Let’s face it, I wouldn’t be very happy in paradise. What’s the old joke about winning something in Illinois–first prize: a week in Springfield, second prise: two weeks in Springfield. When I go camping, the first day I just decompress, the second day I toast marshmallows, and the third day I look at a map. I could never stand to live in one of the places that makes other bloggers’ walks look like something out of Heidi. No, my walks are in the gritty city and have plenty of character and flavor.
It starts out nicely enough, on a tree-lined, all-American street on the South Side. There are some oddities, some houses that remind one of Malvina Reynolds’:
Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes made of ticky tacky,
Little boxes on the hillside, Little boxes all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one And a blue one and a yellow one,
And they’re all made out of ticky tacky And they all look just the same.
Then one comes to the railroad and must cross over by the secret path.
Occluded by beebalm, Queen Ann’s lace, and fragrant alfalfa.
But we’re not in Arizona yet. We still have to cross the old defunct railroad right of way and the utilities corredor with all the high voltage wires.
…until finally we arrive in Arizona, named for the treelessness of its landscape design.
Finally we reach the lake.
There’s more, including animals, but it will have to wait for tomorrow.
But first, the best margarita in Chicago: