Avoiding Rush Hour

It may be that the best things in life are shared, but the bigger they are, the more they must be shared. This second truism explains our appreciation for unconventional beauty and quirky personalities. It’s why tourists are despised. We love having things all to ourselves. And so, we must go out of our way to fully enjoy the things in life that are most loved.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the city. It may have something to do with growing up in a small city, for Chicago natives stuck in grid-lock on a precious Saturday seem unfazed. But for those of us from quiet cities with wide streets, waiting more than ten minutes for anything is extraordinary. Growing up, the only traffic jams I knew surrounded Lambeau Field. For people like me, big cities seem crowded all the time, whether it’s in a museum, on the el, at a bar, or along Michigan Avenue. Hit any of these places when they’re most popular and I feel exhausted before I begin.

The first city where I felt like this was Seoul, where every hour was rush hour. Nothing irritated me more than standing for an hour on the subway at ten p.m. on a weeknight. I dreaded navigating a transfer station amidst ten thousand Koreans, rushing by on both the right and left, their only concern the departing train behind me. Throwing elbows was imperative to surviving the chaos. At times, I had to give up, abandon my agenda, and follow the crowd, especially in the consumer-frenzied COEX Mall or Myeongdong shopping district. Other times, I did anything to avoid a crowd, no matter how out-of-the-way it was.

Compared to Seoul’s congestion, Chicago is an amateur, but it doesn’t mean it’s immune. During rush hour or on the blue line, I feel claustrophobic, anxious, annoyed. I get irritated with things that have nothing to do with the people around me. My alarm was too loud this morning. The pages of my book always stick together. Why were there no Red Eyes left? These things would go wholly unnoticed if I had a seat and weren’t staring into someone’s hair-covered coat.

Thus, one of the most valuable things I have learned while in Chicago is how to take advantage of its quiet moments. After a year and a half becoming significantly annoyed, I have cultivated the best ways to enjoy a headache-free Chicago:

Avoid rush hour
For almost four months, I worked from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. Waking up at five a.m. was brutal, but my day was noticeably brighter on half-empty trains and wide-open sidewalks.

Wrigleyville is better on Thursdays
Thursday nights in Wrigleyville are void of its most unattractive parts: unnecessary cover charges, over-priced liquor, and duders with nothing but a pick-up line. Whether its cheap sangria at The Bar Celona or a free cover band at the Cubby Bear, my friends and I delight in fighting no one to have fun on Clark Street.

Forget that cute little brunch place everyone raves about and go Mexican instead
There’s this yuppie-meets-hipster brunch place in Wicker Park whose line out the door is as much a signature as its white chocolate and caramel covered pretzel pancakes. While imaginative and charming, patrons are rushed in, out of step with the laid-back rhythm of a Saturday morning. Far more enjoyable is Caoba, a Mexican restaurant whose wait staff is eager to please, whose chips and salsa are constantly replenished, and whose tasty food arrives quickly and lasts all day.

If you must go somewhere popular, be early and have a backup plan
As should be expected from the most fabulous speakeasy in the city, The Violet Hour has quite the demand come Saturday night. So popular is this Wicker Park hangout that patrons are actually turned away. After many attempts to show it off to friends, I realized just how early I had to arrive to get inside. Thus, I either get there at six p.m. or drink at the diner next door until my name is called (they call your phone, how chic!).

Find a way to be in the middle of it all without actually being in the middle of it
Millennium Park may be a Chicago landmark but the pictures don’t look so great with a hundred other tourists in them. Instead, check out the lawn of the Shedd Aquarium, whose grassy hill on the bank of Lake Michigan offers one of the best skyline views. A mere ten minutes from Millennium Park, it has become my favorite Zen place in the city. The sun shines brightly and the breeze from the lake is pleasant and cool. It is the best place to feel the energy of the city without any chaos.

Savor a good walk
There are few Saturdays or Sundays when I must be somewhere at a certain time, so instead of rushing, I lose myself in a good walk. Often the best way to explore a city, walking means not thinking about the bus that’s twenty minutes late, crawls once it finally arrives, and is so full it could bust open at any moment. To avoid the headache, I make a great playlist and happily enjoy Chicago’s streets with my own soundtrack and easy footwork.

Getting Used to the Cold

We in the Midwest often think we’re tougher than everyone else. Given our brutally cold winters, we believe our superhuman blood equips us to withstand Mother Nature’s harshest moods. Midwesterners believe it is a rite of passage, surviving a full year of blizzards, droughts, and everything in between. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

But are we really as tough as that?

