I was seventeen, fresh-faced and still in high school, when I last visited Chicago. I had come to explore Columbia College, its programs and facilities. Though I had visited the Windy City before, a year prior, actually, I was still intimidated by its cloud-fingering skyscrapers and the shadows that they cast. I did not understand, then, how one could make a life in a city so large. How could one find their place, a niche, a pattern of belonging and eagerness?
Now, at 25, I welcomed the change of scenery. We arrived after dark,
cruising up Lakeshore just for the hell of it. It was a city, sure, one
just a few hours north of my own. But it was ... different. You could
smell the lake, taste the breeze, catch a glance of those still at work,
late on a Friday night, in those tall, reflective beauties. There were
people--walking, chatting, eating, standing, waiting, talking.
I
could already sense the city's pulse. I felt its steady heart, beating
up from under the sidewalks and into the air. Into the car. Into my
hands, which I pressed against the passenger window. Pressed and hoped
and ached for attachment. I looked up and out, at lights and buildings,
and a smooth, dark lake.
Thump thump. Thump thump. It was there, all right.
Thump thump. It was there.
In Elizabeth Gilbert's
Eat, Pray, Love, Giulio
goes on to explain, "in a mixture of English, Italian, and hand
gestures, that every city has a single word that defines it, that
identifies most people who live there. If you could read people's
thoughts as they were passing you on the streets of any given place, you
would discover that most of them are thinking the same thought.
Whatever that majority thought might be--that is the word of the city.
And if your personal word does not match the word of the city, then you
don't really belong there."
Rome's word, then,
according to the novel, is SEX. The Vatican's is POWER. New York City's
is ACHIEVE, which is "subtly but significantly different from the word
in Los Angeles," which is SUCCEED. I can tell you that CONVENIENCE is
what defines Indianapolis. But Chicago? Chicago, now, I'm not so sure.
I
asked Ty, who grew up there. Who drove us there. Who played tour guide
and exuded a sense of familiar confidence. Evansville was where he
lived, sure, but Chicago? Chicago was where he was
from.
"Ty, if you could, what one word would you use to define Chicago?"
"Welcoming,"
he says after only a few moments of contemplation. "I've noticed more
friendly people in Chicago than unfriendly. It's easy to strike up
conversation. We're a talkative group. Even if it's small talk. Fewer
pricks than in the East, fewer loners than in the West. A good mix." He
continues, both ranting and raving. "Everyone kind of rallies behind the
sentiment that what we lack in style, we make up for in substance. What
we lack in size, we make up for in community. What we lack in
trendiness, we make up for in unpretentious, Midwestern realness."
He pauses, but not for long. "Zo
ë
summed up Chicago very well. It's like a series of potential romantic
interests: New York is the most handsome, very charming, he says all the
right things, but really he's just trying to get you into bed. L.A.
will just try to fuck you on the first date. But Chicago is the one that
would be good to you the rest of your life. A little homely, but
faithful."