Patrons mingle at The Roof bar atop The Wit Hotel at State and Lake Streets in Chicago, June 3, 2009.

CHICAGO — The phone rang.

It was 6 a.m.

"Yes," I said, groggy.

It was the president.

"Enough filibustering!" he shouted.

"OK, but ..."

"Up and at 'em!" he shouted.

"All right, fine!"

On the other end, I heard a dog bark, presumably Bo, the Portuguese water dog. I swung my feet off the bed. "Are you done?" I asked, but the line was already dead.

Now, here's what's unusual about that:

No. 1, the president rarely calls; No. 2, 6 a.m. calls from the president are very unusual; No. 3, I was talking to a recording; and No. 4, the president, despite a halting syntax I assumed belonged to Barack Obama, sounded like a Bill Clinton impersonator. Which is possible. I was waking up on a Tuesday in the Wit hotel in the North Loop, that slender new 27-story building with the chartreuse lightning bolt plunging down the facade, at State and Lake streets. The Wit hired a handful of Second City actors to record its wake-up calls. You choose your poison the night before. Do you want an Ann Landers impression? Harry Caray? (Too loud.) Or Mayor Richard Daley? (Too scary.)The Wit takes its name seriously; you wake with a smile. Still, local celebrity impersonators aside, even more surprising is how it weaves itself into the landscape, both aesthetically and culturally, and how staying there is not like staying at just any upscale chain hotel (though it is a Doubletree property).

For instance, consider the bathrooms — more specifically, consider how the bathrooms in the guest rooms offer you a remarkable opportunity to become a part of the Chicago landscape.

I stayed on the seventh floor, at the precise corner of State and Lake. The window in my bathroom stretched floor to ceiling, a sheer plate, and an exhibitionist's dream. The tub was against the glass, overlooking the CTA station. Draw the blinds. Or put on a show.

But you will giggle.

It's tough not to. The toilet roll comes with a sticker of Rodin's "The Thinker" affixed. On the wall behind the toilet itself was a framed vintage George Lois-designed Esquire magazine cover from the 1960s. Then there's that train station, with its ridged tin roof, seemingly within arm's reach, close enough that you would assume it might drive you to sleeping pills but nicely muted. Architect Jackie Koo employed double-layered glass, which squelches the constant clatter of the CTA into a comforting, far-off clicketyclack. Indeed, though I woke at 6 a.m., I went to sleep at 3 a.m. and spent the last hour on the couch in my room, watching the train lights undulate into view, then recede again, disappearing down the long canyon of Lake Street.

This place is charming. I stayed up late because it's the kind of hotel that rewards a late night. I took the elevator to the lobby, which feels small and close to the street. The trains outside seem to rumble through every few minutes. I sat and read, periodically looking up to watch packs of theater patrons clip-clopping up the street toward Wabash. I had an idea. When you check in, the person at the desk offers you a warm chocolate-chip cookie. I went over and asked for another. "Sure," said the woman at the desk, handing over a fresh, warm cookie.

Prize in hand, I scaled a flight of glass-and-metal stairs to the first landing, which holds a small, cozy library-lounge. Here, you truly are one with the CTA, the hotel and the train platform at the exact same height but separated by glass. Some chairs are low; some are high-backed, deep set. On the shelves are few real books, only a juxtaposition of famous faces etched into a jumble of faux spines — Tina Fey smiling beside Emily Dickinson (not smiling), an alarmed Tolstoy beside Bill Murray in white-beard mode. I leaned over the balcony, which gives a bird's-eye view of the lobby, and admired the chandeliers.

Next stop, the gym, which you reach by walking down a hallway, at the end of which is a large black-and-white portrait of an upturned lily outlined in light purple neon, the hall itself so dark that the eerie violet door-shaped glow reminds you of moments in "Poltergeist." But the gym is nice! Not haunted! There are step machines, each outfitted with a television. And a yoga studio.

I was not in the mood, so I headed to the Roof, on the 27th floor and one of three restaurants in the Wit. Roof, as it is called, is the closest that the Wit comes to the trendy boutique hotel experience I was dreading. State and Lake, the all-purpose restaurant that anchors the ground floor, has dark leather walls and cork floors and the casual air of an unassuming hotel restaurant; Cibo Matto (on the second floor) is another surprise, an Italian restaurant resting beneath a 30-foot-long ceiling fresco. But Roof, which serves a smart selection of light meals (lamb-burger sliders, flat breads, fries, thin slices of lemon-seasoned crudo), seems to pulse with Banana Republic models, shipped in from another rooftop bar/restaurant, probably in Los Angeles. That said, the view is incredible: the river in one direction, the jumble of concrete and red brick that makes up the Loop in the other direction.

At the center of a long communal table is a thin, rectangular fire pit; on a chilly October night, I plan to return.

And to check out the theater, too — an entirely digital (sound, projection, etc.) 40-seat movie theater.

Which raises the question: Is the Wit for the casual tourist? I suppose so, yes. It's remarkably priced for a boutique hotel, with some rooms as low as $119 but averaging around $280. And the location is ideal, near the river, the theaters, Michigan Avenue. But at the expense of sounding like a snob, the Wit seems more likely to be appreciated by a visitor who knows the city, not someone who wants to retreat at day's end and leave it behind. Which is not to say the Wit isn't cozy. I had a midpriced corner room with a cloud of a bed and a generous heap of pillows, that sheer plate of floor-to-ceiling glass in the bathroom extending to the bedroom. The view was spectacular, enveloping, and as I lay back in bed to sleep, taking in a gray mist-shrouded gridlock of Loop architecture, I realized what I hadn't done. I hadn't once played with the TV.

Associated Press