back for a further stripdown.

I skipped the Lakeside walk to downtown. Instead, i caught the express bus. which had me in front of Bloomingdale’s within 10 minutes. But the Lake, with its clarion call, overpowered my will. I immediately did an about-face; crossed Michigan Avenue; stopped outside the Drake Hotel to photograph some sidewalk vomit for my friend Gary—who is entering a food photography contest entitled “After the Meal”—headed down through the underpass; and found myself on the sandy beach that I had originally avoided. After a long, damp, and chilly spring, suddenly shorts, tees, bikinis, and bare feet were the attire du jour. A dog made for a fashionable accessory.

Groups of four and six played volleyball as others tossed footballs and hacky sacks. Many others read or simply spread their bodies above the warm sand. No one in their right mind would venture into that April water; doing so would be tantamount to taking a bath in a tub of freshly-melted ice. Some crazies, however, defied conventional wisdom. Apparently after less than eight hours of hot weather, they already longed for the winter chill.

I eventually meandered back to Michigan Avenue, where the sidewalks crawled with people. Maybe the crowds will cause some retailers to reconsider their decisions to vacate the storefronts lining the Miracle Mile. People carried bags, but I am not sure what they were buying. In a few cases, the bag bore the Sunnyside logo, which may account for the smell of burnt rope intertwined with strong body odor.

I ran into several buskers (note to self: carry small bills). My favorite was a woman who set up a sidewalk karaoke stage, encouraging passersby to join in a song or two. Who can resist Phil Spector’s River Deep, Mountain High, with three young woman accompanying the enterprising leader of the pack. I put a $20 bill in her bucket, although she seemed to be taking payments through Square or some other digital payment service. I’m still waiting for the juggler or musician who accepts Bitcoin.

Michigan Avenue sidewalks suggested even more massive crowds in Millenium Park. Surprisingly not, but I never made it up to Cloud Gate, a.k.a. The Bean. The water was not yet flowing from the Crown Fountain. But a new attraction awaited in the adjacent promenade: large mounds that resembled rock-climbing towers, sporting what seemed to be glass grips. Kids had already determined that the place to be was on top of the mountain.

Being a lawyer, I immediately thought to myself. “If I were the city attorney, these pale grey clumps of aggregate would be somewhere else, or surrounded by foam cushioning. Before summer’s end, there will be a few broken limbs.”

Turns out, my instincts were correct. The “security detail” that eventually showed up told all those kids to get down, adding “This is temporary art installation.” I commented to the fresh-faced young guard that he’s going to have a long summer preventing broken bones. He smiled. I returned 90 minutes later. A new batch of kids claimed the mounds as another, less attentive, guard patrolled nearby. The PI lawyers might want to buy some ad space on the Crown Fountain’s two massive video screens.

I had left the house with the Art Institute as my destination, but being the flâneur that I am, it took me the better part of an afternoon to reach the two bronze lions guarding the Institute’s hallowed steps. At that point all hell broke loose: Michigan Avenue was shut down for a demonstration. This time, the flags were Palestinian red, green and black rather than Ukrainian blue and yellow — but that’s a subject for a separate post.

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