This Could Only Happen Here

Recently, I’ve been struck at how strange the L is. For example, every morning, I spend about fifteen minutes in a steel canister with about 40 other people. None of us know each other. None of us recognize each other (though, I tend to be the only white guy in the morning, so, that might be different for them), none of us talk, no matter how packed the car is. Only in the city do you get this weird mix of people in such close proximity, all with a story, all with a place to go and a place they’re coming from, but none of them communicating it to one another.

Today I was in a funk. Heck, I’ve been in a funk since graduating, thinking a lot about loneliness and the isolation of the modern man. But as I was heading home after watching Rushmore with a friend in West Town, I heard four guys singing “Jesus is the mountain” in between the Red and Blue lines and, well, it brightened my somewhat dour mood and cast a light into my dim demeanor.

Then, after getting to Roosevelt, my train turned express. So, one stop from Chinatown, I got out to wait for the next train. As I got out, a guy asked me “Wouldn’t it be awful if you didn’t hear the announcement?” To which I responded, “Yes, it would.”

We got to talking. Turns out the guy lives in Chinatown too, is a professional web designer who owns his own company, and has a really interesting life story, not to mention some really interesting thoughts on life. We traded business cards.

I’m going to talk to more people on the train, I think. Who knows what kind of stories people have.

I Love Grammar

I freaked out today.

In order to more speedily binge-watch my favorite TV shows, I downloaded Google Chrome onto my computer with a slight air of “I should be doing something more substantial than this.” But what is more important than internet speed? And what else would I do on a Thursday night besides drink left-over cheap white wine from dinner and watch Modern Family and Glee back-to-back? Read? Yeah right.

Regardless, following my binge-watching session, I decided I needed to purge a bit by reading and posting on my blog since, as you my readers well know, reading text and then yelling out sentences into cyberspace is, truly, far more productive than watching my television shows. Case-in-point: I just referred to a reader and it actually refers to someone. As in you. Someone’s consuming so I’m producing.

Anyway, I got to my website and, lo, I immediately noticed that in my post “Gastronomy” and some other witty thing, I used “it’s” as a possessive in reference to Boston. I corrected it immediately and I apologize to all of you for whom, like me, that kind of thing freaks you out.

I’m so embarrassed. Especially since one of you logs on from LinkedIn to read this. That’s right, the website tells me that. You could be a coworker, or a potential boss, or even a previous boss, or like that random guy who requested to connect with me today who I never met before. And I used incorrect grammar. I can hear the cracks forming the my (no longer) indefatigable façade of erudition.

I can’t believe that WordPress’s spell-check corrects my spelling of WordPress to make sure it’s not WordPress [post-note: I actually typed the "p" in "WordPress" lowercase, but apparently it is automatically corrected to uppercase], but fails to recognize the correct spelling of façade. Plus one haughty point. I am also excited that I spelled indefatigable correctly. Minus one scholar point.

The GREs would be proud.

And, like the GREs, there was no point to this post other than the fact that I love grammar. Thus the title.

In Which I Miss Notre Dame, Kind Of

This weekend was rather exciting. Not only did I get a chance to visit Notre Dame (my alma-mater) on a game-day, but I also got to cheer on two friends in the Chicago Marathon.

Going back for a game-day at Notre Dame is pretty cool, but I have to say that my level of appreciation for football Saturdays hasn’t increased all that much over last year. I still get annoyed at all the tourists wandering around campus, oohing and aahing and creating a ruckus when for 8000 undergrads, it’s home. Even though, technically, I was one of those tourists this weekend. Oops.

Regardless, I was reflecting on what exactly it was that I miss about Notre Dame and during a conversation with a close friend, I realized that it has nothing to do with the place, nor with the activities, nor with the dorms, nor even the intellectual life. It’s the people (which seems somewhat obvious), but even more than that, it’s this: people there are honest with me. And I’m honest with them.

And that doesn’t come easily.

One thing that I find people lack in the city is trust. Generally, as a young white guy in Chinatown, I’m eyed with suspicion. Which is great, because it keeps crime down. But I also have a hard time getting up the courage to actually talk with any of my neighbors (it also would help if I spoke Mandarin). If someone approaches me, I wonder what they’re selling, what they’re begging for; my instinct is not to be interested in them, in their problems, to trust that they are, indeed, not necessarily out for my money.

I wonder sometimes if this feeds into our relationships. Are city-dwellers less likely to trust others with their lives? Is it harder to be vulnerable here? Or is this simply a human thing?

Maybe we’re all a little afraid to reveal our true selves. I guess I’m just waiting for the proper moment to reveal myself here. But maybe, after awhile, that will start to come if I let it. And I want to, despite the fear.

Pumpkin Pie and There Was a New Performer Today

The two guys with their guitars seem to have left Lake. Today they were replaced by a woman playing a guitar with a violin attached to the neck and tap dancing for percussion. It was pretty spectacular.

I am also, in a sense, a  new performer: for the first time in Chicago, I baked. What did I bake? Only my favorite dessert in the world: pumpkin pie (with apologies to my ex-girlfriend). In the process, I figured out my oven runs about twenty or so degrees cool given that the pies took forever to solidify, but they are delicious. I’m going to play around with the recipe a bit, but I thought I’d include it here.

PUMPKIN PIE

1 can Pumpkin
1/2 tsp. corn starch
1 1/2 cups brown sugar
1/2 tsp. salt
1 can evaporated milk
1/2 tsp. cinnamon, plus more to taste
1/2 tsp. allspice
1/2 tsp. nutmeg
2 eggs
1 deep-dish pie crust

Preheat oven to 450. Combine pumpkin and sugar till mixed. Add spices and starch, mix. Then, add beaten eggs. Slowly mix in evaporated milk. Pour filling into pans. Bake for 10 minutes on 450, then lower temperature to 350 and bake for another half-hour or until knife inserted into center comes out clean.

