The Pedway

Underneath downtown Chicago, there’s a system of tunnels that stretches across roughly five miles of the city. This is the Pedway, where tens of thousands of people walk each day, to and from the office to the train and back again, maybe stopping in Macy’s or at Au Bon Pain before getting on the Red line or the Metra, or before walking up to earth, where the city is alive above.

Until I worked in downtown Chicago, I was completely unaware that this underground world existed. On any given day, I can get off the train and stay underground, winding through this system of tunnels, all the way until I get to my office building. From there, it’s only an escalator ride up and a quick glimpse out the windows to see the real world before I take the elevator to my office floor.

Usually, even when the weather is at its worst—and in downtown Chicago, worst really can and does mean exactly that—I hate taking the Pedway the entire route to or from the office. I feel like a rat in a maze, following the herds of people bundled up in their winter coats, a dull mix of fur-lined hoods in greys, blacks, and browns. (When did we all receive the memo to be drab and colorless in the winter?) We all take our turns through one revolving door after another, until we make it to our train station or the steps leading up, and out.

***

It’s Sunday, which means I’m not downtown and don’t have to worry about my commute. I’ve been cooped up in my apartment all weekend, sick. Today, finally, I felt better, and was eager to get out of my apartment, and back to the real world. I was antsy to get outside, even though the view from my window was gray and bleak: snow turning to freezing rain, and barely any one walking down the street.

So I ventured outdoors for the first time in two and a half days, carrying my garbage and walking sideways, slowly, down my back steps, afraid I was going to fall. I made it to the last step, and then, walking around the corner on the sidewalk, promptly fell flat on my butt in a patch of ice. The garbage bag fell out of my hands and I cursed to myself, looking around to see if anyone had seen. There was no one around. I tried to get up and slipped, again. As I clutched the neighbor’s fence and pulled myself up, I still felt embarrassed, even though I was positive no one had seen me fall.

A minute later, as I was scraping the snow and sleet off my car, a couple walked by, bundled up and clinging to each other, maybe for warmth, maybe for balance, maybe for comfort. It was probably all of those things.

***

In the Pedway, it seems, everyone is alone. And maybe that’s why it depresses me to walk along with the masses down there: We’re right there, in Chicago, but yet we’re not. It’s a means to an end. We’re underneath it all.

Last Thursday, leaving work, I reached the point in my Pedway walk where I have a choice: I could go one more level down, and take the Pedway all the way to the Blue line (as I had done that morning). Or, I could head outside to Michigan and Lake, and deal with the cold the rest of the walk. I paused, only for a second, and headed to the revolving doors leading outside.

I didn’t have anyone’s arm to cling to, and it’s much more likely I could fall in a slick patch on the sidewalk. But outside, the city was still lit up and beautiful as ever. I played a new song on my iTunes and turned it up, loud.

It was cold, but it didn’t feel bleak. I was right there.

***

By tomorrow, this mix of sleet and freezing rain will turn all the sidewalks into a giant skating rink. It’s likely I might fall down again. I might have to take the Pedway all the way from the train to the office. I’ll be wearing a fur-lined hooded coat and boots like the rest of the masses. It might seem a little bleak. I might feel a little alone, surrounded by strangers doing the exact same thing.

But that’s okay. Above us, the city waits.

Small Town and Scared Shitless in the Big City

Tonight, after eight months of living in Chicago, I have finally realized the unavoidable reality of my new life: This city scares the shit out of me. After pacing around my apartment all afternoon, restless and desperate to be out exploring, or even reading in a coffee shop—ok, fine, Starbucks—as opposed to in my bedroom, I finally did it. I packed my bag with my newest issues of Paste and Bitch magazines, cell phone, wallet, and novel, and stepped out of my apartment.

My filthy Neon Sport was parked right outside, but still far enough away for me to have one nerve wracking encounter: a male neighbor checking his mail. Why is he staring at me? He’s coming out of the gate…He’s coming toward me…oh, he’s walking to his car. I’d already practically leapt into my car as he walked past, looking at me like the lunatic I am. I shook my head at myself in my car mirror, trying to decide at what point I thought all men who made eye contact with me were planning to murder me. Back home—or what had become home after six years, Bloomington, Indiana—when a man stared at me, I thought he was checking me out, not about to rape and pillage me. On the upside, maybe my irrational fears were keeping my ego in check, at least.

So I journeyed to Starbucks, because I’m too nervous to try to find the hip new coffee shop, New Wave, that I heard opened in my neighborhood. (I pass Starbucks almost every day on my way to work, so it’s in my comfort zone.) As soon as I walked in, I was annoyed. It’s the typical Starbucks weekend crowd: yoga moms with their kids, college students on laptops, everyone on cell phones. I ordered my standby, a chai latte, and scampered to the back room, praying for an open table so I wouldn’t end up heading straight back home, defeated and depressed.

I snagged the last open table and finally relaxed, drank my chai, and read my magazines cover to cover. Then, with new bravery brought on by caffeine and finding a parking spot right outside, I decided to find the Borders I knew was on North Avenue. (Fine, first I texted my boyfriend, a lifelong Chicagoan, to double check the spot.)

As I turned onto 90 West, screaming along to the Doors on XRT, I felt great. Empowered. I was exploring the city! On my own! I am an independent, confident young woman! Hoorah!

And then my confidence shattered. As I drove down North Avenue, gaping at the familiar stores that looked so much fancier outside of the College Mall in Bloomington—Express, Gap, Banana Republic, and on and on—I thought, I don’t belong here. The cars zooming around me with Illinois plates were cleaner, fancier than my 98 Dodge. The women walking out of Victoria’s Secret were impossibly trendy. Everyone had shopping bags in hand. I had 134 bucks in my checking account. And where in the fuck am I supposed to park?

After driving around in a circle around the Borders for about ten minutes, I saw a Public Parking sign. Relieved, I made a right and started to pull in the garage. 0-1 hour, $9.00. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” I yelled at the sign, making a young father jump and clutch his kid tighter while walking to his SUV.

So I turned my Indiana car right around and drove home. When I turned on to California, I basked in the glow of the now-familiar Popeyes and IHOP signs. I parked, walked through the gate of my apartment building, clutching my bag and looking around me, and realized how much I miss Bloomington.

But I’m here. And at least I’m trying.

So for now, I’m content to sit in the safety of my kitchen, listening to Fiona Apple and hanging out with the cats. I’ll explore more later.