Thank you, everyone, for making March the best month on my blog so far. Thanks to all, near and far, who are reading and following. Your participation is a powerful source of strength.
All the best,
Beneath the Corn Cobs, the tables were all set up at Smith and Wollensky, for all those lucky souls intent on steak dinners tonight.
An organized slumberer occupied a bus shelter on North LaSalle. What’s next, indeed.
A driver awaited his party outside a sleek office building.
Snow had been sequestered at one end of Federal Plaza (note nearby police).
The post office, a glass oasis, filtered the action outside.
From beneath the Flamingo, their voices will rise. How many protests has this bird seen?
Even without seeing the big picture, you know where you are.
The night is penetratingly damp, and freakish flurries of snow have been falling. In between times, though, the city looks lovely.
Leave work late, and make your way through a city on which blackness is falling. Look up at the bus-stop and you will see the blues, the eerie yellows of a winter night. The colors are energizing, powerful; belittling, like the buildings they bathe.
Click image to enlarge.
Sometimes it’s hard to sort out the visual illusions that are part of the city, like this mirror wall that flashed by during a ride home on the bus.
Even though Chicago is one of the great financial centers of the world, to an ordinary person it doesn’t feel that way. In fact, the area right at the center of things, near the Board of Trade and the Federal Reserve, can be downright sleepy. Chicago is essentially a city of quiet money.
The Federal Reserve Bank of Chicago, on South LaSalle, © 2012 Celia Her City.
Click to enlarge.
I wait for the bus at the bottom of LaSalle Street, which is kind of a taken-for-granted scene. In fact, you’re surrounded by notable and historical buildings, so many of them that the specialness of it all doesn’t even register. Because, of course, we’re there everyday, waiting for the bus, still thinking about work, our feet tired. Plus, that “commuter pride” thing kicks in—that wanting to appear blasé that proves you’re an insider, a work warrior, a city sophisticate—not a tourist or a rube. More