There is a phrase I have heard more times since moving to Chicago than I expected.
“Welcome to Chicago.”
It is rarely said when something impressive happens. Nobody has looked at the skyline glowing over Lake Michigan, placed a hand over their heart, and whispered, Welcome to Chicago.
No. “Welcome to Chicago” is what people say after the city casually does something that would require an explanation anywhere else.
I’m starting to suspect Chicagoans have been waiting years for new people to arrive just so they can watch us newcomers discover things. And I am providing excellent entertainment.
I recently started a new job in the suburbs, which means I am currently attempting to learn Chicago-area driving while my GPS actively conspires against me. My first day on the job started with a severe weather alert on my phone. I didn’t think much of it. I’d lived in Pittsburgh for fifteen years. I can drive in a little rain.
What I did not expect was flying debris, torrential rain, flooded freeways, zero visibility, and an hour-and-a-half drive to a place I had absolutely no idea how to find. Somewhere along the way, my GPS abandoned anything resembling a recognizable highway and sent me down a road that appeared to lead directly into the wilderness.
Naturally, I texted someone: Where even am I?
Eventually, through the rain, I saw a sign for the town I was trying to reach. I had never been so happy to see a suburban municipal sign in my life.
Made it.
Later that same day, traffic suddenly became ridiculous near my exit home. I asked two different people what was going on. There was a White Sox game. On a Tuesday. Apparently baseball teams play games during the week. Frequently. Sometimes on consecutive days. I have now been advised that I should learn the White Sox schedule because it will affect traffic.
So I’ve lived here barely any time at all and have already been assigned homework.
Welcome to Chicago!
Then there are roundabouts. I had always assumed the basic premise of a roundabout was that everyone went around.
In Chicago, nobody goes around. They just go about their business.
At some point, I stopped observing Chicago traffic from a safe anthropological distance and realized I was in the experiment. I found myself white-knuckled and hunched over the steering wheel, trying to maneuver across four lanes before my exit while a Chicagoan casually explained that the Dan Ryan is basically “a racetrack.”
I don’t know who Dan Ryan was, but apparently on the freeway named after him, right-of-way is determined primarily by confidence.
One night I was casually sitting at a red light, waiting my turn—you know, like the law says—when a car came flying past me on the right, where there wasn’t really even a lane, and went straight through the red light without slowing down.
I waited for sirens.
Nothing.
Welcome to Chicago!
Which brings me to the question I have now asked several Chicago drivers: How does anyone get away with driving like this? The answer has been remarkably consistent. “You’re probably not getting pulled over.” This explained something I’d been wondering since approximately my second day here: Why is everyone driving like the police have been discontinued?
But here’s the problem.
I love it.
Even sitting in traffic doesn’t bother me as much as it probably should. While I wait my turn to get past a White Sox-induced traffic jam, I can watch the train race past on my left, catch the skyline in my rearview mirror, and usually witness someone doing something with a vehicle that appears to violate at least three commonly accepted principles of transportation. I’m sure one day I’ll be just as disgruntled by traffic as everyone around me. But for now, I’m still soaking it all in.
Traffic has tried to kill me. Parking has rejected me from my own street. Bus drivers grunt at my attempts at human connection. Baseball games alter the transportation grid without consulting me.
But also, sometimes the local bar gives you ears of corn.
Me: Why is the bar handing out corn?
Chicago: Why are you asking so many questions?
Welcome to Chicago!
Chicago’s economic philosophy remains somewhat difficult to follow.
Chicago: Here, have some corn from the bar.
Also Chicago: THE GARBAGE BAGS ARE BEHIND LOCK AND KEY.
I stopped at a drugstore the today and discovered everything from makeup to toothpaste secured behind glass. I’m beginning to suspect this city has no unified philosophy beyond good luck.
Welcome to Chicago!
And where else can you be riding the bus, minding your own business, and suddenly receive a full dissertation on Yankee Doodle Dandy from a man who is delivering it entirely to himself? No one else on the bus seemed particularly concerned. I am learning.
Then there’s Chinatown.
It was magical. For a few blocks, I felt as though I had been temporarily transported somewhere else entirely—the buildings, the storefronts, the people, the atmosphere. Naturally, within approximately three minutes, I had questions.
Did Chinese immigrants establish a community there and then the architecture developed around them? Or were some of these buildings already designed with Chinese architectural influences and the community grew around them?
I asked my friend.
He stared at me. “I’ve never thought about that.”
But don’t you want to know??
I guess normal people can simply walk through a neighborhood, appreciate that it is pretty, eat dinner, and go home. I have never possessed this ability. Now I need the entire immigration history of Chicago’s Chinatown. Welcome to Haywire 101.
Then our fortune cookies arrived. Mine said:
A simple move may open a whole new game.
The universe, seemingly exhausted from subtlety, had decided to start communicating through baked goods. That fortune is now safely tucked inside my purse because obviously I am keeping it forever.
And because Chicago hadn’t provided enough entertainment for one evening, we walked outside and found two enormous parrots casually sitting on walkers in the middle of Chinatown. Of course we did. At that point, I didn’t even ask questions. I’ve adapted.
Welcome to Chicago!
Maybe eventually I’ll hear “Welcome to Chicago” the way the locals seem to mean it. Maybe the traffic will just be traffic. Maybe I’ll know there’s a White Sox game without consulting two people and the internet.
Maybe someday a newcomer will tell me about something completely ridiculous that happened to her, and I’ll barely look up before saying, “Welcome to Chicago.”
But I hope not.
Or at least, I hope it takes a while.
Because right now Chicago still catches me off guard. A neighborhood that sends me down a historical rabbit hole. Parrots on walkers. A fortune cookie that somehow knew exactly when to find me. A freeway that appears to be governed by confidence.
I spent a long time imagining what it would feel like to finally get here. I expected the skyline. The neighborhoods. The museums. The restaurants. All the things people mean when they talk about Chicago.
I didn’t know belonging might look more like getting lost on the way to work, learning baseball schedules against my will, asking unnecessary architectural questions, and slowly becoming less alarmed when someone runs a red light.
I still have absolutely no idea what I’m doing. I’m learning the roads. I’m learning the neighborhoods. I’m learning which professional sporting events are going to destroy my commute.
I’m taking pictures of things everyone else stopped noticing years ago.
And every time something ridiculous happens and someone looks at me with that knowing little smile and says, “Welcome to Chicago,” I don’t really hear the warning anymore.
I hear:
You live here now.
And I can’t imagine being disappointed by that.