W

hen I was living in New York and was first breaking the news to my friends that I’d be moving to Chicago, I noticed a trend in their reactions. Immediately warned me about the winters, every one of them. At this point in my life, I never even considered the weather, but when you’re 21 in love and following boys across the country, you don’t consider about the finer details.

I learned the hard way. Chicago winters are just… not for me. I try to get out of town for as much of the winter as possible these days. I need plants, oxygen, sunlight, heat, all of that good stuff, but skipping town isn’t always a realistic response to inconvenient weather, so I need a back up.

Fortunately, the windy city keeps a couple of tiny bubbles available to trick our cold lizard brains that we are lounging on a sun-drenched rock. My favorite being the Garfield Park Conservatory. A couple of hours in this artificially humid climate will give you just enough of a hit of summer that you’ll almost forget about shoveling your driveway for a little while. Winter is the best time to go. There is something extra surreal about being inside of a rain forest or desert while looking through the windows and seeing a winter wonderland.

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