Thinking back

The day after I graduated from college, my belongings were packed in the back of a truck, and my parents and I drove to Chicago.

Growing up, every time we'd visit, we'd arrive the same way, from the south, up the Dan Ryan to LSD, and then the home stretch to my grandparents' home just north of the city, in Evanston. Coming up Sheridan Road in Rogers Park, I'd get a thrill of excitement, because to me, Rogers Park was the city. It was the embodiment of everything I believed Chicago to be.

So I was finally there! The city was mine! (Well, sort of. The fact that I lived in what could technically be called a suburb didn't phase me.) Evanston wasn't a typical suburb, anyway. It was a cross between being its own city and a small town.

That summer, I ran the baked streets, getting to know the cafes, vintage bookstores, and thrifts. I worked at a cafe near Northwestern, and I flirted with the intellectual professors who'd spend their Sunday mornings over my coffee and a newspaper. Sometimes nights I'd walk through the neighborhood on the lake, the one with unbelievably fancy mansions and daydream about what it would be like to live in one.

I was lonely still, missing my Kansas boyfriend and worried about job prospects, but it was also a glorious time, filled with newness. The world unrolled itself at my feet, and I could have done anything.

Memories like that rush back at the touch of hot summer wind, or the smell of coffee beans freshly ground. Certain music can resurrect the exact feelings I had at any given moment during that period. The experience is so deeply imprinted upon my psyche.

It goes without saying that there is an entire chamber of my heart devoted to Evanston. I still work here, 9.5 years after that beautiful summer. So I was excited to also do my internship here.
And it's different.

I'm older.

I'm seeing a different side of the city, the one where 25% of the citizens live at or below the poverty line. Where the streets I formerly skipped down, if I turn left instead of right, I discover low-income areas I never knew existed.

Knowing about the urban problems that Evanston's pretty, tree-lined streets cover up sour my memories of the perfect college "town" I used to know. It's hard to enjoy its beauty when I know about the uneasy alliance between the priviledged and unpriviledged.

But sometimes, sometimes sometimes, I'm able to walk into the organic cafe that's near my internship, sit down with some tea, and be transported back, unfettered, in the glorious spell that this place once cast upon me.

I moved to Chicago the day after I graduated from college. I couldn't wait to leave Kansas in the dust and get to a place where I really belonged. I spent most of my early 20s trying to forget where I came from. It made sense in my head. In a way I could never exactly name, I didn't feel like I belonged in the place I grew up. I always felt like an outsider. Strange, to spend 21 years in one place and feel your connection tenuous at best.

I'd visit Kansas again on holidays and feel uneasy. The wide open spaces were hard to take in. My depth perception would be wonky for the first day or two of each visit, and I wouldn't be able to look outside at the hills.

Chicago seemed to bring out who I really was, though being a naive country girl suddenly urbanized was an adjustment. I'm sure I made a lot of missteps and tried on a lot of different "me"s before I found the right fit. But it was my city, and I was deeply sunk in a long-term love affair with it. Every experience I had confirmed my love and sense of place. I met glamorous city girls, and dated underground music geeks. One I fell for hard for several years, and when we discussed our future, I only felt a slight twinge that I'd be settling down with another die-hard city boy. Only once or twice did I wish he were the camping type, and after him, I dated boys so urban that if you put a tire iron in their hand and pointed to the flat, they wouldn't know what to do.

It started to seem ridiculous, these skills that I had (I was changing flats at 14!) that I didn't find mirrored in my dates. I stopped revering encyclopedic knowledge of obscure bands above rugged survival skills. And I despaired that I'd ever find a good combination of the two.

Tim brought back my sense of place, only it's no longer Chicago. I can't escape my past. The small town, the rural homestead, lonely flint hills that are the most beautiful lands I've ever seen. I'm fascinated by it all, amazed even now at growing up in an existence so far removed from any kid I know today. I've worked with kids who don't even know where Kansas is on a map, nor have ever seen a real farm. I write so frequently about the past because it intrigues me, and, I think, helps me get to the bottom of who I am today. It may in fact be the most interesting part about me.

July 4th

"Gorey Stories" opened tonight, and I was disappointed by the timing. Running until 9:30, we missed almost all of the fireworks set off from Navy Pier. Disappointed because in all my many years in Chicago, I've actually never seen them, and this year I was right at the lake doing the show.

