The Happiest Place in Chicago

Yesterday I found the happiest place in Chicago. It was unexpected, during rush hour, in the least likely of spots, and finding it changed my day.

Annoyed at having waited until five o'clock to finish writing and head home, I pounded down the stairs to the blue line stop at Washington and Dearborn. As I battled the crowd of corporate clones, the most pleasant sound echoed back to me. It was the sound of a lazy afternoon, of a light-hearted crush, of la vie en rose. It was the sound of Dixieland jazz.

There, in the middle of the platform were two musicians, swaying and bopping, rambling along without a care in the world. One young man with thinning blond hair played a tuba and a skinny man wearing a black hat played the trombone. He wore tambourine symbols around his ankles that he clicked together when the song grew especially chipper.

Dixieland jazz transformed the dingy corridor into a lively music hall. Commuters shyly turned towards the sound as they watched for an approaching train, distracted from their newspapers and novels. A few tapped their feet, a few nodded, and it was clear they envied these musicians. I surely did, for it was apparent by their energy and conviction that there was nothing else they wanted in all their lives but to play the syncopated rhythms of this lovely music.

As I find myself in the middle of an existential crisis, I felt inspired to see artists so content with life. And instead of worrying about my own predicament – to chase a dream or settle for money – I merely listened to the music and let myself drift to the sunny afternoon of which it spoke.

Even the trains seemed to belong to another time, chugging into the station as though from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, as though the people riding them weren’t distressed about bills and loans and unemployment.

I rode the train home, cheerful all the way, hardly bothered by the crowds and the unexpected stops. For a few moments, life felt A-Okay, and I basked in it as long as I could.