South Side representin'

I have never before considered myself to be a squeamish individual. Spiders never bothered me; in fact, whenever I used to find them in the house, I would scoop them up on a makeshift scooper and place them gently outside. The other insects that managed to get into our house in Michigan--I was capable of handling.

That was before the cockroaches. We have cockroaches. How many? "Just remember, if you have one, you have a lot more," everyone cheerfully explains. So far, we've become acquainted with three--Mitch, Pete, and Larry. We've decided to name them all potential-barfly names, and we've apparently also decided they're all men. Mitch was a casualty in a battle with a broom (fought victoriously by Ty), Pete was poisoned ruthlessly with dish soap by a conveniently-visiting neighbor (at my directive), and Larry managed to get away, where he's likely conversing with their leader and organizing the next initiative.

I see this as a war. These creatures have infiltrated our building along with Chicago's South Side, and meeting one in your kitchen is about as horrifying as seeing an actual intruder. I met Pete when I was going to wash the dishes, and as I picked up the dish towel on the counter, I saw out of the corner of my eye a giant black thing running, literally running in the other direction. It was so fast.

The wildlife in the South Side is surprising. A few days after we first moved in, we watched from our third floor balcony as two raccoons scaled the tangle of wooden posts and stairs that creates several neighbors' back porches, from the third floor all the way to the ground. We saw raccoons literally scaling poles. Raccoons! In Chicago!

Apart from the sudden animal rivalries, other problems spring up as well. After moving in, we stored our bikes in the front area on the first floor, clearly visible from outside. A few days went by without a problem, until one day a couple of girls - our neighbors - knocked on our door and asked if the bikes were ours. After replying that they were, they told us that several people were gathered outside, trying to figure out a way to get in and take them.

When Audrey and I went downstairs, we came upon the Argentinian lady that lives on the first floor and speaks Spanish exclusively. She was watching the door like a hawk while a small, adorably bonneted little girl entertained herself. Outside, two or three sketchy-looking teenage boys floated around the street, looking toward the apartment and talking on phones. I stood in front of the glass door and glared at them.

When the lady saw us, she erupted into a frenzy of Spanish, explaining, explaining, explaining, as I stood by clueless and Audrey struggled to understand. After a while, Audrey told me we had to take our bikes upstairs. The third bike, which wasn't ours, we put on this woman's back porch. We wrote a note to whoever the owner was, placing it on the wall in the hallway. Coming back up the stairs, Audrey explained that the woman has lived here for many years, and has seen a lot of bicycles stolen this way. "They wait, she just kept saying," A. said, repeating it in Spanish.

Make no mistake, this city is wild.