The Ethics of People Watching

One of the reasons I love the city of Chicago is the variety of people I see everyday. And I admit: I'm an avid people-watcher. I'm not talking about checking out hot guys. I'm talking about noticing people move through their days - usually oblivious to the fact that I'm noticing them.

I never gave much thought to the "ethics" of this, for one, because I never stare. And two, what else am I supposed to do as I walk down the street? Stare at the sidewalk? Look at my reflection in the windows? Constantly window shop? Plus, come on, it's interesting watching people -- especially when they think they're not being looked at.

But what do we do when we people-watch? (C'mon, I know the few of you reading this like to people watch. Don't we all, on some level? So, do comment on this posting, let me know what fascinates you about people watching... )

For me, I look not only for the unexpected but the apparently mundane; I like learning the different ways people navigate their world. Here's just a sampling of things I've noticed lately:
* A big black woman outside a Bank of America, hawking StreetWise through hog calls
* A woman in a suit prancing down the sidewalk instead of walking
* A woman ambles down the sidewalk, mindless of the morning commuters. Suddenly, she turns and bows to a guy who rushes by her. In her hands, she holds a picture of Jesus.

I also notice things:
* A smoldering cigarette butt precariously sitting on the edge of a sidewalk grate
* Every morning on the corner of Daley plaza, a man holds a sign that reads: "Senator OBAMA, SAVE my only SON, PLEASE" (I have yet to figure out if this is about Iraq or something else)
* A red diamond sign near the corner of Madison & Wacker that reads, "You are beautiful" (Oh, how I love seeing that sign on my way to work.)

One of my most favorite times to watch people is actually on my way to work, whether I'm walking or riding the bus. This moment of the morning seems particularly unappealing and uneventful, considering the way people scurry, attempting to make it through a crosswalk before the flashing orange hand stops, and also considering the way people are focused on the walk ahead, barely looking around them to admire where they are (which says so much about them - especially considering the tourists I see daily outside my apartment, who are all about stopping and looking around, even if it means cutting you off and being totally unaware of all the people around them). Plus, it's 7:30, 8:00 in the morning; people seem intent to get where they're going - whether Starbucks or work - and don't seem to do much other than this. Which is exactly why when I do see someone doing something out of the ordinary, it's all the more interesting.

Not too long ago, I was on the CTA bus, riding to my temp job, hurtling down Madison before the bus screeched to a stop every couple blocks, and I couldn't help but almost be dismayed at the similarities I saw everywhere. People had the same set expressions on their faces, amplified by tired eyes. They streamed down the sidewalks. Everywhere I looked, the same.

And then, we stopped near the corner of LaSalle, and a couple stood nearby, and I couldn't help but imagine that they were simply saying their goodbyes before heading off to work -- just something simple, normal, something everyday. But then I noticed the body language, how one of his arms pulled her close to him, how his other hand cupped her face. And then she tried to turn away, her eyes scrunched up, her face red.

I suddenly felt as if I was intruding on something I shouldn't have seen, an intensely personal moment that I couldn't understand from just a simple glance. It could be about anything - she could be upset about someone who recently died, or they could have just broken up, or she could have just learned that he'd cheated on her. No matter what the "possibilities," I felt like I was doing something wrong, even though this moment was occuring on the intersection of two very busy Chicago streets.

People kept walking by, paying no heed to the couple, and the bus pulled away from the stop. And then I was back to all the people with the similiar expressions, scurrying off to work.

I still like to watch people, don't get me wrong. But that one moment, that split second, made me realize that we can guess and wonder all we want about people's lives -- but that doesn't mean we understand them any better than we did before.

The Best Writing Advice Ever

The best writing advice I’ve ever heard sounds pretty simple: write down at least 10 things that you notice every day. And “notice” can be broadly defined—everything from something that catches your eye, like a piece of clothing, to the way a person walks across a crosswalk.

But, if you’re like me, it’s not so easy—you search for something you don’t normally see, and, at first, that can be hard. You want to be inspired by the world around you. You search for the extra-ordinary in the ordinary. And the more you search, the harder—you realize—it is to find.

Trust me, though. Start writing down the things you notice, strive to make it up to ten things a day, and if you keep it up, day after day, it’ll become easier. You’ll become more attuned to those pieces of extra-ordinary in the world.