I had forgotten, though, that sometimes the civilian fireworks are just as spectacular as the city's. Biking home, west on Fullerton, the night spread out before me as a sparkling jewel. The last mile home was particularly livid. I biked through a fug of gunpowder and falling embers, and nearly hit a few parked cars as I swerved on my ride, watching the sky.

I love how into the holiday this city is, though given the high density of undocumented immigrants in my neighborhood, I suspect the fiery celebrations are more for a love of pretty explosives rather than the history of this country.

This time last year, I was also sitting under a shower of fireworks, but at a Biscuits game in Montgomery. As soon as the last play was completed, every light in the stadium was cut, and music started up as the pyrotechnics blasted. For a good ten minutes or so, the sky lit up. Finally, "Sweet Home Alabama" was played, and the crowd went wild for the finale. Tim and I grinned at each other, deliriously happy to be in that spot at that moment.

And forever since then, that song makes me happy. It reminds me of a time when I felt like part of a community. I felt like I was an Alabamian, like that sweet home was my home. For a little while, it was.

And I love that now any time I see fireworks, that's what I'll think of.

Corridor of smells

Sometimes I think I could ride through Chicago with my eyes closed, still knowing exactly where I am based on the smells.

I bike to work via Elston, an industrial diagonal that's quieter than expected during rush hour. It cuts through factories along the interstate and Metra lines. Within the first few blocks on my route, I pass Home Depot. Sometimes if they're busy, the fresh scent of sawdust will waft out to the street. A few blocks later, Dunkin Donuts' sugar and Popeyes' oil compete for air space.

The Metra has a stop at Ashland and Elston, and squealing brakes burn metal. At North, Stanley's fruit stand spills out onto the sidewalk. Last week the ground was littered with pineapple cores and rinds.

Further south, after Elston runs into Milwaukee, I pass the Matchbox, Chicago's smallest bar and the scene of frequent hijinks in my early twenties. And it's clear that, though I have moved on to more sober pursuits, there were many behind to take my place.

Somewhere in the area is a bread factory, but only my nose knows where.

I've reached River North by the time I start smelling chocolate, slightly burnt, like you'd smell from hot cocoa. Blommer's Chocolate Factory is where I leave the diagonal and plunge into Loop traffic, the frentic pace causing me to lose touch with smells and focus solely on watching for impatient morning drivers so I don't get hit.

Q: How many glasses of wine does it take to get me to dance?

A: When it involves a perfect, chilly summer evening celebrating a friend's birthday at a free concert under the skyline at Millenium Park, to the irresistable booty-shaking sounds of Seun Kuti, son of the fabled Fela Kuti, with whose band Egypt 80 he performed--no, went totally berserk on stage--in what could have been his first appearance in the United States, well, the answer is: not very many at all.

Chicago weather

I love Chicago more when it's beautiful outside. This weekend, it was shorts weather. We biked, took walks, spent time hauling out the big plants to the back porch, repotting, pruning the dead leaves, just enjoying being outside.

I never realize how much I need the outside until the warm spring winds come and blow the grey off of everything. Now I have a hard time staying in.

The end of this school year is so close I can taste it. Only one more session of two of my classes. My most hated class closed today after we convinced (with not too much work) our prof that we should do evals today and skip next week. One big paper to finesse, and two short ones to crank out. It's been remarkably stress-free.

Skyline

This week, coming home on the train earlier than usual, I caught the sunset by the time I got to my stop. Some of the glass-faced buildings downtown were glowing reddish gold. They looked like they were aflame.

My el runs straight downtown, so I have a perfect view of the tracks running into downtown. After I got off the train, I waited until all the other passengers had gone down the stairs, and I stood by the rail and gazed at the city.

I felt a rekindling of my previous love affair with the city, and it made me happy.

Then, and now

This has been stewing in my brain for a while. A few months, really, since I started school and really got absorbed back into Chicago.

This time it's different. I've started to distinguish my Chicago lives as in Single Chicago and Married Chicago, and while that's not necessarily always the best descriptor, it is mostly apt. There was an excitement, an unpredictability, a wildness to Single Chicago. I was discovering everything for the first time. I don't know if I expected to pick up where I left off by moving back.

I'm seeing a whole new part of the city now. A part that feels old and settled, and not so flighty. More real. For one, I live further in the city than I used to. School takes me to an area I've never been, as well as my internship on the south side, and my school tutoring, on the west side. These areas and existences are so far removed from the (it seems like, now) priviledged life I used to have.

