There was a time when the city was little more than a trading post set within the depths of a swamp. The air stank of wild onions and skunk cabbage, and the name commonly attributed to the onions by natives of the region gave rise to the city that would ultimately displace them. Now, Chicago stands with pride, arrogance, and a surprising lack of assurance on the southwestern tip of Lake Michigan. It is a hodgepodge of designs and ambitions as any city might be. Its history stands at war with itself. That which is old asserts itself. That which is younger seeks to extricate the old. At times, older things remain in poised in ascendance; at other times, the new, the flashy (and at times, the less substantial) gains prominence. In this way, perhaps, Chicago is the pendulum of the US-American heartland, its fads and its nostalgias swinging the city in one direction or another as if marking the lopsided rhythm of an irregular heartbeat. In areas close to the city-core, the flashy-new grabs the eye, while the venerable, and the time-tested crouch (as if hiding in shadows cast by metal.) In the areas relegated to the fringes of the city (and consequently where those of riotous ethnic diversity live) the aged, the respected, and indeed the more substantial things remain. Houses stand on lots more expansive than you’ll ever find toward the city center, pharmacies and grocery stores, insurance agencies, and churches declare themselves in the imported languages of whoever lives in those regions. To the south, the west, and even the north, one may read signs in Spanish. To the northwest, close to the airport, Spanish gives way to Polish, to Hindi, to Russian, and in tiny, tiny areas, to a strange mix of Farsi and a number of Bantu-related languages. Where there are accents (an indeed whole “foreign” languages) there are buildings born of the meticulous work of craftsmen rather than assembly lines. The buildings in these regions hold something organic, and human at their collective existential core. Architects and Engineers worked hand-in-hand with masons and woodcutters, and craftsmen of truly arcane pedigree. Their handiwork remains, announcing itself in odd rococo flourishes, baroque parabolas, and neo-classical grace. There are no castles in Chicago, but in places like Albany Park, there are schools. Though their interiors (as deemed by the Chicago Board of Education) are all strikingly the same, their exteriors conform to a different, richer aesthetic. They are anachronistic in ways that might appeal to some. In each school garbed in colored brick and bas-relief human figures, there are pencil sharpeners like Victorian clockwork still anchored to oak-hewn teachers’ desks. Few people use wooden pencils in Chicago, but the sharpeners remain. No one builds castles anywhere, but there are still such things, and in Chicago, there are old public schools. Though I can’t attest to the quality of the Chicago educational system, I can say that the older schools carry the muscular grace that once defined this city. Much of this grace has been demolished, but what remains is far more spectacular simply because of its paucity. *** This is a tweaked (for detail and contrast) image of Von Steuben High School in Chicago’s Albany Park. As established in the history of Chicago, Albany Park (a remote region) is now a place of almost lurid diversity. As you wander the streets surrounding this school, you’ll read signs in Spanish and Korean, English and Arabic: Korean-Christian churches rub shoulders with mosques, while mariachi trumpets blare from used-appliance shops and convenience stores selling coconut juice. There are things to love in Chicago. You just have to seek the fringes in order to find them. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you're all having a great week.