Room to Grow

When the movers came I was in a bit of a funk. It’s always a strange sensation to have all of your belongings forcibly removed from their homes in various cupboards, closets, and crannies and stuffed amidst wrinkled newspaper and bubble wrap into foreign cardboard boxes that are then stacked up in every inch of movable space in your apartment. But, more than any of that, I just felt sad to be moving. I asked the movers what exactly they wanted me to do—could I hold doors or help them with some of the boxes or something? When they told me I could do as much or as little as I wanted, I opted to simply stay out of their way. Instead, I gazed longingly out the window at my downtown view, drinking it in as my belongings gradually made their way from my old home and into the moving truck. Once my things were gone, I rushed out before the stark emptiness of the shell could fully creep into my consciousness.

The day before I’d felt similarly, as I turned over my Ohio driver’s license for an Illinois I.D. and then stripped the Ohio plates from my little red car, to exchange them for unattractive Illinois plates. It was high time for me to do this—the man at the DMV scolded me for having lived in the state for well over the 30-day grace period you legally have to make all of these changes after moving to the state (about which I had had no idea). But I have never legally belonged anyplace but Ohio. And, in all my sentimentality, it felt strange to erase the Ohio identifications from both my wallet and my car. So, I did it quickly, and didn’t think about it, just as I did when I walked out of the place that will always have been my first apartment in the big city.

Anyway, after rushing out of the old place at 1260 N. Dearborn, it wasn’t long before I arrived at my new apartment to await the movers. I easily found a parking spot (haha, yes, really!), and then headed upstairs to wait. In another hour’s time the movers had come and gone, everything was in, and I could finally see my new apartment for what it was—-huge! And as I listened to Coletrane, and Miles, and Ella, and Madeline Peyroux, while unpacking my things and re-washing my dishes, I couldn’t imagine why I’d ever felt so glum just hours before.

For the first time since moving to Chicago, I felt like I was home. I am crazy about my new place (not to mention my new neighborhood!). It’s a real apartment. Yes, it’s still a studio, but unlike the previous one, it’s not a shoebox. I have room to move and breathe and have guests. Everything inside is new—the appliances, the counter tops, the bathtub, the bathroom vanity, the carpet and the paint. Don’t get me wrong—it’s not fancy—but it’s perfect for me. And the plethora of closets, well, heaven!

So, as I tried out various furniture configurations, and organized the clothes in my closet by color, and stowed all the linens away in the linen closet, I realized that all this time when I worried that I was taking a step back by moving out of downtown, I was actually making a step up. In all my exhaustion at the end of the day, I took a look around and breathed in all the space. I smiled to myself, realizing that here I have room to grow. And, like the hermit crab, that’s really all I needed.

New Neighborhood, New Notions

Apartment-hunting is such an adventure! I love winding up in neighborhoods I’ve never visited before, or re-visiting places that I had confined to a particularly small box, and discovering that there’s much more beyond my pre-conceived notions.

Chicago Neighborhoods Map at the Chicago History Museum

Being the somewhat stubborn and sometimes silly person that I am, I had envisioned myself in Ravenswood without actually spending much time there. My friend Liz’s place is so adorable (and huge!) and the times I’ve spent with her in Ravenswood, along with the scenery I viewed when driving through the area when I used to live in Uptown, had convinced me that it was the perfect place for me. Ravenswood is a charming, quiet neighborhood, and I had envisioned myself on a summer evening, writing by a window thrown open to a quiet, tree-lined street.

So, I was a bit shocked when I started viewing studios there. The first potential dwelling places were sorely disappointing, both dingy and small. I traveled the 40 minutes back home exhausted and wishing I hadn't wasted my time.

But I wasn't ready to give up on Ravenswood just yet, and headed back up that way again two days later. This commute took even longer, and when I got off in the “charming neighborhood,” I was a bit dismayed at how stark and industrial it was (I’d gotten off at the Damen Brown line stop this time). Even then I wasn’t throwing in the towel, though, because I was headed to a Victorian home with a top-floor studio. As you can imagine (if you know me), I saw this listing on Craigslist and my Victorianist heart skipped a beat. And when I arrived, my visions of Victorian bliss were quite met. The owner has her portion of the home fixed up beautifully, with period furnishings. It was ideal--complete with white picket fence. The studio above was large, updated, and overlooked a lovely yard.

Yet, as she showed me the place, I couldn’t help but feel uneasy about how far from the heart of the city I’d be if I moved there. And when she told me how much the security deposit would be (ludicrous), I was actually relieved. If the price had been right, I’m not sure I would have been able to say no. Curling up with Dickens and a cup of tea in that apartment? It was undoubtedly very me.

At this point, I was prematurely starting to feel a little worried that I might not find a studio that would meet this ideal that I’d created in my mind. After all, it didn’t seem like Ravenswood was working out, and that was part of the ideal.

"Stop paying rent" and purchase a lot. Haha, I wish! Also from the Chicago History Museum.

Afterward, however, I spent a Tuesday evening in Lakeview. I’ll admit, I had stereotyped Lakeview. I had shoved the entire neighborhood into a box containing only Wrigley field and the surrounding bar scene. I envisioned insane parking during Cubs games, loud drunk people, and, well, that’s pretty much it. But then I checked it out after finding a couple of studios in my price range on Craigslist. Isaac, a managed properties agent, planned out about five places for us to view (actually, he had originally planned quite a few more, but those places are going like hotcakes).

