A (Too?) Warm Welcome to the Windy City

After a thirteen-hour drive, which was surprisingly painless except for the lack of edible rest-stop food (we ignored a veteran I-80 driver’s advice to stop in the MIDDLE of Ohio, where they have Paneras) I arrived at 520 W. Melrose St., my new home in Chicago!  

No sooner had we popped the trunk than my roommate and I were interrupted by our new neighbors. Julie, a toothless, self-proclaimed aficionado of the Indiana casinos, inquired about our relationship statuses and told us to watch out for the “bitch” in the building next store. Fran, an eighty-two year old donning a sparkly purple headband, offered us, within the span of ten minutes, a small pull-cart to help us move in (appreciated), her opinion on Julie (that she is a terrible gossip), and a dinner invitation for that night. We were stuck. She couldn’t be sweeter, and she was just so excited to have new neighbors that we didn’t think we could resist, but all we really wanted to do was take a quick walk around the block and eat at one of the cute places we had seen on Broadway St. on our drive in. We debated our excuses for ten minutes, calling in reinforcements (both of our moms) for advice on how to decline, politely of course.  Armed with a rehearsed excuse, and after the awkward and whispered, “you do it…no you do it” outside her apartment door, we were let in to the apartment. Fran then redefined my notion of neighborly hospitality. She offered us, in rapid succession, an electric can-opener (Oh! No, thank you. I think we brought one), a ham sandwich dinner (You know, we are really OK, we ate on the road), a box of Cheerios (Umm, yes we eat Cheerios. Are you sure? Ok, Thanks!), and, last but not least, a dress, pulled off the hanger and smelling distinctly of old-lady, and a skirt, which we were assured is “the style this year.” We backed out of the apartment, squeeking thank-you’s, as Fran insisted we come back later for brownies.

(As far as other tenants, so far we have only had the pleasure of meeting a young eastern European couple who, next to Fran and Julie’s gregariousness, look downright taciturn…but they did have the wine opener we were looking for!)

 It didn’t take long for me to realize that our new home is most definitely in the heart of Chicago’s gay neighborhood. Subtle signs (an abundance of doggie spas and pet accessory stores and three gyms within a two block radius) as well as those not so subtle ones (rainbow flags lining the street announcing the annual Halstead St. Gay Pride Festival) keyed me in pretty quickly. I have a feeling this is going to be very different than my old stomping grounds in the MD suburbs!