Sometimes I miss the constant rapture, the moments where I absolutely lose my breath over the fact that I live in Chicago. It feels more solid in my bones. Not something I even think about anymore.

And I think about what I used to love about the city, and most of it revolved around a life I don't have anymore. One that I can't afford to have anymore. It gives me a different perspective, not having money to do the things I used to. But really, I used to have the money to do whatever I wanted, and now I just have the money to do what I need to do.

I don't think Married is any better than Single, or vice versa. Just different.

All moved in

Turn around right when you enter. That's the messy foyer.


Heading into the apartment, this is your first view. The living room.



The above picture was taken standing in the dining room/computer room, which I now realize I forgot to take pictures of. It's the same size-ish as the living room, and has a table, computer/desk, and this big black metal shelving unit.

Walk through the dining room into the kitchen:






(wall of artwork--Hannah's)


I don't know how big it looks in the pictures, but it's freaking huge.

Bathroom


Laminated (ha!) pictures from a South American fashion magazine




Bedroom, my least favorite room of the house (it doesn't have a welcoming vibe yet)




Oh yeah, I also forgot to take a picture of the backporch, which is soso darling, with lots of plants and sunlight.

Goodbye

Goodbye organic burrito lounge
Goodbye swimming pool outside my door
Goodbye lazy Sundays
Goodbye tennis team
Goodbye homophobic, catty co-workers
Goodbye Chik-Fil-A
Goodbye Sonic blended coke floats
Goodbye bead store
Goodbye Publix
Goodbye cheese grits
Goodbye cheese and sausage biscuits
Goodbye "fixin to"
Goodbye 80 degree weather in October
Goodbye spicy white cheese dip
Goodbye employment
Goodbye sucky drivers
Goodbye cheap, big apartment
Goodbye plant-filled balcony
Goodbye driving everywhere
Goodbye star-filled night skies

Hello

Hello hardwood floors
Hello third-floor walkup
Hello biking city streets
Hello family
Hello grad school
Hello tiendas
Hello Opart Thai
Hello tree-filled boulevards
Hello Cafe Lula
Hello Critical Mass
Hello origami store
Hello DSL
Hello best friend
Hello buses and trains
Hello lake
Hello street grid system
Hello punk bar
Hello sushi happy hour
Hello First Fridays
Hello my city

Upon returning

I think a dangerous thing about returning to Chicago is that I have built it up quite a bit in my head, and I have ideas about what it (and I) will be like. The things I imagine about myself are who I've always wanted to be but am never sure I really am.

As though suddenly I'll be more active and go back to being the slim person I was several years ago, or stop being as cluttered in my living space as we are now. I'll be focused and intelligent and insightful in my school work, and I will quickly make like-minded friends in my classes.

Who I really am is not necessarily a disappointment; I just want to be better. Cooler, smarter, livelier. More.

No longer a rough draft.

78

Today I cleared the closet of my winter shirts, and used them to pad some dishes I started packing. I also went through the bookshelves and selected some books and videos to give away (though, unfortunately, not enough to really make a dent in the huge amount of stuff we'll be moving.) It feels odd to be packing this soon, but it eases my stress. Last time I moved, people were carrying boxes down to the truck as quickly as I could pack them up, and that's an experience I never want to repeat again.

I added up the days left here, and it's 78. Which seems kind of high until I remember it's equal to two and a half months. At work, I have forms clients complete when they want to give me permission to talk to people/agencies on their behalf, releases of information, which last for 90 days after they are signed. Lately I've noticed the expiration date I'm writing is after I'll be gone. It's a strange thing to think about.

I'm terrified beyond belief about how I'm going to find an apartment. An affordable one in a decent location, one that's not too run down or tiny or depressing. All I can picture in my mind is my last apartment, which was blissful in many ways for me, but not great for two people. And with absolutely no closets or kitchen counter space.

I think I've been putting Chicago in the back of my mind for so long (first because I missed it so badly, then because I started to like it here and didn't know if we were going to return, then I didn't want to jinx my school acceptance, and finally I got busy organizing and planning for the beginning of school that I forgot where I was moving to go to school) that I've just woken up and realized it's real, that I'm moving back to the place that makes me happiest ever.

