Chicago College of Performing Arts' Vivid '10

During a high-stress work week, there is nothing quite like letting the pressure dissolve away on the strains of a little Tuesday night jazz. This particular Tuesday, I had the pleasure of attending Vivid ’10, a series of performances by the Chicago College of Performing Arts, which included both jazz and musical theatre. Surprisingly, this fabulous concert was free to the general public (thanks to some serious contributions by supporters of the school), and I’d by lying if I said I was anything but blown away by these students.

At first, I had a little trouble reconciling the setting with the content: while I love Auditorium Theatre (Roosevelt University's theatre, and the venue for Vivid), somehow it just seemed incongruous to hear jazz there. A huge theatre lacks that intimacy of the cozy jazz club, where the music completely envelopes you, scoops you up, and takes you away. In a club, the music literally reverberates right through you because the musicians are right there with you, performing only feet away. You can move in your chair, bob your head, and no one thinks twice about it, because, well, it’s just impossible to sit still! But at Auditorium Theatre there’s this air of formality that’s so counter to the casual jazz scene.

I certainly felt this way as we listened to the Swing and Hard Bop selections opening the program. I felt too far away and restricted. This was definitely bob-your-head music, but when I looked around, everyone was still (I was still subtly jammin in my seat, regardless, but it was a little uncomfortable). The Swing performers impressed me immediately. It was shocking to me that these were college students, but then again, if you understand the jazz history at the Chicago College of Performing Arts, not to mention the talent of the faculty, then you know not to expect anything but the best from these “kids.” Angelo Hart, the first of the night’s pianists, enthralled me, despite the fact that his solo time seemed to be much less than the saxophonists (isn’t this always the case, though? Oh, those saxophonists…). Honestly, I’m always saying that bass is my favorite jazz instrument, in large part because I feel like bass is so underappreciated yet so integral to the music, but I will always have a soft spot in my heart for pianists, thanks to my mother. Plus, when I watch and even meet jazz musicians, the pianists always seem to have so much heart, so much personality—I swear they’re always smiling.

After Swing, we moved into Hard Bop. Head of Jazz and Contemporary Music Studies Paul Wertico was narrating the event, by the way, providing a succinct history of the jazz movements we were viewing, which I highly appreciated. I’m all over the Hard Bop, and Adam Rongo did an amazing job on the alto sax. I have a difficult time calling out any one musician over the other in this program, as they were all stellar, but I have to admit that the saxophonists throughout the night were highly impressive.

When we finally got into the ECM pieces, the venue made sense. The sound filled up the entire auditorium, with Danny Markovich’s sexy echoing sax engulfing the house. I immediately had goose bumps, as I often do when listening to/viewing great art. Big sound needs a big auditorium, so the setting finally made sense.

Of course, moving into the Avant-Garde selections, I had to guard my ears. Literally. I just can’t do it. There’s just too much sound, it’s too cacophonous. I mean, there’s more order to it than that, but still. They did “Miles Runs the Voodoo Down,” and I pretty much checked out. I thought, um, can we go back to earlier Miles, please? I tried, I really did, but it’s just too much.

So, after intermission, when we were treated to a big band ensemble, I was feeling much more comfortable. Regrettably, I couldn’t stay for the entire show. However, when the program broke off into selections from Sweet Charity, I felt a bit out of my realm anyhow (btw, of course the venue was perfect for the musical theatre selections, too). So, having lost myself in more than an hour of foot-tapping, goose-bumping jazz, I snuck out of the auditorium and enjoyed a quiet stroll downtown to the El. And I had completely forgotten about work.

Mother Nature and the CTA Conspire against Commuters

Fully expecting a horrendous commute yesterday, after the CTA cut numerous buses and trains on busy routes, I trekked to my El stop with visions of sardine-can rides from now until, well, until some anonymous donor bails out the CTA (which is a lovely thought but will never happen). Yet, when I arrived on the platform and the first train came, I found, ironically, that I was able to get a seat—something that never happens for me in the morning. I stepped right on and sat right down, like nobody’s business. Okay, this must be a fluke, I thought.

So, today, with snow blustering and accumulating at an alarming rate outside, I thought, “Okay, Em, you got lucky yesterday, but today it’s going to be Stove Top stuffing in there” (I heard someone say that once, and liked the metaphor). As I slipped through the turnstile and headed down the steps to the open doors of an awaiting train, however, I found several open seats again. CTA cuts? Blizzard? You wouldn’t know it from this train.

