Hearing global history

I had the good fortune to attend a concert by the Palestinian-American composer, violinist and oud player Simon Shaheen this past weekend. It’s not the first time I experienced his music. Over a decade ago, he was touring with his fusion band Qantara and I had the privilege of introducing him to the audience at a world music festival less than 10 days after the September 11 attacks. More recently, an orchestra that I worked for presented the Chicago premiere of his Oud Concerto, and I conducted a Q&A with him and the orchestra's conductor prior to the concert.

Both of those were great experiences, but neither prepared me for this weekend.  Simon and his traditional ensemble of string instruments, flute and hand drums performed at the intimate Old Town School of Folk Music before a predominantly Middle Eastern audience. And while it was traditional in the sense that it was acoustic and the selections performed included many older songs, the approach was thoroughly modern, involving new compositions written by Shaheen, a high degree of improvisation and much instrumental wizardry. 

I knew that Shaheen played the violin and was considered a virtuoso, but I had never heard him play it. When I saw Qantara, with its mix of instruments drawing from Arabic, African, Latin, jazz and pop sources, he led on his oud. And, of course, his Oud Concerto featured his solos accompanied by a Western style orchestra. 

In the years since I first heard Shaheen play, I became friends with a violinist who is well versed in classical and jazz improvisation who further incorporates his Afro-Caribbean heritage into his approach to jazz. So, when Shaheen picked up his violin and began to play on the third song, I was almost shocked to hear what sounded like my friend’s playing. The deft improvisation, the insertion of space between notes, the playing inside and outside of the rhythm, and all of it built on a foundation of pan-Arabic music.

And then I heard something else, for in fact pan-Arabic and pan-Latin music share the same source and are merely different stops on an ever continuing journey. Several years ago, I read a book called Cuba and its Music by Ned Sublette. On the first page of the first chapter, Sublette references the Phoenicians.  A people of Semitic origin, they arrived in what would become the Spanish port city of Cádiz in 1100 B.C. (and North African port cities like Casablanca and Algiers).  Over two millennia later, that port would be the European gateway to the “New World”. In between, the Muslim empire grew to encompass the Iberian peninsula, but by 1492 both Muslims and Jews were being expelled as a nascent Spanish identity took hold. The Spaniards began to colonize the Americas, bringing with them a culture heavily influenced by the Arab world. And they also brought slaves from Africa, including North African Muslims and sub-Saharan Yoruba peoples. 

This mix of Spanish and African cultures met various indigenous peoples first in the Caribbean islands, then Central and South America. Arabic musical instruments like the oud had already begun a transformation into guitars, lutes and mandolins. In Cuba, the oud became the laud.

I heard it all at once this past weekend, and it was triggered by not by Shaheen’s oud, but by his violin. He explained that this particular violin was from 18^th century Italy, and to hear Shaheen coax sound out of this very European instrument was akin to hearing my friend coax sound out of his of similar origin, but both serving a non-European purpose. Both musicians are classically trained, and both use that training to express something of themselves and, by doing so, their heritage. All of a sudden, I heard the continuum that connects the Phoenicians to the Spaniards and then on to the Americas, absorbing African sounds, mixing with indigenous traditions, becoming jazz in the U.S., reaching back so that jazz becomes a universal language used by many cultures… well, it was kind of mind blowing. 

My violinist friend James Sanders plays on March 7 at Constellation Chicago with his new ensemble Proyecto Libre (Free Project). In his various musical endeavors, Sanders is a member of an orchestra, leads a Latin jazz band, plays mainstream, composes music for a dance company and collaborates with improvisors from the avant-garde wing of the house of jazz. 

He's trying to bring all of that to Proyecto Libre.

When I attend, I'll also be listening for the Phoenicians.

Monolingual in a multilingual world

I've been an avid listener to global music for something like 25 years. One might even say I'm somewhat of a fanatic. It started when I picked up my first Ruben Blades record, or maybe Bob Marley. In all that time, I haven't had the slightest idea what most of the artists were singing about. (Thank you Mr. Marley for being born in Jamaica.) There were always a few artists that were explicitly trying to crack the Anglo market and thought it advantageous to include printed English lyrics or detailed liner notes with the package. Other than this, I was on my own. For a long time, though, that was fine. Whether it was Spanish, French, Portuguese, Arabic... I considered it all part of the music, an aural element in the mix, one more texture and color. I even told myself it was better that way, that I could dig the music more because I wasn't distracted by the lyrics.

