Starry Skies, Pine Needles, and Chicago, My Stinky Love

(An appropriate title for a rambling post.)

Spending last weekend in Toledo, the little city felt oddly defamiliarized for me, for the first time in my life. As a writer, I challenge myself to defamiliarize the familiar on a regular basis, but you don’t expect the place where you grew up to ever really feel that way. When I went home, I was reminded that the recession is still on. Sometimes I feel like I’m living in an economic bubble in Chicago. I know that many jobs have died in Chicago, that the city is hugely in debt, and that people living here have seen hard times, too. But the rate of decline feels much slower here than in so many areas of the country, and the rate of recovery seems quicker here as well. Toledo isn’t a back-water town. It’s a small city, but it’s blue-collar, and a lot of those jobs are gone. It’s only a matter of the ripple effect from there. Many shops in my parents’ part of town sit empty. Toledoans have talked for years about the depressing facades of empty buildings filling the downtown after all the fortune 500 companies that once propped up the city moved out for cheaper lodgings in the suburbs and other Midwestern towns. But, as if tentacles had reached out from downtown Toledo, the little places on the edges of town are emptying out, too, and most of those businesses aren’t fortunate enough to relocate.

Hotels along Reynolds have been abandoned, leaving only their dated 70s construction and bland window treatments behind (yes, the curtains are still hanging in the windows). Restaurateurs have moved out of their buildings, with no new tenants to take over their abandoned kitchens. Some areas of the city look on the verge of ghost town.

Riding around Toledo, I was struck by how low everything was, and I don’t just mean depressed economically (don’t get me wrong, the city isn’t dying—I refuse to believe that—though certain limbs are faring worse than others), but physically low to the ground. I have become acclimated to high-rises and skyscrapers, and that was the single most conspicuous detail I noted about my hometown that I had never considered before. So many one- or two-story buildings! I don’t mean this in a condescending way, but some parts of the city started to feel like a toy town.

I enjoy visiting Toledo. In addition to spending time with my family, it’s a nice break to take a leisurely drive through streets that feel practically empty; I don't feel rushed there. And it’s nice to walk down quiet neighborhood roads where stars can be seen at night, and you can hear crickets and falling acorns.

And, honestly, my nose appreciates the break. I mean, I have to admit that one of the first things I recognize when I’m back on the streets of Chicago is the foul smell. It’s that waft of sewage that drifts up from the manholes in the streets, or the sweet perfume of fresh urine, or that odd, stale McDonald’s scent that drapes certain intersections downtown. I’m reading Devil in the White City right now (fantastic!) and when I was reading about the dead cats and the sewage and the muddy streets I thought of that Swift poem, “A Description of a City Shower,” and felt like 19th-century Chicago and 18th-century London weren’t all that different. But then, today, when I was walking downtown and my nose was assaulted by a urine-and-moldy-Big-Mac odor, I thought, “Well, we may not be wading through shit, but you can never get away from the smell of it in a city with so many people, whether its 1889 or 2009.” Anyway, that’s the long way of saying that I appreciate the scent of pine needles and fresh grass in my parents’ neighborhood.

But after a short while away, the rumble of the city starts to call me back. The activity, the people, the events, the architecture—they all contribute to the overall seduction of Chicago. Chicago, you are a stinky city, and you’ve got lots of crime and homelessness and corrupt politics and frigid winters, but somehow I just keep coming home to you.

Frozen Toes and Warm-Weather Treats*

It has been my observation that Midwesterners are a little crazy about the changing of seasons. They have a way of forcing the seasons regardless of the weather. I’m not saying I’m an exception to this generalization, but here is my case in point:

Mr. Freeze—perhaps the most popular seasonal ice cream joint in Toledo—opened about a week ago. Granted, we’ve had some beautiful days since then, but today it was cold, cloudy and damp. The high was 48 degrees. At some point in the day, my mom decided that it would be fun for us to go to Mr. Freeze after dinner. Honestly, I was already cold when she suggested it so the idea sounded almost ludicrous, but who am I to refuse ice cream?

So, we climbed in the van and headed toward Mr. Freeze, the temperatures falling with the sunset. As we approached the stand, we were surprised by the crowds. Lines of people, bouncing or shifting to keep warm, spilled out into the parking lot, snaking from each available window. I couldn’t believe that so many people had come out for ice cream in the 40-degree weather, and was even more shocked to find myself in this crowd (I couldn’t be this impractical, could I?). I bounced on my heels, hands shoved deep in my pockets, pulling my winter coat even tighter over my sweatshirt. My gaze shifted back and forth from chattering teeth and huddled customers to the scrumptious sundae descriptions plastered across the windows. I laughed aloud at the absurdity of the scene. But I did not lose my place in line.

When we finally made it to the window to order, I had mixed feelings about my ice cream. It was going to taste amazing; my mouth watered at the sight of orange and vanilla all tangled up together, but I was already shivering, without using precious body heat to melt bites of ice cream. It didn’t take long, though, for me to opt for taste over temperature and dig in. In the van we had some relief from the chilly breeze, and I continued to watch the people lined up outside. This was when I decided that Midwesterners are a little crazy about spring. I saw three people in shorts, a woman in a white skirt and a short-sleeved shirt, and countless customers without jackets. While my lips shivered against my ice cream, I shook my head in disbelief.

The calendar says it is spring, yes. We all want it to be spring, indeed. But I don’t care what you want or what the calendar says—if it’s in the forties and it snowed earlier in the week, it’s not spring: even if you pull on a pair of shorts and stand in line for ice cream without a coat. Yet, at the same time, I completely get it. I’m not going to be foolish and catch my death just for the taste of spring/summer (that’s what Mr. Freeze is, after all), but I’m sure as hell going to get my taste. It’s April 10, already. If I can’t manufacture the warmer temperatures, the sunshine, and the smells of springtime, I’m at least going to go to Mr. Freeze and eat ice cream until my upper lip goes numb—and it did. My toes are still frozen and the goose bumps are still fading as I write this. But it was worth it.

*I’m on “vacation.” It won’t be long before I’m Chicagoing again. Bear with me until my return. ;)