And why is this the best piece of writing advice I’ve ever received? Because, it is often the “things” that I notice that end up being the impetus for a story; from one image springs an entire character’s history, as well as their current dilemma. For example, in my short story, Anatomy of a Heart, Lisa struggles with the recent breakup with her boyfriend, who is now in a coma after being in a car accident. As she drives away from the hospital, a heart drawn on her car windshield catches her eye, and she begins to imagine that this “heart” is his last gift to her. The story began with the image of the heart on the windshield.

Or take my novel-in-progress as an example. I learned about Charlotte Corday in a footnote in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. From those short two sentences sprung a curiosity that has driven the past year and a half of research and writing that is resulting in Through Charlotte's Eyes.

Granted, from these images, from these “noticeables” as I like to call them, I don’t always get a story, nor can I ever predict where the image will take me. But then again, that’s the nature of “noticing”—you never know where it will take you.

A Day in the Life of a Temp

Recently one of the managing directors approached my receptionist desk. “Liz, do you have a few minutes to spare this afternoon?”

Considering that my afternoons are usually spent sorting mail, answering phones, and searching for something to do, I happily said yes.

“These four keys,” he said, dropping them onto the desk, “can you find out where they go?”

Luckily, my many over-qualifications for this temp job proved useful. Instead of trying all the doors, cabinets, and any other number of locations, I realized that each key had a number etched onto one side. In less than a minute, I matched them to the keys at my desk.

Mission accomplished?

Not quite.

The managing director insisted I try each of the keys to “make sure.”

So I did, and I was right about every one of them—including the three for the men’s bathroom.

One Take on the Financial Crisis

I will never claim to totally understand the financial crisis, nor will I claim that I totally understand the bailout bill, and that’s why I read a bunch of articles. Here’s one article that I found enlightening regarding why this crisis affects us all, whether or not we have stocks, investments, etc.:

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/10/01/opinion/01friedman.html?em

This part particularly interested me: “We’re all connected. As others have pointed out, you can’t save Main Street and punish Wall Street anymore than you can be in a rowboat with someone you hate and think that the leak in the bottom of the boat at his end is not going to sink you, too. The world really is flat. We’re all connected. “Decoupling” is pure fantasy.”

I think this attitude is too often ignored—and not just in regards to the credit crisis. All actions we perform affect other people’s actions. What we all say and do does matter.

Review: Avec Restaurant

Located in the West Loop, the trendy Avec Restaurant was overflowing when I arrived near 8:00pm this past Saturday. The crowd wasn't suprising considering the restaurant doesn't take reservations and there aren't too many tables. Since there was only my boyfriend and I, we were willing to sit at the bar, and it paid off to our advantage. Despite the long line of people, we were seated after only a minute of waiting.

Perched on bar stools, we were feet away from where the cooking was taking place. We saw food slipped into wood-burning stoves, vegetables tossed on the grill. The cooks moved in a pattern, easily sidestepping one another as they put the finishing touches on plate after plate. From this vantage point, we asked our bartender/waiter, "What's that? And that?" over and over again. He patiently answered our questions, and we soon found ourselves overwhelmed with choices.

Fortunately, with the way Avec is set up, we were able to order a few different meals. As our waiter pointed out, two people can usually comfortably eat either two small plates (ranging between $4 and $12 each) or one large plate (ranging from as low as $14 to as high as $44 for the daily special).

The hangar steak, a delicious medium-rare, sat on a bed of corn and lima beans (both adding the perfect amount of sweetness to the plate) and broccoli, which was an unfortunate startingly strong flavor that I found at odds with the rest of the dish. Our second plate, a whipped brandade, was a hearty and heated cod dip that was sinfully delightful; we took solace in the fact that while there was some heavy cream, the taste of cod was perfectly intermingled with the other ingredients and was paired well with toasted garlic bread.

We were getting full but our neighbors to the left had gotten more dishes that we coveted, and so we ordered one last dish: dates stuffed with chorizo and wrapped in bacon. As we waited for our food, we continued to sip our wine (available by the glass or bottle), and for the first time realized how warm it had gotten in the restaurant, one of the unfortunate side effects of having the kitchen in the same cigar-styled room as the seating area. Despite the growing and somewhat uncomfortable heat, it seemed like it was supposed to be a part of the place's atmosphere. After all, every part of the wall, floor, and ceiling was covered in slabs of wood, causing the place to appear as if it was one big sauna.

The dates arrived, carried to us in a dish resting on a wooden slab (we really sensed the theme with this delivery of food). The dates were sweet, salty, and spicy -- and we could see why, according to our waiter, it is one of the most popular dishes as well as the longest-running menu item. Alas, the waiter was right in suggesting only two small plates. We each had one date and we were more than satiated. We got the last two dates to go, and left Avec, already excited about returning and trying other dishes we saw being whisked out of the open-air kitchen.