I've come to realize that's bullshit. But it might be too late for me.

I've been fitfully trying to learn Spanish for several years. I dropped almost $500 on Rosetta Stone software, lured by their promise of fluency. It didn't go well. I was a good student for several weeks, dutifully donning my headphones for a half hour a day, running through the lessons. I think I made it to Level 3 of the first chapter. Much of it, though, was excruciating. I was good enough at picking out the right word, and my pronunciation skills weren't half bad. But when it came time to freestyle, to actually think, to figure out the right response to a question, I froze up, my brain rapidly tumbling into panic as I grasped for a lifeline.

After a while, I gave up. And, mostly, that's OK too. I live in a country and society where it's more important for non-English speakers to figure out my language than for me to understand theirs. So, despite my interest in cultural exchange, my fascination with issues around migration, my wanting to have some understanding of how the world works, I muddle through.

I've traveled to Puerto Rico several times, a few of them by myself, taking advantage of the fact that over a century of American colonialism will ease my gringo way. Hell, I can read road signs, and tourism insures that in places like San Juan, I'll find plenty of folks who will humor me. But I have a memory seared in my brain of visiting the La Guancha boardwalk in Ponce and looking for a table in a lovely open air restaurant. La Guancha isn't exactly locals only, but as I tried to figure out where to sit (the restaurant seemed to be divided into casual and more formal sections) I was a bit confused. So I asked for help. The waitress (hostess?) didn't speak English, and you already know about my Spanish. Panicked, I left and got some pinchos de pollo and a beer at a stand a bit farther down. Hey, anybody can point, signal quantity and pull out their wallet. Even me.

I began dating a woman from Guatemala three years ago, and have fallen deeply in love with her. I have every reason to believe we will be life partners. My fondest wish is that we'll retire somewhere in Latin America, living out our days in some idyllic coastal village that will somehow also have access to all the great things that urban life provides. And, given my lack of Spanish skills, I'll be somewhat lost.

When we started dating, I thought, OK, this is it, I'm going to be spending a lot of time around Spanish speakers. I'm finally going to learn some Spanish. (I should mention here that I took two years of the minimum required high school Spanish plus two semesters in college. It's not like I wasn't previously exposed to it.) Indeed, many of my girlfriend's friends are also from Latin America. Further, many of them are writers and poets in their native tongue. They are also by and large wonderful people, so when I'm around, they speak in my language. I'm grateful, of course, but I also have an awareness that they are doing me a favor, that they'd rather be speaking Spanish.

I regularly attend something called Palabra Pura, a bilingual spoken poetry and literature series that takes place above a Puerto Rican restaurant in Humboldt Park. That doesn't mean that everything is presented twice - it means that the writers use the language in which they can best express themselves. Many are Latinos, born in the US, growing up speaking English in public, Spanish at home. And then, of course, there is Spanglish, that fluid movement between two poles, using the one that has exactly the right word. Unlike music, there are only words for me to process at Palabra Pura. So, when Spanish predominates, I struggle, listening intently, catching random words, missing meaning. I've come to realize that I am missing the meaning of all that music as well.

I've begun to think that I'm suffering from the Michael Jordan syndrome. You know, Michael Jordan. Supremely athletic, perhaps the greatest basketball player of all time. At the age of 30, he decided that he wanted to play professional baseball. It was a disaster. See, Mike didn't learn how to hit a curve ball when he was young, and by 30 it was too late.

I'm way past 50. When I took those Spanish classes 30 something years ago, I was more interested in getting by than learning. I had no curiosity. I barely squeaked out of high school on schedule, and though I got a bit more serious in college, I still did the minimum, relying on superior test scores instead of hard work and studying. Now, I fear, I've lost the ability to make up for my youthful negligence. I look at my Rosetta Stone headphones, curled up on my nightstand, gathering dust, and I'm frustrated and angry with myself.

