Walking the Windy City - Part 7

Six posts have already gone up, so click these links to view them! [1][2][3][4][5][6]

Part 7

Having a full belly is a blessing and a curse.  Most people, I’d argue, like to be somewhere between ravenous and stuffed, and I’m among them.  I was a bit closer to stuffed, but I still had a couple miles to walk off that full feeling.  Back to the street.

Lincoln Park was still pretty quiet.  Being inside a climate-controlled place, even for the fifteen minutes it took me to dominate my sandwich, made stepping outside into the mid-40s refreshing and bracing.  I wasn’t sure where I was in relation to Wrigley Field, as I’d planned to take Clark all the way till it intersected with Addison.  What I did know was that if I turned right, Lincoln would get me close, though how close was something I’d just need to find out.

As is the case these days, local groceries struggle with their big box competitors on everything from price and location to selection and distribution rights.  Lincoln Foods couldn’t keep up this complex equation, and it’s always sad to see places like these go under.  It is cute that they call carbonated beverages “pop,” which is generally assigned to Midwesterners and some northerners.  I call it “soda,” but lots of people in the south, and especially in Kentucky, call any form of soda “coke.”  So, they might ask, “what kind of coke do you all have?”  They’re not asking diet or regular, they’re wondering if you have some of that green coke called Mountain Dew.  Everyone’s got their own name, and I think it’s funny that these localizations still exist.

Sad about that grocery, though.

Assuming this was 106 years old, this building is in really good shape.  It didn’t appear to be a novelty company anymore; now it just looked like a warehouse, but I wonder what they used to make.  Novelties is pretty vague; it could have been anything from toys to tourist gifts to knick-knacks now consigned to antique stores and garage sales. 

With every block, things got newer and busier.  About a quarter mile from the sandwich shop, I passed DePaul University, another Chicago-based institution.  I remember seeing DePaul in my last visit to Chicago and for some reason, it stood out.  For years after that, I heard about people going to DePauw University, and I assumed they were saying the same thing, as the “L” isn’t well enunciated.  It wasn’t until a couple years ago that I discovered they were two different universities, the latter being about an hour west of Indianapolis. 

Another quarter mile passed, and I went under the L.  In my planning, I’d considered taking the L back to town before heading out to the airport, but I decided against it, instead voting for a bus that took me directly to the correct line to head to O’Hare.  However, the Red Line runs north-south and stops right near Wrigley Field.  Thus, I hooked the first right after walking under the currently still track onto Sheffield Avenue, planning to follow the Red Line to Wrigley Field.

This was a nice part of town, as its newer buildings and retail outlets indicated. Fancy furnishings, real estate offices, and trendy eateries all point to a neighborhood on the up and up. 

A dog park!  Just as relaxing for their owners as them, dog parks are becoming pretty popular around the country.  One of my favorite parks in Louisville, the Parklands, recently added a small, canine-friendly section appropriately named the Barklands.  Admittedly, I figure that right next to the track, the trains roaring by would spook the dogs, but after so long they might just be used to it.

If you haven’t seen My Big Fat Greek Wedding, you really should.  It’s a fun romantic comedy, and conveniently for today, it was shot and set in Chicago.  Having been here again, it’s easy to see the environs that appear throughout the movie are distinctly Chicagoan.  When we came fifteen years ago, there were still strong ethnically Greek communities throughout the city.  One we visited even had a Walgreens with a Greek-language sign!  There must be a significant Greek population here, too, as indicated by this newer-looking church.

I felt like I was getting closer.  Things started to look more like the area directly around Wrigley, and more restaurants were popping up.  More signs of life, more trash on the sidewalk, and more mailbox graffiti.

The area was nice enough that this vandalized mailbox looked strikingly out of place.  The fact that it hasn’t been replaced elicits a certain endearment.  I dunno; Chicago and particularly Cubs fans are superstitious, so I wouldn’t put it past them to mark this mailbox or touch this mailbox as they walk to the game.  Maybe Sammy Sosa dropped a line to his mom from this mailbox?

I crossed Wellington Avenue and peeked east towards the Red Line.  A northbound train screeched to a halt, made its exchange of passengers, and roared back up again and rolled down the line.  Chicago’s transit system is kind of unique; normally you don’t get to see this when it comes to a city’s subway or any rapid transit, but as the L is often suspended above grade, you get to see the blood vessels of the city do their work.

This little bar on the corner of Sheffield and Barry Avenues has been there for at least six years according to Google Maps.  Like most people from my generation, Matilda is more than just a name; it’s a major childhood movie experience.  All I could picture when I saw this was a grown up Mara Wilson walking in to have a couple shots.

Matilda featured something kind of weird.

Twenty-three or older?  But you can drink at 21, right?  In Kentucky, and everywhere else I’ve been, you can go in a bar if you can drink, but maybe Illinois has a different rule about bar drinking as opposed to private drinking.  I suppose any business can do this if they want, or perhaps it’s a liability thing.  Still, never seen that before.

My phone buzzed; it was my wife, and my battery was strong enough that I could safely take the call.  We chatted for a second, and I passed under a another bit of the L which had peeled off from the main line.  I arrived at Clark Street a few minutes later and, down the street, I saw my mark.  I began power walking, my eye on the prize.  I passed by a number of pubs and souvenir stands on both sides of the street, and the roads were coursing with cars, but nothing was going to distract me.

