Growing up, I loved Chicago. Whenever we visited the city, I felt at home. My father, on the other hand, hated the city. Hated the crowds, hated the fast pace, and more than anything, hated the pigeons. He called them the rats of the sky. The only thing he liked about Chicago was the pizza; he said it was the best thing about the city. Those things became indicative of Chicago for me. So much so that, in my formative years, I believed the pigeons might actually run Chicago. I still believe I might be right.