I generally celebrate that which I don't know, an essential component of learning. When it comes to language, though, I feel the presence of this thick, gauzy wall. It gives a little bit from time to time, only to close up once again, with me on this side and knowledge on the other. There's a whole world out there that I might never quite understand because of this, nuances I'll never grasp, poetry I'll never feel.

I suppose I'll keep muddling along and perhaps, with time, the gauze will begin to wear thin and show a few holes, revealing the mysteries beyond. Until then, I'll keep pointing and signaling.

Puerto Rico en Chicago

photo by Don Macica

Within hours of arriving home from a recent visit to New Orleans, a place I've described as having a Caribbean soul, I found more of the same as I entered the welcoming confines of the Segundo Ruiz Belvis Cultural Center on Chicago's northwest side. A friend of mine who, remarkably, makes his living as a musician was debuting a new free jazz/Latin group dubbed Proyecto Libre, or Free Project. I reviewed the performance for Agúzate, an Afro-Latin cultural organization, and you can read that here.  The music was wonderful, and I'm truly impressed (and often amazed) by the adventurous spirit that guides my friend's artistic endeavors.

But that's not what this post is about.

photo by Silvia Gonzales

The concert was occasioned by the grand re-opening of Segundo Ruiz Belvis, which has been dedicated to preserving Puerto Rican culture outside of the island for over 42 years. Hermosa, the neighborhood in which the center is currently located, is, especially on a cold winter night, rather grim. It's poor, and there are problems with gangs and crime. The center, once located in Wicker Park (a neighborhood that I passingly referred to in a recent post about gentrification), occupies a large space in a former movie theater that it bought. It is quite beautiful in a loft apartment sort of way, with exposed brick walls, colorful artwork, and stylish seating areas. They can afford the large building because the smaller space that they previously owned in Wicker Park sold for millions in a newly desirable neighborhood that was no longer so desiring of having poor ethnic folks live there. The current building lies somewhere that nobody would live in if they could afford to live elsewhere.

photo by Silvia Gonzales

Except that is not necessarily true. Communities may be poor, but that is not to say they are without culture or resources, and Segundo Ruiz Belvis is a manifestation of this. Culture, family, community: These are indeed desirable things, and especially so when you are separated by many thousands of miles (and perhaps even generations) from your home. In this context, art and culture are not pastimes or luxuries, but necessities for keeping the spirit alive. Real lives are no doubt saved as well, when young people feel cultural pride and turn away from gangs and crime.

photo by Don Macica

I couldn't help thinking of Central City in New Orleans, a poor community by any economic measure, but one in which I had the good fortune of participating in a second line parade just a few days earlier. A second line, as I described in my last post, is a joyously exuberant cultural expression of traditions that go back generations and, here and now, a way for the community to take to the streets and take a stand against crime, violence and, as the event flyer put it, "foolishness".

Segundo Ruiz Belvis takes a stand against foolishness as well.

May it long continue to do so.

NOLA diary: It's complicated

I've been back in cold and snowy Chicago for nearly a week, but my thoughts still return to New Orleans several times a day. I guess the spirits that haunt that city followed me onto the plane and have decided that they'll hang around for a while.

New Orleans is a city populated by storytellers. Don't ask anyone a question unless you've got plenty of time for their answer. While there, I talked to people from different rungs on the economic ladder, and naturally, their stories are different. Some had families that went back several generations. Some were relative newcomers, moving there 10, 20, or 30 years ago. There's a category called the "never lefts". They came to New Orleans for school, or to attend a convention, or for a vacation, and never went back to the grey places they used to call home. Then, finally, there's the post-Katrina boom fueled by real estate and the migration of thousands of young, largely white professionals and creatives lured by the city's many charms.

The total population, according to one of the never lefts (25 years) that I talked to, is nearly back to pre-Katrina levels. In my last post, I mentioned the restaurant boom that is currently in high gear. This growth, of course, is largely powered by these new arrivals, and most of the restaurants and cocktail shrines opening up are mid- to upscale. It's natural, of course, that chefs and mixologists are drawn to this place, with its almost holy reverence for food and drink. I went to a few myself, and let me tell you, they are wonderful.