I snapped my first picture and noted the time; I got there at exactly 2:56 PM!  Now I just had to take pictures until the #152 bus arrived to take me to the –

Oh, there it goes.

While waiting to cross Addison Street, the bus pulled up and, with no one at the stop, it crossed Clark Street heading westbound.  My schedule had the bus there at 2:54, so I just missed it.  The next one would come at 3:09, so I’d have about 15 minutes to take pictures of the stadium before my ride showed up.  Well, let’s cross and get to it!

Sixteen miles later, I’d made it!

Unfortunately for me, Wrigley Field was undergoing an unprecedented renovation.  I did know this was going on, but I didn’t know how limiting it’d be.  It’s possible that coming on a gameday, while being much busier, would have let me see more of the stadium.  I walked to the corner of each street, but there wasn’t a great way to get to the other side.  The trademark wall ivy would have been on this side, if I had my directions right, but I couldn’t find much evidence of the overgrown foliage.  My feet were sore, but taking that short break an hour or so ago helped a ton.  Nothing could rob me of this, though, so I just took a moment and relaxed. 

There was an active group of bicycling ladies that I’d intersected with at multiple instances throughout the day.  There were seven of them, and one particularly happy looking one wore a veil underneath her helmet.  What a fun way to hang out with your bridal party!  I’d passed them a couple times, but we’d finally caught up at this destination. 

They were being led by a guide, who offered to take a picture of them in front of Wrigley Field.  They wanted to do the Anchorman jump, i.e. jumping at the moment the picture is taken, much like my own wife did for our own wedding pictures, to which our party obliged.  Even her very pregnant bridesmaid Erin gave a little bunny hop in compliance. 

Pretty close.

With all my pictures taken and the bus set to arrive any minute, I squatted down, popping my knees.  I stood up to stretch my arms and began counting out the $2.25 I’d need for the bus.

“Are you a radio personality?”

I turned to my right and found a man standing next to me, looking at me intently with a big smile on his face.  He was around fifty, with a sharp eye, a heavy coat and thick, mismatched, fingerless gloves.  One gloved hand held a mostly empty McDonalds cup, likely obtained down the street at the Golden Arches I could see past him.

“What?” I asked.

“You look like a radio personality to me.” 

“What makes you say that?”

He took a step back and looked at me.  “You’re here at Wrigley Field!”  He laughed.  I’m not sure how to take this, as he hadn’t heard me speak and people on the radio often look, shall we say, much different than you expect.  My mom did radio for ten years, but I still think that way, and she still has people come up to her and tell her how surprised they were to hear her voice come out of her.  “This is where everyone comes.”

He was probably right.  Though clearly homeless, or financially struggling at least, this man was humorous, lively, and attendant.  I told him I’d walked here from the University in the southern part of the city, and he smiled and clapped.  He asked me for a dollar, and I put a bill in his cup, which he removed and slid in his coat pocket.  I looked down Addison and saw my bus approaching a few blocks down.

“You know, I’m a celebrity, too.”

I crooked an eyebrow.  “Really?”

“You ever go on YouTube?”  I nodded.  “My cousin has a channel on there; try and look me up there.”

The bus rolled to a stop, and I told him I had to get on the bus and we parted.  As I got on the bus, he called after me.  “Look me up on there!  Horace Howard!  Horace…Howard!”  The door closed, I deposited my change and thanked the bus driver. 

I sat about halfway back in the bus.  I checked my phone: 3:12.  Now I just had to get to Addison Blue, a Blue Line station that would take me directly to O’Hare.  It’d be about a 20-minute ride, so I stowed my camera and grabbed my travel notebook, settling in for a long ride. 

There were a large number of high schoolers sitting on the bus behind me, and they were chatting noisily.  In the front row, one high schooler was facing away from them, having a coughing fit into her sleeve.  She and the whole crew got off about ten minutes later.  Out the window, the city sprawled out endlessly.  As we got farther out of town, we saw more chain drugstores, some franchise restaurants, and even a mall.  In front of me, an elderly Hispanic woman and presumably her daughter talked quietly to one another in Spanish.  After another stop, my seat neighbor alighted, so I took the extra seat with my camera case.  I closed my eyes and listened intently for the cross street before my stop: Kimball Avenue. 

It came sooner than I expected, and I stood, slinging my camera case carelessly over my shoulder.  About half the bus was hopping off, and I stepped down with the pack into the chilly afternoon through the side door, stepped up onto the curb and walked to the ticketing machines, which were housed under a small overhang.  Beside these automated dispensers, a turnstile led to the stairs that descended to the platform.

I’d planned to use cash to buy my fare, but the only machines available here involved buying a Ventra card, which is what the CTA uses to store fares.  I heard the rumble of the track beneath me, so I knew a train was just around the corner.  I bought a three-dollar ticket using my credit card, slid through the turnstile and hustled down the stairs right as the northbound train rolled into the station.  I lunged in when the doors opened and grabbed a seat on a moderately populated car.  The doors slid closed and we were off in a hot second.

