A Sentimental Journey: What Didn't Exist Before
The genre of the Sentimental Novel was developed after Laurence Sterne’s 1768 book titled A Sentimental Journey Through France. Since Sterne’s tale was released authors, songwriters, poets, and playwrights have been crafting works in the style. It is at is core a story about a visit to a place that was once very familiar. But, under a greater lens a sentimental journey is about the change of the visitor not the place.
From September 2013 to February 2015, I lived in Chicago’s Lincoln Park neighborhood while studying English at DePaul University. I hated it. I have often refused to go back to that neighborhood much like a homeowner may paint the door shut to a room someone died in. On April 15th, 2023, I went back.
For 27 years, starting every February, I had mental countdown to my birthday. But this year, its now April 15th and I had to be reminded that I’m turning 28 in two weeks. I want to say ‘whoops’ but I think it’s actually a good thing.
Every year I think it’s the year that I’ve truly grown up, but now I realize ‘growing up’ is more incremental than definitive. I think the little life changes that make you think you’ve grown are more important than the collective ‘growing up’.
Today, I walked from Wellington to Diversey by way of Halsted and I thought I’d feel like my 19-year-old self again but I didn’t. The connection I once had to her feels distant. I just felt like me, current day, late 20’s, me.
Prior to my walk down Halsted, I visited apartments in Lakeview and Ravenswood. I swore for years and years I’d never want to live up there until I felt the sharpness of inflation that priced me out of the trendy one bedrooms I thought I could snag by 28.
When I got up north to a cheap studio to Ravenswood, the leasing agent knocked on the door only to be greeted by the woman who lived there. When he said that he booked a showing at this time and she hadn’t rejected it, she looked him square in the face and said “No.” She had never received the showing request and had the hardened confidence of someone who had gone through many small live changes herself.
She looked beyond the leasing agent to me and said “You don’t want to live here. My ceilings caving in and they never fix anything that’s why there are so many vacancies.” From behind the leasing agent I mouthed back, “Thank you” and we gave each other the feminine nod of protection; one from the dive bars, bathrooms, and dark streets.
I started to imagine what my younger self would have felt or done at that moment. I think I would’ve felt bad for the guy attempting to show the apartment, which I still kind of did, but I think I also would’ve gotten anxious with the whole interaction. Instead today I decided that I think I loved the woman in 1B.
Back on Halsted, I turned on to Diversey. I was headed to Clark. I could take a sentimental stroll by way of my old route to Trader Joe’s.
I have hated Lincoln Park beyond rationale for nearly a decade. I expected that grotesque feeling to creep in that I always felt there, but instead all I could notice was what was different. The Baskin Robbins on the corner of Halsted and Diversey, where I once gave an unhoused man a bag of lentil crisps, was replaced by a fancy grocery store.
I powerwalked past the Trader Joe’s until I saw Urban Outfitters. Feeling frankly disgustingly sweaty from the 80-degree April day, I went in. My first thought was to buy myself a birthday gift. Then I remembered my birthday gift to myself will be the movers I’m going to have to hire in a few weeks. I still looked through, hopeful.
Somehow the shirts in Urban Outfitters were even shorter than they were ten years ago. And instead of the early 90s trend from my college days, the style was now very reminiscent of the early 2000s. Everything inside looked vaguely like the clothes I once owned in 2001 except somehow smaller.
There was a unisex section now and the records were no longer artists I’d want to buy on vinyl. The books were all new versions of Rupi Kaur’s poetry book that my freshmen roommate in college had on her shelf. I picked up a shirt with Mac Miller on it thinking I may grab it, only to look at the price tag and raise my eyebrows.
I left the store and kept walking. I had two hours to kill before the next apartment showing; one I was almost certain I was going to apply for on the spot. I turned onto Clark and realized I never actually walked down here before, or if I had I didn’t remember. It felt completely different; the lighting, while technically the same, felt less hazy than Diversey. The haunting I kept expecting to feel, the haunting that had kept me from wanting to head over here for so long never came. I kept swallowing waiting for my ears to pop from change in pressure, but it was as if the past life feeling was transferred to that of something that felt more like freedom.
At nearly 28, I don’t miss my parent’s home often. I certainly am not as lonely as I was at 18. Nor, do I feel the need to get frozen yogurt – which is good because I didn’t see a single frozen yogurt despite the fact that they used to litter the streets.
Perhaps, I can’t feel that past life feeling because I now have more people in my life that know me in my late 20s something than I do that knew me as a 19-year-old. Last year, I wrote a silly little post revolving around the feelings of not accomplishing enough and Billy Joel. This year, I feel like I accomplished so much – most of which developing some great friendships.
People don’t talk about it enough, but your late 20s are really about developing relationships and watching yourself grow with them and because of them. We often think that late 20s accomplishments are strictly work, significant others, or homes but the friendships you make during these years are truly the highest achievements you can get.
I still want a promotion and a boyfriend, but giving commentary on a Bravo show with your close friends on their couch can be just as satisfying, if not more. Having people that will scoop you up at 6 am for a workout class is priceless. Knowing that your childhood friends have reached familial status is the biggest gift (especially booking a hotel room for their wedding, that made me weepy with joy).
I still get the gnawing feeling of wanting to go home but I get it in my parent’s house, in my bed at my apartment, in a different state, in my own shower, in someone’s arms, in old photographs, it never goes away, but it’s also gone.
I like where 28 seems to be going because I like the people that are there. I like that the haunted feeling seems to no longer be able to reach me but home still feels like a destination out of reach. I like that I have the confidence to mouth “thank you” to the badass that stared down a leasing agent. I like that I feel comfortable asking for an application to a studio apartment. Most of all, I’m pretty happy.
Will 28 be the year I start taking elevators? To be determined, but probably not.