I can bike to school and work and to the Middle Eastern bakery for olives and spinach pies, then Little Vietnam for black sesame balls, dirt-cheap fresh basil, and rice noodles. I can spend the evening at a punk rock bar drinking Maker's Mark without breaking the bank, then get home without worrying about leaving a car somewhere. I can take a blanket to the park and hear the jazz fest, or blues fest, or Celtic fest . . . And I can see my sister and my nephew whenever I want to.

Only 78 more days!

Coffee

One of my coworkers won a gift card to Starbucks in a monthly birthday giveaway, and since her preference is sweet tea to coffee, she gave it to me.

I'm not a coffee drinker, though I'd like to be. As a former Starbucks employee, Tim knows his way around a bean, though, so I let him use the card to purchase a half pound. His choice was Yukon blend. The name means nothing to me, but when he opened the bag and poured in a few tablespoons into our French Press, I stuck my nose into the glass and breathed in heaven. Just the smell itself sloughed off the stress and strain of the day, and evaporated whatever tears of frustration (of "Oh my god. I still have 8.5 more weeks at work." Yes, my countdown is down to weeks, and soon, days.) were still lurking behind my lids.

I was transported back to Unicorn Cafe, age 22, and everything that time encompassed. All the newness of Chicago and a new cafe where I worked to make friends. It reminds me of smokey coffeehouses with open mic poetry readings and intense conversations.

With milk and vanilla honey, it was like silk on my tongue. I have always had fantasies about waking up in the morning, putting on the kettle for coffee, then lingering over breakfast with a mug. It doesn't quite fit into my view of life that I consistently wake up 9 minutes later than I should, and race around getting ready and hoping I'm not late to work. And somehow relaxing over breakfast/coffee/newspaper on the weekends isn't such a treat, because it doesn't feel like a special stolen moment the way it would during the week.

I think, though, that if I drank coffee every day, it wouldn't be such a special, ritualized treat for me. Maybe it should stay that way.

Love at first sight

The reason why I've never believed in love at first sight is because it takes me a while to notice someone. I was in American Lit I in college for a month and a half before it dawned on me that the guy sitting across the circle from me had killer sideburns and amazing blue eyes.

I rode the same train to work for a year straight between 1998 and 1999. Second car from the front, Main Street stop in the first suburb north of Chicago. It took me a couple months to realize there was always a man with flame red hair sitting near me (despite never really being attracted to redheads, he had wavy hipster hair with sideburns. Which, as mentioned above, are key. And he wore a thick silver ring on his middle finger.).

And then the morning train ride became simultaneously the most exciting, petrifying event of my day. Once I became aware of him, I could no longer concentrate on reading my book. I knew he was sneaking glances at me, too, and I was too shy then to do anything but studiously avoid his gaze unless I could somehow plot a way to look across the entire car and take him in at the same time while appearing completely suave.

Entirely. Too. Much. Thought went into these forty-five minutes of torture. Somedays it was almost a relief to not see him on the train (he boarded the stop before mine), but then the sudden panic that I'd never see him again and all was lost (all? There was really nothing, though every morning, I'd psych myself up, and think of a good opening line so we could finally speak.)

Once I boarded the train after work, and through the crush of people, saw an empty seat. I dove for it, and pulled out my book. Engrossed in reading the entire ride home, it wasn't until I stood up at Main Street to disembark that I realized the knee three inches from mine belonged to him.

But time passed, and it got more awkward by the day. Finally, it was winter, and I was bundled up to wait for the train, then hot on the crowded train, I took off my hat and gloves. I didn't notice the gloves falling to the floor, but he did. He picked them up, tapped my arm, and handed them back. I thanked him and turned away, face flaming. Then I cursed myself for several days for not using that as an intro to talk to him. What a waste! But what would I have said? I'd never been very good at striking up conversations with people I wasn't sure I actually had anything in common with. Plus, massive crushes were guaranteed back then to keep me tongue-tied forever.

In addition, I had a boyfriend. One that I was not particularly happy with, which is probably why I became so obsessed with the man on the train. At long last, I got so annoyed with myself and the situation that I started riding a later train.

I saw him once or twice again, after I had moved to the city, and gotten new boyfriends. Long after I had stopped fantasizing about randomly running into him at a bar (which would have been a much easier venue in which to strike up conversation), I saw him at a David Sedaris reading. I suppose that would have been an easier place to talk as well, but I was with another boyfriend, onto my second Kevin, and in case he didn't recognize me, I didn't want to remind him that I was the strange girl who stared at him a lot a few years back.