Part I: From Here On Food Hall

 

When I’m in The Loop, I can’t help but want to look up the whole time, even while I’m walking. I don’t care if this makes me look like a tourist, but I do worry about tripping, or stepping in garbage. The buildings here are not so tall, but still tall enough to make me think of New York, or some kind of fictional metropolis. I imagine the cameras all pulling up into the sky and revealing an earth where the buildings take up almost the whole planet, leaving me tiny and without very much space to move around. I can’t imagine what it’s like to live downtown, and I wonder where all these people are coming from or going to. I have woken up late and I worry I’m wearing the wrong kind of shoes for this; I think I don’t give enough consideration to arch support. 

 

In my first attempt to locate the Food Hall I almost end up walking down a highway ramp. I’m not sure how this is happening, but I must believe there is some flaw in the system, maybe more signage, maybe less. The old post office is grand. This makes me sad. I think of the last time I went into my neighborhood post office. It looked like the kind of place that 50 years ago always had freshly waxed floors, but in current times it’s the kind of place that is perpetually stuffy. I was disappointed to discover that they had no novelty stamp options for purchase. The post office is really the kind of place where you will always be wrong. This is nobody's fault, the system is hard, we are all often quite stupid, and I still have to search the internet to correctly write a mailing address. It’s like the art of writing a bibliography, I haven’t done it in a while, and nobody is keeping me in practice. 

 

The grandeur of the old post office, now Food Hall, makes me feel childish. I want to live in a world where the real post office is this magical. I do like being an observer here, watching people decide between pizza and sandwiches. I suppose eating together is beautiful, and if we can no longer have beautiful post offices, we are at least deserving of beautiful lunches. I find the food hall charming. I wonder what it’s like to work down here, to go to lunch together. I watch the tables, I like that mostly no one is eating the same thing. The tables are large, communal. You’ve got to share. What are the seating dynamics like here, once you age? Do people eat pizza more on Fridays? I don’t think we ever stop being kids. I like to see adults looking small. 

 

Part II: Logan Square

 

Getting from the loop to Logan Square is mostly just walking on Milwaukee. I guess I could’ve taken a more scenic route, but I have no sense of direction, and it’s sweet to see the neighborhood change all without changing directions. I walk past Union Station; I’m thinking of how much I like train stations. The timetables, the movement, the sense of importance you get from the travel. I never feel I have a purpose more than when I’m boarding a train, plane, or bus. I feel important now even, walking to pizza.

 

One of the best/worst things about long walks and food/drink pit stops is the perpetual possibility of running into someone you know. I’m thinking now of my first grade teacher. How I’m not sure what she's doing now. How I’d greet her, if in a moment, I looked across the street, and she was there, walking a dog. 

 

Walking makes me feel definitive. My thoughts become clearer, I become more opinionated. I don’t always agree with myself by the time I’ve gone home, but it still feels good to be sure of things. Today I am deciding that I love museum advertisements. The Shedd Aquarium seems to have some kind of octopus exhibit running currently, the signs read “arms or legs?” This isn’t funny enough to make me laugh, nor am I curious to know the answer to that question, but still I like the sign, and I hope someone walking past finds this reason enough to make a visit. 

 

Logan Square is my own neighborhood, and once I get close enough, the mystique of the walk falls apart. I know this area too well to see it with fresh eyes. I’m moved towards introspection, the physical environment fades away, having to make no effort to move through it. Being inside the Logan Square Dimo’s feels odd. This is where I work. I cannot see it through a customer’s eyes. I cannot be a silent observer. The building is comforting to me, I know that I will always have someone to catch up with here. I can come in knowing exactly how to approach the counter, how to navigate through the back. I can be made to laugh easily here. I can sit without needing a reason. Because of this I cannot stay long. I’m trying to preserve as much novelty for myself as possible. The idea is to keep moving, the Dimo’s are the landmarks of the walk, sure, but the Logan Square Dimo’s is always sucking me in, too difficult to be a passerby here. I’ve got to be home for dinner. 