The only explanation I could figure for this anomaly was that a whole lot of commuters, expecting the worst, arrived 30-60 minutes early as they were told to do on the news. And those of us who didn’t feel like rolling out of bed an extra half hour earlier were reaping the benefits. Of course, I do tend to catch the El a little earlier than most working people anyway, primarily because I like to avoid being crushed up against strangers, and getting my toes stepped on, or dodging gropers, which I have had to do on occasion.

So, the day proceeded and there I was thinking how lucky I am to be getting these great train rides this week, and then, well, I left work at 4:50 p.m. Um, yeah. A slightly different story. There was no "hopping" onto a train at five o'clock. It was pure pushing and shoving onto already packed train cars, in an attempt to escape a platform that was filling up fast. Yes, things are a bit different at rush hour. In a blizzard.

I'm wondering how much Chicagoans will put up with before we all start driving and both traffic and parking become an even greater nightmare than they already are. If we increase vehicular traffic, transportation in Chicago could fall into a vicious, frustrating, and environmentally-unfriendly cycle that, at best, would lead to the reincorporation of the buses and trains that have just been cut, or, at worst, would erode Chicago’s famed public transportation infrastructure. For good or bad, I imagine that we're all going to grin and bear it until it becomes literally unbearable.

But if it's this bad now, imagine what it's going to be like during baseball season. True, people won't be waiting outside in a blizzard to catch one in a handful of buses. But people will be waiting. Lots and lots of people. Now I’m really going to have to plan my entire life around the Cubs, and I don't even like baseball.

El Racing

It’s rather infrequently that I travel up to north Chicago these days. So, today, as the Red and Brown lines rushed me northward toward Ravenswood to meet Liz for coffee, and I watched the John Hancock grow increasingly diminutive, it actually felt like an extremely long journey. The path I had traced every day coming to and from work when I lived in Uptown is actually becoming unfamiliar to me now, since my life is pretty concentrated in downtown Chicago.

On my way home after coffee, after I had made my transfer from the Brown to Red line at Belmont, I was reminded of how much fun that El ride can be (forgive me for being so easily amused). Because today we got to race. At Fullerton, both the southbound Brown line and Red line trains took off at once. The Brown line was off to an early start, and for a second I thought we would lose. But it wasn’t long before the Red line smoked ‘em, as it zipped past the Brown line train, which was forced to make a stop. I love when the trains are timed just right like that, because it reminds me of riding on the Gemini roller coaster at Cedar Point, where the red and blue cars would take off together, and you’d race each other until the end of the ride (blue almost always won).

My favorite part of the simultaneous takeoff from Belmont, though, is that split-second of adrenaline when it seems as though the trains might crash into each other as they converge to run side-by-side. It always makes my breath catch in my throat for the briefest moment but then I relax when, surely enough, the trains start riding safely on their parallel courses. It’s not quite as exciting as riding a roller coaster, but it amuses me. Plus, you get to peer into the train next to you as you ride alongside each other. It would be more fun if you could taunt one another like everyone does on the Gemini, but, well, there’s urban transportation and then there’s Cedar Point.

Pockets

We are getting so lucky with our pockets of springtime. Both today and yesterday were magnificent, with highs near seventy degrees, and full sunshine. I had every intention of going down to Macy’s yesterday for the noon lighting of their big Christmas tree, until the sunshine bursting in from the slats in my blinds woke me in the morning, and immediately convinced me that my day would best be spent outside. How can I possibly think about the holidays when it feels like May (honestly, I have no idea how they ever get into the Christmas spirit in Florida or Southern California)? So, after puttering lazily about the apartment for a couple of hours, I went out and spent some time with on of my favorite ladies—Lake Michigan.

It really felt like summer again, as I threw on a T-shirt and ran out the door. I just ran and ran and drank in the sunshine. Many people, and their dogs, were out enjoying the weather. Maybe I’m just missing Henry (our family collie-mix), but I saw more dogs this weekend than I have in ages. Adorable, big, fluffy dogs. Some swimming in the lake, some trying to jump in the lake with their owners in tow, some running up and down the beach. Dalmatians, golden retrievers, black labs, sheepdogs. They were having so much fun, I couldn’t help but smile (and wish I had Henry with me).

