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Goodnight Chicago, You Were Mine

It is my last Saturday night in Chicago. My room is packed, my roommates out, and I lie on my bed and listen to the city.

Tonight is a great night to be here. With summer-like temperatures and the return of Chicago sports domination, everyone celebrates, proud to be a Chicagoan. Outside my apartment on North Avenue, traffic jams the street. Horns honk, twentysomethings shout from taxis, radios fade in and out as cars drive by with open windows. Bits of drunken conversations float up to my window. Our neighbors host a party and the base thumps. There’s a light drizzle, amplifying the city sounds and washing away a gray winter. On nights like this I feel young and carefree and think of nothing but the moment at hand.

The night is close to me in my dark room, the excitement palpable, and I feel as though I’m already looking at it from the window of a jet plane. It is my last Saturday night in Chicago, and instead of dancing at Danny’s or laughing with friends, I take it in from a distance, as though I am already gone.

When I left college behind, I did it en mass, as my peers and I collectively embarked on the first real journey of our adult lives. When I left Korea behind, I shared a unique set of experiences with a small, tightly bonded group of friends. This time, leaving Chicago and moving to Denver is mine and only mine. No one else will pursue this dream job with me nor will they see the newness of Denver as I will see it. For the first time in my life I move alone.

I spent a significant portion of my childhood watching brothers and sisters go to college and beyond, watching them travel to exciting cities with interesting people, far from the humdrum of Green Bay. I ached as I watched them go and the number of people affecting my daily life dwindled. I became accustomed to feeling left behind and vowed that one day I would be the one to leave for a bigger life.

Apparently, being on the other side of leaving does not make the grieving any smaller. It’s bittersweet to realize that my life and my friends’ lives are about to diverge. I listen to my roommates make plans for next weekend and am suddenly aware that I no longer factor in. When I’m busy in Denver, my friends will still be discovering Chicago, celebrating Blackhawks’ victories, visiting Danny’s and the Violet Hour, soaking up Lake Michigan and summers in Grant Park. In all the excitement for Denver, I only considered the life awaiting me; I did not anticipate how I would grieve the life I leave behind.

So here I am, Saturday night on the unofficial beginning of Chicago’s glorious summer, and it passes me by on the street below, my life as a Chicagoan already in the past. I feel a conglomeration of emotions as I see what life here looks like without me. I watch myself disappear from the Chicago landscape, nostalgic, reflective, a little sad to see it go. It is my last Saturday night here and all I have left to say is Goodnight Chicago, you were mine.

From the Top of Chicago

Fourteen hundred feet above traffic and tourists, Chicago is entirely different. It is vast, its power and influence exaggerated by the cluster of mega structures glistening in the sun. It is colorful, alive, an efficient system of curving drives and smooth trains where everything fits together just so. I feel pleased and all looks as it should. Looking down on Chicago, I feel hopeful and energized.

Atop the Sears Tower, I touch the clouds and look across the metropolis. From fourteen hundred feet high, how easy to imagine life in this seemingly perfect city. Everything sparkles and gleams. I want to run my fingers between the streets and explore every crevice and possibility. I want to wrap my arms around Chicago, breathe it in; I can't get enough of it. Living in such a glamorous city would be a dream, and how grand life could be.

I could live in some Grant Park high rise, spoiled with lake views and skyline views, my life forever sunny and bright. I'd write on my exapansive terrace, never without inspiration or insight. I'd own a sailboat, every weekend full of lazy breezes, fireworks, and champagne. I'd dine with celebrities, shop with designers, and vacation whenever I wanted. I'd never battle wind or traffic or pollution or tourists. I'd never compete for jobs or tables or tickets. Life would be so perfect, so easy.

Chicago convinces us dreamers that we'll find what we're looking for in the shadows of its grandeur. Perhaps I moved here to live out that dream, to live amidst the city lights and iconic structures. I convinced myself I belonged here, while at the same time wondering why nothing ever worked out, never stuck. I ignored universal truths about myself that would ultimately leave me unsatisfied. I tried so hard to see everything Chicago did for me, without realizing all it did not do for me. Deep down I knew that my dream-life in Chicago was flawed.

