lost in my own backyard
On Friday, I lost myself in my own backyard. This backyard I am referring to is Lincoln Park. My new address may share the same zip code as this neighborhood, but I have only experienced Lincoln Park through the lens of a DePaul student. I travel back and forth down the same couple of streets, and I enter the same few buildings every day, with little variation to my routine. However, Friday’s adventure allowed me to turn down a new corner and become acquainted with a different side of Lincoln Park.
I pressed play on the podcast when I was standing at the front of the Student Center, shaded by the statue of Fr. Egan. At first, my ears directed my feet down a familiar route; Sheffield, Seminary, Belden, Fullerton, all street names I recognized from navigating around campus. Suddenly, I was prompted to turn right, and I found myself stranded in the middle of a city block. My initial instinct was to pause the podcast and play it again once I reached the next street. However, to my luck, I spotted an alley across the street. I entered the alley, a little more wary of my surroundings as I removed myself from the comfort of DePaul.
Treading through the alley, I felt almost as if I was invading the privacy of the residents. The sweet smell of fresh laundry wafted throughout the path. I noticed an open garage with toys and tiny bicycles scattered on the floor. It made me wonder what it would be like to grow up here, to be a little kid living in the midst of such a vast city. To be raised knowing Lincoln Park as your backyard.
Turning out of the alley, I traversed through a residential street. I began to sense dust blurring my vision in the atmosphere, so I honed my focus in on discovering the source of the dust. I approached a house under construction. How interesting to see the skeleton of a new house emerge among several traditional brownstones that must have been there for decades. The neighborhood is slowly evolving.
The contrast of the brand new house and the giant green trees allowed me to take a glimpse at this street’s ever-changing history. The trees I photographed must have been several decades old, providing shade for a few generations of passersby. If the trees could talk, I wonder what stories they could share of those who walked down this street before me. Stories of the many families that must have meandered down the street, the many couples holding hands while walking in synch, the many solitary pedestrians en route. These trees bear witness to the constant evolution of the city.
After being directed to follow another sequences of turns, I observed animal footprints molded into the cement on the sidewalk. The juxtaposition of nature in the urban environment peaks my interest.
Thirty minutes or so had passed, and the podcast was nearing its end. My final destination: a “Greek inspired” restaurant. A Greek ending at a Greek place. What a coincidence. I found it amusing that in the podcast, Jennie Savage returned to her starting place after all of the twists and turns. For me on the other hand, I was a twenty minute walk away from my first position.
I decided to use the Maps app to give me directions to the quickest way to my dorm, as I needed to leave for the train station soon. Upon my return, I came across what seemed to be train tracks or trolley tracks with a layer of asphalt covering a section. Could there have been a train or trolley that traveled down this street? I continue to discover the little clandestine aspects of Lincoln Park. Every day, my backyard becomes a little smaller, a little more familiar, a little more like home.
In “Paris, or Botanizing the Asphalt,” Rebecca Solnit writes about the figure of the “flâneur.” Who was the flâneur? What kind of walker was he (She? Were women considered to be flâneurs (flâneuses)? Why or why not?)? Why did the flâneur walk? What is the flâneur’s relationship to the “crowd” and “strangers?”
The flâneur is a figure whose existence cannot be completely confirmed–he is an image of his time. He walks the streets of a great city, Paris in particular, alone yet observing his surroundings. The flâneur walks to walk, to live his own private existence in the public sphere, to experience leisure. Women were not considered to be flâneurs, as there was no record of women being written as flâneurs in literature, and that women were not considered to possess the nonchalant air of the flâneur. The flâneur is a stranger within the crowd, and he blends himself in with the life of the city. He walks not for the destination, but for the journey, for the walk itself; he takes in his surroundings and experiences the city, remaining a stranger among the crowd. The flâneur is not quite a loiterer, nor a traveler. Flâneurs add a twinkle of mystery into the city, making others wonder why they wander.