Maybe not, but we must survive anyway. And part of that survival lies in knowing what the landscape ahead looks like. Now that I’ve lived through twenty-five, bone chilling, Midwestern winters, I’ve begun to understand what to expect. When it is thirty degrees below zero, I know to make the most of my time in the sun. I know to wear ski gear in layers and forget about fashion. I read the thermometer before stepping out so I know just how to lean into the wind. I’ve learned to navigate Chicago’s underground tunnels and avoid certain el stops so I don’t have to step outside. I’ve learned to walk fast, because running hurts even more.

But there are times, when no matter how much I’ve prepared, I’m still not ready. I heard the news and I brace myself, ready to plow through the wind. And outside, my expectations are exactly right. It sucks. It stings. I’m mad at the whole world because it’s still difficult even though I knew it would feel this way.

It’s enough to make me reconsider my whole lifestyle. It’s enough to make me wonder if I really need to venture out to begin with. When it’s so cold, can’t I just stay inside, safe and warm?

Obvious reason aside – I doubt I could get exclusive privilege to telecommute for four months – there are plenty of justifications to face the cold. When we don’t venture out, we lack a depth of perception, a sense of reality, and we risk losing ourselves completely. When we don’t venture out, we forget just how fragile our safety and warmth is inside. It could all collapse in a second, and we’d be alone in the cold and darkness.

So we must depend on our tools, skills, and even our vices, to pull us through the depths of winter. And the more we endure, the more we acquire, so that each time, it’s just a little easier. Indeed, it changes our blood.

Better yet, there are times when I prepare for the worst, and it’s better than I expected. I prepared for snow and instead it is melting. I expected gray and instead there is sunshine. I saw wind and instead felt a breeze. It is beyond a pleasant surprise – it is a true miscalculation of expectations and it feels wonderful.

Does that mean it’s better to rid ourselves of expectations to roll with the punches? Absolutely not. But it does mean survival is easier with a positive outlook and chipper disposition. They’re so much more charming than doubt and insecurity besides. It may not make a person tough, but at least it makes her happy.

Inaugeration Day 2009

On this most historical day in American history, it seems appropriate to remember Chicago's greatest moment in recent history. On Election Night 2008 I was one of the lucky Chicagoans at the Obama Rally in Grant Park. My story may not be extraordinary for anyone else, but for me, it was the most incredible night of my life. The enormity of this once-in-a-lifetime night compelled me to write about it. Below is the email I sent to family and friends the day after the election.

The night started at three in the afternoon, as I met up with seven other friends at the entrance to Grant Park. Through a series of corrals and checkpoints over the next four hours, we chatted with strangers, speculated outcomes, and joked around. As we neared the final check-point at seven thirty, we could hear Wolf Blitzer faintly in the distance, and murmurs and then shouts ran through the crowd. "Virginia?? He won Virginia??? What? Oh. Pennsylvania. That's old news." At seven thirty, my friends and I entered the main event, already packed with thousands of people. The stadium lights, the jumbo-tron, the concentration of news cameras, the skyline, that stage off in the distance -- it was overwhelming. With little thought, we made our way into the crowd where we stayed for the next four hours.

The next four hours felt like the biggest, coolest party in the world. CNN was broadcast from the jumbo-tron and we had a perfect view. We tapped our feet, tried to get on TV, and watched the election unfold before us. The first group of states Obama won were no surprise, but drew loud cheers anyway, a warm-up for later. Even Elizabeth Dole's defeat drew woot-woots and fist-pumps. As CNN evenly projected the states, people speculated the chance of a McCain upset. The optimists scoffed, "There's no way Obama can’t win. How can you think that?" To which my friend Rob aptly replied, "I'm a liberal and a Cubs fan. I know what disappointment feels like."

The first memorable moment was victory in Ohio. The crowd bobbed up and down in celebration, and we all patted my friend Laura on the back for voting absentee in Ohio. Then we got updates for other states, their chronology a blur. Obama was leading in Florida. Obama won Wisconsin, Michigan, New Mexico, Colorado, Minnesota. Then, on CNN John King hypothetically gave McCain every other state up for grabs. That's when we knew. Rob, Laura, Christine, Jake, Carolyn, Jim, and Justin and I all looked at each other, a look I have never seen in my life. It was first a question and then an answer. He's really going to win.

