This morning. over coffee, I was reading
this essay, a sort of love letter to the author's little corner of New York that has no name, that has changed much over time and due to the pandemic. In truth, as she described it, I suspected all of New York to be this way--but surely I am wrong, having never been there, and each neighbohood having its own flavor, maybe even moreso than different pockets of my own city. It occurred to me recently that i have now pretty much officially lived inside this city as long as I did not--my life, (barring that year or so in Rockford working at the elementary school) split cleanly down the middle, the dividing line my choice to attend grad school at DePaul and my subsequent move to Lincoln Park when I was 23.
I had grown up in a handful of places. First ,the trailer in a trailer park outside Rockford that boasted wood paneling and green shag carpet throughout. Then the little house in Loves Park, with its slanted upstairs room I was just brave enough to sleep in a year or so before we moved. At 10, too the house my dad still lives in now, a budget ranch new construction built on land that belonged to grandmother who had recently died. A street of houses surrounded otherwise by river and woods and cornfields out past the fringes of "town, " We were about a five minute drive from the nearest bit of civilization, a Stop N Go. but I grew up with a neighbor's horses outside my bedroom window and over a low, wooden fence they often jumped. To get to the school bus stop at the end of the street you had to travel the winding blacktop that led to "the glen" a woodsier area closer to the river, which was more amply crowded with abodes--some houses, some trailers, some lean-to shacks-- inhabited by people who had been there since before my grandparents had settled on higher ground up the road. That property was a trio of houses, first my grandmother's low slung red house (eventually replaced with a cousin's sleek tri-level in the 90's) My aunt's cabin-like ranch up and behind near where the bypass cut through. On the other side of the fence, another family that had spread over a few homes on a perpendicular street. (and the owners of the horses.) My parents alluded to similar groupings of families up the road that stayed strangely tied to the land they grew up on.
I've spoken before of my feelings of inevibility when it came to the city. I was 15 or so when we came into Chicago on a filed trip visit--first to the Oriental Institute in Hyde Park, then the Field Museum. I'd be lying if I said the lake wasn't a huge part of it, but also the brick lined streets of HP, the sleek buildings of downtown higher than anything I'd seen. The bustle, the traffic, how everyone seemed to be going everywhere and things seems to be happening. Not in the sleepy, shut windowed, overly parking-lotted suburban way. But something different. How it always seemed to be moving, even when you were still in the middle of it. I also like the oldness of it, the architecture. The feeling of history, the culture everywhere--the museums, the theaters, the galleries, This was the life I wanted and it flashed before my teenage eyes and set something in motion. I had detours, of course, imagining I'd be happier on the Atlantic when I still wanted to be a marine scientist. The few months I spent in Wilmington on the coast, which was nice, but felt too far away from the people I wanted to be around. I was also a terrible scientist but a good writer. Thus, the midwest pulled me back.
Chicago is one of those places that is always changing as much as it stays the same. Certain parts are immutable.--the cliff of buildings that lines Grant Park. The things within them change, but the structures are the same. The tree-lined streets of brick townhouses and grey stones in many of the residential neighborhood. Those couple of years in Lincoln Park were cramped and expensive, but I loved walking around in the darkness and watching the inhabitants through wide open windows live rather moneyed lives with floor to ceiling bookcases and Pottery Barn furniture. When I came back after a year away, I chose Edgewater and it's cheaper rents. Here, things change more..less historic codes and more building replacement. My (slightly above) mid-rise deco building looming high above later-constructed classic Chicago 4-in-1s, interspersed with a few remaining nearly lakefront mansions and brick 3 or 6 flats. . Granville, the cross street, has changed a lot with new construction near the el tracks. Many businesses came and went as they all seem to do on el stop streets-- thai restaurants, pizza parlors. But some things remain from early in the 2000's--neighborhood dry cleaners, Metropolis Coffee, convenience stores. . But the hi-rise lined Sheridan where I catch the bus is still exactly the same, mostly populated with people who've lived there for decades with amazing views over the lake, and this far north, without LSD getting in the way.. Loyola has has also gobbled up much in the area around and on my block. Before the pandemic it seemed they were so prosperous they might swallow everything. iIn the fall, when the dorms were closed due to covid, their windows sat dark and empty and the street was largely deserted much of the time at night.