Of Gastronomy and Science

I’ve always loved going to the city. As a kid, my family would take weekend trips up to Boston to get some chowder, go to the museums, and ride the T. It was wonderful. But, you know, every time we went, some little bacteria or virus would hitch a ride back to the suburbs. Really, it was as though the city of Boston were giving me a small token of its thanks each time I visited: “We’re so glad you’re here! Have a sore throat. Hooray!” This pattern is generally repeated whenever I go someplace urban and, honestly, I’ve just come to expect it.

Now, things were going well here in Chi-town last Friday when it occurred to me that I hadn’t gotten sick yet. This made me happy: I actually live in the city now, so I was being rewarded! Hooray! So began my workday.

At noon, I took a break for lunch. After discovering that my sandwich from Wednesday had, indeed, gone bad in the fridge, I decided not to risk food poisoning and to just eat at Potbelly’s across the street. But then, as I was walking out the first floor of my building, I passed Wow Bao, a trendy Chinese fast-food place. “That does smell good,” I thought, and at this point I was getting used to eating Chinese food all the time. So, I got some dumplings and rice, went back to my cube, and ate while catching up on my blogs.

A few hours later I left work to meet some out-of-town friends for dinner and took a few Rolaids because my stomach was a little sour. “No problem,” I thought, “Lunch was just greasy.”

By 11:00am the next morning, I felt like I was being simultaneously stabbed in the stomach and kicked in the balls. It was as though a head cold wasn’t good enough for Chicago since, well, I had been in the city for two weeks rather than two days and, really, I needed a proper welcome. No mere sore throat. Cue food poisoning.

At this point, I was at the Museum of Science and Industry with the aforementioned friends. Oddly enough, despite the fact that my entire gastro-intestinal system felt like it was being ripped apart from the inside, the museum was so impressive that I actually enjoyed myself. Nice job, Museum of Science and Industry. And way to be less expensive than all the other museums.

I did not, however, get to see the U-boat. By 2:00 I was pretty much ready to knock myself unconscious to end the pain, so I sat down with a Sprite at the cafe and half-slept till my friends got back. I managed to prevent myself from vomiting on the bus before sleeping off my illness on a futon.

It’s now Monday and my stomach’s still kind of sore, but I can eat again. Sadly, however, even the thought of eating Chinese food is now somewhat nauseating. I expect it to remain so for at least the next week. But, you know, it’s okay. Thank you for the welcome, Chicago. Now I feel like I really live here. Besides, it’s not like Chinatown smells like Chinese food all the time.

Darn you Chicago.

Ode to Those Guys that Sing at the Red Line Lake Station

When I first heard your harmonies
I was intrigued at your vocation
’cause I kind of always thought
that performers were on probation
but your hiatus should have stopped long ago
because your talents are top shelf
when I hear “Stand By Me”
my frown begins to melt.
After a long day at the office
my L ride is drudgery
and when I heard you first sing
I thought that you were forgeries
but, to my surprise, you were for real
and your voices weren’t a CD
instead I found the wait at Lake
gave me a little less ennui.

So, thank you to those guys
that sing at my stop at Lake
you put a smile on my face daily
even though my brain is baked.

From: the white guy in jeans heading South at 5:15 everyday.

Some Notes on the L

I cannot describe to you how cool I feel taking the L to work. No, seriously. Everyday when I put my pink CTA card into that slot, I feel a little more urbane. When I stand up on the train, I feel like I’m actually doing it: I’m actually here, suave, successful, urban, impressive. And then, at that one point on the track between Chinatown and Roosevelt where the train practically derails, I almost fall over. Everyday.

This past weekend, I was on the L platform somewhere and I looked down to my right. I was soon intrigued by a black woman who appeared to be sucking her thumb. “Weird,” I thought, and spent several minutes awkwardly glancing at her for a few seconds at a time, checking my phone in the interim, hoping that she wouldn’t notice. She didn’t and she was, indeed, sucking her thumb.

I was then struck by the peculiarity of seeing this thumb-sucking woman, dressed somewhat shabbily, standing next to an indie guy wearing black skinny jeans, a black collared shirt, and black plastic thick-rimmed glasses (it took me forever to figure out which order those adjectives ought to come in). And, next to him, a college girl with a bright pink hoodie, bluejeans, and an iPod. On my left, a Chinese couple speaking Mandarin. Coming from where I do, you just never see these kinds of people all in one place at one time. I like that I can here. There’s diversity.

But even amidst the diversity, I’m astounded at how little integration there is. Not surprised, just astounded. Even if we’re all in the subway together, it doesn’t mean there actually is some sort of brotherhood, some sort of shared identity between people who look different. I’m not quite sure what to make of it yet.

In Which I Discuss this Blog

In May 2010,  I became a college graduate. I spent four years going to a very preppy, medium sized, suburban football school in Indiana, taking the normal classes, meeting the wonderful people, and loving the second half. Ultimately, I felt like getting my diploma was anti-climactic and, well, it sort of figures.

I spent four months in my preppy suburban soccer hometown agonizing over what I would do with my life. Then, I got a marketing job. In Chicago. So, I found a place to live, packed up my car, and moved into Chinatown.

They way I look at it, this kind of a situation is rife for stories: stories about life, about living here, about Chicago, and, maybe, about God. And that brings us here, to this blog, in which I write about my life: a suburban white boy from Connecticut encountering the big city of Chicago.