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.

Chicago Resuscitated: Summer's Here!

One thing I can say about Chicago seasons is that they are abrupt, and summer’s descent upon the city last weekend was no different. Yes, we had a dash of seventy-degree weather here or there in April and earlier in May, but when summer (or any other season) decides to come to Chicago, it seems to happen overnight. And so the temps leapt up into the eighties on Saturday, and there they will stay that way, or close to it, for quite some time (much to my elation).

I missed the first weekend of summer in the city, because I was back in Ohio (where we were getting a similar taste of the first days of the new season), gathering boxes for the move, visiting family, and eating ice cream (yes, Mr. Freeze!!). On my hour-and-a-half long commute out of downtown and onto the skyway on Friday, though, I gasped out load when I heard a DJ on one of the radio stations report: “Tomorrow we will see temperatures that we haven’t seen for 200 days.” I literally frowned at the radio as I drove out of the city, thinking about how many cold days we get in this city.

I’m still debating whether the winters are worth it, but there’s no denying that Chicago gets its resurrection every summer. Indeed today the beaches and the running path were enlivened by Chicagoans (and tourists) soaking in those much-missed summer rays. I was so eager to get to the beach first thing upon my arrival in the city, that I was cursing up a storm as I drove around for half an hour trying to find a parking spot in my neighborhood (thank GOODNESS I’m moving soon and won’t have to deal with that as often anymore!). As soon as I had all my boxes unloaded, and the car parked, I was off to Oak Street Beach. And I have only one word to describe how it felt to be there, basking in the sun—glorious!

A Solution to Parking Woes in the City?

If you’ve read even a few of my blog posts, then you know that Chicago parking is a contemptuous issue for me. As if paying for public transportation ($86/month and always rising), and dealing with long commutes if you choose to bypass the public option weren’t enough, the city constantly steals your money through ludicrous parking tickets and towing regulations, in addition to an overabundance of metered parking. We all know what a fiasco the privatization of the city’s parking meters has been: the city took a nice chunk of cash to the bank (where it made a tiny little dent in Chicago’s deficit), and citizens, quite simply, got screwed. Even now, after most of the initial kinks have been remedied, the appearance of meters on streets that once allowed parking (particularly on streets where we reside) continues to add insult to injury.

While parking meters frustrate me, I am not nearly as infuriated with them as I am with the street sweeping procedures (which aren't all posted on the street—you better be familiar with your alderman’s website), where, if you forget to move your car, you’ll be towed away. After navigating to the fourth level of hell, I mean, Wacker, to retrieve your car, you’ll be greeted with a minimum $160 fine when you get there. Then, as you walk over to your car with lighter pockets, another sneaky little invoice, slipped under your windshield wiper, awaits you--50 more bucks that you owe to the city. When I saw mine last summer, I started wondering if maybe removing my windshield wipers would be a good strategy to avoid tickets. Hmmm, maybe not.

So, it should come as no surprise that when a friend of mine brought this to my attention, I nearly wept at the ingenuity of it (okay, now I’m just exaggerating). Now you can hire Stop Parking Tickets to remind you to move your car. Oh, oh, and, here’s the even better part, they also notify you when the city decides to tie one of its infamous temporary “No Parking: Tow Zone” signs to a tree or a pole (yes, non-Chicagoans, the city can decide, on a whim, that your parking space is not going to be a parking space tomorrow)! You have to agree that paying a mere $9.99/year beats the $200+ you pay if you’re towed. According to the Stop Parking Tickets website, the average Chicagoan pays over $100 per year on parking tickets (unsurprising, as that’s only two tickets).

Now, I haven’t tried this, because I’m stubborn and like to believe I’ve got the parking situation under the control with my now-wise eagle eyes, but I’d love to know if it’s as great as it seems. Is this the answer to all of our Chicago parking woes?

Desertion and (Self) Preservation

After some digging online, I finally found out what this vacant building is to the north of my apartment complex. It has always struck me as highly unusual that a historic building in such a prime location in Chicago sits vacant. It always felt to me as though it were some kind of school. Perhaps because of the way the building is centered around a courtyard, and the way the fountain sits. It reminded me a little of Oxford colleges, just on a much smaller scale. Anyhow, I kept forgetting to ask at the office to see if they knew what that building was, so tonight I started digging for information about Gold Coast historic buildings, and found it. Found it in a rather surprising way, actually, landing on this story: “Plans withdrawn for Gold Coast repository for cremains.” Apparently, in November, the plan to turn the place into a morbid site for cremated remains was withdrawn after great opposition from the entire Gold Coast community. I can’t believe I was living here when all that happened, and hadn’t heard a thing about it. But I’m so incredibly relieved that they didn’t go through with it: the place already creeps me out as it is, because it’s this huge, old, deserted building (the kind you read about in ghost stories), but to look out my window everyday and see a huge old building filled with ashes? No, thank you.

As you can see if you follow the link, it is the old Three Arts Building. It was built in 1914, and housed women studying the arts. Somehow, it seems utterly fitting that I would land close by. I think, someday, that building may wind up in a book I write.

Aside from my continued fascination with the building, I decided I should look it up before I leave the Gold Coast. Since I have decided (with 90% certainty) that I will move this summer to a neighborhood with ample parking and cheaper rents, it has suddenly dawned on me that I need to explore my neighborhood much more before I leave it (can you believe I haven’t been to the Newberry Library or the Chicago History Museum yet? Inexcusable, I know!).

