I love when the grid lights up out your window. The lines stretch on in perfect squares forever and ever and ever. Along the lake, the streets run straight on to Indiana and Wisconsin. The lights run in perfect 90 degree angles in perfect set interval blocks. This is no pretentious winding ancient European town. This isn’t the fake disordered sprawl of LA. This is a city that was built by hand as it rose out of the ashes. This is the house that man built.
The city of big shoulders, the hog butchers of the world, etc.
This is a city filled with lights and dirt and struggle and straight, hard lines.
When I see the lights out my window flying into Chicago, I feel at home. Though there were many times over the weekend I missed the wide variety of lettuce available in California, flying into Chicago I know these are a hard people. I know that below me people are working and driving and hustling and stealing and building and bribing and making ends meet. I know that these are a people who would never be shocked by my swearing. They would always swear back.
I know that here I will fit in.
Except, of course, I didn’t.
I’ve flown into Chicago many, many times. During day, it just looks like every city; it hardly stands out from whatever city you fly over before you fly into Chicago. But at night, the city is hard and bright and real. And it makes me think for a second I am too.