There's a flip side to this narrative, though. A cab driver that I spoke with, who lived over on the West Bank in suburban Marrero, made it clear to me that almost all of the post-Katrina investment is happening in areas frequented by tourists. There's a logic to this, of course. Tourism was a major segment of the economy before the flood, and its influx of dollars is crucial. As evidenced by the restaurant boom, there are neighborhoods that are wealthier than ever, and business is booming. There are, however, large parts of the city that are a long way from recovery. This is where organizations like Habitat for Humanity and other volunteers work with community groups on the slow, painstaking rebuilding of neighborhoods that were home to generations of working class families. Even in Pontchartrain Park, a middle class community founded in the 1950s by African-Americans in a still officially segregated south, the rebuilding is slow. I read an interview with actor Wendell Pierce, who portrays Antoine Batiste on HBO's Treme and was born in Pontchartrain Park. He's extremely active on the local Neighborhood Association, and in the interview he pointed to the "nearly 30" new homes that have been built. In the 2000 census, the community was home to 2,600 residents, almost all of them homeowners in the suburban-like enclave that included a public golf course. Seven years after Katrina, the population is only half that. In the context of Black New Orleans, this counts as a success. 

And then there's the projects. New Orleans had four large ones that never re-opened after Katrina. On the Sunday of my visit, I joined a second line parade through Central City. As you can likely tell from its name, the area is quite close to downtown and just a few blocks north of the stately homes of the Garden District. Despite this seeming prime location, the area is plagued by poverty. Central City was the location of the Magnolia Projects, an infamous, crime filled place that was nonetheless home to hundreds of poor working class families. (Quick detour: Second line parades are organized by Social Aid and Pleasure Clubs. They are raucous, fun-filled events led by brass bands [I was especially lucky; the great Rebirth Brass Band was one of two bands in this one] that parade for several hours through the neighborhood. They are also strong cultural expressions of community, a way for neighbors to take to the streets and show solidarity, celebrating traditions that go back hundreds of years. As the event flyer stated, "Please leave your pets, problems and weapons at home. We want to continue our culture without violence or foolishness.")  The Magnolia Projects are gone, replaced by a mixed-income development called Harmony Oaks. It's hard not to see this as a positive thing, yet once again a place that once housed thousands now has room for half that.

On another day, I took the streetcar up Canal past the Iberville Projects, which lie immediately north of the French Quarter. They are in the process of being demolished, and its not clear what will be built in their place. Look, I'm from Chicago, I'm no stranger to how this works. As the Gold Coast expanded westward, the Cabrini-Green projects here became mighty inconvenient, and they were demolished. I understand that the Lathrop Homes at Diversey and Damen are facing the same fate. There is way too much money to be made in the building of mixed-income developments while making nearby upper income areas "safe", therefore paving the way for even more development. New Orleans isn't that different. In that context, Katrina was practically an economic growth engine.

That might have been what a woman I spoke with meant when she said that, in some ways, Katrina was "a blessing".  Her home was on the high ground of Gentilly Ridge, and it didn't flood, though she was forced to evacuate the city for over a month. I couldn't help feeling that she was quite happy that the projects were gone and that thousands of poor people were being replaced by wealthier ones.

Ah, Katrina. One thing that nearly everyone in New Orleans agrees on is that it wasn't the hurricane that almost destroyed the city, but the "failure of the Federal Army Corps of Engineers levees". That assertion is even made in official language, like the sign that greets visitors at the entrance of beautiful City Park. Everyone, even the aforementioned "blessing" woman, just under their Laissez les bons temps rouler exterior, carries a sense of anger and betrayal. From that anger, however, seems to come a new sense of determination and community.

Here's a paradox. The thing that nearly killed New Orleans also revealed it to the world and even, perhaps, to itself. Wendell Pierce again, from that same interview: "We also knew we could possibly lose the culture altogether, which made people keenly aware that you can’t take that culture for granted. So you find people who are New Orleanians, lived here their whole life, coming to their first second lines. I’ve seen people who’ve lived their whole lives in New Orleans decide to come and see for the first time what an Indian practice is all about. People who lived near Treme who had never gone to Treme whatsoever who would say, ‘I would go to the French Quarter and was told never to cross Rampart Street and I never have.’ So the evolution of waking up the cultural fire in people who had never paid attention to this culture is the other side of that two-sided coin."