Most of my time in Chicago, I merely treaded to keep my head above water. Based on some worn-out illusion, everything I did was a vague attempt for a life I didn't really want. I only saw what I loved to distract myself from the obvious fact that my life was largely unfulfilled. No matter how I looked at Chicago, no matter how hard I tried to revamp my life, I would never find myself.

It took a stroke of luck and the chance to see my life somewhere else that finally convinced me to leave Chicago. All at once, my challenges in Chicago made sense, my life here a stepping-stone and not the final destination. No longer fourteen hundred feet above, life is about to change, and I can't wait to start living it on the ground.

Today You Are Not Mine

Dear Chicago:

Today I do not love you. Today your skies poured flooding rains. Today your buses and trains were late, the distance between two places painfully stretching to infinity. Today your streets clogged like messy drains. Today, your mighty winds tore my umbrella apart and left me soaked.

Chicago, you got the best of me today. You unearthed memories of Seoul, of ridiculous stress, unbearable waiting and crowding, of miscommunication and misunderstandings. Today, you are more annoying than my worst day in Korea. Today you reminded me that patience is a virtue – a virtue I don’t care about when I all I want to do is punch you in the face.

Today your cafes were full and when I finally sat down, I listed all the reasons I hate you.

Today you fail to inspire. Worse than a brutal, snowy wind in the dead of winter, your gloom on this rainy March afternoon, when spring is just out of reach, is like the last month of a prison sentence.

Come on Chicago, bring on the sun, bring on the warmth. Bring on your green trees and wide-open parks, your sparkling lake and soft breezes. Bring on your outdoor cafes and boat tours, parades and street festivals. Burn out the stale memories with your brilliant sunshine. Come on, Chicago, give me something, give me someone. Give me a reason to stay.

Stir Crazy

Once a year, I get so bored and restless that I go crazy. Frustrated, moody, and anxious, I yearn for change, something to look forward to. During these times, moving to a foreign country suddenly seems practical and going back to the worst job of my life may not be such a bad option after all.

Rescuing myself from this rut usually takes two paths: making a dramatic life change or rediscovering what’s been there all along. The first option is scary and the second so obvious I often forget it.

For now, I return to Chicago. One year ago, my life changed because I found the city and I found friends. This time the catalyst is my attempts to find a free museum, a cozy dive bar, or an underground music scene. From this a new energy comes from realizing Chicago’s vastness and complexity. (Check out some of my discoveries at WheresCool.com).

The South Loop, for example, bears the remnants of its seedy, industrial past with a sharp eye to the future. There are railroad yards, firehouses, and brothels; some intact, others converted into museums, restaurants, or jazz clubs.

On the UIC campus, next to the Brutalism buildings, is the most spectacular view of the Sears Tower. Nearby are the disintegrated Little Italy and Greek Town, still telling stories of Sinatra and Capone, their days of mystery and intrigue well behind them. What must it have been like when these places thrived? How long before they are Disneyfied for tourists?

In the West Loop, misfortune meets privilege. Industrial lofts mingle with operational factories, meat butchers spill blood around the corner from Oprah. Between and behind and under the warehouses and garages there are hiding all kinds of sins and secrets.

Then there’s Hyde Park, with few secrets, a pocket of wealth, intellectualism and quiet amidst the danger and decay of the notorious South Side.

Most exciting are the influx of new ethnic neighborhoods revitalizing areas once forgotten: the Mexicans in Pilsen, the Vietnamese in Uptown, and the South Asians on Devon.

Chicago once felt like a friend whose companionship had grown stale. Chicago once felt like little more than a conglomeration of skyline and sports, of tourist destinations and college campuses. Chicago was once a watered down, slightly cheaper version of New York City.

