Transience

There’s a house on the corner of Wilson and Malden that I’m absolutely in love with. It’s one of those little things I’m really going to miss about Chicago. I walk past it everyday on my way home from the El, and I always gaze longingly at it. It doesn’t really belong there. It’s like a home picked up from a different time and a large plot of land, and plopped down on a dingy corner in Uptown Chicago. It’s blue and huge with a beautiful, white porch out front. The yard is a mess (it floods every time it rains, or the snow melts), there are random ropes hanging about out front (I don’t know if someone is in the middle of working on something or what) and there’s a clashing Chicago Bears blanket hanging in a window where lace curtains would be more appropriate. But the home itself is inviting and old-fashioned. It’s exactly the kind of home I want to live in someday.

It stands in stark contrast to the dinginess of Wilson. It’s even a standout against the brown and tan stone-fronts of many of the condos/apartments in this area. Something about this fact adds to its appeal. It’s a real home, and I think that I’m drawn to that right now, when everything in my life is apt to change completely from this month to the next.

Of course, so much about city life seems a bit unstable and transitory to me. When I drive up Lake Shore Drive, I see high-rises with floor after floor of apartments lining the road. When I look around my neighborhood, I see condos stacked upon condos. It’s the nature of a city filled with over three million people that you’ve got people living on top of people, reaching further and further up into the sky. The volumes and variety of people are part of what makes the city exciting, especially when you are young and single. All these apartments and condos however, just scream transience--paying month to month on a place that won’t be yours in a year, or two, or five. But then in the midst of all these temporary homes there’s this huge old house with this beautiful, rocking-chair and tea-sipping porch. While all these other places seem like temporary shells, it screams stability. At least it does to me.

I think we’re all searching for stability and permanence right now. In this recession, so many Americans are watching their lives turn upside-down, losing the homes and the stability they once knew. As a matter of fact, if the “For Sale” sign hanging on the gate of my cobalt-blue Victorian is any indication, the owners of my favorite Uptown house may be searching for the same thing, too. I consider myself lucky never to have had that stability only to have it ripped out from under me.

I have been moving from place to place fairly regularly for the past four years—my address has changed four times (soon to be five). You’d think I’d have grown used to bouncing about by now. I’m trying to believe that I can make any place my home, but I’m still craving a place of my own. At the rate I’m going, the next few years won’t find me settled anyplace, and I’m starting to accept that it’s not just my life—ours is a society of constant transition. With cell phones we are accessible anywhere, and our family members and friends are accessible, too. We don’t have to be at our desks to receive email, or surf the web. We can constantly move and stay in touch all at once. So, the home is no longer the “home base” it once was. Call me old-fashioned (you wouldn’t be entirely off-base), but part of me is resistant to this. I’m glad for connectivity and mobility. After all, my best friends live in D.C., Pittsburgh, Phoenix, San Francisco and Knoxville—what would I do without my cell, e-mail, and facebook to keep in touch with them? Yet, I feel like I have pieces of myself all over the place.

I wonder if it’s the state of the nation that makes me long to put down roots, or if I’m just getting to the age where I’m ready to settle down, or if I’m just tired of not knowing where I’ll be in a few months, or a combination of all of these. Regardless, I would love to live somewhere long enough to make a place mine, to hang pictures on the wall without a predetermined date when I’ll be stripping them down and to create a strong base of friends that I don't have to hug good-bye at the end of two years or six months.

I know that adaptability is a rather vital life skill, and even I have become pretty good at mastering it. Sometimes, however, I wish I could just draw up a rocking chair on that big white porch, sip tea and gossip with my friends, long into the night.

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.

Jazz and Cocktails

This is old, but I didn't post it. Wrote it on 1/17/09:

Jazz has been an important part of my leisure time since my undergraduate days when I first fell in love with it (thank you, Kim). I’ve been to jazz clubs all over the Midwest, including my favorite Murphy’s Place in Toledo, the Jazz Kitchen in Indy, the Blue Wisp in Cincy, and various places in Cleveland, Muncie and Michigan. I’ve scoped out jazz in places where it’s hard to find (like Knoxville) and I’ve sacrificed my lungs to thick cigarette smoke (Rusty’s!) to immerse myself in those sweet chords. If there’s jazz, I will find it. Therefore, it’s rather astounding that I’d lived in Chicago for over four months before I finally made it to the Green Mill. Friday night, I went.