We were riding alongside a highway, I-94, as the signs would indicate, and we were moving along at the same speed or faster than they were.  One stop at Montrose, then another at Gladstone Park.  I sat across from an ethnically West Asian couple, who were talking lovingly to each other in Arabic.  They each had a suitcase, so I was hoping they were heading off on a fun trip together.  The mystery of a stranger’s trip and their motivation for travel is one of the things that make airports great, but I trust theirs was a happy reason.  I couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but it didn’t matter.  They did, and they were pretty cute.

After leaving Rosemont (not to be confused with the earlier Montrose, apparently,) the last stop was a longer journey.  Passengers started to gather their belongings and their young ones, and the couple across from me did the same, slinging their backpacks and purses over their shoulder.  The landscape changed to one of car rental lots and flat, low-lying buildings.  I saw a taxiway before we swooped underground and began to slow down.  I’d been texting my wife, and I watched as my cell phone signal vanished.  The automated announcement asked everyone to disembark, and once we came to a stop, we all emptied onto a central platform, where escalators at the far end would take us up to O’Hare and one of the largest airports I’d ever walked.

Next week, I’ll be walking O’Hare and bringing you along; if you’ve never thought of an airport as a destination, I encourage you to join me next week to see how fun something you might consider mundane can be!

Until then, keep going!

- Matt

Walking the Windy City - Part 6

I’m so glad you’re here!  Though this is the sixth part of a nine-part series, you can access the previous entries by clicking here.  [1][2][3][4][5]

Part 6

Heat generally makes me hungrier than the cold, but putting fifteen miles on your feet will do it, too.

At the end of the Lakeshore Drive tunnel, I hooked a left, climbed a ramp, and emerged back on the frigid beach.

My next major landmark was a couple miles away: Lincoln Park.  While I considered the distance, my stomach roared, my final protein bar having been consumed almost an hour earlier.  My gut couldn’t be tricked anymore, but I wasn’t planning to stop for about two more hours, after reaching my destination, Wrigley Field, six miles away.  I’d just have to hack it, I guess.

The lakeshore walk had picked up; runners and bikers went whizzing by.  I was, so far, about fifteen to twenty minutes ahead of schedule, so I could stand to slow my pace a bit.  Couldn’t stop, but I could slow.  With that, I left the sidewalk and walked to the shoreline about a hundred feet away and walked along the edge. 

Behind me, the towering skyline of Chicago stopped abruptly at Lakeshore Drive, resulting in a surprisingly inorganic boundary for Chicago’s downtown.  Even just a short ways off, this felt like a different place.  You ever play a video game and leave one area or zone that’s a forest and the next one over is a desert but there’s not really any transition?  That’s what it was like.

Thus, I consigned myself to walk the relatively barren shoreline.  I looked out into the lake and saw the same offshore platforms that I’d seen that morning, distant and immobile.  

About the beach itself, I wonder if, despite the fact you’re sitting on concrete, people still come out here during the summer time to be close to the water.  It’s certainly not as natural-looking a beach as what you’d find on the South Side, but I feel like it might still fill up.  Maybe the lake is low and normally this is underwater.  Unlikely, but because I only get a snapshot of any place I visit, I have to extrapolate to get the whole picture.

The walk was pretty boring at the moment until I passed an opportunity for distraction. 

What I assume to be a ladder for climbing out of the lake should you intentionally or unintentionally end up in it, bore long, spindly icicles.  My parent’s house, particularly the eastern facing parts, always had big icicles during the winter.  As a kid, getting the icicles off was just as fun as playing in the often-coincident snow.  You had to get them off in one piece, and the bigger the better.  Once I got them down, a fairly dangerous foray for a nine-year-old that often involved climbing on benches or jumping towards the sharp death drippings, I’d swing them around like a sword.  When I got bored with that one, or a little piece broke off, I’d end my fun by throwing them into the air as hard as I could and watching them fall back to the driveway, shattering with a satisfying crash.  Even today, I still relish the opportunity of finding a particularly juicy icicle, removing it, and smashing it on a sidewalk.  You never really grow up, you know; you just get bigger and you get more responsibilities.

I was on a mini-vacation, and I thought I’d already passed icicle season this year, so I deserved to treat myself.

I picked up an icicle, smashed the end on the ladder, and tossed the base into the lake, where I watched it bob and float for a moment before disappearing.  Pleased with my diversion, I decided to head back up to the sidewalk to make sure I didn’t miss my next mark.

I followed the sidewalk for a bit.  I was walking parallel with another man, perhaps in his 40s, that was down next to the shore like I just was.  We kept the same brisk pace for a few minutes and I glanced at him.  He stopped at a ladder, like I did, but then continued.  Maybe he was looking for an icicle, too, or maybe he saw me do it, and it looked like fun.  I could only hope I was such a trendsetter.  OK, I just gotta let it happen.  Yep, here comes another ladder.  And…

Success!  He took one, too!  Doing the more proper and socially acceptable thing, he simply plucked it off the ladder and held it, much in the same way as the shopping bag he casually swung at his side.  He walked several steps and quickly cast his icicle into the lake without turning his head as if it was some kind of bug that had landed on his hand.  He looked to his left to see if anyone saw him and increased his pace.

My original point about not growing up still stands. 

Honestly, this was the most concentrated residential buildup I’d seen along the shore yet.  This was on the North Side, so these would have been pretty pricey units, but you’d have a heck of a view, and the location was about as convenient as it got. 

