But that afternoon, the sky opened up and we were caught in a downpour. The relatives, jokingly unpleasant in the sunshine, turned malicious — think thrown umbrellas and curses hurled at innocent bystanders. I vaguely remember walking along Michigan Avenue. We passed two sleepy stone pillars. Then we came to the Bean, and then the half-moon Parthenon-like structure that is Wrigley Square. The rest was a blur, save for some screaming children whose pants were soaked up to their knees as they ran in circles. It wasn’t the quintessential tourist distraction I’d hoped to use with the out-of-towners.

Fast forward to June. The sun is shining. The clothes are tinier. Love is in the air. I’d been dating a Chicago native for a month, and as everyone headed outdoors, my man-friend and I decided it would be nice to have a “Chicago day” full of cuteness and hand-holding.

We began at the Art Institute, digesting the Impressionists' complex brush strokes and then the obscure intentions of the Modern Wing's artists. We exited to an even warmer, more inviting Chicago day. Heading north, the landscape — months before, a site of my misery — now shone like a beacon of unexplored wonder. When we got to Millennium Park, I found that two once-impotent blocks of glass were now ALIVE with digital moving faces, spitting water at the kiddies splashing below. I watched from a sun-warmed stone bench, while locking hands with my man and letting the carefree joys of childhood wash over me.

The northward breeze propelled us toward the Bean. Its vastness is best absorbed from different angles,but you can’t fully grasp what this sculpture’s all about until you stand on its west side and look up into a breathtaking panorama of the skyline. I finally understood why everyone talks about the Bean. After attaining Millennium Park enlightenment, we pondered the sights from a safe distance at Wrigley Square, watching an insane number of security guards on Segways remove unsuspecting cyclists from the premises.

Shedd sits on downtown Chicago’s Museum Campus and every year draws 2 million aquatic enthusiasts past simple Doric columns, through heavy bronze doors, and into Neptune’s Temple, the main foyer.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the privilege of walking through those doors during my first Shedd visit just short of a year ago; Instead, I entered through the aquarium’s side door. The building was undergoing yet another expansion — an update of the Oceanarium and the addition of a Polar Play Zone, “just for kids.”

Back then, though, I didn’t pay much attention to the entryway or the building’s Beaux-Arts architecture. On my first visit, I just wanted to see some gosh darn seahorses and belugas. The $8 I threw down on the counter got me up close to some seahorses. But I didn’t get to see a beluga, thanks to the expansion, and the Water of the World exhibit’s mantella frogs and Nile knifefish were about as exciting as a trip to the lackluster New York Aquarium after riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.

Now, my second visit to Shedd–that was a different story. I’d already had my fill of seahorses and wasn’t sure if the $28 dollar admission would be worth it, but then I remembered that the ticket inflation was all due to the now-open Oceanarium, which meant belugas…and penguins and otters!

And yes, those three little darlings were so worth it.

But I can only ogle over sea mammals for so many hours, and I figured I’d refocus my attention on architect Ernest Graham’s work. I heard his style was all the rage back in the 1920s when he first broke ground on Shedd. He also worked for Daniel Burnham, who helped Graham cultivate his style.

When I entered on the museum’s first floor, I noticed the room had no other visitors, just open space, old incandescent light bulbs, and one lone piano (still not quite sure why it was there). The room includes four large columns, a stage, and two chalkboards that read “NEW YORK STOCK EXCHANGE QUOTATIONS” and “CHICAGO STOCK EXCHANGE QUOTATIONS.”

The ornamental molding on the ceiling and the gilded gold atop the columns give a swanky feel to the room, but it’s also pretty eerie in here. There’s preserved glass from the original trading room that lets in the daylight glow, and with nothing else around, all I can think about is the absence of the noise that once reverberated through the space—the yelling, the frenetic hand signals, the traders’ adrenaline flowin as capitalism raged unbridled.

The original stock exchange was designed by Louis Sullivan and completed in 1894. It was rebuilt at the Art Institute from 1976 to 1977, an impressive feat considering the scale of the room. There’s plenty of space for a full tumbling routine — I tried, but I couldn’t stick the landing — you just have to find it first.

If you enter on Michigan Avenue, just go past the grand staircase, through the Alsdorf Galleries and beyond McKinlock Court. I asked someone at the front desk, and then another employee, in my quest to find this room, but it’s worth the search during your second (or third or fourth) time around. I came away realizing that sometimes, it’s better to avoid the crowd and have some room to observe the space yourself. And in here, you can’t hear Rick Santelli yelling.