Anyway, up past Fullerton, I took a break to sit and stare at the lake. It had been well over a month since I’d last gone down to the shore and just drank in the beauty of the lake and the city and let myself be. Lake Michigan was calm and smooth. Only the occasional wave runner marred her surface, but I enjoyed the way the sun created rainbows of lake spraying out from behind them. I believe I sat there for over half an hour, which is a pretty long time for me to just sit, without talking, without reading, without surfing the net, without working on something.

Being by the lake is such a contrast to the busy city life that it’s sometimes hard to believe that both exist within the bounds of Chicago. Tomorrow morning I will be lost in the crush of people siphoning into the El on their morning commutes. I will squeeze into some pocket of space between bodies just wide enough for me to stand in until I get to my stop. I will have no choice but to breathe in the smell of the lotion, cologne, or body odor of the person next to me, and to become uncomfortably warm in my layers of clothing.

But while I’m on the train I’ll think about how, just yesterday, I was running in a tank top by the lake, lungs expanding with fresh air, and soaking up sunshine. Nothing but water and open space to my east. When I was out there, I never once looked at a clock or a cell phone or even bothered wondering what time it was. I feel like my batteries were recharging. So tomorrow, when I’m back in the hubbub and probably wishing it were still Sunday, I’ll nevertheless be pretty fresh-faced and ready to tackle the week (at least, I hope so!).

“Sometimes I been sittin on trains…”

I like to start my week off listening to music that is completely inappropriate for a Monday morning. So, you’ll find me sitting at my desk with my headphones in, looking very serious and intent. Honestly, I am very serious and intent, but I’m also having a party inside. Because Justin Timberlake or Usher or Outkast is blasting in my ears. While I am rarely plagued by a true “case of the Mondays,” I know that I will prevent that beginning-of-the-week office blues entirely if I set the right soundtrack. (Especially when my week starts at 5:30 a.m. with a frantic call from my intern telling me she can't access her computer. Which, surprisingly, didn't phase me at all.)

Of course, music just makes everything better. I can feel my confidence level shoot up about three notches when I’m listening to something bad ass on my iPod, walking to work. Plus, when it’s raining outside, I can listen to something like, “Mr. Blue Sky.” Running is the pits without music—I don’t make it half as far without it. And I have to be honest, sometimes I just really appreciate the option to block out the rest of the world.

I got to thinking about music this morning because there are certain songs that always make me think of Chicago, particularly of riding on the El. Most of them are the songs I added to my iPod last fall, when I’d first moved here, and the idea of commuting to work while wearing earphones was an entirely new concept to someone who was used to driving herself anyplace she wanted to go. I thank Kim for introducing me to most of the music I associate with Chicago (despite the fact that he lives in D.C.). My favorite is still “Paper Planes” by M.I.A. The beat of that song just makes me feel awesome. Anyway, I love how music does that—it wraps itself up with certain times or places or people. Needless to say, I’m still not listening to Stevie Wonder or Aretha Franklin because that music became wrapped up with a certain person. Pretty fabulous music to have to ban from the play list, but you know, these things take time.

Anyway, today I was listening to Justin Timberlake at work. It was great. Sometimes I just want to get up and dance. Like, seriously, just stand up in the middle of work and dance. At 10 a.m. On a Monday. It’s almost as absurd as the urge to stand up in church and yell a curse word (something I always thought would be singularly outrageous). Both thoughts crack me up. I love to imagine doing something completely incongruous with my surroundings. I’d never do it. But if someone else did, I would get quite a kick out of it.

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.

“You Say Good-bye…”

A lazy Sunday was welcome after a weekend exhaustingly full of some of Chicago’s best food and entertainment (it had started with tapas at Ba-ba-ree-ba on Friday night, and then never ceased!). So, Wendy and I relaxed during a casual brunch at Tavern on Rush, filling up on coffee and eggs (or stuffed French toast, in Wendy’s case) and afterward shuffled back to my place and napped before heading to the beach for a leisurely afternoon of reading and sunshine.