About thirty minutes after crossing Michigan Avenue for the last time, it was time to take my final Lakeshore Drive tunnel.

This was longer than the rest, as it went at a bit of a slant as opposed to straight under the road and out the other side.  It felt a bit warmer for once, and I could feel the temperature change the deeper into the tunnel I went.  The sound of a runner came up behind me and I stepped aside, allowing the more ambitious athlete to pass.

It felt like I was in one of those tunnels at a stadium where all the players run out and the crowd cheers wildly.  I was on a visiting team, though, so I wouldn’t get anything like that on the other side. 

When I did pop out the other side, I was nearly at my next mark.  Right near the entrance, though, there was a bike rack with a little electronic kiosk.

Blue Cross Blue Shield of Illinois had sponsored these little bike kiosks, and I’d seen them earlier on in the day at a bit more of a distance.  Basically, you could rent a bike for free and return it thirty minutes later.  Alternatively, you could rent it, drop it off at another depository, and pay a small fee.  I think it was seven dollars to have it for the whole day.  As I considered how nice it would be to be at my destination faster, I weighed the potential benefits and problems of getting one.  Who knows when these things stop?  I didn’t want to be at Wrigley Field, not have a close drop-off point, and then have to go find one in a local park or, heaven forbid, come back to here or nearby to return it.  Moreover, this is Miles by Foot, not Miles by Pedal.  If I’d taken a bike, I’d have been at Wrigley in about an hour and a half, with how flat things are.  No, on foot was better, both for posterity and practicality.

I crossed the street and I was at the southern edge of my second-to-last major mark: Lincoln Park. 

Lincoln Park looked much more like a typical park I might expect to see in a city.  Lots of trees, interspersed walking paths, people out doing park things.  This felt more natural.  My directions didn’t cover Lincoln Park very well, so I decided to wander in the general north-ish direction and wait to find a compatible crossover street to the left. 

Lincoln Park still looked like wintertime; the grass and other plants were in their natural fall or winter state, and I realized I kind of preferred that over the manicured, landscaped parks I’d passed through already.  Moreover, Lincoln Park felt like a place that all the locals come to; not that they don’t go to Grant, Millenium, or either half of the lakeshore, but Lincoln just seemed like a local kind of park. 

Every state between here and home claims Lincoln.  Illinois claims him during his formational political years, Indiana does for being his childhood home (they even put it on their “Welcome to Indiana” signs on the interstate,) and Kentucky claims him as the only president born within our borders, if you don’t count the Confederacy’s president Jefferson Davis.  He’s buried in Springfield, though, and his years in the House of Representatives started here, so Illinois might have a little more meat in their claim than either of us. 

Grant Park was named after Ulysses S. Grant, Lincoln’s preferred general.  Many of the streets in downtown Chicago are named for states; I saw Michigan, of course, but also Ohio and Washington, and several streets bore the name of presidents, including James Polk and William Henry Harrison.  In short, Chicago is, at its core, a very patriotic city.  It really is the all-American City I’d always pictured. 

Although I thought I was done with tunnels, I passed under one more to get to the western edge of the park.

I thought this was funny; the city put a nice sidewalk here for everyone, but despite this, the earth to the right is worn with footsteps, bike tracks, and pawprints.  Either the sidewalk isn’t wide enough, people pass other pedestrians a lot, or, more likely, people tend to do what they want.  It’s almost as if one path was for the rich and the other was for the poor at first glance.

Lincoln Park Zoo, much like Central Park Zoo in New York, is the city’s primary zoo; throughout the day, I’d seen billboards and flyers for the zoo and its impressive animal retinue.  I could see the edge of it, with a large lake filled with waterfowl just south of the boundary.  Something for another time, I’m sure.

I passed high-rise condos and restaurants alongside the street, but I didn’t find a cross-street that I recognized from my directions.  I didn’t want to cut over too early, but I wanted a change of scenery, too.  I’ve found that, the longer a walk goes, the more likely I am to deviate.  After finding one that looked as good as any, I crossed the quiet road to a state-named road, Wisconsin Street.

That’s quite an apparatus!

On top of a building down the street, someone had attached what appear to be trashcans end to end and stretched them from the roof to a dumpster, presumably with holes cut in the bottom of each “can.”  My guess is this facilitates getting rid of construction trash from the roof, but it looked funny, like a black centipede climbing the building. 

I took a right onto Lincoln Avenue.  No idea if this was the correct road, but as long as I kept heading north, I felt comfortable taking it. 

Lincoln Avenue was a central road to the neighborhood, which was quiet, bright, and ostensibly safe.  The stoplights often changed without cars in either place, so crossing the street was easy. 

On Lincoln Avenue, it claimed that a restaurant called Bricks Pizza was seventy-five feet away.  I looked down the street and it was right there, so I didn’t believe it was actually seventy-five feet away.  Luckily for me, I’ve measured my pace before to determine my average gait distance per step.  #walkingnerd.  Conveniently, my natural stride is almost exactly three feet, so I decided to test this very specific claim, and I started counting to see if, indeed, it was twenty-five steps away.

One, two, three, four, five …  twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty…five.  OK, Bricks Pizza, you win.  It put me right at the staircase that descended to the basement-based restaurant.  On second thought, pizza sounded pretty good…nope, power through.

