where heaven and earth collide
On Wednesday, I decided to embark on a solitary journey. I hopped onto the red line at Fullerton, and from there I was whisked away to the Chicago stop. Here is where my walk began. Upon scaling the staircase to street level, I noticed an old man and his dog who appeared to be related. They shared the same smushed-in face, walked with the same limp in their sides. Perhaps those two are the incarnates of Old Salamano and his dog from Camus’ L’étranger. One block further I saw a fluffy, white-haired dog with a fluffy, white-haired owner to match. Another Salamano! Before I could fully process this literary allusion, my reflexes kicked in as I cautiously stepped around the corpse of a bird. How revealing that a bird, often known as a symbol of freedom, should be found dead on the streets of the Magnificent Mile.
As I neared my first destination, a clothing store for teen girls called Brandy Melville, I witnessed a tableau with a similar theme. Sprinkles, a bakery well-known for its gourmet cupcakes, had one loiterer: a homeless man. Instantly my mind conjured the image of the dead bird from a couple of blocks back. What a stark contrast between the luxurious milieu of the neighborhood and the downtrodden beings within it. The Magnificent Mile is where heaven and earth collide.
I stopped into Brandy Melville and purchased a couple tops and a duffel bag that I had been eyeing for a couple weeks. I continued back to the street entrance of the subway, passing Sprinkles again. My stomach decided it wanted a cupcake. The homeless man from before was gone, so the twinge of guilt I felt relaxed slightly. I entered my order into the “Cupcake ATM” and out popped my sweet relief, which I decided to save for dessert.
Retail therapy had me hypnotized, so I meandered over to the popular athletic store Lululemon to see if there was anything else that could fix my shopping spell. I quickly circled the store, and, realizing a simple yoga mat should not be worth 88 dollars, stepped out. The peppy music from Lululemon that had filled my ears before blended into a jingling noise on the side of the street. I turned over my shoulder and, to my dismay, spotted the source of the sound: another homeless person, holding a cup of coins. Immaculate blocks of buildings home to luxurious brands, scattered with vagabonds. This is the reality of the Magnificent Mile.
The hard-drive in my brain was overheating; this was my signal to find some lunch. I trotted over to Eataly, an Italian marketplace, and ordered a Margherita pizza for one. I scarfed down the pizza while considering my own role in the Magnificent Mile’s apparent socio-economic divide. I am a college student with no consistent source of income, but I could still afford to shop because of the financial support of my family. I suppose I scored lucky in the game of life.
Although I have walked through the Magnificent Mile on a few separate occasions, this experience allowed me to see it in a new light. I treaded through both the neighborhood and its complex atmosphere, further examining the real Magnificent Mile and myself as well. My thread weaves itself further into the city, growing more and more closely knit together. This Wednesday’s journey is now etched in my memory.
In “The Solitary Stroller and the City,” Rebecca Solnit writes, “Cities have always offered anonymity, variety, and conjunction, qualities best basked in by walking” (p. 182). How have you experienced the anonymity, variety, and conjunction of Chicago while walking?
Anonymity is certainly heightened during current times due to mask mandates in Chicago; no one can see my face, allowing me to hide even more of my identity. Masks aside, I experience anonymity just by crossing paths with strangers. Pedestrians pass me by in a split second, and to the unobservant eye, I am nothing but a moving figure. Yet there is solidarity among us moving figures in transit, even though each person has their own purpose and destination. This variety allows me to watch all kinds of people in motion, even if just for a glance. In terms of conjunction, just one street links together a myriad of cultures. In traveling down Division Street, I enter different worlds that share the same horizontal plane. On the streets, I experience anonymity, variety, and conjunction because of the magnitude of people. I am one in a million in both meanings of the phrase; I am a part of a larger group of commuters, yet I am unique in why I walk, which sets everyone apart. (174)
