My Kind of Town

This summer, there are giant books scattered throughout downtown. It’s a public art exhibit, not unlike the cows in Chicago about ten years ago. Each book is the same shape, but different artists depicted different works of literature. Titles range from Moby Dick to The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and at the end of the summer they’ll be auctioned off to go live somewhere else. But for now, we’re enjoying having them all downtown. Especially this one:

Two Charlottes, a Chris, and a Wilbur

Stuff like this is one of the many reasons we love this town, and why I keep sending not-so-subtle hints to Chris that I really hope he finds a job around here when he graduates.

That night (it was last Thursday, after we bought our couch), we ate dinner outside at one of our favorite restaurants, Motley Cow. We had some unusual company, too.

Don't mind me.

It may not be so obvious in the picture, but these dogs are massive Irish Wolfhounds. That dog’s head comes up to my chest. And see those two legs that appear to be coming out of the blue-shirted man’s side? Those belong to an English Mastiff, which is yet another humongo dog. This was one of the greatest dinners of my life – I was incredibly entertained. Not to mention, that man and the people at the table next to him seemed to know every single person that walked by the restaurant. And I don’t mean casual hellos either. These were full out oh my god how are you what have you been up toos. I couldn’t get over it.ย 

Yet another reason I want to live in here forever.


2 responses to “My Kind of Town

  1. We want you guys to stay too!!! ๐Ÿ™‚

  2. Thanks! ๐Ÿ™‚ Here’s hoping!

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s