If I were to write a travel book, it would be the definitive guide to restrooms along Michigan Avenue. Public restroom phobia, I've got it, and I am passing it along to my children. Cleanest, most private, best smelling lotion, nicest towels, I know them all. The Drake has two wonderful options, the women's restroom in the Palm Court is fabulous, if just a bit dated. Then, and this is key, there is a small restroom in the hallway that leads to the Cape Cod Room, easily accessible after a day at the beach. The key is to walk in and look as if you know exactly where you are going, head held high you march in, walk directly to the restroom and no one says a word, unless you are with Mary and Kate.
It was 64 degrees in Chicago today and after several months of record setting snow, and cold, the girls and I decided a day touring the city restrooms was in order. That combined with shopping, lunch with Jack and park playing, that would be a complete warm weather day. There is a wonderful park just south of Water Tower, great train and bus climbing apparatus, numerous slides and most importantly, those pesky wood chips that get in your sandals in the summer, but are not too muddy when 3 feet of snow has just melted, or so I thought. Their hair spotted with goop, white socks now brown, khaki pants streaked with sludge, I covered them up in their jackets and trekked across the street to the Ritz Carlton, excellent bathrooms, very private at the far end of the lobby, and lovely plush washcloth quality towels, key in cleaning mucky children.
We marched in, right past the doorman. And then Kate turned, "we are only here to clean me, I am simply covered in mud. We've been to the park, it's a real mess out there". He smiled, I smiled, and we marched on, right into the lobby elevator. And out we marched a short while later, clean, smelling faintly of lemon scented lotion, and grateful, thank you.