I was disappointed that when we reached Oak Street beach we found it completely blocked off and littered with white tents (I didn’t even bother to find out what event was going on), and trucks lining half the waterfront from Oak Street to North Ave. The lake didn’t seem too happy about the intrusion either. I have never seen the waters of Lake Michigan so high before. She caught walkers off guard as she swelled and exploded over the concrete edges barely confining her. Her waves puddled around the tires of the dirty trucks along the shore. We watched an unsuspecting photographer become completely engulfed in a wave, trying to protect his camera as he jumped away two seconds too late. The lake was being quirky, unpredictable. If anything, I’d say that Lake Michigan was being a bit sassy.

Wendy and I were enthralled, and I was feeling dramatic like the body of water dancing before us. My emotions felt like the swelling of the lake, spilling out of their confinements. Shivering a bit in my sweatshirt, I had to accept the end of the summer, and the conclusion of Wendy’s visit. Her trip had been a much-needed pick-me-up, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to face the closing of one chapter, and the opening of another. Wendy and I sat there together, entranced by the lake, Wendy providing sound words of advice, me grappling with months’ worth of emotion. Endings are always difficult, and change is scary, especially when you feel as though you are facing it alone. And later, after I saw Wendy off at Union Station, I cried on the way to the El. My best friend was leaving town, and the summer was over.

Saying good-bye to the summer meant saying good-bye to KT, which I did, for the last time, the very last night of August. Monday night found the two of us on the lake shore. That night, the lake was calm, pitch-black. I gazed out past the body of water, allowing the moment to wash over me, feeling every word, every sentence sink into my core, my heart wrapping around the closure I’d been awaiting. While little pieces of me still cling to the past, to what was, to a relationship that began the summer full of happiness, I have accepted the end result and am happy to leave it behind with the warm summer nights. I finally feel fortified to face the fall and welcome the changing of seasons.

“…I Say Hello."

Spontaneous Saturday

Saturday was a day of stupendous spontaneity (okay, okay, I couldn’t resist the alliteration). But seriously, I can be a little anal when it comes to planning, so it was a welcome break from the norm to only have a vague sense of the day when Wendy and I set out, and to let the city and a whim take us where they might.

It was a gorgeous morning. A light autumn-esque chill was in the air, which made for the perfect relief to a very sunny day. I decided we’d walk to the bank (about ten blocks away), rather than taking the El, and Wendy was perfectly agreeable to the suggestion. We stopped in Starbucks on the way for a caffeine jolt as we headed southward. There’s a beautiful park on Dearborn (sorry, I don’t remember exactly where it was located). We strolled through, admiring a fountain set in the midst of a circular garden. I felt the familiar twinge of sadness noting the homeless asleep in the grass (some on the sidewalk). We left them to their slumber and kept walking.

Farther south we found ourselves in River North, near my old workplace. We stopped for pictures on the gorilla bench outside Rainforest Café, and then paused briefly so that Wendy could take the half a second it takes to observe the Rock N Roll McDonald’s. About a block from the bank, Wendy pointed out one of many signs for Navy Pier. She had never been there, and I’d never been there when it wasn’t freezing cold (I’d been twice before, the first during my first trip to Chicago ever, in February 2002—brrr!). So, that decided it. We directed our course eastward, and from then on the day was filled with two best friends sharing a laundry list of fun things I’d been wanting to do in Chicago, but had either forgotten about, or just never gotten around to doing.

Headed east on Illinois, we approached a used book shop and the Jazz Record Mart that I’d seen a number of times (usually on the way to the movie theatre), and in which I’d always wanted to get lost. We had no schedule (that felt amazing!), and were both eager to stop inside. We agreed that we could have spent hours in the bookstore, but restrained ourselves, deciding that Navy Pier trumped used books that day. We stopped inside the jazz shop next door, where endless shelves of CDs, vinyl, and books greeted us. I love jazz, and Wendy knows it even better than I do, but that store made both of us feel quite limited in our knowledge. It was a plethora of jazz greats big and small. We agreed that our friend Kim would have loved it. I toyed with the idea of buying some Miles or Madeline Peyroux, but again restrained myself. I can go back and buy them later if I change my mind.


Many blocks later, we immersed ourselves in the dense crowds of tourists enjoying Navy Pier. Giddy like kids, we headed toward the ferris wheel for views of the lake and the city. We felt like we were at Cedar Point, except without the rides and the lines (which leaves the lake, the food, the excitement, and the kiddy rides). After getting our picture taken beneath the wheel and boarding our car, we regressed a few years, trying to get our ferris wheel car rocking back and forth (we were not very successful), snapping a ton of pictures, and standing up in the car partly in spite of the posted signs telling us not to (okay, I did this, not Wendy). The views of the city and the lake were lovely. When we stepped off, we purchased our over-priced ferris wheel pictures, and stopped at McDonald’s for—you guessed it—happy meals.

