Leaving Chicago

We’ve spent the last four months living in Chicago, on North Damen Street, near Hamlin Park, on the North Side. We came from rural Louisiana for the summer to be near my wife’s children, to be in a big city and to escape the horrendous Louisiana heat. We had the good fortune to stay at a friend’s spacious, light-drenched apartment, and that was a true luxury.

We’re going back to Louisiana next Thursday. I’m not looking forward to that. But it’s time. We’ve enjoyed the hospitality of our friend, and we don’t want to overstay our welcome. We’ve had a grand summer and to complain about anything, including having to leave, would be an affront to the gods who have been so good to us.

It took me a few weeks to realize that Chicago is nothing like New York. I lived in New York for thirty-five years, and I guess I assumed Chicago would be similar to New York. Not so. In fact, it seems to me nothing like New York. It’s another species altogether, as different as Spain is from Sweden. Both big cities, yes, but hardly anything else in common. Different customs, traditions, languages, histories, auras.

Downtown Chicago from the North Side. (All photos and videos mine.)

Four and a half months is too brief a time to write about Chicago with any confidence. I can’t say I know the city. That would take years. But I will miss many things about being here.

I will miss Lake Michigan. It’s ocean-like with ocean-like behavior and personalities. “Lake” seems too restrictive a name for it. Like an ocean, it gives a balm and inspiration with its moods, shades and changes. I often rode my bicycle down the bike path that runs adjacent to it, passing little enclaves with tethered sailboats resting together, like a Monet painting. What a tonic sailboats are! (Video below of the Lake on a blustery August day.)

Speaking of Claude Monet, I’ll miss the Art Institute of Chicago. It has some celebrated paintings—Hopper’s “Nighthawks,” Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” and Grant Wood’s “American Gothic,” to name three. These are paintings so famous they reside inside you. Seeing them for the first time is like seeing an old friend. You want to say, “Oh, it’s you!” It has many treasures. Going to the Art Institute reminded me how much I need visual art in my life, like blood in my body.

At the Art Institute. Rodin’s “Portrait of Balzac” with Georges Seurat’s “A Sunday on La Grande Jatte” to the right and Monet’s “Cliff Walk at Pourville” to the left.

I’ll miss Montrose Street, where my wife’s daughter and son-in-law own Spoken, a delightful cafe beloved by locals and where I always felt an instant warmth when I walked inside. And Montrose Beach, where we took our dog.

I’ll miss riding my bike around the North Side, like a Magellan on two wheels, making small voyages of discovery. Claiming the urbanscapes I came upon as if I were the first person to see them. That’s what riding a bike in a new city can do. Safe? Riding a bike in a big city is never really safe, but it’s safe enough in Chicago that I never worried. I had an able bike, one that I bought used and that was refitted and given several transplants and upgrades by my wife’s son-in-law, a wizard with bicycles.

My trusted friend.

I’ll miss walking our dog, Manon, around the neighborhood. I’ll miss her unwavering search for squirrels, none of which she ever caught or came near to catching. But hope always sprung eternal.

I’ll miss the trees in my neighborhood. In Louisiana, where we live, we don’t have a large variety of trees. Not like here. In one block alone, while walking our dog, I could see a botanical garden-variety of trees. Trees are the Buddhist monks of nature, with great, deep dignity and wisdom, silent and enduring and instructing.

Some trees on our block. There are more.

And I’ll miss much more.

As I say, I can’t claim to know Chicago with any authority, since all my experiences took place in the North Side of the city or downtown, except for a few visits to Chinatown on the South Side. So my knowledge is skewed and highly incomplete. But I do have great warmth, respect and gratitude for the city. Thank you, Chicago, much obliged.