It’s really a bittersweet decision on my part. This neighborhood is absolutely gorgeous. It has some of the most beautiful early twentieth-century buildings in the city of Chicago. It sits right next to the lake. I hope that maybe one day I will move back here, but into a place that I own. That is a big dream, but you never know—it could happen. It’s a very expensive neighborhood and the parking, well, I just can’t take it anymore. Today I drove around for about 20 minutes to find a spot when I returned from Ohio, and ultimately ended up several blocks away in an area with which I’m not as familiar, and I swear I looked at all the street signs carefully, but I’m still scared that I may have missed something and will walk out to move my car this weekend and find it towed. I’m so tired of having to walk by my car to make sure it’s okay (i.e., hasn’t been hit, broken into, or towed). Everyone keeps telling me to sell my car, but I refuse. It’s too convenient for me to get home to visit family in Ohio (and take my laundry, and bring back groceries). Besides, it’s my first car, and it has been wonderful. Even more importantly, I own it. I don’t own my home, and probably won’t own a place for awhile. It’s the only real thing of value that is mine. Paid for, owned, and extremely useful. Besides, what if I decide I want to leave Chicago? How would I get by someplace else without a car?

Aside from these factors, I also can get much more apartment space for cheaper somewhere else, and I’ve already got my next neighborhood in mind. But it’s leaving the proximity to the lake that tugs at my heartstrings. It sounds silly, but my runs by the lake were the only thing that really got me through last summer. I honestly don’t know how else I would have released all that negative energy and sadness if I didn’t have my runs, and the comfort of the tempestuous lake to my east. And it was all there for me, with so little effort. Maybe, I will get lucky and find a great little place near the lake with a parking garage, but considering my budget, I’m not holding my breath. Of course, if I can actually use my car because there will be parking when I return, I can always drive myself to the lake and then go for my run, or picnic, or tanning, or reading on a bench. And then, there’s always good old public transportation. Eh, it won’t be the same as living here. But every neighborhood has its assets.

City Car-nappings and Parking Predicaments

Last week, after putting in a long day at work, showing up late to beach volleyball, and then playing a rather humiliating game (my talents do not lie in sports), I was shuffling home in a bit of a funk; I decided that I needed to do something to boost my spirits. When I remembered that my favorite pair of heels was sitting in the backseat of my car, I decided that I would retrieve them for a quick pick-me-up. See, in my head, wearing a sharp outfit and heels to work the next day would completely compensate for the fact that I couldn't set a volleyball to save my life.

As I headed away from the beach, and closer to my car, reminding myself that I'd joined the volleyball league only to have fun, I was really starting to feel better. As I closed in on my parking spot, however, a sinking feeling overtook me. Expecting to find my colorful little car, I suddenly realized that a string of gray autos lined the entire area where mine should have been. Hmmm...

Now, I knew for a fact that I had parked on Astor. I had made a mental note of it when I'd parked there a few days before. Trying to rationalize away the panic in my chest, I decided that perhaps I had parked farther from the intersection than I remembered. Okay, we'll stroll a little farther. A little farther. Maybe just a little closer to the... dead. end. Crap. I'd gotten towed.

I knew immediately why. The signs were posted all up the street: "No Parking 9 am - 1 pm Tuesdays: Street Cleaning. TOW ZONE." And I knew that some part of me had known this when I parked there, but my own stubbornness had gotten the best of me. Because the fact was, I had somehow registered both that these signs existed, and what they meant, when I'd found the parking spot. But, the thing was, it was such an event to find that parking spot. The weekend my dad and I drove from Toledo to move my things into my apartment, we faced a never-ending battle with parking. In fact, the best parking we found all weekend was with the U-haul trailer in the alley, where we had free license to park during the moving process. Once we dumped the trailer (thank God Dad came along to drive that thing around the city--you couldn't have paid me to do it), we were forced to face the perpetual parking challenge.

We wound up feeding meters until 9 pm on Saturday, and then getting up early Sunday to find a spot for my car (we resigned to leaving Dad's at the meter). So, after spending about thirty bucks on meter-feeding, and an hour and a half trolling for parking, when I found that spot on Astor I was determined. Determined never to move my car again unless absolutely necessary. Determined (apparently) not to see any signs that might potentially indicate that leaving my car parked on Astor forever was not a possibility. I was in denial. So, I gleefully headed away from my car, and didn't think about parking again until two and a half days later when I came to retrieve my heels.

Now, while all this information was replaying in my mind, I started to feel the urge to cry, despite the fact that I knew this was the farthest thing from a solution. I held myself together until I reached my apartment. I even held it together pretty well when I called KT and asked him to cart me over to the impound. But when I called my mom, I lost it. I was sure I had made a mistake not looking into parking before moving downtown. Maybe I had made a mistake moving there. Maybe everyone said it was so expensive to live in the Gold Coast because you spend so much in parking tickets and car tows. Maybe I was just an impostor in the big city. Maybe I was over-reacting.

I was grateful that KT came over that night and drove me around to all the non-permit spots in the area where I could park in a pickle, and made proactive suggestions. The following night we retrieved my car from impound on lower Lower Wacker (Wacker has, like, four levels--did other people know this?), where I discovered that the city had added insult to injury by leaving a whopping parking ticket on my windshield in addition to the pile of money I'd just forfeited to the tow guys. With a few more rolls of my eyes and considerably lighter pockets, I followed KT back to my neighborhood where his parking radar found me a spot near my building (I don't know anyone who has more parking luck that KT, except maybe my dad), on a street that gets swept only once a month. My car has been sitting in that exact place for almost a week. I go and check on it. I still feel a little nervous about parking and a little worried for my cute little car. This time I am determined to see any and all posted signs and to follow the street sweeping schedule online. I am determined to protect my car from the wiles of the Chicago parking police. Fingers crossed.