Even though we knew, nothing prepared us for what was next. Again, just chit-chatting in anticipation, we stopped when CNN said a major announcement was on the way. We stared at the screen in anticipation. They were going to call California. Washington maybe. Hawaii too. And then "CNN Breaking News" flashed on the screen.

The crowd exploded before I saw the full sentence on screen: "Barack Obama elected President."

For as long as I live, I will never, ever forget that moment. I could barely form thoughts, for these unfamiliar feelings of success and elation were bursting to get out. We looked at each other with eyes bulging and mouths open. A million thoughts flooded my brain in a second: Omgomgomg. President Barack Obama. White House. Bye bye Bush. African American. Leader of the Free World. Kenya. Hawaii. Irag. Afganistan. Indonesia. North Korea. Chicago. Grant Park. This is History.

We jumped and jumped and jumped. Screamed at the top of our lungs. Clapped until our hands were raw. We hugged and high-fived. Quite literally smack-dab in the middle of two hundred thousand people, we could hardly take it all in. It was like time stopping, and speeding ahead at the same time. It was like winning the Super Bowl, graduating from college, returning home from a long absence, New Year's Eve, and hearing my favorite song all at once. It's hard to imagine feeling that ever again.

Maybe it seems a bit much, but for my friends and me, this was all so rare. Victory. Joy. Possibility. For the liberals of my generation, the only major history we've witnessed were school shootings and 9/11. The last time our "team" won an election was 1996, when we were just twelve. For two-thirds of our lives, the other side has won. For two-thirds of our lives, we had to remind ourselves, "Maybe next time." For one-third of our lives, it felt odd to chant "USA" without sarcasm. For one-third of our lives, the American flag represented "Maverick diplomacy" and "fear of the foreigner." We came of age in a country lead by a man we hate, an administration we fear, and an ideology we reject. But finally, FINALLY, our pessimism gave way to optimism.

At the rally, I chanted "USA! USA! USA!" at the top of my lungs with every other American there. We put our hands on our hearts during the Pledge of Allegiance. We joined in the National Anthem, singing without reservation. We were Democrats, we were liberals, this was our America too and we wanted the whole world to know it.

The rest of the night can only be described as the purest form of rejoicing I've ever seen. I grinned the whole time, receiving jubilant texts and voicemails from friends and family. All that was left was Obama himself.

When he finally did arrive, we cheered and stood on our tip-toes hoping for a glance. Because we stood on flat ground, we had no view of him except on the jumbo-tron. I never actually saw him. But I heard him, and felt that giant crowd respond to the memorable speech, and even noticed the Secret Service helicopters above. The crowd was relatively quiet, listening, some too emotional to cheer. I felt proud and was incredibly grateful to have been there.

The next morning, I woke to my alarm. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes, thought ‘Is it five already?’ and then stopped when I remembered the night before. Holy cow, ohmygod, Barack Obama is President of the United States.

It was a beautiful day to wake up in America.

Shake the Blues Away in Chicago

Only in a truly fabulous city can you start the weekend in a terrible mood, convinced that a good portion of the people in this world are inherently bad, and end the weekend feeling hopeful, the blues having been charmed away.

It started Friday night at Kingston Mines, one of Chicago’s great live music venues. Egged on by the emcee’s cheers for Chicago’s pride and joy – “Can I get a yeah for Obama?!” – I danced and danced, the steady bass my lead, the electric riff my motivation. Jake accompanied me on the floor, likely out of pity (albeit well-concealed pity), just so I didn’t have to dance alone. With good friends at my side, I felt loved, and felt great joy in my heart for those around me.

This feeling continued Saturday afternoon at Doug’s house in Lincoln Park, where I found the host drunk and disproportionately happy. Grilling one turkey outside and roasting another inside, Doug entertained a few of us with hilarious stories and inappropriate jokes. The thing I love about Doug is his simple sense of purpose. Only Doug could host a Thanksgiving dinner in January for no other reason but his everlasting love of good food and good friends. By the time I left, I had laughed my way to contentment.

Saturday night hit a peak more than ninety stories above Chicago, at the Signature Lounge in the John Hancock Building. Always touristy, but surprisingly charming, my friends and I sipped cocktails, pretending our lives were more glamorous than they are, watching the world glitter below. It reminded me of the nights I gazed at Seoul behind the glass of Namsan Tower, enthralled by the lights and activity below. Above the city like that, I felt there was nowhere else I’d rather be but Chicago.