Chicago, in fact, is multi-dimensional, packed to the brim with undiscovered corners, thriving neighborhoods, stories and ghosts and spirit. And when I actively seek them out, the city encourages new perspectives and stirs the soul. For now, the city keeps me going.

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.

India Town Afternoon

With an uncertain future and an empty wallet, it seems now, more than ever, I ache to be a foreigner again. Few experiences are more enlivening than being a foreigner, navigating the narrow streets of a metropolis amidst its unusual patterns, colors, and smells. At once I feel the need to find the one taste or smell to forever imprint the experience in my memory, while at the same time not understanding much of anything, and accepting that I never really will.

So when my restlessness and nostalgia are particularly strong, I celebrate one great appeal of a cosmopolitan city: its vibrant, ethnic neighborhoods where, if I get off at the right El stop, I can be uncomfortably immersed into a busy crowd. One of my favorite places to do this is in India Town (Devon Avenue to Chicagoans), where I often hear languages I don’t understand, see no one I recognize, and Chicago’s skyscrapers are seemingly thousands of miles away.

Just four or five congested blocks comprise India Town at the northwestern edge of Chicago. The first thing I do after the long journey there is go to the Nikhar Beauty Salon for the best brow thread in Chicago. Nikhar in itself is unremarkable with its grey walls, faded posters, soft Indian pop music, and a neon sign in the window. But when it comes to price and service, it more than delivers.

As soon as I walk in, a friendly woman ushers me to an empty chair, without having made a reservation. I lay back as the woman begins. She runs the thread back and forth, back and forth, quickly and methodically, and speaks to the other women in their native language. I have no idea if she’s gossiping about the arch of my brow or India’s newest pop star. Every now and then she instructs me to hold something, her accent thick and the rhythm of her English unfamiliar. When she’s done my brows look prefect, as if I’d gone to a five-star salon downtown, instead of this little gem that charged me pennies in comparison.

After the brow thread, if I’m with friends, I head to one of the many Indian buffets on Devon, where I eat more food than necessary for a Sunday afternoon. I default to the Indian Garden, its décor straight out of a 1993 wedding banquet, its buffet predictable but reliable with curries, lamb, chicken, rice, vegetables, and my favorite, green beans with coconut. The staff is friendly, my water glass never empty, and the naan plentiful. After a feast of a meal, I have spent less than $15 and will be content for hours, even days, to come.

The third stop of the afternoon is at one of India Town’s grocery stores. In front, children and elderly gather to watch sugar cane ground through a machine to make sweet drinks on a summer day. Inside, mothers and father stock up on goods from the homeland. At these stores, the produce is fresh and reasonably priced. There are mangoes and star fruit and even a cucumber that looks like a snake. I imagine these exotic fruits and vegetables come from a secluded jungle far from the gleaming concrete jungle of Chicago. Here in the India Town markets are the most interesting packages of noodles and rice and cookies and crackers, clearly made somewhere with different ideas of what’s alluring and appealing, what is idolized and what sells. In India Town, I feel far from the sophisticated marketing schemes of yuppie grocery stores in the city, where I’m convinced to spend $10 on a box of organic rice. In India Town, I’m not lured into buying the more expensive product because of how it will make me look. Here, I merely buy because what I see looks good.

It reminds me of the food stalls crowding Seoul’s narrow streets, pointing to what I want and guessing how much it will cost. Or those afternoons at E-Mart, Korea’s national grocery chain, where the products looked familiar, but didn’t always turn out to be what I wanted. Back then, I never forgot that I was a foreigner and never felt more alive in my own haze of misunderstanding and communicative inadequacies.

I leave the grocery store and wander in and out of a few more before my trek back to Wicker Park. Having made a tiny dent in my wallet, I feel full and satisfied. I still have the urge to hop a plane to another continent, but with the taste of exotic food and unfamiliar sounds still lingering, for now it’s enough to keep me happy in Chicago.