The View from Chicago’s Favorite Suburb
When I moved to Phoenix three years ago I expected to feel disconnected from my Midwestern roots. But it turned out a lot of Chicago had made its way here.
When I moved to Phoenix three years ago I expected to feel disconnected from my Midwestern roots. But it turned out a lot of Chicago had made its way here.
What’s in a name? In my neighborhood, confusion. Countless lifelong Greater Clevelanders have asked me, “So what part of town do you live in?” and I always begin my answer, “Well, the city calls it ‘Brooklyn Centre,’ but...”
I wasn’t having any of it. My mother brought my older sister and me to Chapel Hill Mall each year to visit with Archie the Talking Snowman. But I wasn’t fooled. Snowmen don’t talk, and I didn’t trust the disembodied voice that floated from above.
At the intersection of State and Washington Streets in the Warehouse District of downtown Peoria, a city of about 116,000 that sits halfway between Chicago and St. Louis on the Illinois River, stands a nine-foot-tall bronze likeness of the city’s most infamous native son.
To visit Slavic Village, preferably wait until a bitterly cold evening in February, and in the dark and the snow, take the I-77 North exit for Pershing Avenue. Turn west, and as the road becomes a dead-end, ignore the sparseness of the streetlights and the horrifying industrial shapes rearing up from the barbed-wire fences on either side of you.
by George Mount excerpted from The Cleveland Neighborhood Guidebook There’s an effort in Cleveland to recreate what it once [...]
By Matt Altstiel If you’ve ever watched Parks & Recreation, you’re familiar with the dichotomy between run-down yet plucky [...]
There’d better be a blimp in here. Seriously: if there is not a blimp in this book, I’m going to return it to the library I stole it from. Right now, I’m like you, Dear Reader. I haven’t read this book yet. I don’t know what’s in it. We’re both here at the beginning. I know what I want. You know what you want.
Cleveland is a city of neighborhoods. Each tells a story with its own unique culture and history, the restaurant you have to eat at, and of course, a neighborhood bar. Being a Glenville resident my entire life, one would assume that I have ventured to my own neighborhood bar before 2015.
I strained my neck to look down the row of occupied orange seats to see who was getting on the bus. A big crowd -- I should slide over close to the window, scrunching my book bag on my lap...
I’ve finally returned home to Cleveland after a ten-year absence. While away, first at college and then for a drawn-out period of military service, I kept up on Cleveland happenings ...
If you, like I did, woke up on summer mornings with a mini boom box and a blank tape to listen for hours on end waiting for The Foo Fighters or Everclear or Rage Against the Machine or ...