Citizen of the World
If a man be gracious and courteous to strangers, it shows he is a citizen of the world. -Francis Bacon

I have become a creature of routine, directed mainly by my teenager's morning rituals and bus schedule. Almost every day I take the 28 minute ride on the green line from Ridgeland to the Adams Street station.  Once I hit the pavement below, I am caught up in the energy of the street. I peer into the school where they train young barbers, wave hello to the shopkeepers at Central Camera (one of the oldest retail establishments in the city), and read the colorful displays on the health food store's window---the ad for a nutritional supplement to ease joint pain has been capturing my attention these days).

Before I even reach the corner I can hear the bellow of the vendor on the the corner of Jackson and Wabash.  His voice is a deep baritone and cuts through the din of the el train and rises above street traffic.  He is hawking "Sun Times!" "Get Your SUN TIMES."  As I 'round the corner, he comes into view.  We say good morning as I pass, and he wishes me a blessed day.  And in my next few steps, my mind races with wonder and curiosity.  How old is this man?  Why did he recently move from the SW corner, where he's been stationed for the last several years, to the NW corner, where I greet him every morning?  Does he have a family?  Grandkids?  And what about the newspaper biz?  Surely he can't be selling too many of these soon-to-be-extinct daily dispatches?  He is certain to go the way of the printing press operators and bank tellers.  And then, I reach the revolving door, and it whisks me into my 9-5 tower, where I queue up with the crowds at the elevator and I move on. 

Late last week I stepped off the tracks and descended the stairs, weaving through the barbers on their smoke break.  I turned the corner to find it vacant and empty.  My citizen of the world was nowhere to be found.