This style of townhouse was common all over Chicago, and I saw several like it near the university several hours earlier; in fact, I consider this style to be native to Chicago in a way.  This looked like a newer iteration of the traditional style, but still handsome nonetheless.  Honestly, you get the best of both worlds when you do that: easy upkeep but you get to keep the classic look.

Lincoln Avenue seemed to be the main drag through this part of town.  There were small shops and large chains alike, but none of them compromised the homey feel of this charming, quiet neighborhood.  Even the CVS, with its older brick façade, didn’t look out of place.

That being said, some establishments did stand out.

This colorful grocery would probably catch the eye of local passerby, but it sure caught mine.  Urban areas, in my mind, are the most important places to have local groceries; they’re a fun, locally-grown alternative to big box stores (I’m not sure what the Chicago equivalent of Kroger is), and they’ll often have a lot of fun, can’t-find-at-Walmart stuff.  Maybe I could get something –

OK; my stomach was to the point of serious pain now.  I hadn’t given it any real food all day, and I was starting to lose my breath even at a quick street crossing.  My tank was empty, and I felt it with every step.  I got one more block and I stopped at a nearby park.  I checked my phone, which sat at a puny 18%; it was ten till two, and I was planning to be at Wrigley Field no later than three o’clock.  I guessed it was probably about forty-five minutes away, a little over two miles, which would, in theory, give me a half-an-hour to eat.  After twenty miles of walking, my feet were sore, my innards were turning, and I couldn’t go any farther without some food.  Sorry, Truck Show; no El Jardin for me.  Now is the time.

Luckily, there was a local sandwich shop right across the street: Snarf’s.  In the interest of time and due to the lack of preparedness for a place to eat, this would be as good as any.

In I walked, and the line was short; the shop was small, but full of local families, college students, and people coming and going with to-go orders filled with delicious smelling sandwiches.  One person was in front of me, but he knew what he wanted.  It turned out to not be enough time to look at the menu.  I stepped forward, and the guy at the counter prompted me for my order.

Juan, I believe he said his name was, had tons of energy and was pumped up about the day.  I tried to absorb the cavalcade of options on the board behind him to determine not only what I wanted, but what would be good fuel for the walk I’d done so far and for the miles I had left, both to Wrigley Field and at O’Hare afterwards.

I decided to ask Juan for his opinion, and without hesitation, he recommended the Philly Cheesesteak.  It’s like he knew me; a good Philly is, like, my favorite sandwich.  I agreed, choosing the tamer 7” size over a footlong.  This isn’t Subway; I trusted they would actually give you your money’s worth here.  Juan saw my camera, asked me for a picture with him and one of the line cooks, and I told him about Miles by Foot.  I promised to get a picture of them up, so I just had to hope the place was tasty enough to warrant a good report.

I placed my order, used the facilities, and grabbed a seat near –

An outlet!  Oh joy!

My bleeding phone was saved!  I jammed it in, heard the chime indicating a charge, and a wave of relief spread over me.  Instead of fiddling with it, I took a moment to relax, putting my mind at ease.  I heard them call my order a couple minutes later, and I went over to retrieve it.  I returned to my ailing phone and opened up my sandwich.

Generally, the messier the sandwich, the tastier it is.

I have to be honest, I don’t really remember much from the moment I took the first bite till the time I crumpled up the empty wrapper.  The bread was crisp, toasty, and flavorful, and the steak was perfectly seasoned; there was just the right amount of moistness, but despite the grilled onions, mushrooms, and peppers, it wasn’t the least bit soggy, a common ailment for Phillies.   The toppings were exceptionally flavored, crisp, and fresh.  The amount of cheese was just right, too.  Even as I write about it now, my mouth is watering.  It was nothing short of a gourmet Philly for a great price, just under ten bucks.  About five minutes after I began, the deed was done.  My stomach grumbled, and I worried I’d eaten it too fast, but after grabbing my phone, now at a much healthier 56%, I walked off that overstuffed feeling, thanked the guys for the great job, and walked back out to finish what I started.

This was the first time during any Miles by Foot walk where I felt like I’d given up, but I had to reassure myself I hadn’t.  I’d already put down more miles in a day than I had in any Miles by Foot walk before, and there was still a long way to go; the walk isn’t supposed to be torture, it’s supposed to be fulfilling.  Sometimes, there’s just other parts of me I need to be filling.

With a belly full of meat, bread, and veggies and a short part of the walk left, I knew I could do it!  I couldn’t wait to cross the finish line!

Join me next week for the final leg of the main walk.  Until then, keep going!

- Matt

  

Walking the Windy City - Part 5

We’re on to part five of the series; for those you just joining us, check these articles out first. [1] [2] [3] [4]

Part 5

In Chicago, what would be big anywhere is just so-so here.

This skyscraper is a residential tower, and although it looks tall, its only because it stands alone.  True, it’s taller than the tallest building in Kentucky, but the surroundings of a building are just as important when it comes to determining the size of a building; One Museum Place, as it’s called, is half the size of the nearby Willis Tower, and one-fourth­ the height of the Burj Khalifa, the world’s tallest building.

