a visit, and an ending

I was back in Chicago over Thanksgiving.  Although I was staying in Lincoln Park (where my dad now lives), I was anxious to revisit Hyde Park, to drink in the memories.  My last attempt a few years ago was cut short when I tripped in front of Kimbark Plaza and tore my Achilles tendon.  This time I would do it right.  This time I had a car to cover more ground… and I had my lady friend with me (hereafter referred to as “she” or “her”, because I don’t think I’ll be using the feminine pronoun for anyone else).

We cruised south on Lake Shore Drive.  I pointed out the sights: the fountain in Grant Park, the cluster of Field Museum/Planetarium/Shedd Aquarium/Soldier Field, McCormick Place, the bike path I would ride along the lake.  All this was merely prelude to the big event, however: my old stomping grounds.

We got off LSD and I pointed out Regents Park, the twin residential towers where I briefly lived as a child before moving across the street to our first stop: 5100 South Hyde Park Boulevard.  I paused here for a moment.  I looked at the steps I climbed so many times, the door I unlocked over and over again.  I felt an unexpected emptiness, in front of this building where I spent my formative years.  It was to be a recurring theme on this journey.  We didn’t even get out of the car… I pulled back into traffic and drove on.

On the left is Harold Washington Park, where the bright green South American Monk Parakeets used to roost every year.  Apparently they don’t come there anymore.  Everything changes.  We could have gotten out of the car and walked around, she wouldn’t have minded.  But at this point I was already feeling apprehensive about this whole thing, and it was cold out.  I turned on to 53rd, not even bothering to point out where Harold Washington had lived.  What would it mean to her?  What, really, did it mean to me?

A right turn to visit the stretch of Cornell that I had previously written about.  Vague stirrings of familiarity, but no nostalgic pull.  On the 53rd end, the bakery and the Chinese restaurant are gone, the vacant lot now occupied.  On the 51st end, we turned left and I took her to school: Kenwood Academy.

I spent six years (including junior high) here, my father taught here.  It should have been a flood of memories.  Instead, I just felt silly taking her there.  I haven’t been inside in 25 years.  What does this school have to do with who I am now?  How interesting could this possibly be for her, a spectator to someone’s else nostalgia?  We were both amused, however, to see that the stretch of Blackstone Ave in front of the school had been renamed “Chaka Khan Way”, in honor of the famous alum.

South on Lake Park.  Past the public library, which is somehow not as small as I thought it was.  A beautiful structure, too.  But we were hungry and I had little interest in seeing the inside (probably all different, anyway) so it was back to 53rd, a right turn, and a perfect parking spot in front of Valois.  Why did I pick Valois?  It didn’t have special significance to me.  What restaurants really did, though?  Medici was too hip, we’d had Giordano’s a couple nights earlier, the Pancake House was gone.  So Valois… I’d eaten there a few times, there was the “Obama factor”, and it was a local institution.

She ordered steak and eggs, I ordered a steak omelet.  The cashier made some pleasant chat, but somehow I expected more… character.  In my mind, Valois was a place where you’d strike up a conversation with some colorful person at the next table.  None of that was going on.  It was just breakfast, and honestly not a especially memorable one.  I felt now that I was boring her to tears.  She assured me that I wasn’t, bless her heart.

We got back into the car after the uneventful meal.  The Hyde Park Theater is now the Harper Theater.  Hyde Park Computers, where I had my first job, is boarded up and empty.  Harper Square is undergoing massive renovations, it looks completely different.  Everything was wrong.  We zigzagged through familiar streets… 53rd to 51st, Kimbark, Kenwood, Dorchester.  One thing hasn’t changed in the old neighborhood: those spectacular old apartment buildings still stand.  I love those buildings, classic brick and stone, balconies and bay windows.  You can picture the rickety elevators and musty staircases inside.  For a moment, I felt that she and I were both enjoying ourselves, admiring the architecture.

We cruised further out, to 55th.  The little park where I once smoked oregano that I’d been told was weed (“grass”, I called it, to my companion’s amusement… apparently there are generational differences over a 6-year difference).  The old Coop shopping center, now taken over by Treasure Island.  The end of another era, but what did I feel except the nagging sense that this was all just killing time?  Along the way I pointed out where different friends had lived.  So what?  Friends she never knew, friends she’ll never see… and for that matter, I probably won’t see them again either.

57th Street.  We stopped at a small store to buy some beverages.  I was hoping to find those old Canfield’s favorites: Mickey Melon and Diet Chocolate Fudge.  No dice (I did later find the chocolate drink at a supermarket in Lincoln Park, and it’s still yummy).  We drove up to the University.  Along the way I showed her the Unitarian church where I’d gone a few times, and where certain social functions sometimes occurred.  It’s an impressive church, actually.

We weaved around the university grounds.  Rockefeller Chapel, Regenstein Library, Ida Noyes Hall, the Midway, Robie House.  Even though I was never a student here, I always liked this campus… I went to the MacWillie’s day camp there, and it was the university that seemed to give Hyde Park a special personality.  We tried to find the “When Harry Met Sally” dorm, but neither of us could quite remember what it looked like.  I’m pretty sure we went by it, though.

I’m boring myself all over again just retelling this jagged, aimless trip.  We went to 57th Street Books and spent some time browsing.  I’m quite fond of this bookstore, which you have to descend below street level to enter.  The space is oddly divided into rooms full of little nooks and unexpected turns.  As we looked over the poetry shelves, I imagined that one day her works would sit there.  We killed a good half hour there at least, but left without making any purchases.

At this point, I was feeling so self-conscious about boring her that I wanted to skip the Museum of Science and Industry entirely and head back to Lincoln Park.  But she encouraged me, perhaps knowing that it meant something to me… or perhaps secretly hoping to salvage something more interesting out of this whole thing.

The first thing that’s changed about the Museum is money.  It used to be free admission.  Now you pay — and quite dearly — to get in, and to park.  Maybe you always had to pay to park, but I remember a free parking lot in front.  I’ve never gone there by car, I always just walked there from my house, a straight shot down Hyde Park Boulevard.  A walk I made many times.  In my recollection, at least, there were summers where almost every day would include a trip to the museum.

But it feels almost entirely alien to me now.  The cavernous entrance (is it even the same entrance way? I’m not sure) is filled with the ticketing area, making sure everyone pays their money to get in.  The annual Christmas Trees Around the World exhibit was up, and perhaps that was pretty much the same.  Little else felt familiar.  Is that where the coal mine entrance always was?  Where’s the energy ride?  Where’s the room full of computers?  Of course… it’s a science museum.  You can’t have old, outdated stuff in a science museum.

The trains are still there, and the “Mold-a-Rama” machine.  And Yesterday’s Main Street, where we watched a silent Xmas movie and enjoyed (after waiting in quite a long line) some ice cream at Finnegan’s Parlor.  When desperate for entertainment, I often turn to food.  It keeps the mouth busy so I don’t have to flail around in my mind for something interesting to say.

We didn’t even go to the upstairs portion of the museum.  She and I had both had quite enough after fiddling with some knobs in a new (or new to me) exhibit about kinetic energy.  It was basically a bust.  You truly can’t go home again.  Hyde Park has changed, but more importantly, I’ve changed.  I’m too far removed from this place, no matter how much it once meant to me.  I have a new home now.

So I am ending this blog, after four posts and very few hits.  Most of what I wanted to remember about Hyde Park is in this post, albeit in abbreviated form.  Thank you for reading.