After unsuccessfully attempting to recruit a number of my Chicago friends to accompany my friend Vinny and me to the cocktail lounge, it wound up being just the two of us. I arrived first, severely overestimating the time it would take me to get from home to the Green Mill. Upon walking in I was greeted by a large, bald-headed, biker-looking guy who was really nice to me, but looked like he could pick me up with one finger and toss me out if he didn’t like the looks of me. He recited the rules of the club and then suggested I grab a drink to warm up. So, I took a seat at the bar and treated myself to an $8 white Russian (my favorite, but usually reserved for special occasions). I had plenty of time to look around and take in my surroundings. As I looked at the wood carvings hanging around the room, and watched the musicians prepare their set, I wondered if the interior looks much different now than it did in the mobster days. It’s been entirely remodeled since then, but I wonder how close they stayed to the original… My thoughts were interrupted by the bouncer, who took pity on my lack of company and tried to engage me in conversation about a dream he’d had the night before. He proceeded with all the details, ending with un-profound comments on Freud. I chose not to add my own two cents on Freud.

Anyway, I digress… So, when Vinny arrived, he was a welcome sight, rescuing me from an awkward solitude occasionally interrupted by the tales of the bald-headed bouncer. As we scouted out a good seat, one of the employees showed us to a cramped little table right up front. The lack of space wasn’t an issue—it was a perfect view! As we settled in, I looked at the people sharing our space—all elderly friends and family of the equally elderly musicians. They were clearly enjoying themselves immensely. Ha. I was enjoying myself immensely. And as I looked around at the wide range of ages filling the club, everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time.

It may have taken me awhile to get to the Green Mill, but that Friday I was definitely destined to go because they played my song. I’ve only heard it once before. On a Carnival cruise ship, I was one of very few cruisers who spent my evenings in the jazz lounge, bobbing my head to the music. The drummer took a shine to me and asked me if I had a request. I suggested a few that they couldn’t play, so he finally told me they’d play something special for me next time I stopped by. The last night of the cruise I went down to the lounge to bask in the final night of vacation and, sure enough, they played my song. Emily. It’s such a lovely piece. When they announced it at the Green Mill, I was on cloud nine.

Needless to say, I shall be back. The Green Mill was cozy and casual, with the kind of energetic jazz pros I come to expect when I head out for an evening of jazz. Frank DeRone (the guest vocalist) name dropped all night. This guy’s sang with the greats. Like Tony Bennett. While his voice is weakened a bit by age, his heart was in it, and the Green Mill musicians carried the evening. My only complaint was that there weren’t enough bass solos. There are never enough bass solos… I’ll let is slide, though. After all, they did play my song.

Art Haven

Tonight I indulged in the Chicago Institute of Art. Yes, it’s free on Thursday nights, but it’s still an indulgence—it feels so decadent to immerse myself in that kind of beauty and genius. It’s going to be my Thursday night treat to myself once or twice a month. I looked forward to it all week, and I enjoyed myself immensely all evening.


The first time I went was on January 3, with one of my best friends, Wendy, who was visiting for New Year’s. We waited outside in a line snaking up Michigan Ave; I was impressed with the institute’s popularity. Once inside and warm, we moseyed about, primarily enjoying the Impressionists, Post-Impressionists and miniatures collection. That first visit only scratched the surface, but it piqued my determination to start visiting the museum regularly and I could hardly wait to get back on a Thursday evening. And it was such a treat tonight.


There was hardly anyone there! Here I was sauntering about, taking in all this magnificence, and I did’t have feign interest in a mediocre painting while I waited for the crowd to move away from the piece I actually want to see; I didn’t have to battle my way past school tour throngs; I didn’t even have to feel the pressure of that personal space invader who tries to dictate how long you enjoy a particular paining. And when I giggled aloud at those ridiculously adult faces the Renaissance artists painted on their babies, there was no one (or hardly anyone) there to hear me. In fact, most of the crowds were concentrated in the Impressionists galleries, so I just avoided that entire section. Much of the time it really was just the art and me (well, and the occasional curator.) I’ve never had that kind of experience in a museum, much less a museum of this caliber. I’ve never had the silence of a museum like I did tonight. It was all art and no distraction. It was perfect.

