Part II: Chicago
I grew up in a house that was always bursting at the seams. Our family of six lived in a crowded four bedroom, and I shared a room with my youngest sister. Shut doors would burst open without warning, and the house always bustled (sometimes shrieked) with the sounds of playing children - or fighting children, it was rather ambiguous.
In college I lived first in dorms, in a suite shared by six girls. Then I moved to a tiny apartment in the upstairs of a large home, and had best friends for roommates. The kitchen wasn't insulated against the Long Island winters and we had to dig our cars out every week, but we stayed warm in our rooms, huddled around a space heater with the type of camaraderie that only comes with shared misery.
The next year I lived in a house with three strangers, and that is when I made the decision to move across the country for grad school.
I found a small studio in a four story walk-up on the North Side of Chicago, where I would live alone for the first time in my life. My heart was heavy with the weight of goodbyes from people who were 900 miles and a timezone away.
The summer was hot, and the stifling heat that comes with living on the top floor of an old building was the only thing that drove me out of my bed and into the city. Slowly, nervously, I began to explore.
If you know me, you know I don't generally like doing things alone. I like having company for the most mundane errands, even if it's just my dog waiting for me in the car. But this was a time before my dog, in a city where I didn't know the roads or the culture.
I learned I lived only a block away from Lake Michigan - a lake where nothing grows and the sand is imported, but a lake that is blue and clear all the way across. The shores of the lake quickly became the solution to any boredom or anxieties that haunted me. For the first time in my life I started running - just to see the sun rise along the beachfront trails.
I got the best haircut of my life in a tiny subterranean salon two blocks south, by an equally tiny Iranian woman. I learned to be okay with being alone. I frequented the coffee shops and the cafes by myself. I ventured inside the little neighborhood bars and found the locals were friendly. I tried all the range of pizza Chicago had to offer. And most importantly, I learned to be okay with silence.
That winter I took a step towards my life long dream of being a dog mom and filled out an application with a local greyhound rescue.
Leaving Chicago a year later was different from leaving New York. I felt an intense attachment to a place that had been my home for such a short time. It's hard to put into words - it was a lonely experience, but a magical one. All the baggage that inevitably comes with knowing people for too long had fallen away. I spent a year being myself, and only myself.
Myself, who likes to walk around in my underwear and go outside without makeup on. Who likes the beach when it's 2 degrees and too windy to breathe. Who likes to ride in the traffic of Lake Shore Drive even if it's just to see the skyline rise up ahead.
I haven't mentioned my time at Northwestern much, and that's because it was fairly meaningless to me. I didn't like my program, didn't mesh with the people in it, and ultimately dropped out after a quarter. But the city never disappointed me. Where New York felt busy and prohibitively congested, Chicago was buzzing with activity at a slower, friendlier pace.
Now that I'm back on the east coast, a train ride away from everyone I went to school with, I can't help but try to find my way back there. I just don't feel like I've done it justice - I wish I could capture how charming it all was. I felt like I was living out an indie film on the Riverwalk, with its outdoor wine bars and heated igloos. And now that I've rambled for far longer than I meant to I'll close by saying: I hope you find the things that sweep you off your feet, and the things that challenge you to be someone new.
In college I lived first in dorms, in a suite shared by six girls. Then I moved to a tiny apartment in the upstairs of a large home, and had best friends for roommates. The kitchen wasn't insulated against the Long Island winters and we had to dig our cars out every week, but we stayed warm in our rooms, huddled around a space heater with the type of camaraderie that only comes with shared misery.
The next year I lived in a house with three strangers, and that is when I made the decision to move across the country for grad school.
I found a small studio in a four story walk-up on the North Side of Chicago, where I would live alone for the first time in my life. My heart was heavy with the weight of goodbyes from people who were 900 miles and a timezone away.
The summer was hot, and the stifling heat that comes with living on the top floor of an old building was the only thing that drove me out of my bed and into the city. Slowly, nervously, I began to explore.
If you know me, you know I don't generally like doing things alone. I like having company for the most mundane errands, even if it's just my dog waiting for me in the car. But this was a time before my dog, in a city where I didn't know the roads or the culture.
I learned I lived only a block away from Lake Michigan - a lake where nothing grows and the sand is imported, but a lake that is blue and clear all the way across. The shores of the lake quickly became the solution to any boredom or anxieties that haunted me. For the first time in my life I started running - just to see the sun rise along the beachfront trails.
I got the best haircut of my life in a tiny subterranean salon two blocks south, by an equally tiny Iranian woman. I learned to be okay with being alone. I frequented the coffee shops and the cafes by myself. I ventured inside the little neighborhood bars and found the locals were friendly. I tried all the range of pizza Chicago had to offer. And most importantly, I learned to be okay with silence.
That winter I took a step towards my life long dream of being a dog mom and filled out an application with a local greyhound rescue.
Leaving Chicago a year later was different from leaving New York. I felt an intense attachment to a place that had been my home for such a short time. It's hard to put into words - it was a lonely experience, but a magical one. All the baggage that inevitably comes with knowing people for too long had fallen away. I spent a year being myself, and only myself.
Myself, who likes to walk around in my underwear and go outside without makeup on. Who likes the beach when it's 2 degrees and too windy to breathe. Who likes to ride in the traffic of Lake Shore Drive even if it's just to see the skyline rise up ahead.
I haven't mentioned my time at Northwestern much, and that's because it was fairly meaningless to me. I didn't like my program, didn't mesh with the people in it, and ultimately dropped out after a quarter. But the city never disappointed me. Where New York felt busy and prohibitively congested, Chicago was buzzing with activity at a slower, friendlier pace.
Now that I'm back on the east coast, a train ride away from everyone I went to school with, I can't help but try to find my way back there. I just don't feel like I've done it justice - I wish I could capture how charming it all was. I felt like I was living out an indie film on the Riverwalk, with its outdoor wine bars and heated igloos. And now that I've rambled for far longer than I meant to I'll close by saying: I hope you find the things that sweep you off your feet, and the things that challenge you to be someone new.
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