The Metra line is related to, but distinct from, the normal CTA rapid transit train line.  Despite the size and age of the train, it didn’t make much noise as it gently rolled by beneath my feet.

I was walking across a pedestrian bridge that gave a flyover view of Grant Park below, with its handsome sidewalks, wide, grassy and tree-filled expanses, and some brave (or typical) Chicagoans braving the crisp March midday.  The shade of One Museum Place flooded the pavement from the south. 

Michigan Avenue marked the western terminus of Grant Park.  Again, Chicago sure does put a lot of its best property in the public trust as parks.  I remember reading somewhere that, if you sold Central Park in Manhattan for its estimated real estate value, you’d make some $300 billion dollars.  I wonder how much Grant Park and the Lakefront would be worth?  Alternatively, maybe being so close to the lake is actually a detriment, and the city planners are just clever little boogers. 

Admittedly, I’d picked 11^th Street on a whim, but either way, it was shaping up to be a nice way to get into downtown.  A nice hotel on one side, a Best Western on the other, and a satellite college campus farther down the street.   I passed a middle aged woman trying to figure out the digital parking meter.  Much like Louisville, but on a grander scale, turn-of-the-century buildings crowded against newer architectural stylings. 

At the corner of 11^th and Wabash, there was a small, “pocket” park as they call them that had this statue of three wolves standing erect with their faces downcast.  My first thought was, “oh, the three little pigs!”  Well, no, that doesn’t make sense, as there were three pigs, not wolves.  Little Red Riding…nope, wrong.  Hmm…

I stopped and tried to find a plaque or something that explained it, but after a few minutes of searching, I couldn’t find a bit of bronze that’d share these wolves’ story.  Apparently their origin is somewhat of a Chicago folk tale that originates from a eastern European story, but I’ll be darned if I’d ever heard of it.  Until then, they’ll just sit quietly on this corner, looking at the well-worn sidewalk.

Ah, the L.  Although most of the world’s largest cities have a rapid transit system of some kind, Chicago’s has a certain fondness associated with it.  Most establishing shots in Chicago either snag the Willis Tower or a shot of the L rolling through the street.  Before walking underneath the Red Line, a northbound train roared by.  On the other side of the L, I hooked a right on State Street, recognizing it as one of the cross streets from my directions. 

Newer architecture always catches my eye, and Chicago’s no exception.  I might have just written this as another avant-garde office building, but it didn’t quite have the shape of an office complex.  It was too tall for a museum, I’d wager, and too “together” to be a multi-unit building.

Oh, it’s a school!  Wow, how’d you like going there?  Nearby, the school boasted that it was one of the top three prep schools in the country for college preparedness.  Well, I could say so; you don’t get the money to build a fancy pants campus like that without being good at your job! 

At Congress Street, I decided to hook a left, as I was nervous I’d passed my original cross street (Van Buren) on this new route and didn’t want to drain any more phone battery to check.  It seemed just as well, as here was a mammoth of a building to gawk at.  This is the Harold Washington Library, the main branch of Chicago’s public library and one of the largest public libraries in the world by square footage.  The building was fairly new, finished within my lifetime in the early 90s.  It had a fantastic look to it, almost like a train station you might see in a Miyazaki movie.  Charming, really, and probably a killer view inside and upstairs; looks like the top floor is an indoor pavilion and you can look out from multiple locations onto the street below. 

Left on Congress Street, across the traffic, and down the walk we went.

What an odd building; this building, which housed some part of AT&T’s operations in Chicago, was nearly windowless.  It looked much like a cardboard box on end with strips of windows standing in for lines of packing tape.  I’d guess that means the center halls were lit by the outside, but that’d be about it.  Maybe it was an environmental decision; windows are big heat-suckers, so in the winter, being encased in stone, brick, or concrete may keep that bill down.  Still, bizarre.

Speaking of bizarre, here’s the Chicago Stock Exchange.  I couldn’t tell you a single company that trades here, but they’re here for somebody.  For me, they offer a cool tunnel to walk under.  It was noisy, to be sure, and every car that whizzed by on either side sent a rumble through the tunnel.  The tunnel was lined with purplish LED lights, which almost looked broken up close, as the effect they were going for was kind of lost on me.

On the other side, there was a significant amount of construction, but I looked to the Willis Tower for my bearings and I cut north at the next intersection where I came on, sure enough, Van Buren.  Just needed to be more patient, I guess.  I hooked a left, where I was slated to take the road until Wacker, the road that lined the river and that sidled against the Willis Tower. 

Now some of the buildings looked old, but this one looked downright Soviet to me.  I’m not sure if it was just the hard lines with an attempt at style or what, but I felt like citizens go and comrades come out.  Never did really figure out what the building was for, but a government building of some kind is a safe guess.

And there it is, the tallest building in the city, and one of the tallest buildings in the country, the Sears Willis Tower!  When I was born, this was the tallest skyscraper in the world, and it still feels like it.  Man, it’s tall.  I’ve seen both the buildings that beat it (the Petronas Towers) and even the world’s tallest building, Burj Khalifa, in the flesh, but this still feels taller somehow.  I’m pretty sure that stopping and lining up a shot of the Willis Tower is the most touristy thing I’ve done while I’ve been here, but no matter. 