In big-city fashion, I followed the lofty Signature Lounge with a stop at the very grounded Map Room in Bucktown. A true neighborhood corner bar, the Map Room boasts map-papered walls, shelf after shelf of National Geographics, and the best imported beer in town. I chatted the rest of the night away with Christine, Doug, and Safet. A tasty framboise in hand, surrounded by a refreshingly impartial crowd, I felt totally satisfied.

Sunday rounded out the weekend with some pleasant surprises. The afternoon was sunny, so even though I had to work, the views from my office were beautiful, and happily reminded me of the night before. For dinner, my friend Matt took me out for Korean barbecue, where we reminisced about living and traveling abroad. Always down for something exciting, Matt suggested we follow dinner with salsa dancing at the Cubby Bear. It turned out to be a memorable night of dance lessons and Latin rhythms. I went home feeling as though I’ve only just begun to discover Chicago’s fun.

Now the weekend has ended, and even though I made little progress on anything of consequence, I’m in high spirits. I’m in a better place than at the beginning of the weekend, convinced I have the best friends in the world.

Waiting for Summer

As much as I’ve come to like Chicago, it’s worth pointing out that it was during the winter that I nearly left it for good. It’s no secret that Chicago is unbearable in the winter: the unforgiving arctic wind, the un-shoveled walks, the inadequate CTA, the seeming lack of trees, the blaring eyesores. Without the white-light avenues and twinkling skyline, Chicago is flat out ugly in the winter. So ugly, in fact, that most Chicagoans consider moving to California at least once a week.

As I feel with any multi-dimensional being, I’m disappointed to see its unfavorable side. On particularly challenging days, I throw a fit and swear it off for good. When I see the unattractive side, I wonder how I was ever charmed by it in the first place. And just when I’m on the brink of writing this thing out of my life for good, it delivers a pleasant surprise, and I see its goodness once again.

Chicago delivers its pleasant surprise in the spring, continuing through the end of fall. For the thing that lures us to Chicago, and what keeps us coming back, is the summer. I fell in love with Chicago during the summer and the city became my home.

And what a summer that was.

I watched that summer from the lawn of the Shedd and the offices of Aon. I drank that summer at the Drake Hotel and the Violet Hour. I screamed that summer on Six Flags roller coasters. I danced that summer at Danny’s. I tasted that summer at Greek Fest and Wicker Park Fest and May Fest. I caught butterflies that summer at the Coldplay concert with Katy. I heard that summer at Union Park with Vampire Weekend and Spoon. I saw that summer on the silver screen as Batman saved our city.

There was Venetian Night with Marcy and friends, watching the sky sparkle from the cool grass along Lake Shore Drive.

There was the third of July, gallivanting around the loop with Rob, and a million other people too.

There was that afternoon with Blair when we started a heart-to-heart at North Avenue Beach and finished with espressos at L’Appetito at John Hancock.

And there were those lunches in Grant Park, reading in the garden, watching the old men rest on park benches, the nearby traffic quieted by the flowers. There were those lunches too, walking with Carolyn to Buckingham Fountain, chatting with Christine in the shaded grass of Millennium Park, listening to cheesy music with Jake in the plaza.

There was that night that started with tequila in Wicker Park and ended with country-western dancing in Uptown at five o’clock the next morning.

There was that game when I cheered on the Sox with Jessica, the Cross-town Classic at Wrigley when Chicago divided into black & white, red & blue.

There was that afternoon snapping pictures at Lincoln Park Zoo with long-lost friends from college.

There was that date by candlelight on south Michigan, the air still, the possibilities endless, the city suddenly poetic and romantic.

I remember my first Chicago as baby-blue skies, golden sunsets, emerald green grass, fireworks and catchy melodies, running around the city, north to south, with nothing to lose.

I can’t help but wonder that when the summer is that good, is it great enough to withstand those intolerable winter months? Must our feelings always be so volatile? What is the value of being patient with the muck and irritation?

The fact is, we are all valuable creatures and our attention must be earned. We must be persuaded to stay through the winter so we can enjoy the summer. We also must be convinced that bits of summer can be found in the dead of winter. And when someone or something convinces us to stay, we hope that the investment will have been worth it.

This is my second winter in Chicago, and I believe my investment was worth it. I‘m enjoying brilliantly sunny days and endless nights more than ever before. I’m just so much more excited for what’s to come once the temperature climbs above zero.