If that weren’t enough excitement for the day, our day was only just beginning. We next headed to Chinatown, where lots of shopping and better food awaited us.

Fresh Water Feats And Salt Water Eats

Adequately explaining the Chicago Architecture Society’s architecture river cruise is a bit of a challenge. Since I know my words won't do it justice, I'll spare you the sweeping descriptions. What I do want to say is that just about everyone who lives in Chicago recommends this tour, and many of them have taken it multiple times (and have enjoyed it every time). The tours are led by volunteer docents who really know their Chicago buildings. Each structure has its own tale, and you really start to notice the juxtaposition of modern against classical, the contrasts of triangles against squares, the effect of exposed parking garages, etc., etc., etc. I craned my neck over and over taking a zillion pictures, which I won’t post here because those don’t adequately describe the experience either. It's really interesting, beautiful and amazing. (Such bland adjectives.)

Just make sure you’re dressed appropriately and prepare for all kinds of weather. We all knew it was chilly when we started out—hence my decision to wear jeans and a sweater—but during the course of the tour the sun retreated and pretty soon the city was draped in clouds, and the cool lake breezes became down-right chilling (not a good thing for someone coming down with a head cold). I enjoyed the first three quarters of the tour, but by the last twenty minutes or so, I really couldn’t wait to get off that boat. Which is a shame because it was such a great tour. I could have gone below, but seriously, I didn’t want to miss something! Afterward, mom and I practically raced to the El (it’s always warm down there), but I loved how, even in our hurry, mom was pointing out the lines of the buildings along the way. She loved that architecture tour, and that was really important to me.

We thawed out while waiting for the red line, and were soon headed to an early dinner at Half Shell, a restaurant to which I’d been waiting to take my mom since the first time I’d eaten there. Okay, I’m not going to give you another restaurant review—well, not exactly—but this place seriously has the best crab legs in town (and I’m not the only one who knows it—be prepared to wait, or go for early dinner). The first time I went there, I devoured my whole plate of crab legs (that’s a BIG crab and a half) and knew that the other crab-lover in my life—mom—would appreciate this place as much as I did. It’s not much for ambiance. In fact, the whole thing is set up in the basement of what appears to be an old house (the tip off—a bathtub in the women’s restroom). The service isn’t great, either. But there’s a full bar and, well, the crab legs make up for all of it. I’m not going to sit here and say that you’re going to achieve that Zen experience you might feel when you’re eating crab legs in Maine or Boston, but when you live in the Midwest, Half Shell is pretty damn near the best you will find. (I hear the clams and oysters are great, too, but you really couldn’t pay me to eat those, no matter how delicious they’re purported to be.)


Half Shell is the perfect place to make a mess of yourself while you’re mastering the art of crab shell-cracking. Both times I’ve eaten at Half Shell I’ve left a messy table of butter spillings, crab shells, and bits of meat strewn across the table, and walked out the door picking bits of dinner off of me. No, I’m really not a pig. Crab is messy. And it’s well worth it!

They definitely have a sense of humor at Half Shell. When you’ve finished consuming every last bit of crab meat you can free from its exoskeleton, you find a plate of carbs buried underneath. French fries and three slices of bread (okay, and a slice of tomato and a pickle, too) await you when you’ve finished your crab legs. Of course, nobody ever eats those soggy things after the scrumptiousness that is the crab legs (okay, shhhh, don’t tell anyone, but I totally eat the fries). Even if you don’t eat that part, though, don’t leave your sucker behind. Yes, they bury a lollipop underneath, too, and somehow it’s the perfect dessert after a plate of crab legs.

Hauling My Groceries up onto My Soapbox

This morning at the neighborhood Jewel, I found myself sandwiched between a long line of people behind me, and a wall of incompetence in front. While the cashier spent ten minutes working with the customer ahead of me trying to get her grocery card to work, I zoned out to clips of John Stewart on the TV. It actually took me a few minutes before I realized what I was doing: I was watching television in the grocery store checkout line. I looked around. Sure enough, there were TVs in all the checkout lines. (I never noticed it before because I’m one of those impatient types who relies on self-checkout.)