Perhaps that is the true, hard won blessing of Katrina. I love New Orleans. I had planned to blog about the highlights of my trip, the delicious food, the potent cocktails, the fabulous music. I experienced all of that, and I had a really good time, some of it transcendentally good. (Quick and highly personal rundown for this visit: Herbsaint has the best food, Cane & Table the best cocktails, d.b.a. the best music.) But there was so much more. It's complicated.

I'm beginning to suspect that one day, the "never lefts" will claim me as one of their own.

NOLA diary: You're different here. Or at least I am.

I'm getting used to New Orleans.

What I mean by that is, pretty much from the moment I step off the plane, the city starts working on me, transforming me, altering my nature. Maybe it's that brass band that greets me at baggage claim. Maybe it's the friendly cab driver that takes me to my hotel. Maybe it's knowing that I'll be spending the next several days eating some of the most delicious food of my life. Maybe it's just the humidity. But I see things differently here. More specifically, I see people differently. I'm less, um, judgmental. I'm friendlier. I start conversations with strangers. I smile a lot.

I can see the Mississippi from my hotel window and the huge American flag at the ferry dock across the way in Algiers. It doesn't exactly look special from here, a thin horizontal gray bar across the middle of the picture on this cloudy day. And then, suddenly, a huge cargo ship cruises into the frame, then quickly exits it, reminding me that the river was a superhighway before there were superhighways. I could do this all day.

Except I can't. I have a lunch reservation at Antoine's, serving old school Louisiana Creole cuisine continually since 1840. Well, except for few months after Hurricane Katrina damaged the building and, because of the lack of electricity, caused the loss of 25,000 bottles of wine from the climate-controlled cellar. Antoine's is huge: 14 dining rooms, several hundred employees, and one very cool bar (more on that later). After Katrina, Antoine's had to track down those employees and, even though business took years to rebound, put them back to work. Did I mention that it's still owned by the same family, and that, by tradition, they are never open on Thanksgiving, Christmas, or Mardi Gras? Take that, Walmart!

Everybody in New Orleans seems to work in a restaurant or a bar. Walking through the French Quarter, you pass them by constantly, identifiable by the chef's aprons or the customary white shirt and bow tie worn by wait staff, while they take smoke breaks or make phone calls. According to a New York Times article that I read the other day, the city still has fewer people than pre-Katrina, but an incredible 70% more restaurants.

So, last night, we're at Hermes Bar. It's part of Antoine's, so you can order food. They have absolute classic New Orleans cocktails like the sazarac, Ramos gin fizz, and French 75. And on Friday and Saturday they have live jazz. Last night it was drummer Shannon Powell, a master of funky New Orleans rhythms and a bit of a staunch traditionalist.  The bar was fairly full, but not uncomfortably so. There was a table adjacent to ours where a group of 10 people or so were celebrating Christmas. In this group was a woman who was getting more and more tipsy as the evening progressed. Of course, so was I and so was everyone else, but she was one of those enthusiastic drunks. In another context, say, Chicago, I might have called her obnoxious, but here, deep in the heart of New Orleans, she was an inspiration. She was joie de vivre personified. We may have been in Hermes Bar, but she was Aphrodite.

And that's what I mean about me being transformed by New Orleans. There is no dance floor at Hermes, but that didn't stop her. Very soon afterward, it didn't stop us, either. Our new friend kept upping her game, though. At one point she appointed herself the solicitor of Shannon Powell's tip jar, working the crowd to make sure the drummer got paid.  Suddenly, our plan for one set, a bite to eat, a cocktail or two and then off to bed after a long travel day turned into a party, complete with a cheerleader.

Shannon Powell is amazing. Besides jazz, he easily dips into Meters and James Brown style funk, Cuban-tinged rhythms and works the cowbell like crazy on songs like Big Chief. He sings, too, sort of, at least enough to exhort the crowd to merriment. We were easily persuaded, to say the least.

The Saints play tomorrow. I'm pretty sure my NOLA transformation will be kicking into a higher gear. But first: Lunch, more music tonight, and a side of red beans and rice.

Do you know what it means...

Some day, when I'm feeling more confessional, I'll (maybe) share the story of how Hurricane Katrina changed my life. On the face of it, that's an enormously stupid and self-serving statement, considering that in August of 2005 I was enjoying a typical Chicago summer in a comfortable, well constructed home many miles from any natural and/or man made disaster. For now, though, I'll simply state around that time I began to find my voice as a writer, and the horrible blow that New Orleans suffered and the events that followed played a significant role in unearthing it.

