I want to be clear about something up front: I am not a misanthrope. I like people fine. I’ve lived in this city for sixty-one years and I’ve liked most of the people in it for at least forty of those years. But I am sitting on a bench on Michigan Avenue right now, on the warmest day of 2026, and there is nobody here, and I have to tell you — this is the greatest day of my life.

CPS went on spring break. O’Hare is processing four million people or whatever the number is. Half the North Side is in Florida. The other half is in Mexico. The suburbanites who normally clog up the Mag Mile on Saturdays are apparently also somewhere else. I don’t know where everybody went. I don’t care. The point is that I walked from Schaller’s Pump to the lake this morning and I did not have to dodge a single person on a rented scooter, step around a single family blocking the sidewalk to take a photograph, or listen to a single person having a speakerphone conversation about their equity vesting schedule.

The Brown Line, which I took downtown out of curiosity, had seats available. I want you to sit with that. The Brown Line. On a Saturday. Seats. I sat down and there was nobody next to me and nobody across from me and the train moved at a speed that suggested it, too, was enjoying the reduced passenger load. I rode from Kimball to the Loop in a state of tranquility that I have not experienced on public transit since approximately 1997.

I stopped at a coffee shop in the Loop. There was no line. The barista made my coffee — regular coffee, black, no oat milk, no alternative sweetener, no foam art — in under ninety seconds. She handed it to me and said “have a nice day” and I said “I am” and I meant it. I did not have to wait behind someone ordering a drink with more adjectives than a Henry James novel. I did not have to listen to someone on a laptop taking a Zoom call without headphones. I sat at a table by the window and read the newspaper — the actual newspaper, on paper — and nobody asked me if the other chair was taken because there was nobody there to ask.

I walked through Millennium Park. The Bean was just sitting there, reflecting an empty plaza, which honestly might be the first time it has ever reflected something accurate, because that plaza should always be empty. No one was lying on the grass doing yoga. No one was proposing to anyone in front of the Crown Fountain. A single pigeon walked past me with the quiet confidence of an animal that understood it was, for the moment, the dominant species in the park.

I had lunch at a place on Randolph. Got a table immediately. The server seemed relaxed. The food came out fast. Nobody at the next table was celebrating a birthday. Nobody was taking photos of their meal. I ate a sandwich in peace, like a human being in a civilization, and I thought: this is what Chicago could be like all the time if we simply removed about 40% of the population on a rotating basis. I’m not saying it’s practical. I’m saying it’s worth discussing.

Look, I know they’re all coming back. The flights start returning next Sunday and by the following Monday the city will be full of people again, all of them in my way, all of them with opinions about things I don’t care about. The scooters will return. The speakerphone calls will return. Someone will stand on the left side of the escalator at the Washington station and I will have to go back to being the person I normally am, which is a person who is mildly irritated at all times.

But today? Today is perfect. The weather is warm, the streets are empty, and I am drinking my second cup of coffee on a bench that I don’t have to share with anyone. If you’re reading this from a beach in Cancún or a resort in Scottsdale, I want you to know: take your time. Stay an extra day. The city is in good hands. Specifically, mine.