A VISIT to the old stomping grounds of a Village Discount Outlet, the one on Milwaukee Avenue, the one with the bright red signage out front, next door to a little kiosk that used to sell delicious horchata in one size only: enormous.
My mother used to take me and my sisters to this thrift shop when we were young—it felt like entering headquarters—the mothership of the thrift experience. This was where we used to find the divine vintage Levi's with the orange tag; the gorgeous fifties dresses with sequins and fine stitching; the cool worn leather cowboy boots from Mexico.
We used to love this place—there was even a little ice cream shop in the corner by the entrance that also sold hot dogs—which disappeared years ago.
Our mom would buy us an ice cream cone and then let us roam around the store on our own, digging into the racks of clothing and bins of toys with wild abandon, while she usually stayed by the jewelry counter, tap-tapping with her keys to indicate which pieces she wanted to examine with her jeweler's loupe.
The whole area has changed—Logan Square just before you hit the pit of Wicker Park—but the feel is still similar on the streets.
Just next door, there's still the headquarters of In These Times, the political home of the left. They boast about having survived nearly fifty years of media industry upheavals. A long-ago boyfriend used to rent a dark room and studio in their space.
I remember attending a book launch in their airy loft offices on the second floor and marveling at all the hipster literati with their fancy vintage silk scarves tied around their necks.
I used to have fantasies of becoming an intrepid investigative reporter, uncovering malfeasance of all kinds, but as I got older and started reporting, I realized how difficult it was to get folks to talk when you're about to reveal their secrets.
We didn't find much at the thrift yesterday, but it was fun to walk through the aisles again and recall countless other times we'd sifted these same racks with old friends, some of whom I've now known for years, some of whom have disappeared from my current life. The place still smells vaguely like sewage, and in the back it still feels like the ceiling is caving in and nothing has changed in decades.
After any thrift excursion, it's always fun to grab a bite to eat nearby—usually if we're in this area it's Taqueria Moran for me—one of my favorite places for tacos and horchata. This time my older sister suggested Irazu, a Costa Rican place we used to frequent quite a lot in the early 2000s when we were babysitting for our cousins who lived on Leavitt.
I hadn't eaten here in years but the food was just as delicious as I remembered! We ordered the tilapia and skirt steak platters, some fresh guacamole, and yes, I got the horchata here and it was next-level delicious. Nina said it tasted like earth milk, meaning, if the earth produced milk, it would taste like horchata bursting with cinnamon. Love that.
We could barely hear each other over the loud music blaring from the speakers layered with the roar of the CTA trains as they rattled back and forth along the tracks between California and the Logan Square stops. But it was fun to eat at a place so familiar to the version of me who walked these streets in her twenties, who had spent so much time with her cousins in the park around the corner, with the other nannies.
It's a strange feeling when time collapses into a single moment, and you're all the people you ever were up to that point, in that place. I was living then with far less clarity and money, but I had more freedom and dreams.
The city contracts and inhales. The neighborhoods win and fail. I feel at home and like a stranger all at once on these visits to other timelines.
Walking into the thrift store, a man with vacant eyes held his arms out in front of him like a fucking zombie, and when I tried to step out of his way, he just kept walking toward me until I had to shout at him to snap out of it and step away. My heart pounded heavy with fear for a beat or two. What the fuck was even happening?
The truth is, this neighborhood has always carried a certain unpredictability. Even in the years when we came here as kids, there was an edge to the streets—one that existed alongside the excitement, the possibility, the feeling that beauty could be found anywhere you looked.
But it feels different now.
There’s no peace on the streets—not just because of lost souls walking like vacant zombies, but because of everything else, too: so many spaces neglected and abandoned since the COVID days. Empty parking lots, boarded-up groceries, vacant storefronts. There’s always been a feeling of impending transformation in this area, but somehow that feeling has downshifted into stagnation and resignation—for now, at least.
I hardly ever come to this thrift store anymore—parking's a bitch and there are plenty of thrift shops closer to me—but walking around here gave me a jolt of nostalgia and a sense of wonder for how we all survive and thrive during periods of so much change and uncertainty.