New Orleans. The Big Easy. Nawlins. The Crescent City. NOLA.

I'm heading back there in a couple of weeks for my third post-Katrina visit. It is, far and away, my favorite city in North America. It is, without question, the most unique. It doesn't quite feel like the United States. A Dominican friend of mine told me, over a delicious Creole lunch in the French Quarter, that New Orleans reminded him of Santo Domingo. My own point of reference would be to San Juan, Puerto Rico, a place I go to as often as I can. New Orleans has a Caribbean soul.

Some, like jazz musician and favorite son Irvin Mayfield, say that NOLA is the northernmost tip of the Caribbean. Geographically debatable, perhaps, but culturally true. With its mix of French, Spanish and, most importantly, African influences, New Orleans was thoroughly shaped by the slave trade, just like its Caribbean cousins. Cuban rumba, Dominican merengue, Trinidadian calypso, Jamaican reggae, Puerto Rican bomba, Colombian cumbia, New Orleans jazz. They're all a cultural expression of the African diaspora when it arrived in the Americas and mingled with both European practices and indigenous customs. "Same ship, different ports," is how Mayfield describes it. People from New Orleans like to use the culinary term 'gumbo' when describing this mix of cultures. Every distinct ingredient, flavor and texture is crucial to the whole.

I was fortunate to be able to talk with Irvin Mayfield earlier this week because he was bringing the magnificent New Orleans Jazz Orchestra to the Chicago Theatre and a couple of online publications were kind enough to let me write a preview article.

You can read the whole thing here.

The concert was a sprawling, 3 hour tribute to jazz and the two cities that are crucial to its development; New Orleans, where it was born, and Chicago, where it grew up. The New Orleans Jazz Orchestra (NOJO) is no period piece. It doesn't, as a rule, do traditional stuff. Rather, it's a muscular ensemble that navigates the whole history of jazz. The inclusion of not one, but two selections from Duke Ellington underscored the fact that this music had to journey from New Orleans to Chicago before it reached Duke, inspiring one of America's greatest composers. Original compositions dotted the program, including a blistering Cuban-inspired number from Mayfield's days co-leading Los Hombres Calientes, a NOLA band that explicitly traced African music through the Caribbean and Brazil. Trad was not ignored altogether. In fact, it was prominently featured with the help of guests the Preservation Hall Jazz Band, keeping the tradition alive since the early 60s. The R&B side was ably represented as well by the one and only Allen Toussaint, who's been working even longer.

photo by Lynn Orman

There were plenty of props to Chicago, too, with guest appearances by vocalist Kurt Elling, trumpeter Orbert Davis (who leads the ambitious Chicago Jazz Philharmonic) and a host of journeymen who labor farther from the spotlight: bassist Larry Gray, drummer Robert Shy and the amazing 82-years-young pianist Willie Pickens. "I think it's all a scam so we'll treat him with reverence," joked Mayfield from the stage. "I think he's really 42."

Of course, the whole thing ended in a New Orleans second line parade, the band and its guests streaming up and down the Chicago Theatre aisles while hundreds danced joyfully, waving their handkerchiefs in the air.

My flight leaves in two weeks. NOJO holds court in Mayfield's own Jazz Playhouse in the Quarter every Wednesday evening. That's one stop I have to make. Stay tuned.

Is limited gentrification possible? And maybe even a good thing?

Several things have me thinking about gentrification lately. I don't know about you, but when I hear that word I immediately go to the negative connotations, the profit driven force that fills historic neighborhoods with haves and displaces the have-nots, obliterating their character in the process. That's odd, because I am, in some ways, a gentrifier. That is to say, I'm a white dude that likes to live in diverse and funky neighborhoods where, more often than not, the median income is below average.