 

At this point, I’ve spent too much time on google maps, drained too much phone battery on music and I have to opt for a more analog option. This involves copying directions from the map into my notebook and keeping the lake to my right. I’m mildly embarrassed to be relearning the concept of the physical map in real time.

 

Part III: Wrigleyville

 

In Wrigleyville it is unclear to me whether there is a Cubs game happening or if this is just what it feels like to be here. It’s sweet, people are so excited, so together. There are several lines in front of buildings with ambiguous names. Everyone is wearing the same colors. I’ve been here several times before but I always feel like I'm inside of a television show. There is an invisible person walking backwards in front of me narrating the history of this foreign place. These anthropological documentaries are always from the ‘90s. Have you seen one recently? How come the people in the background never stop to stare at the cameras? I imagine myself the narrator of the places I walk past. “Here is the Cremation Society of Illinois, we don't know much about it, but we’re very curious.” I see a bench I have only sat at one time, on my third day in Chicago. I was bored and sad and sitting with my best friend in the courtyard of an apartment complex that had nothing to do with either of us. The bench is broken now, no more seats. I pass several places I’ve heard about through friends, but have never been to. And I probably never will. A few, I’d guess, but the reality of recommendations is a 10 to 1 shot. It’s like the United States. What are the chances of me visiting all 50? Pretty slim I think, but that’s ok. I’m hoping for a solid 20, which seems better than average.

 

I love furniture stores. I imagine the inside as a series of overlaid living rooms. You can walk between the couches and coffee tables picturing the different kinds of people who might buy each one. I like to sit on the beds and sofas and picture myself in another state, getting ready for the prom, or my child’s graduation, or my cat’s vet appointment. I open all the drawers in the store, hoping they’ve populated the furniture with some clues to the identities of the imaginary owners. 

 

How come parks always seem to close at 11? What does Jennifer Anniston cry about? What’s it feel like to go on a cruise? What job does my neighbor have? Do I really like the taste of coffee? Of beer? What percent of my day can I remember? Will I move next year? Am I a good listener? 

 

Part IV: Lincoln Square

 

I love sidewalk restaurant patios. I like to walk through them pretending not to care, presenting an attitude that is mildly disdainful. I almost hope the patrons think that I’m inconvenienced by their sidewalk presence. But in truth, this is a golden opportunity for spectacle. In just a few seconds I get to see what people are eating, wearing, discussing. How their body language looks. Whether it’s a first date, breakup, anniversary, long overdue reunion, etc. I wonder what I look like when I spend time with other people. How much can be gathered.

 

Lincoln Square is full of children. The air turning cold seems to reinvigorate the people. I think maybe the turning seasons make people more conscious of their surroundings. It’s like the New Year, but in fall. I don’t know if people ever lose the sense of a ‘Back to School.’ The Dimo’s here is overwhelmingly decorated for Halloween. Cardboard painted bones dangle from the ceiling, along an assortment of other decorations that I don’t feel like spoiling. This store is always the cheeriest seeming, and the decorations are not wholly out of line with this. It’s always a balance with ‘scary’ decor. I’d assume most people don’t actually want to feel fear. Especially not in the pizza parlor. Lincoln Square always kind of reminds me of those weird towns they’ve built to look like the wild west, or Paris, or 1950s suburbia. I can’t put my finger on what it is in this neighborhood, but it does seem a step or two outside of reality. 

 

All this feeling of altered reality might just be a facet of a longlong walk. I don’t know that I’m recommending the Dimo’s Pizza Pilgrimage to everyone (though you are guaranteed to get enough fuel along your way). I do think that this sort of loosely guided walk is a good way to feel connected to your physical environment. Watching neighborhoods change as you move, weather alter across the day, stores open and close. All these things feel more personal when you’re moving through them. Chicago is a perfect candidate for this. Our city has varied structure and culture, and it begs us to move through it thoughtfully, to allow ourselves to be impressed upon by our city. It doesn’t have to be pizza. But it could be.

 

-Riley from Dimo’s