I had an epiphany while turning onto State Street, I didn't really mind the cement buildings and asphalt mazes here. I always thought development lacked personality. Even in Green Bay, it was hard to appreciate the character of the settlement when everything at the heart of the city was concrete sprawl with no character other than leeching money from stadium-goers. There was something different about Chicago—something intriguing, something titillating. Chicago was centuries worth of history displayed in cement—the unyielding urge of humanity to move forward and evolve. These skyscrapers were once a single story. Even before taking the history into account, you drive through the suburbs (not quite negative space, but not quite positive space, either, a shade of gray), and you drive through the outer ring of the city, and each neighborhood is unique and distinct from the last. We drove through Albany Park, with its panaderías advertising pan dulce and galletas, and regional grocery stores (I supposed the Chicagoland equivalent of Piggly Wiggly was known as Jewel-Osco). We drove over Goose Island, a blend of old industrialization and novel modernization. We reached the Gold Coast, where the buildings rose the highest, and though the city's surroundings obscured Lake Michigan from sight, you could easily see her from any of the skyscapers' upper floors. It was like Virgil and I had been talking about—old and new money came together here to mark their triumphs over mankind, leaving their marks on society through the names of buildings.
Cement was alright in my book, when used to propel the community forward. Otherwise, it just stands there, forever, stagnant and meaningless and boring.