Reflections in Humboldt Park
May 24, 2010-
It took too long to take my first bike ride to Humboldt Park this spring.
Humboldt Park is a rambling 3 1/2 square mile area on the near northwest side of Chicago regarded as the cultural capital of the Puerto Rican midwest. On Sunday the park was filled with people despite the bandwagon jumpers who watching the Chicago Blackhawks hockey game. [Quick—who is Lou Angotti?] The sound of salsa music filled the air and fathers played soccer with their sons. I could smell the richly grilled steak and onions of the jibarito sandwich.
I live on the border of Humboldt Park and Ukranian Village, my favorite bridge in Chicago. I don’t hang around the park at night. A couple of winters ago I met a young music fan in a Baltimore, Md. rock club who got rolled in Humboldt Park after walking home from a gig at the Empty Bottle. He lived to talk about it. He even smiled about his innocence.
I often ride my blue 1970s-era ocean blue Schwinn cruiser to the park alone on a Sunday afternoon. I prop the bike on its steady kickstand and sit on a sidewalk by a peaceful lagoon. Sometimes I skip a stone across the water, like I did when I was a kid. During the day Humboldt Park is more tranquil than parks closer to Lake Michigan. People move at a slower pace and there is more romance in the air. Hand in hand, eye to eye. The heart is naked.
It becomes easy for me to take an assessment of things and realize who I can be. I don’t see any big fences. I feel young again.
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