I took my 22 year-old niece out for brunch recently.  The sole person of her generation in our family, I count on her to tell me what’s in and what’s not.

Over signature Benedicts at Tweets (yes, somehow she knew where to start off our Sunday with best in class Bloody Marys) she shared some pics in her iPhone Gallery.

“Have you ever been to the shit statue?” she asked.

A former tour guide and fan of obscure but memorable spots in the city, I was surprised that I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. Then she showed me a couple pics of her, in black shirt and jeans, posing in front of a bronze turd on a sandstone pedestal.

“I guess it’s actually a fountain,” she sighed.

As we raved about the Hollandaise, we took on other subjects: her impending move, when my sister and her husband were coming home from their latest cruise, and thoughts about favorite Democratic candidates in the current everybody plus your uncle field.

Days later, I realized the subject of the turd fountain haunted me.

How come I didn’t know about it?

Was it just an urban legend or was it for real? Yes, I saw the snap of Emma posing with the bronze turd, coiled loosely like a lazy snake, but half of me didn’t believe someone would make such a thing let alone display it in their front yard.

Was it a hipster version of Bigfoot, an urban legend meant to stimulate walking adventures in the Wicker Park – Ukrainian Village neighborhoods?  Or was it some wealthy, eccentric person’s indulgence, forcing neighbors to look at shit everyday whether they were into in your face art or not).

I looked it up online.  Apparently, it was more well-known than I realized.  It was listed as 452 out of 661 things to do in Chicago on TripAdvisor.

From different online entries, I learned that the Shit Fountain was the work of artist Jerzy Kenar, who placed the piece (would it be proper to refer to his creation as a piece of shit?) in the yard in front of his home.

Apparently, he wanted to make a playful commentary on the life of an urban dog owner, their neighbors, and the push-pull between letting prized pets do what comes naturally and demonstrating respect for signs.

And the signs are plentiful!

They’ll request that pure breeds and cocka-labra-doodles alike be kept off the grass or owners should be prepared to wrap their colored plastic baggies around their dog’s feces and make a deposit in their own garbage can.

So, the whole idea of checking it out myself became important to me.  I wanted to be able to tell people I had personal knowledge of the shit fountain.

It felt like something I get out of traveling, going an adventure.  Yes, sometimes a person can be disappointed with an experience after a lot of anticipation and hype, but…

There’s nothing like getting swept away by the mistral wind walking near a hillside church in Provence, or going to a butcher shop in Buenos Aires (where they take their beef ever so seriously).

Postcards or magazine articles or reruns of Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown only whet my curiosity.

When I actually parked my car on Wolcott near Augusta, I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Or rather, I wasn’t sure if the off-the-beaten-path attraction was readily accessible; whether there would be others going on a similar Searching for Bigfoot adventure.

I reminded myself that the popularity or rarity of visiting a place should not determine my experience.  It’s mine.  It’s singular.

It was on a quiet, tree-lined street near a well-trafficked boulevard; a hot neighborhood. I saw real estate agents waiting for their 2:00 appointments outside of row houses. I laughed at the way the words SHIT FOUNTAIN were chiseled into the stone, as if it was an ancient relic, as if an explanation was necessary.

I laughed at the sound of water, normally associated with a yoga studio or Chinese restaurant, pinging against the metal basin around the virtual plate of poop.

Seeing something — with you own eyes — is no small thing.