Finding beauty in an unexpected place in Albany Park, Chicago

The bells of Our Lady of Mercy ring out at approximately 12:02 pm everyday. A lonely bagpiper appears, in full-garb, playing to everyone and no one. People, along with their pet cats and dogs, observe from sunlit balconies; curious. The musician stalks the shadows of the brick building next to the church, and disappears with notes from the instrument echoing long after it’s gone. My neighbor glances at me and shrugs, back to cooking meat on his mini grill, while I return to tending to my small lemon tree.

A squat woman sells paletas, pushing her cart with its bells dinging in the immediate aftermath of an intense August Derecho that rearranged all the tables, grills, and chairs on the balcony. The streetlights still glowing in the unexpectedly dark afternoon, she emerges from Sunnyside Avenue. She slowly crosses the parking lot, and as if summoned by her dinging bells, nearby children form a steady stream out of their houses to play among the fallen trees and stomp around in puddles. The sky still menacing, but they seem to not care at all. Dark and grey slowly changes to pink and purple, puddles reflecting the cotton candy color sky on the soles of their shoes. The streetlights turn off and more people reclaim the blacktop. 

When the wind blows west and the screen door is open, the neighborhood fills the apartment: the smell of fresh new blacktop melting in the summer sun; the smell of fresh tortillas and sweet breads; smoke from grilled meats, weed, and cigarettes. A skateboarder catches themself before they tumble on the pavement, the near mistake being filmed by their friend. The Brown Line runs at-grade in this part of the city, and I can faintly hear the ringing of the railroad crossing gates.

Somedays there’s a procession of cars that empty into the lot with funeral tags on their dashboards, other days there’s a sea of ornate white dresses, suits, and flower bouquets. On a hot summer midday two people transform the blacktop into their own baseball diamond, their conversations inaudible, silence punctuated by the sound of leather mitts popping after each throw. Somedays folks will sit on the guard rails around the lot and drink from brown paper bags. Kids from neighboring buildings ride bicycles in circles dodging puddles and potholes. Kids giggle and shout over the deafening chorus of cicadas. 

A loud “boom” and blinding light flashes through the screen door and into the living room. It’s not people setting off fireworks in the lot though, a nearby house is on fire from a transformer explosion in the alley. A stream of orange and red flames illuminate the street, and smoke billows into the night sky. A crowd gathers in the lot to watch and wait for firetrucks to arrive.

It’s 73 degrees at just after 5 pm in November. The sun has long-since set, but an LED speaker changes color as dance music echoes off the buildings surrounding the parking lot; a warm autumn evening impromptu dance party. And later in the darkness of winter, nightly around midnight, a man in red shorts smokes a cigarette. He just appears out of thin air like a specter and silently retires into the shadows of brick buildings.

A dog flops around in a thick blanket of snow during a blizzard. Snow plows and salt trucks congregate.  Mountains of dirty snow and ice form a boundary around the lot in late February, while the sun does its best to melt it all away before it freezes again.

A hodgepodge of lights adorning various balconies always keep watch. There is at once routine and seemingly informal spontaneity here. People claim this space built for cars; it’s a true testament to community, diversity, inclusion, and the spirit of Albany Park residents and those just passing through. There are no parks or plazas among these blocks, so this parking lot will do.