“The ineluctable modality of the visible,” so began James Joyce in the third chapter of his classic, Ulysses, opening our ears to Stephen Dedalus’ inner voice. Like ‘Kinch,’ I couldn’t resist the visible chaos that was unfolding as I made my six-hour odyssey through a small stretch of Chicago’s downtown. But being neither a drinker nor an Irishman, I felt more aligned with the Englishman Haines than Stephen or his frenemy, Buck Mulligan, as I stood on the Trump Tower’s walkway overlooking the Chicago River—just an interloper, present to study the habits of the locals.

I last photographed Chicago’s St. Patrick’s Day festivities a decade ago. Very few people lined the river that day even though it was sunny, albeit a bit nippy. Today, I had difficulty finding an empty patch of ground. The bridges looked like they might collapse under the weight of all those imbibing. If there was a majority, it was comprised of high school students—mostly boys who will have regrets tomorrow as they crawl out of bed searching for an aspirin while stepping into vomit that missed the toilet bowl earlier in the AM.

Unlike a decade ago, the tour boats were out in full force, with the operators turning a tidy profit. Intermingled among the larger boats were kayaks and small motorboats. Apparently, St. Patrick’s Day now marks the start of summer boat traffic.

The City of Chicago took precautions to protect city property. Millennium Park was closed, as was the Riverwalk. By closing the walkway, Mayor Johnson avoided taxing the Chicago Fire Department maritime rescue team when drunkards inevitably found their way into the drink. Johnson, however, failed to take additional preemptive measures to safeguard those who could be seen straddling bridge and walkway railings hoping to use the green river as a backdrop.

Anyone who headed to the Chicago Cultural Center to relieve themselves was in for an unwelcome surprise. It, too, was closed for the day, which may explain why I saw two young men who may have been relieving themselves in a nearby alley. The stale green beer or ‘river water’ smells bad as it goes down, but even worse when it flows out.

Why the dramatic increase in the number of people who came for the spectacle? Social media influencers, the allure of selfies, an early Spring, or simply trying to anesthetize the prospect of a second Trump Administration? I don’t know. People don’t need much of an excuse anymore to let loose in public.

At 4:30 PM, I called it a day. There was a reason I had not returned since my first St. Patrick’s Day outing. Aside from the green river, St. Patrick’s Day is a boring exercise. Some of those dressed ‘wearing the green’ exuded joyous countenances, many others were morose. While the teen age boys were energized when sharing a plastic jug half-filled with what they referred to as green ‘river water,’ even they were subdued when the camera was not focused on them. One or two checking their screens, maybe hoping for a drunken late-afternoon hookup.

True confession: I was never enamored by late Saturday nights at the Pub, Chesty’s, the Plaza, or the Red Shed while a student in Madison. Standing for hours in a packed room while people get sloppy drunk is not my idea of a good time. The clock above the red-bricked Reid, Murdoch Building (the current headquarters of Encyclopedia Britannica) may have proclaimed 3:00 PM, but the atmospherics brought bar time to mind.

I had purposely chosen the St. Patrick’s Day river celebration over the pro-Palestinian demonstration scheduled for noon today outside the Chicago offices of the Israel Consulate General. The Palestinians, however, rejected being sidelined by St. Patrick’s Day.

As I was standing on a traffic island in the middle of Wacker Drive, I heard a familiar rhythm, but I couldn’t quite make out the words. As I drifted westward, the chant grew louder and clearer, “Free, Free, Palestine.” With their apropos green flags waving in the breeze, the Palestinians viewed St. Patrick’s Day as an opportunity to amplify their message—as if five months of weekly demonstrations had not sufficiently pumped up the volume. Some of the marchers even traded their Palestinian flags for Irish ones—Irish orange replacing Palestinian red.

To pay appropriate homage to their Irish brethren, the Palestinians carried St. Patrick’s Day-appropriate banners in the honored lead position. One read “No Irish Pride in Genocide,” and the other “Chicago Dyes While Gaza Dies.” The third proclaimed in Irish, “Saoirse don Phailistine,“ which translates into the King’s Tongue as “Freedom for Palestine.” The folks with the mics made sure the revelers knew that Ireland has been supportive of the Palestinians, and that like Palestine, Ireland had once been a colony.

With all the alcohol flowing, I wondered whether some revelers might crash the Palestinian march, looking for some “rollin’ and tumblin.’” CPD apparently shared my concern, as evidenced by the larger-than-unusual brigade of bicycle cops forming a barrier between the marchers and revelers. Somewhere on Madison Street, I did see several revelers taunt the Palestinians with middle fingers extended, but given the police presence, the revelers apparently decided to move on.

One of the Palestinian leaders was wearing a fashionably green cowboy hat. After shaking hands, I asked whether Ramadan made today’s effort more difficult. “No,” he replied, the Ramadan fast is not big deal—but tell that to my friend the Rocking Moroccan, who is already faltering, but persevering.

A little later, I ran into Near North District Commander John Hein, who was accompanying the Palestinians as they moved west on Madison. After we exchanged greetings, I said, “I came down today to photograph you guys arresting drunks,” which got a laugh.

While I didn’t cover much distance (7 miles), I did see evidence of another major crisis topping the news as I walked—the influx of migrants, particularly the ones that Texas Governor Greg Abbott has been sending Chicago’s way. When I occasionally gazed downward, I would see a mother with a couple of children seated on a street corner, hawking candy bars, rolls of Mentos, and packages of Sprees. Not many takers.

With Mayor Johnson on the verge of kicking some migrants out of the city shelters, we will undoubtedly see more candy vendors on street corners. Hopefully as temperature rises, the kids will no longer need their puffy pink parkas. [I purposely avoided capturing images of these unfortunate pawns who are mercilessly caught up in our culture wars.]

As between St. Patrick’s Day and Halloween, I much prefer the latter. The werewolves, ghouls, clowns, and superheroes may, like their St. Patrick’s Day brethren, be drunk, but they do seem to be having more fun.

In closing, let me get down to brass tacks. I saw no one vomit. If those are photographs you are looking for, I suggest finding a photo essay from fifteen or so years ago. A Leica photographer did a street photography project that focused on bar time in Croydon, England. Plenty of vomiting, humping, and similar goings on. I’ll keep looking for it.

[Click on an Image to Enlarge It. The Images Are Not Necessarily in Exact Chronological Order]

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