What Can You See In the Span of Three Blocks?
Bernardo da Costa Soares
September 10, 2022
The Greeks believed the number 3 to be the perfect number. Not 1. Not 2. Not 100. Three. Our existence moves in 3’s — birth, life, and death — so does time — past, present, and future. Stories have a beginning, a middle, and an end (supposedly). 3 Gods. 3 Fates. The number three is everywhere. And, yet, today we give it barely any significance. “I got a 3 on my exam” means I failed. “He had 3 cookies,” translates to “he didn’t like my cooking.” Three for us, in this day and age, is too little, nothing. Or is it?
10:40 a.m. — I am sitting by the Quad at DePaul’s Lincoln Park Campus. I just asked someone on a date for the first time. Coffee, 3 p.m., at the corner of Fullerton and Lincoln Ave. They said yes. My heart is pounding, I can feel the blood rushing through my body like a river after a monsoon. The wind is blowing, this is Chicago after all. I might be having an anxiety attack.
I take three deep breaths and look around for the smallest thing I can focus on. One blade of grass. The wind caresses that shiny green, and the grass seems to shimmer beneath the sun. I notice the bees buzzing around, scouting for flowers or anything sweet. I feel the same wind that touches the grass, the trees, and the bushes, brush against my face, alleviating the redness of social anxiety.
I embrace the quietness of the Quad this Saturday morning. The soft, warm silence.
10:42 a.m. — A black Jeep Compass speeds down Belden Ave., disrupting the quiet. A man wearing a polo shirt sits on the wheel, one arm out the window, Hip-Hop blasting. This is my sign to leave.
10:43 a.m. — I am now walking down Racine Ave., by the elementary school. The children are playing baseball, their parents coaching on the side. “Run, Jimmy, run!” Jimmy is, in fact, running, one little leg after the other.
Further down, past the field and at the park area, a little girl reaches down to grab some dirt. Her mother gives her a shameful look after noticing her daughter’s handful of soil. The girl simply smiles, not a care in the world.
10:45 a.m. — I take a left on Webster Ave. A couple walks past me, hands held tightly as if to not lose one another like one might lose their keys.
After them, comes a woman in a pink athleisure set, with matching pink hair. She is looking back toward a man who just tried (and failed) to flirt with her. Bursting into laughter, she screams “I’m gay!”
10:49 a.m. — I continue east on Webster. A man sunbathes on his balcony. The air around him is infested with the smell of sunscreen. I am reminded of a beach. The sea has come to Lincoln Park.
10:50 a.m. — With every step I take, the ground seems to crunch beneath my feet. Summer is coming to an end and so are the lives of most cicadas in Chicago. Their exoskeletons litter the sidewalks. Their lifecycle is so interesting to me. Spending up to 17 years underground, feeding on the sap from tree roots, only to live a few months under the light of day. The true ‘Y.O.L.O.’ mindset.
10:52 a.m. — I take a left on Seminary Ave. The quietness of Lincoln Park slips back in. This is the quintessential residential street. Brownstones (not always brown) pile along the sidewalks, most of the time leaving no space for the wind. Yet, nature seems to flourish, even from the smallest cracks on the pavement. On the flowerbed in one of the many front yards, I look down only to find two rocks painted over with the words “Stay Strong” and “Smile :).” A message to the random passerby or to nature itself? Only the 8-year-old who painted this knows…
10:54 a.m. — One thing about walking during the morning is having to avoid all the sprinklers going off. I turn it into a fun little game, a maze, per se. An obstacle course in the concrete jungle. Nevertheless, despite my efforts, I still manage to get slightly wet — which is fine during the summer months, but on colder days I know it will be an annoyance.
11:00 a.m. — I approach Belden Ave. again, this time heading towards the Lake. I’ve walked by here many times, and, still, every time I see the statue sitting in that little garden, by the white-bricked house I am mesmerized. A woman sits, her head tilted back, staring at the sky, her hair intertwined to form another face on her back. What does it mean? Maybe it has no meaning. Maybe it is just art being art, intriguingly beautiful.
11:05 a.m. — Left on Kenmore Ave. and I stumble across a dead bird on the ground, alone, nothing around it. Its belly white and pointing to the sky. It is peculiar to encounter death this way. I honestly cannot say I feel sad, or even shocked. Death just feels ordinary. Is that a bad thing? Should I gasp and cry at the sight of a dead little bird, helpless, eyes void, lying on the ground? Maybe. The truth is I do not, rather, I move on, walking might be the best remedy right now.
11:07 a.m. — This is the 5th runner I’ve seen today. What is it with Lincoln Park and running? Is that air sweeter here? Does the breeze refresh them? Murakami, in “What I Talk About When I Talk About Running”, says he runs to find the void, that one moment in time when you think of nothing at all. Perhaps being this close to the vast expanse of Lake Michigan, borderless to the eye, fuels that desire for the void, whatever it may be.
11:15 a.m. — Right on Webster, past Seminary, right on Clifton, left on Belden, and, finally, right on Racine. Three blocks.
My feet have known this part of Lincoln Park once again, investigated each alleyway, examined every crack on the street, tripped on the sidewalk multiple times. I have looked up, down, right, and left, seen people, nature, death. Only three blocks. Who knows what hides along the other thousands in Chicago?
Response to Reading Question:
Question chosen: 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?
I can no longer recount the number of brownstones I have seen during my two weeks in Chicago. Semi-adjacent houses, covered in bricks, decked with American flags and gnomes in the front yard. They may be similar in nature or have the same decorations (most of the time they do), but none are the same. Each one has its own little details: cracks along the sides, paths winding to the front door, mystery attics, mystery basements, flowers along the fence, or decorations on the window. They hide in plain sight, and their history stands behind them, waiting to be uncovered. You never know what you may find. They are alluring in that aspect. In Gold Coast lawns were manicured, and in Pilsen murals adorned walls. And, yet, they all serve the same purpose, stand in the same city, only a few miles apart. Only through walking could I genuinely understand them. (151 words)
