Chicago, my kind of town, Chicago is.

Evan lives in a tiny apartment in Lakeview or Bucktown or one of those funny neighborhood names. I know it's not Wicker Park, though, as that's where we met Derek and friends for dinner. Anyway, Chicago is a good city -- lots of interesting architecture, as well as many open spaces and parks -- but their public transportation is not so hot. The subways have few transfer stations, and the bus stops every three feet. The mass transit isn't awful, because you can get from place to place if you try. But it isn't as easy as New York was. For example, going to my brother's house took over an hour; it couldn't have been more than two miles away. We were stuck on the 78 bus, which was seemingly filled with air-conditioned cold, with a bag of tacos. Since we were sitting close to the driver, we couldn't eat the tacos. By the time we reached our stop, we could barely wait to dig in. Evan took a bite, chewed, and then had an odd look on his face. There was meat on our tacos, and so we had to throw them away. I could just hear my grandmother saying, "Don't waste food! Waste not, want not!" or something similarly cute and German.