Of all the things that I miss about my time in SD perhaps the one that is dearest to me is the memory of the long walks I used to take from my house to the Hillcrest medical center bus stop. Every morning at around 8:30 I used to pick up my weathered Jansport bag, which has stood me in good stead for 9 years now, and head West on Quince avenue towards the white wooden truss bridge across the mini canyon teeming with bird songs, bamboo trees, and all sorts of desert flora. I remember the SD weather often being crisp and the Sun often shining beautifully through the foliage on the side of the canyon where it percolated down on its green floor in puddles of gold. It was often very quiet with hardly any traffic on the roads and nary a soul to be seen around. I remember clearly the creak of the bridge as I walked across, the rough touch of its wood as I passed my hands over it, the houses which lay sleepily on the sides of the canyon, shades drawn and the low Sun reflecting off of their windows. I remember the little quiet bridge suspended over a world which was beginning to wake up but had not quite as yet. I would walk across it and up to first avenue where I'd turn right to head North. Along the route are beautiful houses with white picket fences, flowering trees with their branches drooping on to the sidewalk, a weird house with its grounds adorned with large metallic animals, a meditation center, and, of course, the royal mart cafe where I'd stop for a coffee over whichever book I might have be reading then. The whole walk from my house to the bus stop, including the coffee stop, used to take me a little more than an hour and I'd look forward to walking back for another hour in the evening. My house was close to the fashionable neighborhood of Hillcrest which I very much looked forward to moving to in 2011 (from La Jolla). However, I came to the slow realization over the course of the next year that I merely tolerated all the bustle and activity of the place. What I really liked about my neighborhood was the part which was not very Hillcrest: long solitary walks along uncrowded back streets. It has taken me many years to become comfortable with the fact that I dislike the bar culture, the constant din and activity, and the excessive socializing which others seem to crave. I'd rather have my little corner of the world, peaceful and simple.

Not knowing Chicago when I was moving from SD, I ended up renting a place in an area (east Lakeview) which is like Hillcrest but on steroids. It's a very beautiful,  well manicured, slick neighborhood with tons of restaurants, coffee shops, gyms, and bars. It is a place which many people would immediately fall in love with. However, I mostly have memories of wondering how to escape what appeared to me to be pretty much a personal nightmare. I'd walk around and look into the wood paneled bars and become overwhelmed by their shiny fakeness. I'd wonder, where are the real people of this world and how come I am surrounded by these automatons who have been mercilessly cast en-masse from the same unsympathetic industrial mold? I have recently moved to the distinctly unfashionable neighborhood of Hyde park and have been loving it. On a long walk this weekend under the pretty Fall foliage of bright orange, red, and yellow leaves, I got reminded of the pleasure I used to have on those walks in SD. Hyde park is the neighborhood surrounding the University of Chicago which has a distinctly beautiful campus. Imposing Gothic architecture which looks older than it actually is due to the elaborate arabesque of ivy which adorns its walls. Edison bulbs dimly illuminating long dark, hallowed as it turns out, portals of this illustrious institution. Old style, ornate brick houses with lush gardens. The place has a distinctly sleepy feel to it and is more or less devoid, as of now at least, of the laughable, if they were not so annoying, preoccupations of the yuppies. Yes the neighborhood appears boring by modern urban measures but I'd not have it any other way.