Familiar glow of comfort

As much as I love to walk down the street and smile at the flowering trees and smell the beautiful blue sky, I simultaneously take my environment for granted and assume that it will always be the same for me here in Chicago. I had a shocking reminder this weekend that the world outside lovely Logan Square isn't the same as my little glass bubble of happiness.

I went to the suburbs Saturday night.

I know that you're remembering all the suburban people you've overheard saying, "I just hate driving in Chicago, I don�t feel safe." It's true that there are misguided souls out there that feel this way. I find the opposite to be true.

After the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, civic planning straightened the city's haphazard streets and planned for future growth to be regular and ordered. Later generations decided to light up the Chicago night with thousands (millions?) of glowing orange streetlights. I bless those urban planners for creating a city that's easy to navigate at any time during the day or night.

There are those who think the sickly urban glare of Chicago is light pollution, but I think they haven't experienced the glory that is driving into the city at night from the scary, dark suburbs. Coming south down Asbury Avenue in Evanston, you can actually see the demarcation of orange glow that marks the beginning of Chicago city limits at Howard Street. I think that is a magical sight, as beautiful as the flowering catalpa trees in my neighborhood. I always point out that line in the night to my passengers, "That's where Chicago begins."

This past weekend, I went to an outdoor concert in the suburbs. It terrified me. I was surrounded by seas of white people dining al fresco by candelabra light, eating from gigantic wicker baskets stuffed with avocado heart salad and marinated chicken breast sandwiches. It made my heart yearn for simple Humboldt Park, where the Puerto Ricans set up grills and string up hammocks in between trees while blasting oompah ballads from their car stereos. I had no idea that that was my scene and sound of home, not the field of white people with black forest ham sandwiches and salads of fresh baby greens.

More terrifying than the racial singularity of the suburbs was the lack of lighting. On my way home from the concert, I had a difficult time finding my car in the parking lot because there simply weren�t enough lights. And then driving? Oh my goodness. Black streets punctuated by an occasional weak, white bulb. Bring me the glowing sulphurous daytime of Chicago's night streets, and I'll tell you how to use the major cross-streets to navigate home, no matter how lost you think you are. I never feel disoriented in Chicago's grid-like precision, but the suburbs� Charmingly winding streets make absolutely no sense to me, and I pray for some landmark to direct me back to I-94.

Dropping my friends off at their homes after the concert, I rolled down all my windows and smiled at the artificial orange glow. Home at last, I took wrong turns just for the fun of finding Chicago Avenue and making my way back to Logan Square from there.