Post Introduction

I moved to Chicago from Miami, FL on August 1 2008. On a random day when I thought I wanted to be an intern writer for CS Magazine, I wrote this personal statement article. After reading it again today, I came to the conclusion that in the 5.5 months since my arrival, still not much has changed. :)

Where Have All the Palm Trees Gone?

by Stephanie Fravel

On August 1, 2008, two overweight suitcases fall onto the baggage carousel at O’Hare International Airport as if cementing the phrase, “Welcome to Chicago. Have fun schlepping your shit.” I lift them onto the newly polished floor with a pretend ease in order to avoid any unsolicited help from the surrounding baseball-capped and smiling Midwestern men. This will be easy, I tell myself. A smile finds its way to my lips as I continue under the façade of “I’ve done this before,” and proceed to move my suitcases, one after the other, to the looming glass doors. It is as if my bags are playing leapfrog. I continue in this fashion, feigning signs of confidence and never looking anyone in the eye until I spot my rescuer’s car arrive at the far curb.

“Excuse me, miss? Would you like some help?”

“Oh, no thanks,” I giggle to the stranger sporting a premature Bears jersey. “My friend just got here. Way…over…there. But thanks.”

He eyes my luggage and glances at the University of Miami logo scrawling my chest. “Miami, eh? Well, welcome. You picked a great time to be here. Get ready for the cold!”

With that, my heaviest suitcase is swept into the arms of my rescuer and friend Drew from Miami, and Mr. Bears jersey disappears into the wave of more new arrivals. Drew had recently moved to Chicago as well, only his was a return trip. His short two years in grad school at Miami did nothing more than assure him of his unconditional love of the Windy City. Sure, there are no palm trees and families of egrets roaming the sidewalks - but there are hotdogs, pizzas, and an unending number of “festivals” offering unending amounts of beer every weekend from here to October.

The excitement and vibrancy of the skyline overwhelms my senses as soon as it comes into focus. Forget the beach, I have new city lights and the sounds of the “L” lulling me to sleep now. Drew points out the Sears Tower and the Hancock Building and tells me that I must get pictures taken “window washing” at the latter. “Excuse me? Chicago makes their tourists wash windows for admission?” I’d rather have a Cuban accost me on the street for my status as a gringa.

In a city that prides itself on native talent and local businesses; I discover the absence of Taco Bell and presence of Lazo’s Tacos refreshing. Who needs Domino’s at 2:00am when you can just call Chicago’s? Drew, aware of my enchantment with Wicker Park since renting the movie with me a few months prior to the move, drives into the hip and lively center at Damen and North Avenues. Suddenly Josh Hartnett vanishes and thoughts of meeting a new person at a cool place like Double Door enchant me instead.

Little did I know how easy it would be to meet people here. On Thursday night during my first full week as a Chicago resident, I find myself on my own. Determined not to become a sad, little artist girl holed up in her Logan Square garden apartment, I trek back into Wicker Park. I stroll along Division past places called Angels and Mariachis and Moonshine until I find a place with a patio sans tall scary guys in tight black jeans and plastered hair. Hipsters, I learn, is how these people are labeled. Hipsters? In Miami, I would have just called these guys chongos – but maybe that term lacks appropriation here.

Fifty/50 is alluring with its pink lighting and friendly staff who appear to be my age. I take a seat at the bar and smile at the bartender, saying “I have a friend meeting me here,” so he might think I’m some important, young heel-clacker. He must have doubts when I order a Hoegaarden and nurse it like a frightened sewer rat. In between intervals of checking my phone and faking interest in a Bears exhibition game, three young businessmen find their way to me. These men, I learn later, are referred to as Lincoln Park Chads. They see a girl in a white tank top and pink skirt as invitation to her naïveté and assume this Miami girl either missed or ignored the memo that one must wear black when going out in Chi-town. When conversation turns to sports (as most every bar conversation has so far), I spout out facts from the summer of 2003 when Mark Prior and Kerry Wood were rising superstars. I figure this makes me appear to be a real Chicago person with real fan knowledge. No one has to know that in reality, I know nothing about this season’s team and what tidbits I do fake are products of my Iowa upbringing.

“So let me get this straight,” says Lincoln Park Chad #1. “You came from Iowa. Had a taste of New York, then moved to Miami, and now you’re here? Why the hell would you leave the beach? Did you forget what winter was like?”

My “been there, done that” smile returns as I explain my affair with the mystique behind Chicago’s arts and entertainment industry as well as the unconditional love Drew so oft recalled. I pretend not to notice the look of disdain that washes over my Lincoln Park Chads’ faces at the mention of winter. I pretend not to notice my own inner fear of the returning dark, cold months. I ignore the fact that I may become just another artist labeled “hipster” spending my days lolling the streets of Wicker Park, wishing that the man running by with his dog were my live-in boyfriend.

Realizing I have lost my audience, I throw in some sarcasm and say, “Call me a sadist. Bring on the cold!” We clink glasses like old U of I frat buddies and I smile at the bartender again, knowing I have completed some sort of initiation into some of Chicagoans’ common denominators. Beer, sports, and a shared hate of winter.

One of my overweight suitcases is still packed with summer clothes, flip flops, and an emergency survival kit should I change my mind and hop on the Blue Line to O’Hare. But since I’ve discovered that I don’t really have to wash the windows to earn my right to the astounding view from the Hancock Observatory, and my egret family has been replaced with neighboring dogs, I figure I can deal with the lack of palm trees. Besides, what good is a palm tree if you can’t complain about it?