Then I got to thinking about what it says about us as a society, that we need televisions at the checkout counter. It used to be enough just to pick up a magazine and flip through it while you waited, but not anymore. Now we need to have news and entertainment fed to us with little to no effort on our parts, if we have to wait more than two seconds in a line.

They installed televisions at some of the El stops, too. I remember when they first put them in at the Clark/Lake stop in May. I was waiting for the green line after work and I noticed the new flat screen TV sets, still partially-wrapped in protective plastic. The first thing that flashed into my head was the billions of dollars the CTA is in debt. They’d raised our travel fees a few months earlier. And here I thought that rate hike was helping to keep people employed, and to perform maintenance on trains and buses!

In these days of PDAs and iPhones, I guess I just find it incredible that television sets are popping up all over the place. It’s such overkill and overload. Do we really need to have information and entertainment (not to mention marketing) spoon-fed to us every second we’re not working? Goodness knows, I’m on my computer all the time, at work and at home (and if I had an iPhone it would be half of the rest of the time, too), so I’m not excusing myself. But I don’t think it’s healthy that I feel the constant need to be connected to technology this way. And I think that having time just to be, to think, and to observe the real, physical world around me is invaluable. If you put a TV in front of my face, I'll probably watch it. And maybe I'll learn something new, but I'm pretty sure the people getting the most benefit out of this are the ones advertising their products in the endless strings of commercials.

You know, I’m grateful that Chicago is still a reading city. On the El, you’ll see a good number of people glued to a book the entire commute to work. Part of me actually misses the 25-minute El ride I used to have from Uptown, because the couple of stops I've got now only provide enough time to just get engrossed and then you’re stepping off again. Reading is relaxing, and it’s an escape. I just hope that we’re not going to become so obsessed with technology and fast facts that this reading culture dies (and by "reading," I mean something beyond an 8th grade reading level, which, by the way, is the target reading level for ecommerce sites). And I don't care if that makes me old-fashioned.

Chicago Ramblings

So, up until now I’ve kept my posts here pretty positive. I’ve just tried to cover the most exciting moments of living in Chicago. But I’m not always excited. And it’s not just about Chicago. Right now I’m scared, the same way a lot of Americans are scared. I’m on the job hunt, knowing that my current position will end in two weeks. And I don’t know that I will end up in Chicago when this all pans out. I don’t know what will happen to me, and it’s scary. And I feel, like a lot of Americans, that I have worked too hard and have spent too many years in school to be passing my resume out like a cheap paper flier, hoping that someone will read it before chucking it in the recycle bin. (Better yet, that someone will read it and decide to do something about it before discarding it.) And I am too old and my parents too hard-working for me to move home and place added burden on them right now.

And the thing is, I really enjoy Chicago. It’s not as perfect as I probably make it sound in my earlier blogs, as anyone who lives in a place for awhile would understand. Utopias don’t exist, and I never put those expectations on Chicago. I mean, I love the architecture. Of course, above anything else, that is what Chicago is famous for. I still feel a thrill when I walk downtown. I think we all have those dreams of being successful in the big city. Living, shopping and working downtown. Enjoying the night life. And I had hoped to eventually be there, too. I still sort of hope for it, but at the same time, after all the time it takes to get to that point, I imagine I’ll be tired of living in the city…

I love public transportation but I don’t want to do it for the rest of my life. It’s a relief for the strained environment, and there are so many different kinds of people on the bus or the train. You never know who you’ll bump into. Of course, that’s not always a good thing. I’ve seen good things on the El and I’ve seen (or smelled) not so good things. Today I was riding to work and I could smell soggy winter on people. You can tell that winter coats have been worn repeatedly for weeks, and for a lot of people they won’t be cleaned until April. Sometimes, if you sit on the back of the El, you’ll smell urine. It’s disgusting really.

But I get to read all the way to work. I get to step off of the El and walk all the way to the office without setting a foot outside in the snow. (Yay, Pedway!!! Your inventors were genius!!) I can listen to my music and people watch. I can go to work without having to dig my car out of the snow! If the roads are hell, I still get to work. It’s kind of amazing, really.