I've written of my love for my neighborhood, Rogers Park, but in the same piece that extols its historic character and scrappy nature, I express my gratitude for relatively recent additions like farmers markets, lively nightspots and hip cafes. If fact, as I write this, I'm sitting in a new cafe on Howard Street near Ashland, which anyone not living in Rogers Park (and, I suspect, some who do) will tell you is a sketchy block that is best avoided. The area across the street is home to some of Rogers Park's poorest citizens. Nonetheless, Sol Cafe does its best to engage the immediate community, hosting discussion groups, local artist exhibits and other ways to combat this fear. It has a airy, welcoming feeling enhanced by a huge floor to ceiling window that lets in plenty of light. Howard Street itself recently upgraded its streetscape, and a vacant lot on the other side of Ashland will soon be a sizable community garden. There are less empty storefronts, and the Caribbean-American Bakery up the block, rebuilt after a fire, is still going strong.

And yet, Rogers Park remains an extremely affordable place to live. Neighborhood grocery stores sell their produce for less than you'd pay at a supermarket, and you can still get a stunningly delicious taco al pastor at any number of taquerias for two bucks. Rogers Park may be on the lake shore and blessed with lovely beaches and parks, but it's still pretty far from downtown. Heck, the nearest Divvy bikeshare station is still three miles south of here.

By contrast, Wicker Park is in another part of Chicago, one much closer to downtown, that went from a historically Polish neighborhood to one that was on the skids, but then became an edgy artist enclave in the 80s. Within 15 years, the transformation to the upscale was total, and the signs and t-shirts that pleaded "Keep Wicker Park Weird" were all gone.

Anyway, I'm thinking of this because I recently spent most of an entire weekend in Pilsen during their annual Open Studios art walk. The neighborhood is historically Czech, but transitioned to primarily Mexican in the 70s and 80s. It, too, became an artist enclave, but this time the artists were grounded in Latino traditions, their work a cultural expression of Latinidad. Even a casual walk around the neighborhood makes this apparent. Murals that range from historic Chicano depictions to graffiti-inspired abstractions are everywhere, and more often than not galleries are gloriously chaotic spaces, often doubling as studios and workshops, the very opposite of sleek showrooms.

Pilsen lies even closer to downtown than Wicker Park, and it also lies just south of the University of Illinois campus and Medical District. You can bet that real estate developers have been coveting it for years. And, indeed, the area is dotted with new condos and, yes, several Divvy stations.

Without question, Pilsen is changing. Funky designer boutiques are popping up, and there's a whole lot more to choose from than tacos and carnitas when dining out. Hipster entrepreneurs from north side neighborhoods are taking notice and opening restaurants and bars. But there are signs that, even with these trendy new accoutrements, an effort is under way to respect and retain the character of the neighborhood.

New businesses like Simone's Bar and Pl-zen (named after the Czech city that gave the neighborhood its name) have taken care to honor the street art muralist tradition. The charming and very busy La Catrina Cafe is named after one of the most beloved figures in Mexican folk art, and a substantial amount of its square footage is devoted to a gallery and event space for local artists. Needless to say, they serve a delicious Mexican hot chocolate alongside their lattes. Día de los Tamales takes that most humble of Mexican foods and puts a modernist twist on ingredients.

Perhaps most hopeful of all, though, was a simple grocery store that I stumbled into almost accidentally when I noticed the facade was newly painted in vibrant colors. A neighborhood grocer has occupied this corner for as long as I can remember, but something was different. Curious, I noticed that it was now called MeztiSoy. "Soy" is, of course, a vegetarian staple, but it's also Spanish for a declaration of self, meaning "I am." Soy Mexicano. Mestizo, on the other hand, describes the complex identity of someone who is of both European and Amerindian descent. Something thoughtful was clearly going on here.

So I went in. And there, all in one place, side by side, was an organic produce market that also carried a large selection of the packaged goods that you will find in any Mexican supermercado throughout the city. These are beloved items from back home, comforting in their ordinariness. To top it all off, there was a taqueria in the back, albeit one that serves vegan soy chorizo fajitas alongside caldos, tacos and other traditional favorites. Locally owned, the whole place defiantly asserted that organic farm-to-table ingredients and mindful eating are most definitely NOT for hipsters only.

Finally, you can't discount the resiliency of long time residents who rightly view all of these changes with some concern, but also considerable strength. An artist that I spoke with, when asked about the threat of gentrification, remarked, "Latinos don't rent. We buy. We're hard to get rid of."

I think Pilsen is going to be just fine.