When I went pack to work after the lockdown last summer, I didn't know what to expect of downtown. I had seen the photos of deserted streets. Of coyotes in the middle of the Mag Mile. Of protest-adjacent looting and vandalism at the beginning of June. But really, it was much the same as I'd left it--a bit more shutetred and boarded up, but mostly the same. Despite many people working from home, it still moved the same way--people commuting to jobs they had to be on-site for, tourists who seemed to care little less about the virus and were staying in the hotels that still remained open. There were many that were not, having shuttered to ride it out until things got back to "normal" whatever that was. The stores and restaurants remained open with limitations. Moving around at rush hour was a little less dense than before on public transport, but the city was still here, still alive. That first day, I nearly got off the bus and wanted throw myself down to kiss the sidewalk (a bad idea anytime, but more so obviously now.) The lake was giant and swollen and still blue even if the beaches remained closed.
The biggest changes I noticed later, after the semester started and I was working later hours. At night, what had once been a bustling South Loop all the time was now a ghost town. In fact, even in the daytime it was a ghost town, especially once it got colder. The campus that once sported students lounging outside buildings smoking (less than two decades ago, but still some) was empty, with most off-campus entirely. But at night, I could walk the block and a half to the bus stop and encounter no one but the police who spent a good part of the last year parked waiting for what? Looters? Trouble? Random crime? In other times, the streets would be only slightly less crowded than the daytime. There were no drunk Soldier Field goers making their back to their hotels. Tourists walking to the lake and Buckingham Fountain. When indoor dining was limited esp, no restaurant staff making their way home after closing. No symphony or theater goers, mostly seniors, streaming onto the bus as it traveled up State. At 10 pm the bus crowd was made of these and other second shifters like me just getting off work (retailers, housekeeping staff). Students heading to he north side after night classes at various institutions. Folks on downtown restaurant outings heading home. Most nights even now, there are just a few of the same faces, all masked, on that second to last bus of the evening, but I imagine this will change as we open up more.
I was a little teary wondering one night this week, staring at darkened windows, what will be left. How many places won't come back. Much of the Mag Mile, which already had empty storefronts pre-pandemic, is even emptier now. Even seemingly successful retailers like Macys, Express, and the Gap are pulling up stakes there. Places have left and closed an relocated, but never so many at once. It does seem most shops have taken down the wood over their windows after cautiously putting it up around the election turmoil. A lot of restaurants just won't make it. Museums are slowly re-opening, but it will be a while before performing arts venues can. My boyfriend, who works for an acting school and used to run karaoke has been limping through with online & small classes in the former and nothing for a year in the latter (esp. sad since he greatly enjoys doing it.). Summer will return, and many things will re-open that shuttered in November with that second wave. I only hope there isn't a third.
But then again, Chicago is always changing and this maybe is just hastening those changes. In about a week, they will pull up the winter grass beds where the tulips have been slumbering and are ready to wake. After a snowy February and cold snap, ice on the lake and river have been melting and are probably completely gone by now. Though there's no parade, they will still dye the river green next week for St. Patrick's Day. Soon, you'll be able to walk around without being uncomfortable and people will empty out into the streets. Last night, glancing into a couple restaurant windows along the way, I was surprised by how many people are far braver than me and were dining in. It's still too soon, especially un-vaccinated at least for a few more weeks, but maybe by summer it will be an option. A friend visited the Field Museum and The Art Institute in the fall and said they're so big, it's easy to avoid people, so maybe I'll do that very soon. Outside of work and commuting and a couple visits to Rockford, one socially distanced dining-in in September for my dad's birthday, and an outdoor bar outing in the burbs in early October, I haven't done much socially the past year, I am okay with this, homebody that I am, but it's nice to have the option to eat in a restaurant or see a movie safely without worrying it may kill someone.
