Chicago Trip: No Introduction

Diary Entry: October 18, 2024

I spent the night listening to an audio recording of an American law review article called Managerial Judges. This masterpiece was on the list for my JSD qualifying exam, which means I should have read it weeks ago — except I was busy with my favorite hobbies: procrastination, poor time management, and, of course, the Chicago trip. By the time I finally forced myself to read it, I realized it was actually important. Life’s little ironies: the most important things arrive fashionably late, like I do to seminars.

The article reminded me of Georgian judges who could have walked straight out of its pages. There was one Chief Judge of the Appellate Court, for example, who proudly announced that during his illustrious career he only heard “a couple” of cases. A couple. The rest of his time was spent doing “administrative functions” and receiving ambassadors. An inspiring story for anyone who dreams of a lifetime salary with minimum workload.

I finally collapsed into bed at 2 or 3 a.m., only to rise again around 7 or 8. Four hours of sleep — exactly the amount a human body does not need to perform intellectual labor. My companion, another student appointed as my advisor’s teaching assistant, was staying in the same hotel. The place was basically a hostel disguised as a hotel: $50 a night, bunk beds, shared rooms, and the vague sense that the fire escape had been last inspected during the Nixon administration. Still, it was in central Chicago, which meant you could enjoy the ambiance of city life without the inconvenience of, say, a functioning lock.

I dragged myself downstairs, eyes burning, half-awake, to wait for him. We were supposed to go to a seminar. I told myself I was excited to meet colleagues in the field, though what that usually means in practice is small talk about where you flew in from. The truth was I just wanted to talk about the paper — partly because it was genuinely interesting, partly because small talk is not.

My companion came down soon enough, and we headed out. He knew the way; I knew only that the streets of Chicago existed, as I’d once roamed them aimlessly like a Victorian ghost. I’ll tell that story some other time. We walked — some kilometers or so. The weather was classic Chicago: cold enough to bite your cheeks, yet warm enough that by the time you arrive at your destination, you’re sweaty in your suit and coat, like a banker who just ran a marathon he didn’t sign up for.

The streets were lively in their usual post-apocalyptic way. A completely naked woman wandered past, mumbling her gospel to no one in particular. A man was in a full-contact argument with his imaginary enemy. Police officers were trying to calm another woman, who was, in turn, trying to convince them that she was the reasonable one. In short, a normal Friday morning in Chicago.

After 10–15 minutes, we arrived. The building was tall — possibly a skyscraper, though I always feel skyscraper is a generous term for any building over twenty floors. The lobby was massive, like a Russian train station designed by someone who had recently discovered minimalism. Behind the central desk sat a man directing traffic, sending us toward the elevator. We were on our way to the upper floors, where a law firm office had been transformed into a seminar space.

The office was very nice — expensive wood, thick carpets, and panoramic views of Chicago and the lake. Staring out the window, I thought: some people dream of a life like this, working in a high-rise forever. Personally, I wasn’t sure if that sounded more like success or captivity with a better view.

People trickled in slowly. Americans have a way of looking formal without being elegant: colored suits, crooked ties, and shoes so ugly they could be used as evidence in a fashion crime tribunal. I asked a woman where to put my coat, and she pointed at a rack tucked behind reception. Then I went to splash water on my face in the restroom, trying to look more like a scholar and less like a sleep-deprived extra from a crime show.

When I came out, I spotted my advisor — Professor Pigou — deep in conversation. I said hello. He looked at me, paused, and briefly toyed with the idea of introducing me to the person he was talking to. Then, apparently deciding against it, he said nothing. A masterclass in withholding acknowledgment. I walked on, entered the seminar room, and took my seat.

There would be no introduction.