Sometimes people on the El do nice things for each other. Sometimes a person who can barely afford to eat will offer his food to other people on the train. Most times someone will stand up and offer their seat to someone who needs it more. On certain Friday or Saturday nights, everyone on the El will chit chat with each other about the night’s exploits. Occasionally, a boy and a girl will meet and hit it off (okay, I’ve never actually seen this happen, but judging by the number of El mentions on Craigslist Missed Connections, it must happen!)

Sometimes people are rude. Today I got scrunched against the window next to a giant backpack that would poke into my side repeatedly. And when I said excuse me to get off, its owner barely moved out of my way. Sometimes I get my toes stepped on. Often I get slammed in the shoulder by an oversized purse.

You know, the El has its good and bad points. The bus is much the same, except that it takes forever and I’ve had to stand outside waiting in the freezing cold for 20+ minutes too many nights (thank you, #22). (It’s a shame that the CTA is $252 million in debt right now. Welcome to America circa 2009.)

The thing is, I just don’t know if I’m cut out for this rat race. Part of me loves it. Part of me finds it so exhilarating. But honestly, as lame as this sounds, I’m a bit of a homebody. So, not having a nice space of my own is very unsettling. I currently sublet the second bedroom of a condo owned by a married couple in Uptown. I like my roommates. They’re really good people. But they are expecting a baby now and I feel like the third wheel. The ultimate third wheel. And it really bothers me that everything outside of my room is theirs. I was so spoiled when I was going to graduate school in Knoxville. I had a spacious one-bedroom apartment with a pool out back. And it cost $460/month. You can’t find a studio for under $550 in Chicago (and that’s a cheap and teeny one).

Now, I knew coming in that the cost of living is much higher here. It is, after all, the third-biggest city in the country. And I felt as though I were prepared for this fact. But every time I go to the grocery store and spend $50 bucks for one week’s worth of groceries (for one person), I cringe. I always stop at Kroger when I’m in Toledo and buy two weeks worth of groceries for a little more than $50 before returning to Chicago. I mean, the sales tax alone is insane. The fact is, when the cost of living is higher, you’re supposed to get paid in proportion. So, I should actually be making enough money where these costs seem reasonable. I guess the fact that I don’t make proportionate money really puts it all into perspective.

There are some other serious cons about living in Chicago. I really hate winter here, but I plan to live in the Midwest, and it doesn’t vary that much from Chicago, to Toledo, to Minneapolis, to Indy. This winter has been exceptionally rough on all of us. We’re expecting another 8 inches by tomorrow afternoon and the thought of digging my car out of the snow again makes me feel physically ill.

Chicago is, in many ways, a glorified college town. To many people, this is a good thing. To me, it’s just played out. Luckily, there are many more offerings in this city aside from its bars. But when you’re young in Chicago, most people want to continue that college lifestyle. I think I’ve had about all I can stand of Wrigleyville until the Cubs’ season starts.

Chicago is crowded, like any large city. So many people, so little space. And I have issues with space, as we’ve already seen.

Traffic sucks. It takes half an hour to go five miles. Traffic is heavy during rush hour, but it’s heavy any time of day. And Chicago drivers are rude. I’m lucky I was already kind of an aggressive, occasionally rude driver when I got here. But, you can avoid traffic by taking public transportation. That, however, is a bit of a strain on those of us who love driving as much as I do, though.

O’hare sucks. When I didn’t live here I thought O’hare was the greatest airport ever. I just thought it was so cool in its immensity. Now that I live here I know that the flights are almost always delayed. Even when the weather’s fine (like when I flew to Knoxville in November).

Despite the negative aspects of this city, I think Forbes was sorely mistaken when they named Chicago the third most miserable city in the U.S. First, look around Forbes. All of America is pretty miserable right now. Is it really necessary to highlight the “most” miserable when the whole country is pretty darn depressed already? Poor timing. Second, as far as Chicago goes, there are so many reasons why people put up with my above-mentioned cons because the benefits are so much weightier.

Chicago summers are exceptional. I only got a taste, and I’m feeling totally ripped off that, as it stands now, it looks like I will have put in a full Chicago winter and not gotten the pay-off of the Chicago summer. You can walk everywhere in the summer. There is so much to do in every square inch of this town that you can simply walk a few miles to a new event everyday. I love walking. When I lived in Knoxville there was a grocery store up the road half a mile, but no sidewalk. That drove me nuts. You’d never have that problem here. In other places, people don’t conceive of walking a mile and a half to the drugstore, even on a gorgeous day. Here, that’s normal. And, even though I’m not supposed to run, I love running by the lake. There is nothing like that gorgeous Chicago skyline, paired with the lake breezes and a good endorphin rush.

