There’s no alley equivalent of the Magnificent Mile. The 1,900 miles of backstreets that crisscross Chicago’s Grid—more than in any other municipality in the U.S.—are only beautiful for their utility. The city has tried to redefine these corridors of concrete and asphalt in recent years by giving a few of them environmentally friendly makeovers or temporarily transforming them into outdoor venues for art and music festivals. But for the most part they’re still a rough and rugged part of our infrastructure—unassuming, unmanicured, and ready to perform a host of important functions while hiding in plain sight.
Alleys double as your neighborhood’s junk drawer—a disheveled bazaar where you can both leave unwanted stuff for others and snag underappreciated goods for yourself. They’re conduits of informal social interaction, where kids play in refreshingly unscripted ways, where neighbors converse.
