I'm in Chicago for a WebCT conference (a program we use at the college to deliver online courses). Note to self on next trip to Chicago, July or not: bring a coat! I think they use the unrented rooms at this hotel as meat lockers. Freezing! After I arrived on Saturday, I walked downtown towards the ESPNZone, intent on finding a good place to watch the final games of World Cup soccer. 

Lots of tall architecture making you look up up up. Unlike Paris, nobody is ever out walking any dogs, so you're free to look up up up without any danger of stepping in any dog sh**. The buildings were sharp and pointy and sleek and modern -- I was a hayseed in a stack of needles.

The 'zone opened at 11, but it was across the street from a Harley-Davidson store. Bought Keighley some t-shirts, laughed at what they wanted for a jacket (for $200+ it should come with a man in it) but Keighley's already designed a jacket she wants "us" to make, so I bought a couple of Harley patches we can fake it with.

Saturday's game was for third place, Portugal vs. Germany. My phone is still full of text messages from Line in Reims, from us msg-ing back and forth during the Portugal-France game where "les bleus" kicked Portugal's ass. Stuff like:

    "yes, zizou the best, it's so cut. kiss marie! we are so happy...for the moment. it's not finish."

(I still don't know -- may *never* know -- what she means, exactly by "cut." Possibly "cut" in the current vernacular, referring to a buffed-out dude, but it's also possible that she means "cute" and has shaved off the "e" since that's what the French do to change an adjective from feminine to masculine.)

    "tomorrow we going to win and final italian france. i hope marie!"

I hope too!

Inside the ESPNZone, it's a public living room, hosting a big sports party.

http://espnzone.com/chicago/

I went up to the restaurant/bar section, where I was seated right in front in a row of leather easy chairs with flip up feet with cup holders (holding ketchup bottles), a swing-around table with a recessed area for your drink, cloth napkins, real silverware. In front of me was an enormous hi-def screen, flanked by 12 video feeds, with MLB stats in red green and gold LCD and a large red sports crawl across the top. A woman named Tanya from Chicago was sitting next to me, waiting for the Sox game to start. The air was heavy with the smell of bacon and french fries and nachos -- it was like some kind of jock/ADHD paradise, junk food and beer at the snap of the fingers, and sports unspooling on thirteen screens in front of you.

I'd gotten there when it opened so I'd be sure to get a place to watch the game, but it didn't start until 2 pm. I'd brought the book I'd started on the plane (and finished it while wolfing down a cheeseburger) and my Chicago city guide...but halfway through my first drink I started wondering if it was OK to take a nap right there? zzzzz

Germany mopped up the field with the Portuguese, and that was the end of THAT.

The next day, though, there was a line outside the ESPNZone at 10:45 -- LOTS of Italian fans with their red, green, and white hats and shirts and ITALIA stitched on their shirts. I kept my allegiances to myself...(!) Was seated in the same row as before, a few Laz-E-Boys down. I was hoping "Zizou" -- or "the Z-Man" as the press refers to him here -- would win during his last professional game. (Wes thought every time they said his name -- Zidane -- that they were saying "Saddam.") Go Zizou! The Z-Man! Go Saddam! Line and I agreed that midfielder Franck Ribery looked a little like the actor Nicolas Cage -- she'd emailed me to say, "Go Nico, get a goal!"

The crowd bellowed in stereo around me -- in front and to my right, the Italian fans, the French behind me. The first half was exciting, they were tied...and it looked like it might be a close game, so I text-msg'd Wes to tune it in at halftime. The second half started to wither for France when Patrick Viera limped off the field, and the whole room exploded when Zidane head-butted the Italian guy. Guys were jumping up on the floor and yelling and flipping Zizou the bird -- F-you a-hole! F-you!!!  I just watched in amazement as all these Italian hotheads jumped up to yell and gesticulate at Zidane for being...a hothead. (Wes texted me when he got the red card: Bye bye Saddam...!)