Jessica Coen's Girlfriend Getaway to Chicago

3 A.M. One, I can't believe I made it out this late. Two, I'm amazed I'm sober enough to type. This is a major coup against the Jessica my college friends remember, who was only seen when in the throes of narcolepsy or stumbling around a bar. But tonight, lo, I'm an adult, and I'm capable of saving myself for Saturday night's real festivities. We had had 8 P.M. reservations at Tarascas, a Mexican restaurant in the Lincoln Park area, but waited over an hour for our table (our party planner actually forgot it was Cinco de Mayo). To kill time, we sipped toxic margaritas and were pleasantly tipsy by the time we sat down. On the bright side, it afforded me some time to talk to the bride-to-be, Amy, whom I've not seen in a year-and-a-half. To make up for the wait, all 10 of us were served what seemed to be strawberry Kool-Aid-flavored margaritas, and tequila shots--which just about killed me. All in all, dinner was tacky fun (the food kept us on our feet) and, more importantly, alcohol-soaked, like any bachelorette pre-party should be. We decided to continue our night in Lincoln Park. Virtually all of my Chicagoan friends have lived in the area at one point, but amidst the charming brownstones, it's a high-end, fratty, post-college hell. Case in point: Grand Central, an otherwise unforgettable two-story bar filled with scantily-clad girls with fake tans looking to lose their pants. There, I felt like I was too old (I'm a wizened 26) and too clothed (no cleavage). The male representation was cute enough, but they were at best uniformly acceptable, wearing striped button-down shirts accessorized with hair gel. Just our luck; we ran into a bachelor party, whose members enjoyed repeated attempts at molesting our bachelorette, Amy. We hauled her out of there before 2 A.M., as none of us had quite enough of a buzz to withstand the horror of that scene. 11 A.M. I can't believe it, but I woke up at 9:30 A.M. Anne and I passed out late last night watching Bridget Jones' Diary, our favorite movie from college (my, aren't we stereotypical). I got up earlier than her, so I tiptoed around her apartment, checked my e-mail, and enjoyed the sunshine afforded by her gigantic windows. Today looks more sunny and warm than yesterday, thank God. Anne finally woke up about a half-hour ago; we spent the first part of our morning staring silently at the television, waiting for the coffee to kick in. We're not quite sure what to do with our day; the bachelorette party starts at 6:30 P.M., leaving us not quite enough time to do anything like hit Navy Pier. Anne and I decide that we want to be pampered. Unfortunately, all her go-to salons are booked up, which is too bad because my bangs are an embarrassment to anyone willing to be seen with me. Brunch isn't appealing to us, either. It's on to Plan C: more shopping. 4 P.M. I don't know why we seem to think we have disposable incomes (we certainly don't), but whenever we go shopping, we drop the plastic for any little thing we can think of. Anne and I decided to go to Marshall Field's, the Macy's of the Midwest. The Marshall Field's in downtown Chicago is pretty upscale, more like a Bloomingdale's, and certainly more manageable than any of New York's Brobdingnagian department stores. We were on a mission: late-blooming Anne was finally ready to make the switch from drugstore to department store makeup. All I wanted was an appropriate "party shirt" for tonight. Anne ended up falling in love with the Stila counter, but looked just confused enough that the saleswoman sat her down and gave her an entire makeover. It was a damn shame she'd yet to take her shower for the day, but we didn't say anything. I must have looked bored, because some other brush-wielding Stila employee went at my face, too. We left looking like painted ladies, our wallets as light as air. Across the street at Old Navy I hurriedly purchased a black T-shirt that, in the drunken darkness of the bar, I hope will pass for couture. Afterwards, we got cheap manicures at a cheap place underneath the L. Anne and I picked up hot sandwiches from a nearby Potbelly's (pity the rest of the world for being stuck with Quiznos and Subways instead) and inhaled them as soon as we got back to her apartment. We had some time to kill, so we decided to prepare for the evening by taking a two-hour nap in front of the Food Network. Day 3: The bachelorette party