Ignoring my most favorite pointillists, I instead threaded through Buddhist and Hindu sculptures, Greek pottery, and the 18th-century galleries. I spent considerable time gazing at paintings with bright colors or colorful characters. I skipped the violent and the drab. I got lost. And then I stumbled upon the American decorative arts gallery…


Needless to say, I now have a new favorite gallery. After my first visit, I was sure nothing could trump the miniatures collection, but once I came across the people-sized versions of the furniture I love in those little glass cases, I was even more entranced. I have a thing for antique furniture, particularly Victorian (okay, so I have a penchant for all things Victorian). Honestly, I can’t get enough of the way the fabric puckers neatly under those fabric-covered buttons that create dimples in chair cushions and sofa backs. And I have a fondness for excellent woodwork: my grandpa used to build furniture, and I understand and respect the level of artistry that goes into those amazingly carved chair legs, desk frames, tables. So, to see the beauties at the art institute was such a treat! There’s a particularly brilliant green sofa with button dimples all over it, framed in a rich chocolate wood. It’s Victorian and looks a tad uncomfortable, but I fell immediately in love with it and wanted to take it home with me (fashion over function, as the Victorians would have wanted it). I should have taken a picture, but that would only have drained its brilliance and shrunk it down to cheap reproduction. That sofa is now among my favorite pieces the museum.


I’d intended to save the best for last, so the miniatures were my final stop. I could spend all day peering my voyeuristic eyes into those tiny parlors and ballrooms. I’m so impressed by the detail. I chose my favorites (two French salons circa 1740-ish and a Victorian parlor) and then made speedy work to leave the museum. Not because I was ready to leave my haven from the hustle and bustle, but because I’d worn about five layers as armor against the -30 degree wind chill outside, and those layers were starting to feel extremely uncomfortable in the nice warm museum. So, I headed back upstairs, reluctantly bundled myself up, and stepped back into reality.

Early Winter Snow

It’s frustrating that I always feel at my most poetic on my walk home in the evenings (from the Wilson stop, no less). Strands of words fill my head, just right for describing the worlds around and within me, but I cannot get to a pen and paper (or computer) quickly enough to get them down. When I try to fit the pieces back together at home, they become all mismatched and stubborn.

It snowed two days ago. That crisp, white, fluffy kind that reminds you of your childhood: building snowmen in the yard, making snow angels, and sledding. When I was walking home with the snow falling all around me on Tuesday, I felt inspired, and the words were there. Since then, I’ve been trying to capture the mixture of giddiness and contentment I felt as I tromped through the snow that night, but the words that captured the moment so perfectly then have escaped me once again.

Odd, how something like snow can put all your pieces back together—even the ones you thought you’d forgotten. Maybe it’s not snow for some people. Maybe for normal people it’s a gorgeous, sunny-warm day. But for me it was snow this time. I knew I was on top of the world when I felt this inconsolable urge to do torjetes in the snow, because I associate very little unhappiness with ballet. I wish I had done them (though the combination of frozen muscles, lack of practice, and slick sidewalks may not have ended so gracefully.) So, there I was, smiling and stomping through the snow like a six-year-old, wanting to break out into dance, and thinking up these perfect strands of words in my head. My two greatest passions in this whole wide world had rushed into me at the sight and feel of snow.

And, yes, I know that many people hate snow. And it’s no fun when you have to drive in it (I am sorry for those of you who were stuck on the highways for six hours that night.) But I am relishing the first time in years that I don’t have to drive in it—all I have to do is play in it!

After two years in Knoxville, it sure feels good to be back in the Midwest where we get more than an inch of snowfall and most of us know how to drive in it. And, even better than being in the general Midwest, it’s amazing to be in Chicago at wintertime. Because when you’re downtown walking past the Macy’s window displays, or snaking through the Krist Kindl Markt, or rushing along beneath the strings of lights adorning Michigan Avenue, with snow falling on your head, it really feels like Christmas.

Before you get the idea that I’m a complete idealist, let me assure you that I don’t love the gray slush that follows the pristine snowfall. Today I sloshed to and from work looking at the gray mush piled up like dirty mashed potatoes along the sidewalk. It turns my stomach a little, and reveals the city’s pollutants in an unavoidable way. I realize that by February, the slush and ice and cold may be more than I can bear. But for now, I’m going to savor it just a little bit longer…