EVANSTON, Ill. — Contrary to my feelings of inadequacy by staying in an upper-class, expensive city, I’m finding great pleasure in exploring Evanston’s cheap thrills.

Specifically, I spent two days this week exploring Evanston’s natural diversity, including a picturesque day at the beach and a moody visit to a historic lighthouse.

Clark Street Beach

After my remote work session ended Wednesday afternoon, I took a short walk from the hotel to mellow out on Clark Street Beach, a petite strip of heaven bordering Lake Michigan, where the clean turquoise water ebbs lightly against pure-white sands. Some of Northwestern University’s most stunning architectural feats, such as the Biennen School of Music, butt up against the shore, creating a contrast of prehistoric bliss and post-modern capabilities.

A flock of seagulls stood to the far end of the swimming area, occasionally pecking around for stray food or to rest on an empty lifeguard’s chair, flying around and squawking with some degree of interest.

It only occurred to me, after kicking off my old-man Asics walking shoes and putting on my even-older-man banana bucket hat, that I haven’t swam at a beach in nearly 15 years. (My study-abroad trip through Normandy was, of course, somber and not a place where one is expected to take a dip.)

Indiana isn’t particularly known for its beach destinations — well, there is more than corn here — and the most recent chance I got to relax on a coastline would have come back around 2007, during my family’s last trip to Destin, Fla., which was our perennial getaway during better times.

Typically, beach admission costs $10 (Evanston residents get in for free on the weekends), but a neat little perk about the Graduate Evanston is complimentary beach passes for visitors — which are good for any public beach for as long as you stay.

With Wednesday’s modest air temperature of 78 degrees, the water pulsed at a chilly 68 degrees. It was enough to cause a little shock as I walked out into the waves, but not enough to dissuade me from going out entirely. I spent about 20 minutes just standing at the far end of the swimming buoys, staring out into the Great Blue Oblivion on the skyline, and admiring just how special it felt to be there. Some Graduate Hotels have pools (I’m considering shelling out $40 to try the Dolly Parton-themed one next week in Nashville), but nothing beats a real beach.

I eventually trudged back to shore to chill out on a white towel I borrowed from the hotel bathroom, letting the crisp breeze dry me off as I closed my eyes and basked in the sun (in retrospect, I wish I had put a little more sunscreen on my back, but that’s life.

I brought myself a small picnic to enjoy as I rested: my beloved Pepsi Zero Sugar, another Blueberry Crisp Clif Bar, and a fresh (plastic) jar of dry roasted peanuts.

A very important note: I do not recommend brining peanuts to the beach. If your hands are dry and clean, they’re just fine — but after becoming one with the sand, it’s only possible to tell what is peanut salt and what is sand after it’s in your mouth. (Crunch.)

After getting my fill of beachtime (and picking the grains of sand out of my teeth), I hiked over to the Lakefront Lagoon, which was restored in 2014, to dry off in the sun. It’s a historic little body of water with two stunning fountains, and it plays host to several families of ducks, as well as their duckling babies. I took a lap along the edge of the algae-filled water to get a closer look before it started raining, at which point I called off my beach evening and retreated to the hotel to shower any remaining sand off my body (and out of my mouth).

Gross Pointe Lighthouse

Thursday afternoon was a cold one in Evanston. With highs hovering around 64 degrees, and a cloudy skyline threatening storms on the horizon, I took the Purple Line north to hike a ways and find the historic Gross Pointe Lighthouse.

The 110-foot lighthouse was built by the federal government in 1873 to improve ship navigation around Chicago, which at that point was one of the busiest harbors in the United States. For 67 years, the beacon helped guide ships through the Great Lakes, Gulf of Mexico, and the Atlantic Coast.

The lighthouse’s beam is still visible at night, and can be used as a private signal for ships finding their way through Lake Michigan.

Something else I thought was neat is that the land of Lighthouse Park itself was given by the federal government to Archange Ouilmette, a Pottowatomie Indian, in gratitude for her father’s assistance in helping the U.S. craft a treaty between the Pottowatomie, Chippewa, and Ottawa tribes in 1829 — today, the only person who has the power to alter this gift from Archange and her descendants is the president of the United States.

The lighthouse itself is nice — I haven’t seen one before — but it’s not open to visitors except during the weekend. And even so, the vantage point at the top of the lighthouse itself has been closed since the COVID-19 pandemic began, so there really wasn’t a lot to see besides the exterior, impressive as it might be.

However, there was a pleasant little wildflower trail garden, and the adjacent beach was free to walk on. I spent a half-hour watching aggressive waters crashing against the shore, splattering and spitting across heavy rocks and boulders, on the gloomy and gray day. I stood under a heavy treeline and took in the raw, visceral power of the Great Lakes. As compared to Wednesday’s beach lull, Thursday’s trip to the shore brought a humbling sense of nature’s strength, and a subsequent sense of poetic calm.

While I stood there in awe, I couldn’t help but dwell on our society and much of the destruction we cause — against ourselves, against each other, and of course, against nature itself. No matter what it is we do to each other, even the planet, it seems as though the natural world is permanent, and will outlast even the most braggadocio Oxymandian figures of our era. We all came from the cosmic sea, and someday, we will all return to it.

Love him or hate him, the vista brought to mind lyrics from Morrissey’s “Every Day is Like Sunday.”

Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon, come Armageddon!
Come, Armageddon! Come!

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey…

When I had reached my fill of these melancholy depths, I got back on the Purple Line and stared out the window — all the way to my hotel — in complete silence.

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-moose

PS: So not as to leave you readers with a sense of existential despair, here’s one of the duck families I was talking about earlier, to help cleanse your mental palate.