Get to the Point at Danny's

There are few things more irritating than a putz. Hemming and hawing, every decision is dramatic yet unbelievably lacking in exigency. A putz is complacent, free from the agony of passion without an outlet. They lack agency and watch opportunity pass them by.

Personally, I am far too impatient to waste time deciding how I feel about things. Most often, I am lucky enough to feel immediately and have a hard time understanding those who can’t even identify their feelings. Maybe this is a bit judgmental, and I try to be conscious of this flaw. Nevertheless, my appreciation runs deep for all things straightforward.

One of those straightforward things especially close to my heart is Chicago’s best hangout, Danny’s. Every night is bettered by a stop to Danny’s.

Situated around a quiet corner just off Damen, it’s a bar in a house, barely recognizable but for the Schlitz sign and thumping base. Inside, its unpolished wood floors creak with the weight of the dancing crowd, tables strewn about, candles lighting the place here and there. Reminiscent of the best house parties in college, Danny’s drinks are cheap, its air thick, its energy contagious, and its music fantastic.

Danny’s gets to the point. From the no-BS bouncer to its minimal decoration, Danny’s seems to say, “I am a bar. You can dance. You can talk. You can do whatever you want. And then some.” At the same time, Danny’s has the uncanny ability to keep away the duders, sorostitutes, and wannabes. It is the most wonderful filter for those of us who absolutely love Danny’s. You either love it or you hate it, and if you’re not sure, don’t bother, there’s a line.

In a world suffocated by insecurities, Danny’s is a refreshing escape. It seems like everyone these days is in the middle of an identity crisis – insecure, unsure, afraid to make a move, and too complacent to chase what really matters. Danny’s knows what it is. It encourages those who know who they are and what they want.

I love Danny’s because it makes me feel like myself. I love Danny’s because I feel satisfied – like I’ve just made a series of decisions with rewarding outcomes. I love Danny’s because I can end any night there and feel fantastic. I love Danny’s for its lack of pretension. I love Danny’s because it is everything I love about Chicago.

The Latest Great City

I believe every great city has a pulse emanating from its center to its very edges, creating in its wake a kind of illusion to which everyone feels drawn. Cities that pulse are cities that inspire, cities that move and change and grow, drawing people in and never letting go.

New York, Rome, Kuala Lumpur. These are just a few of my favorite cities with that inimitable beating heart. They have diverse, compact neighborhoods, gorgeous skylines, flavorful food, summer festivals, great shopping, and above all, incredibly interesting people. And after visiting these cities, I could barely imagine living without that kind of identity.

For a while, I didn’t believe Chicago had it. I didn’t feel physically drawn to one central place, nowhere with the lights and life, nowhere to feel revitalized. I had been to Chicago hundreds of times, to Wrigleyville, Navy Pier, John Hancock, and even Wicker Park. So when I moved here, I was simply not curious about the city.

Granted, there were other factors to consider. Out of college for a year, I thought I had transitioned into the real world, that I had grown up and grown a thicker skin. Little did I know, the transition was just beginning. It took forever to find a job, and even longer to realize how long it would take to do what I really wanted. It took forever to find a café to really spend some time at. It took forever to make new friends, find a nightlife, and find that groove to remind me that indeed, life had changed since college. I felt unhappy and figured Chicago was to blame. Without energy and identity from my immediate surroundings, I felt especially lost.

Now, more than a year later, I can see that it wasn’t the physical landscape of the city getting me down. It was a whole bunch of factors I couldn’t control, but that I had to live and work through anyway. In the process I transitioned and changed and perhaps found that beat – if slightly faint – that I so longed for.

If I were to pinpoint one moment when everything changed, it would be a Sunday in April when I went south for the first time. Initiated by the always-curious Christine, I met up with her, Jenn, and Marcy in Chinatown, spending an afternoon with three beautiful, intelligent, fun, new friends, seeing a side of Chicago I had never seen before. It was seeing new angles on the buildings, discovering new tastes and smells on the little cliché streets of Chinatown that I realized how little I really did know or appreciate about the city. I was bored and turned off until I saw this new side – and not an especially glamorous side, but one with an interesting story and its own little beat.

And then I realized that maybe Chicago didn’t run on one huge generator in the middle of the city. Instead, Chicago’s energy pulsed from many, many little points around the city. I also realized how it is the people who not only make you love where you are, but who also make a city’s pulse. Since that day in April, I’ve made new friends, discovered old ones, and am happiest when they are all together. After all, Chicago, just like anything worth the effort, is most enjoyed when it is shared.