I wasn’t impressed by the first studio, which was dingy, smaller than where I live now, and not enough cheaper to justify not living downtown. Isaac assured me that for my price range, in the neighborhood, I wouldn’t find much bigger. I hoped he was wrong. The studios in the second building were better, but I still wasn’t feeling it. I was looking for that feeling I’d gotten when I walked into the building where I live now (I knew in the pit of my stomach that this place was for me the second I walked in, and I’m going to miss it, sorely). Finally, we went to an apartment complex even closer to the lake. When we went up to the floor where my studio is located, I felt inexplicably excited as we walked down the hall (you should see how cute it is decorated). I figured that the goose bumps were a pretty good sign. We proceeded to the end of the hall, where I was ushered into a pretty large studio with six--yes six--closets. I was veritably giddy at the sight of all those closets, but I was hesitant. The place was kind of dingy, desperately needing new carpet and a paint job. I had trouble envisioning it with me in there. When I found out that the whole thing is being rehabbed and viewed a similar studio ready for move in, with beautiful new carpet, countertops, faucets, etc., I was nearly sold.

But I didn’t apply. I was torn. I hadn’t completely given up on Ravenswood. In particular, there was a beautiful studio advertised on Craigslist all April that I just kept seeing week after week. My emails had gone unanswered, until, finally, I had inquired again and received a response. I had been scheduled to see that studio the next day, and I was sure that it was going to be the place for me. So, I held off. Over the course of Tuesday evening, however, I decided I would at least apply for the place in Lakeview to take it off the market for a few days, and keep that option open. That way, if Ravenswood still didn’t work out, I would have a fall-back.

And, you guessed it, the beautiful Ravenswood studio wasn’t so beautiful; plus, the leasing agent barely gave me the time of day and I just felt like Ravenswood, as cute and quaint as some areas of it may be, was dead. If I were settling down with a family, I definitely could see living there. But now? No. It just wasn’t going to work.

And thus, I find myself two days away from signing my lease, after which, I will become an official Lakeview resident. My two most important needs are met—better parking (you cannot get worse than the Gold Coast) and close to the lake. And the six closets thing? Not a bad bonus.

Considering Chicago’s Homeless Population

Two days ago, I was coming into my apartment complex through the alley, and I saw the garbage man locking up the trash cans. My initial thought was something along the lines of, “Seriously?” I know that that’s part of his job, but really, all I could think was that the transients I often see reaching into trash cans on the El platform were completely locked out. I mean, is it really necessary to lock up people's trash? But then again, I know the city has to be concerned about people sleeping in the dumpsters, let alone rummaging though, and I have to admit that being greeted by throngs of transients every day when I try to enter my apartment building is a little disconcerting. I understand the safety issues. Yet, there’s something absurdly inhumane about locking a dumpster closed.

The first time I ever visited Chicago, I was not prepared for the number of homeless on the streets (a lot of tourists are like this—I see the mixed reactions on their faces all the time on Michigan Ave., and watch them hand over loose change on the train). No one warned me about this before I came to the city that winter, and it broke my heart to see people standing out in the frigid February begging for money. Yet, I was simultaneously uncertain how to react. It's difficult to hand over money to someone you know nothing about, whether good or bad.

The day I moved to Chicago I had a scary experience with an irate homeless man. My roommates had taken me along with them to a free concert in Millennium Park, followed by a drink with their friends in Lakeview. On our walk back toward Uptown, I was verbally attacked by this man, who bee-lined for me, and screamed choice words to tell me that he was gong to kill me. My male roommate jumped between us and told him to back off, at which point the crazed-eyed man spat on my roommate’s shoes and continued his swift pace in another direction. I’d never been verbally attacked by a stranger before, and I’d never had my life deliberately threatened. My roommates assured me that they had never seen anything like that before, despite years of living in Chicago. I chocked it up to a fluke, and went on with my day. I did, however, purchase pepper spray the next day, and became rather wary of my surroundings and strangers in general.

I’m never sure how to feel about transients, and, specifically, what I can or should do about their situation. The economy sucks. And even when it doesn’t, there are honest people out of work and home. But at the same time, that man who came toward me screaming expletives at my face was clearly out of his mind, and if, in fact, he was high or drunk, I do not feel that I should contribute to that habit. Because I do not know who I'm dealing with when I bump into someone on the street, I am very wary of how to respond.

I know that people wind up on the streets for wide and varied reasons. What I don't know is what to do about it. If I give someone a dollar, he will probably still be homeless tomorrow, but maybe he will eat. Or maybe he will feed an addiction. I know some people who say, "Who cares what the person does with the money? That's their prerogative." I don't really agree with that philosophy. I don't want to help someone destroy him or herself.

If you live in Chicago, you see homeless men and women everyday. On the El; on the streets; outside your local Walgreens; on the intersections as you’re walking to work; sleeping in the underpasses. Do you give them money? Or do you just keep walking? This is a dilemma I face nearly every day, when I encounter someone who asks me for change.

Please read my follow-up post: Soup for You.