My mother used to take me and my sisters to this thrift shop when we were young—it felt like entering headquarters—the mothership of the thrift experience. This was where we used to find the divine vintage Levi's with the orange tag; the gorgeous fifties dresses with sequins and fine stitching; the cool worn leather cowboy boots from Mexico.
We used to love this place—there was even a little ice cream shop in the corner by the entrance that also sold hot dogs—which disappeared years ago.
Our mom would buy us an ice cream cone and then let us roam around the store on our own, digging into the racks of clothing and bins of toys with wild abandon, while she usually stayed by the jewelry counter, tap-tapping with her keys to indicate which pieces she wanted to examine with her jeweler's loupe.
The whole area has changed—Logan Square just before you hit the pit of Wicker Park—but the feel is still similar on the streets.
Just next door, there's still the headquarters of In These Times, the political home of the left. They boast about having survived nearly fifty years of media industry upheavals. A long-ago boyfriend used to rent a dark room and studio in their space.
I remember attending a book launch in their airy loft offices on the second floor and marveling at all the hipster literati with their fancy vintage silk scarves tied around their necks.
I used to have fantasies of becoming an intrepid investigative reporter, uncovering malfeasance of all kinds, but as I got older and started reporting, I realized how difficult it was to get folks to talk when you're about to reveal their secrets.
We didn't find much at the thrift yesterday, but it was fun to walk through the aisles again and recall countless other times we'd sifted these same racks with old friends, some of whom I've now known for years, some of whom have disappeared from my current life. The place still smells vaguely like sewage, and in the back it still feels like the ceiling is caving in and nothing has changed in decades.
After any thrift excursion, it's always fun to grab a bite to eat nearby—usually if we're in this area it's Taqueria Moran for me—one of my favorite places for tacos and horchata. This time my older sister suggested Irazu, a Costa Rican place we used to frequent quite a lot in the early 2000s when we were babysitting for our cousins who lived on Leavitt.
I hadn't eaten here in years but the food was just as delicious as I remembered! We ordered the tilapia and skirt steak platters, some fresh guacamole, and yes, I got the horchata here and it was next-level delicious. Nina said it tasted like earth milk, meaning, if the earth produced milk, it would taste like horchata bursting with cinnamon. Love that.
We could barely hear each other over the loud music blaring from the speakers layered with the roar of the CTA trains as they rattled back and forth along the tracks between California and the Logan Square stops. But it was fun to eat at a place so familiar to the version of me who walked these streets in her twenties, who had spent so much time with her cousins in the park around the corner, with the other nannies.
It's a strange feeling when time collapses into a single moment, and you're all the people you ever were up to that point, in that place. I was living then with far less clarity and money, but I had more freedom and dreams.
The city contracts and inhales. The neighborhoods win and fail. I feel at home and like a stranger all at once on these visits to other timelines.
Walking into the thrift store, a man with vacant eyes held his arms out in front of him like a fucking zombie, and when I tried to step out of his way, he just kept walking toward me until I had to shout at him to snap out of it and step away. My heart pounded heavy with fear for a beat or two. What the fuck was even happening?
The truth is, this neighborhood has always carried a certain unpredictability. Even in the years when we came here as kids, there was an edge to the streets—one that existed alongside the excitement, the possibility, the feeling that beauty could be found anywhere you looked.
But it feels different now.
There’s no peace on the streets—not just because of lost souls walking like vacant zombies, but because of everything else, too: so many spaces neglected and abandoned since the COVID days. Empty parking lots, boarded-up groceries, vacant storefronts. There’s always been a feeling of impending transformation in this area, but somehow that feeling has downshifted into stagnation and resignation—for now, at least.
I hardly ever come to this thrift store anymore—parking's a bitch and there are plenty of thrift shops closer to me—but walking around here gave me a jolt of nostalgia and a sense of wonder for how we all survive and thrive during periods of so much change and uncertainty.