And even though it was near 9:30 when we left, a crowd of people -- different from those we saw when we first arrived -- mingled outside, waiting for their chance at some decently priced gourmet food.

Today's Distraction: A Pigeon

Distractions—usually of people coming and going—are my problem with (and, at the same time, perhaps the wonders of) going to a Starbuck’s “patio” in the Loop to write. Granted, there are plenty of distractions in my apartment, namely the Internet, but the distractions in downtown Chicago seem to be of a different breed.

Today the distraction was in the form of a pigeon. Let’s get this straight from the get-go: I hate pigeons, the flying rats of the city. I hate seeing them everywhere, I hate how they’re so used to humans, I hate how they flock toward any grain of food on the sidewalk. But I deal with them because, well, they’re there, and, for the most part, I’m able to ignore them.

Within seconds of sitting down outside of Starbucks this afternoon, a pigeon, it’s feathers looking wet and ruffled, wandered under my table and started circling my feet. I tried to ignore it. I pulled out my notebook and the draft of my novel. I sipped at my frappuchino. I took some notes on things I wanted to work on today. But I kept looking under the table. Call me what you will for being scared of a damn pigeon, but I’ve been shit on by a bird before, and I really didn’t want that to happen again.

Luckily, the pigeon moved on, as it pecked its way around the sidewalk patio. A woman came out of Starbucks and began to situate herself at the table next to me. After the woman set down her coffee and a bagged cookie, the pigeon spread its wings and flew onto the table. The woman somehow managed to swat at the bird while still jumping back. The bird hopped onto to the back of a chair, and then just sat there, watching the woman.

The woman looked at me, her eyes wide.

I shrugged in response to her unasked question of what to do.

“I’m moving tables!” she declared to all the Starbucks patrons, as well as the people walking by who stopped and stared. She grabbed at her coffee and cookie, and moved to another, smaller, table.

The pigeon didn’t give up. He hopped onto the table next to her. He watched her (or maybe he was just watching the cookie; who am I to say?) He sat there, as the woman’s husband joined her. He was oblivious to the nervous state his wife was in as he doodled on a piece of paper and asked why she moved tables.

A few minutes passed, and the pigeon hopped down, began circling the sidewalk again. Every time it came near the woman with the cookie, she kicked at it. The pigeon didn’t get the message until the third kick.

The point to this entry (if there is one) is this: I went to Starbucks to work on my novel (which I eventually did), and I came away with a potential story about a hungry pigeon. Maybe I’ll even put it in the perspective of the pigeon. Who would of thought? Me, writing about a pigeon, maybe even being sympathetic towards the unloved bird of the city—even though it was beyond annoying today.

After all, the pigeon eventually left everyone alone—after a young girl ran up to the bird and tried to grab it. It flew to the top of one of the green Starbucks umbrellas, and didn’t move by the time I left an hour later. Apparently it wasn’t craving any human interaction—it just wanted food.

Return to the pool

Two weeks ago, I returned to the pool. I’d like to say it had nothing to do with the swimming in the Olympics, but as is hinted in my post from August 11th, watching the Olympics reminded me of my swimming days.

Granted, there were reasons I quit the swim team way back when. I didn’t enjoy the competition, but mainly I didn’t enjoy the girls I was swimming with. I got along with the entire varsity team, but as a newbie, I was on JV, with only three other freshmen girls. These three other girls had tormented me throughout middle school, so I’m proud to say I survived even one swimming season with them, considering how they pulled at my ankles when I swam laps in front of them. But high school was different than middle school. I learned to ignore them, practice with the people who were my friends when I could. And, honestly, I’m proud to say that I was the best of us four, or, at the very least, improved the most—despite the way they treated me. But there’s only so much one person can take and in that way, I understand why I quit so long ago.

But a couple weeks ago, I realized what I missed about the pool. I missed the feeling of cutting through the water, the silence when I was underwater, being able to only hear noise when I pull up to breathe. I missed doing kick turns off the wall and the feeling of accomplishment after a good long workout, every muscle being used.

So, I took to the pool again, steadily increasing how many lengths I swim every time I jump in the pool (nearly every day). This time, I practice with my boyfriend. We encourage each other to push ourselves, to swim another lap. And, sure enough, I’ve found that the reasons I used to love to swim all still hold true, and I can’t see myself ever getting out of the pool again.