I never planned to go to the observation deck for three reasons: I’d already done it years earlier, I didn’t have time, and I’m sure it’d probably be pricey.  Going up to the top of Burj Khalifa set me back about 40 bucks, though, so I bet about everything is better than that.  One thing I do remember when I was there fifteen years ago is that civil servants (fire/police) and military personnel in uniform got either a serious discount or free admission, and I remember that was the first time I’d ever seen that.

I followed Wacker Drive along the western part of the skyscraper.  The lobby entrance was there, but it was locked, apparently for some construction or routine maintenance, but the lobby looked pretty neat from the street, and tall to boot. 

If this thing doesn’t cast some kind of shadow!  Rounding the corner, I was engulfed in the building’s profile, and the narrower streets meant the winds blew harder, reminding me of the stiff weather.  I was walking down Adams Street now, and people all around me had pulled their coat tighter.  Their gazes were all set forward, jaded to the impressive buildings and city that surrounded them. 

At the intersection of Adams and Dearborn, a festival was underway.  I’m not sure what it was for, but food was a pretty good blind guess; there were all sorts of really unique smells and sounds coming from the plaza, all sitting next to a bizarre red statue, apparently called the “Flamingo.”  It was specifically commissioned to contrast with the modernist skyscrapers around it, adding color and curved lines to an ostensibly drab environment.  The plaza beside it was now host to something called the “Nowruz” parade, which had all kinds of cultural displays and food, perhaps Middle Eastern or West Asian. 

At this point, though, I just had to press on.

Another three or four blocks and I emerged back on Michigan Avenue, which seemed to have widened a bit.  A large gathering of people on the western side of the street were waiting for the signal to cross, so I joined them and, when the light turned, we moved as one mass across the venerated Chicago road.  On the other side, we split apart, some off to the Art Institute right there, some south to another destination, but I went north, towards Millennium Park and the next mark on my list.

Millennium Park had a number of sculptures and installations that identify it as a significantly newer addition to the city than the historic Grant Park to the south.  I was here to see one of the most visually striking ones, Cloudgate. Before that, though, I encountered two large, rectangular pillars.  They didn’t look like much; they were tall, black, metallic, and separated by a couple hundred feet of empty concrete.  The northernmost one had a man inside it, accomplish work, and there were a couple kids and their parents that were able to see him behind the metallic mesh; the worker kindly waved and returned to his task.

Cloudgate looks like a super-sized drop of mercury suspended in an open plaza.

Lots of families, kids, teens, and college students were all snapping their picture against the sculpture or off the sculpture, capturing warped, fun-house pictures.  I actually was able to find my own reflection in the sculpture, even at this distance, by waving and looking for the little arm waving back near the top. 

They do concerts here, too; the angles of the pavilion, and perhaps the purpose of the venue, reminded me of the ArtScience Museum in Singapore, which features architectural stylings akin to a lotus in bloom; it even unfolds throughout the day and night.  It had a lattice that overhung the grassy area to the south of the pavilion, mostly as a way to hang lights.  Maybe you could even stretch some kind of roof over the lattice in case of rain?

I made my way back to Michigan Avenue, but just to cross it again; we’ll pick it up again on the north side of the Chicago River.  For now, it’s time to roll down Washington Street for a couple more sights.

I was amazed by how many paved, open spaces there were in the city; Chicago really knew the importance of having a lot of outdoor space, and that really surprised me.  I guess I always assumed Chicago’s weather would be bad, but I’m not sure millions of people would call the Windy City home if windy was all it was.  The other places I can think of that have this kind of atmosphere are Washington, DC and San Francisco.  The statue honored a former mayor, as I recall, but now, some kids were using its smooth, brushed edge as a slide.  More power to ‘em; it almost looks designed for it.

If you can believe it, this skyscraper was a church; churches are known for being spread out over large spaces, but this one has left a proportionately small footprint.  By using up the real estate of a modest sanctuary, this church has fit everything it needs, which probably includes its main worship space, offices, classrooms, nursery, and maybe even a rectory.  Never thought of a preacher living in a penthouse, but that might be the case here. 

I hooked a right along the open plaza and walked north along Clark Street where I encountered one of the odd buildings I’d expected to see on my route.

This is a government building.  Yeah, not an art gallery, movie theater, mall, or spaceship like I expected.  Beats the pants off Soviet Central a couple miles back, though.  This building houses the Chicago side of Illinois’ state government; Springfield, not Chicago, is the state’s capital, but they’ve got a lot to do here.

Just a couple more blocks and I was at the river again, ready to cross and see the city’s newest skyscraper, the Trump International Tower.  It’s the taller, silver building on the right, but the other tower in the shot fascinated me, too.  I wanted a closer look, so I adjusted my route to cross the river right there.

As I crossed Wacker Drive to get ready to take a bridge across the river, I was quickly reminded of the cold.  Having pavement that’s soaking up sunlight is one thing, but with the open air and cold river beneath me, it was downright cold again.  I tucked me hat down and stashed my hands in my pockets again, as I did when I’d first set out hours earlier.

I found my cross street and took the Dearborn Street Bridge across to these bizarre towers.

They’re parking garages; how novel!