4 P.M. I've just arrived in Chicago and am at my friend's apartment. I fully intended to write this first post on the airplane, but my computer failed to boot up. Incredibly irritating. I had no choice but to read the latest Vanity Fair instead. There are worse fates. Anyhow, my flight. As we all boarded the plane and I plopped down in my window seat, a youngish, handsome, southern-sounding gentleman loudly sat down in the row behind me. "I'm waaay-sted!" he announced to the similarly jovial people sitting around him. He began rambling about how he was wearing the same clothes as last night, and how he went home and slept with some "unfortunate guy." It was time to bust out the iPod. Then it hits me: vodka. This guy's scent spread throughout the cabin, and I exchanged a wince with the woman sitting next to me. But then I remembered that I was on my way to a bachelorette weekend, and I might very well smell as bad as he did (though likely worse) on my return flight. 5:30 P.M. So I'm decompressing at the apartment of one of my college friends, Anne. She lives in a fabulous high rise downtown just off Michigan Avenue overlooking the river. Anne's decorating style revolves around soothing beiges, so I feel as if I'm in a spacious hotel room, even though I'm really just budget shacking with a friend. It's the sort of apartment that makes me seriously hate myself for stubbornly paying in blood just to live in my fifth-floor tenement apartment in New York City. Actually, I tend to feel this way every single time I visit someone who lives elsewhere. I can feel the self-loathing coming on. Anne calls from her office. She wants to make a quick run to Nordstrom's, conveniently located just a few blocks from her apartment. I love Michigan Avenue. Its high-end shops may seem like nothing exceptional compared to NYC, but it'll always hold a special place in my wallet. I grew up and went to college in Michigan, so Chicago was my first Big City experience--my first glimpse of real high-rises, my first kick-ass slice of pizza, and my first romantic first whiff of urban life. And, obviously, it was my first experience with truly fantastic shopping. Time to spend some money. 7 P.M. We have to meet the bachelorette party for an 8 P.M. dinner and are rushing because we lingered in the shops too long. I had wanted some sort of shoe that wouldn't force me to lose a toe to hypothermia (it's 45 degrees and gray out). Alas, Nordstrom's failed to present any satisfactory, closed-toe choices, so I instead spent a hundred compensatory dollars on face painting tools from Sephora, none of which I actually needed. Whenever I'm around my girlfriends, I'm a beacon of responsible spending. Unaware that it'd gotten so late, we run back to Anne's apartment, stopping quickly at the wonderfully named Bockwinkel's supermarket for some Bud Light (classy!), cheese, and crackers, because my stomach was dangerously close to eating itself. We have to meet the bride-to-be and the rest of the girls at 8. I'm feeling ragged and very much need to wash the American Airlines from my skin. Day two: Tacky fun and more shopping

Update: On October 17, the U.S. Consumer Product Safety Commission (CPSC) recalled all Quechua tents and canopies--like the 2-Seconds Tent we covered in our July/August issue--because some may fail to meet the industry's flame-resistance standard, posing a fire hazard.   With the Quechua 2-Seconds Tent on your back, you look a bit like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle   To open the tent up, just slide off one strap and fling it in the air. It's remarkably easy--and addictive   The tent is light and waterproof, and takes less than 30 seconds to fold up (decathlontent.com, $69)

After Labor Day, there's an absence of bugs as well as crowds at most parks, and the chill of winter hasn't set in yet. "September is an ideal month to visit the parks," says Rick Nolan, Chief of Interpretation at Redwood National Park in northern California. "Once the kids are back in school there's plenty of elbow room." Temperatures are in the 60s in early fall, and the average rainfall for September is less than two inches (compared to nearly a foot per month in the winter). Last year the park welcomed 64,000 visitors in July, but only 42,000 in September, making it the perfect time to soak in the primordial vibe created by the Pacific mist and the 350-foot-tall redwoods. At Crater Lake in Oregon, the last of the season's boat tours runs sometime in mid-September (541/594-3100, $26-$36). To board, you must hike down steep switchbacks for a mile. It's worth the trip: Nothing compares to gazing into the deep, electric-blue water up close. Head to the park's southeast corner to check out the jagged rocks known as the Pinnacles. "They're a cool geological formation that occurred when ash flowed during the eruption," says interpreter David Grimes. "The mountain had frothy flows of rock coming down the sides into valleys. Gas then superheated this ash to solidify it." The earth surrounding the Pinnacles eroded centuries ago, leaving behind spiny, gray rocks jutting up from the ground. The year's best weather at Acadia in Maine and North Cascades in Washington comes in July, August, and September, and the latter is by far the least crowded. "In September at Acadia it gets into the 60s during the day, which is great hiking weather," says park ranger Wanda Moran. "Even with the foliage season, it's pretty quiet compared to summer." The first leaves to turn colors are in the upper elevations, so hike to Beech Mountain (overlooking two ponds), or take the lazy route and drive up to the park's highest peak, 1,530-foot Cadillac Mountain. Sometimes at North Cascades it's not until late summer that all of the alpine trails are clear of snow. Hiking is the major draw, though you don't have to work hard for great scenery. "The views from the Cascade Pass Trail parking lot are just incredible," says Michael Liang, a park ranger. "You see glaciers and sheer cliffs as soon as you step out of the car." The vistas gets even better on the trail, which brings opportunities to run into mountain goats and furry little creatures such as marmots (oversized squirrels) and pikas (undersized rabbits). After ascending 1,800 feet in 3.7 miles, you reach a dramatic lookout for both the east and west faces of the Cascades. __________________________________________________ Plan Ahead Instead of paying for notoriously overpriced groceries, film, and outdoor gear inside parks or at tiny gateway towns that make a killing on tourists, stock up on supplies ahead of time in a large shopping center. __________________________________________________ Penguins and Jokers Not Welcome Thousands of Mexican free-tailed bats go through a nightly ritual at New Mexico's Carlsbad Caverns. Just after dusk, swarms come flapping out of the Natural Cave entrance to gorge on moths and insects. Flights occur from spring to early fall, and are most impressive in August and September, when newborns are old enough to join in the hunt. Visitors watch the spectacle from a stone amphitheater after listening to a park ranger give a free talk (575/785-2232; exact times change). By October the insect population is down and the bats have headed to Mexico for the winter.