I remember the first time I said I was from Chicago. It felt natural, the “a” prolonged at a slightly higher pitch, the street cred neatly smacking my lips. The declaration tasted sweet yet sour, natural yet forbidden, like the last Jolly Rancher in a public candy bowl.
It was a lie.
I’m a Chicago suburbanite, born in Arlington Heights and raised in Long Grove, suburbs 30 miles northwest of the Windy City. I’m the kind of suburbanite who went to summer camp in Minocqua and had friends with second homes on the lake. The kind who appreciated Wisconsin for a summer vacation – berry picking in Door County, waterslides at the Dells – but not as a place where you actually live. Come college, it had to be UW-Madison. I fell in love with the Terrace and tried to hide the tears streaming down my cheeks when I left four years later.
But Milwaukee? Goodness, no thanks. Who cared about that glorified suburb of the best city on earth? See, I’m a FIB (if you’re not familiar with the acronym, ask your neighbor) and happily embraced the status. My first real forays into Chi-town were to Wrigley Field. At the ripe age of 12, my obsession with music began, and that meant near-constant trips into town for concerts. Sometimes that even meant a jaunt up I-94 for a show in Milwaukee, but I was never impressed with the city.
In college, Milwaukee was mostly Wrigley Field North, which we Cubs fans turned into our home stadium. It was perfect: The Cubs were doing better than the younger Brewers teams of those years, I’d show up decked out in full Cubbie regalia, and there was every opportunity to hammer home our superiority. Taunting Brewers fans in the parking lot. Drowning them out in the stadium. (Screaming till my voice box was shot and my head throbbed.) Trading insults with Milwaukee fans in nearby seats. It got tense at times, until security guards were ready to intervene, but oh what righteous fun it was.
I’d like to say life made me wiser and quieter or that, over time, the Cubs record shut me up. But what really happened is that slowly, Milwaukee snuck up on me. Sure, Miller Park doesn’t have the old-school charm of Wrigley, but the food’s much better. The parking lots make for great tailgating, so who cares if the stadium lacks curb appeal? And the cheap tickets don’t hurt. Now that I live here, I find myself proudly showing Miller Park to visitors.
Milwaukee’s music scene doesn’t compare to Chicago’s in terms of comprehensiveness, but I can see the White Rabbits for practically nothing at Turner Hall, a fabulously quirky venue. Shows rarely sell out, which makes planning unnecessary, a major perk in my book. It’s easy to avoid paying $25 for parking, I’ll never sit in traffic for 45 minutes after leaving a venue, and I don’t have to fork over nearly $10 for a beer.
The lakefront is gorgeous and amazingly expansive. Bay View is my new favorite neighborhood, with restaurants like Honeypie and LuLu, fantastic people-watching and some of the city’s most impressive creative talent. I also have a strong affection for the Third Ward, with its calm, class and clean lines, as well as the East Side’s bustling, often-rambunctious nightlife.
It turns out I knew some of this before I admitted it. I remember visits to Milwaukee when its charms struck me. The time I wandered past the art museum and stopped in awe. A memorable Wilco show at Eagles. A people-packed night on Water Street after a Brewers game. And all those marathon days of music at Summerfest.
Frankly, everyone is a hell of a lot nicer. Life here is easier. More pleasant. As a big-city dweller, you come to expect dysfunction. In New York, I could get anything at any time of day, but it cost too much to make it worth it. In DC, the metro was wonderful and clean, but rats lived in the bushes outside my apartment. I’d rattle my house keys before running up the steps. And don’t even get me started on Chicago politics.
In Milwaukee, I don’t drown in stress. I can take a deep breath. I’ve been waiting for that breath, it now seems, for years.
Come July, my driver’s license expires. I’ve lived in seven cities since age 18, but I’ve never changed my license, plates or bank address to reflect that. But next month, I’ll be at the DMV, smiling big for my Wisconsin photo. By no means am I this city’s biggest advocate, but I’m getting there. I find I’m saying “I live in Milwaukee” without any trace of snark. I’m already pronouncing the word like a local, with the “l” lacking prominence, the clunkiness of the word rolling off the tongue. It’s oddly exhilarating.
