The age old question, can you ever truly go home? I ask myself this as I drive north on Ashland from the Armitage Kennedy exit. I look around at the familiar buildings, half of which are currently under reconstruction. I cruise past the now Irish pub on the corner of Wellington and Ashland and remember when it was a Russian restaurant, the name escapes me now. What is still fresh in my mind is the fact that they would come and pick you up for dinner in an old beat up limo, and during Lent would have a huge banner outside that read, "Come eat your Easter Lamb here, open Easter Sunday".
I cross Belmont and upon crossing it feel as if I cam crossing into a whole different city. These used to be my blocks, Ashland, between Belmont and Addison. There is a brand new gym built in the old multistory brick structure that used to house Montgomery Ward. It had been vacant for quite some time I suppose but, there was something soothing about that. It was almost as if people were morning the loss, not ready to move on and up. It made me wonder if they still sold Christmas trees in the winter and pumpkins in the fall at the little park in front of it.
Across the street, condo city. I stop and stare at the condos wondering; who lives there, what do they do, where did they come from, and if they remember my Chicago. I smile upon remembering late nights at Ike and Ricks dancing to the horrible musical selections on the jukebox (Cher's "Do you believe in Love after Love" still makes me laugh). I recall running by the gated "adult novelty shop" with the $1 entry fee and wondering who was inside. And memories of eating nauseatingly greasy food at Sparkies while drunkenly arguing with my ex-boyfriend now bring a smile to my face.
The coach house I lived in is still standing, as is the house in front. That is about all that remains of the past. I wonder if the little old man still lives near, and paces around the tiny parking lot in back from early morning well on into the night. If the Cuban credit union still has raging parties in the back room on weekends. If the feline sized city rats still stand outside the front door and block entry to the sidewalk as if they are playing some sort of twisted game of chicken with you.
As I cruise north, I see that my old corner bar, Ivan's, no longer is there. I do wish it was as easy to remove the memories of me falling off a bar stool while showing the hot new bartender my tattoo (by lifting up my dress) in a post-finals drunken blur. Further down I see that Tai's Till 4, now has a flashy neon sign out front. I try to peer in the windows, but the afternoon sun glares and blocks most of my view. I think to myself, part of the allure of Tai's (to my crew at least) was the fact that it was dingy and kind of gross. But at 3/4 am, who really cares, right? And if you do care, why are you still out, and why aren’t you drunk?
Ashland Ave. itself has even had a face-lift. Cement plant potters divide the north and south bound traffic lanes. It looks more like a boulevard than and avenue to me. Newcomers to the area most likely look at it and say how cute of an area they live in. How convenient to everything it is. And how increasing difficult it is to find a parking spot for their new VW Jetta's or Toyota Prius's.
I, however, miss the old pockets of an up and coming area. The diversity of both the people and the income levels. I wonder if people still smile at you when you pass them on the street. If they say hello to you if you bump into them a couple times in the coffee shop or bar.
As I turn around to make my way into the Caribou Coffee at School and Ashland I am shaken from my deep thought by a familiar sound. It is one that helped lull me to sleep night after night in my early 20's. I look to the north to see the brown line roll across the bridge over Ashland. At that moment I realize that you can go home, sometimes the scenery along the way just has to change a bit.
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