It looks like, if you wanted to park there, you drive up a spiral center road and park along the edge.  I’ve seen enough action movies that I know what it’d look like for one of those cars to go careening out of its spot, hurtling down to the river below.  More than anything, I guess, they were made like a screw, and you drive up and down the threads to get to your spot.  Still, it’s a pretty fashionable way to do something as mundane as park your car.

The Trump Tower was tall and skinny, unlike the broad, blocky Willis Tower.  It was the second tallest building in the city, but it didn’t seem much taller than many of the other skyscrapers I’d come across, and it may be because its footprint was smaller.  After getting to the parking towers, I followed the elevated waterfront around to Wabash Avenue and walked alongside the supertall building.

It was certainly fancy; it made me think of Monopoly.  When you put a hotel on, like, Baltic Ave., this would be what it’d look like. You’d charge a ton of money, but you created the value.  In other words, if you spent a lot of money here, I just feel like it wouldn’t be a good deal, but I’m probably biased.  I mean, I’ll take a sleeping bag or a cot and I’ll be fine.  I’ve stayed in some really fancy digs and some shacks, and I’ve never seen the point; you wake up all the same the next morning.

Frankly, this building was just about as interesting.  Something about Chicago and their parking structures, I’ll tell you what.  This was another garage, hidden behind a vertical, metallic mesh.  You could see inside, but just barely.  It might keep the wind at bay without the trouble of building actual walls.  I’m sure some would call it ugly, but I think it’s pretty baller looking.

At Hubbard Street, I hooked a right and followed the elevated sidewalk to Michican Avenue, where’d I’d follow it north along the ritziest places in the city and out to the lake shore on the other side.

While I was given an option of going under or over the next bridge, I decided to stay topside, and the next block up was Michigan Ave.

They call the stretch north of the river “the Magnificent Mile,” but it would be more like “the Magnificent 3500 Feet” for me, as I picked up a bit into the game.  Still, there was already tons to see, and people were swarming over the sidewalks, sightseeing, shopping, and sharing experiences with their companions.

This may come as no surprise to you, but some of the most modern architecture I found was for the flagship retail stores based on Michigan Avenue, like this Burberry store, which was even so clever as to include their signature plaid pattern on the exterior.  I may not be a fashion guy, but I at least know that.  You don’t make a purpose-built investment like that unless you can really be sure that you’re going to be able to stay there for a long time.  I know most law firms or sanitation departments wouldn’t like a flashy, plaid-patterned building to house their offices.

Crate & Barrel was even being cute with their architecture, with a typical, square portion (the “crate” and a rounded foyer and atrium (the “barrel.”)  Truth in advertising!

Naturally, there’s lots of street performers too.  Any Saturday, regardless of weather, I’m sure you’re bound to find performers plying their trade for spare change and small bills.  It’s easy to write these performers off, but they are generally pretty good at what they do.  Just because they don’t have a 9-to-5 doesn’t mean they aren’t doing real, valuable work.

Amongst all the hip and the new, this historical water tower now houses an art gallery.  It’s nice that the kept the building though; Louisville also sports an historic water tower.  In fact, our wedding reception was there.

Speaking of my wife, this is for her; when we were dating, we picked up a Playstation game for $1 at the local Dollar General.  Although I can’t remember the full name, the title had “Topshop” in it.  It was a mix between Monopoly and a tycoon-style game, where you buy up space in a mall to sell different things and you can sabotage each other, take over floors and push others out, etc.  This actually looked like one of those kind of places, with several different kinds of stores jammed into one location, vying for space and customers. 

The last major skyscraper I’d pass before leaving the city proper was coming up on my right: the John Hancock Center.  This trapezoidal tower tops 1,000 feet and was, in fact, the first skyscraper outside of New York City to hit that milestone. 

Intriguingly, the Hancock Center seemed to take itself much less seriously than the other supertall buildings I’d encountered so far.  There was a little place to eat, several restaurants, and even in a Best Buy in the first few floors.  Admittedly, it is in a different part of the city, so it could just be they’ve adapted over the decades. 

As has often been the case, churches are some of the last remaining historical buildings in most downtown areas.  In this case, it seemed like it was only partially remaining; was there always only one spire, or did the right one collapse?  It looked unbalanced, but kind of awesome at the same time.  I guess I’ve got either the architect or mother nature to thank.

Finally, I reached the northern edge of Michigan Avenue where it collides with Lake Shore Drive.  My next target, Linkin Park, was still a couple miles away, so I wanted to ride the coast again.  There was a pedestrian tunnel at the intersection, so I followed it.  This one was longer than those I’d encountered on the south side of the city, and it certainly had something distinct waiting for me on the other side.

This is a beautiful mural; often Martin Luther King is depicted, either in photographs or artwork, as heroic, divine, or infallible.  The angel’s wings on either side might normally indicate that, too, but I actually see something else.  Dr. King’s here face is focused, somber, almost angry.  Dr. King’s efforts were so powerful because he worked.  He struggled, and he suffered, and he eventually died for those who had been treated as less than.  He was peaceful when it was appropriate, and he was baleful when that was appropriate; King was arrested more than two dozen times during his life.  Especially in these turbulent racial times, Dr. King’s approach to destroying both idealistic and legally enforced racism stands as an example of diligence, focus, and determination.

We’re more than halfway there; come back Wednesday for the sixth installment.  Until then, keep going!

- Matt