Other pros, many of which I’ve written about in previous posts, include the architecture, the museums, the Pedway, downtown, Christmastime, and sooo many different things to do or to eat. I mean, until this post, I’ve pretty much only glorified this city. There are so many wonderful things here.

Living in a city of this size is just not for everyone. I don’t think I’ve really figured out whether it’s for me yet. I’d like more time to do so. Which means, someone needs to hire me. Fast. Because my lease is up at the end of March. And if some Chicago company has not scooped me up by then, I’m out. Of course, I’ll still be looking for jobs here, primarily. I’m just not finished with Chicago, yet.

Obama Rally (overdue)

I never had the opportunity to document the Chicago Obama rally. It's long overdue, but the moment still resonates throughout the city and the nation. I think I've been afraid to write about it because I don't know how my words could do it justice. Let me start by apologizing for the inadequacy of words, and by saying that it was, perhaps, the most important political event I will attend in my lifetime.

Despite my excitement about Obama and this election, when November 4 arrived, I was not convinced that I should attend the rally. All day at work, I changed my mind by the hour. One moment I was going to go and be an active part of the most historical election in U.S. history. The next moment I was imagining gun shots and bombs. A mixture of 9/11, MLK and JFK images whipped up fear in my mind. I really was worried (and I wasn't alone), and vacillated all day. When I left work, I wasn't going to go, and convinced my friends it was the sensible decision. An hour after that, I was putting my persuasion skills to the test, urging the same friends to ignore what I'd said earlier, that we HAD to go, that this was history and we were HERE. In Chicago!

Finally, after a scrumptious dinner, eyes glued to CNN as the early voting results rolled in, the four of us found ourselves on the El, headed downtown. On the train, the excitement and optimism were palpable. Everyone texted back and forth with friends, capturing election updates, sharing information with new-found friends all around them. We were on the train when I found out that Obama took Ohio. I was elated. It made up for the depression I'd felt when my home state had re-elected Bush; when I'd felt that my vote for John Kerry hadn't counted; when I was embarrassed to admit that I was an Ohioan. This night, I was proud of my state, and of my country. I have always been grateful to live in the United States, but I have not often felt proud of my country. It was a new experience. And I savored it.

Emptying out of the train, we headed up to the packed streets, where that same anticipation we'd felt on the El was now emanating from thousands of people. On every corner, vendors were selling overpriced Obama wares (I bought a pink T-shirt proclaiming, "Obama President 2008" after haggling with the seller), and Dunkin Donuts provided us all with free donuts. It felt like some kind of carnival, only there weren't many kids. Just excitement everywhere.

When we finally poured into the grassy area of Grant Park (the part not reserved for ticket-holders [those lucky dogs!]), we all vied for spots close to the jumbotrons. But people weren't aggressive. Again, a sense of solidarity swept through the crowd. It was a shock to all of us when, shortly after staking out our spots, Obama was declared the winner. It happened so fast! We all remembered 2004, when we'd gone to bed uncertain who'd won the election. Waiting and waiting for official counts. This time it just happened. Smoothly. As if there had never been a doubt that Obama would become our next president.

The crowd erupted and immediately I knew that I had no concerns for my safety. I have never seen so many people crammed into such a small space be so happy and so unabashedly display their elation. I felt it like electricity through my whole body. I felt like a Christmas tree.

We were all relatively respectful during McCain's speech, considering the circumstances, but could not wait to hear from Obama. If his win seemed swift, the anticipation of his speech seemed to last for eons. It seemed as though we heard words spilling from all these mouths that didn't matter, and we only wanted to hear one man speak. And when he finally did, all of us struggled to keep it together--I couldn't restrain my tears, and as I looked around, I saw moisture spilling from so many eager eyes. One man weaved through the crowd just sobbing, reaching out to people around him, unable to contain his emotion. We all understood that what was happening was a momentous change for our country. Obama fed our starved spirits with hope for our future and the future of our children. It sounds cliche, but he was a beacon of hope, shining light out on every one of us. This is not an exaggeration. The tears, smiles, emotion, and widespread good will radiating from every square inch of the park proved it.