My Neighborhood Smells of Bacon and Joy

I work near a sports arena. You can’t park within a particular radius within a certain time frame without risking a tow. I tend to be overconfident in my abilities at clock-watching, insistent that I won’t lose track of time or forget the deadline. This is why I don’t patronize gambling houses anymore.

Pre-pandemic, I made friends with the local Tow Truck Guy. He’d found me walking in circles where my car should have been, trying to figure out who to call (there are no signs, not even for the notorious Lincoln Towing, anywhere nearby). Luckily, he didn’t drag cars to the impound lot 6 miles away where there’s no train service. Instead, he moved them to a side street 1½ miles southwest. He kindly dropped me there (sadly more than once) as he was towing another vehicle to the same spot.

Since working from home, I didn’t have to worry about schedules. Sometimes I didn’t even remember which street I parked on.

Naturally, the first day working in person did not turn out in my favor. I stayed until 7:30pm for a meeting, and now it was dark, I was tired, and my mind was on dinner. Worse, it was long past Tow Truck Guy’s shift.

I had an hour-long walk in 85-degree weather ahead of me. Thus began the habit of setting my cell phone alarm on game days.

The Stockyards, then and now.

I ended up taking an inadvertent tour of Chicago history, passing the gates of the old stockyards, long since closed. Yet the area smelled distinctly of ham and bacon. Canaryville* around Halsted and 41st is teeming with meat-packing plants and other food and restaurant supply distributors. I could eat the air.

I later came across this map**. According to the data, this neighborhood smells primarily of food and anticipation. Can’t deny these facts, people.

My car waited for me in the center of trust, at the intersection of nature and emissions. This could almost be used as a dating app.

What does your city smell like?**

*Next door to the west is a neighborhood called Whiskey Row. According to NPR, “In 1947, the number of taverns peaked around seven thousand”, more proof that I was born too late. And thanks to Mayor Richard J. Daley, we were down to half that in 1989, and the area hasn’t been the same since. Curse you, Daley! And all your descendants!

**click on the “paper” icon in the left sidebar to change the city.

Stockyard pics from Atlas Obscura and WTTW, respectively.