Dear Chicago

I'm sure I tell this story all of the time. I'm sure you are sick of hearing it. But here I go again.

I remember so clearly the day that I first came to Chicago to live. Moving truck cresting the Chicago Skyway, crossing the Illinois state line, first glimpses of the impressive architectural feats of the downtown of this monstrous city that was going to kill or be conquered. I remember driving up Lake Shore Drive on the most beautiful late summer mid-afternoon that has ever been. I remember passing that sleek starship that we call Soldier Field, being overwhelmed by the verdant Grant Park on my left, thinking that the blue of Lake Michigan was the most impressive, most fabulous, most alive color that I had ever seen. Sailboats dotted the blue; my heart raced with anxiety, wonder, joy. There were beaches, there were skyscrapers, there were people everywhere.

To say I was overwhelmed doesn't do justice. I guess I was gobsmacked.

Living in this city now for three years - three trying, rewarding, wonderful, awful years - has not yet robbed me of the wonder that I felt that first day. I still love to look out the windows of the Brown Line L train as it crosses the Chicago River into downtown. I still love the skyline views from the beach at Fullerton and the Museum Campus. I still love walking up and down Broadway and Clark and Milwaukee and Michigan and Belmont and Randolph. I still love the parks and the restaurants and the theatres, and the people still make me roll my eyes and laugh. The hearty, strange Midwestern people. The city people. The people of amazing ethnicities and difficult languages.

I am excited about my big move. My life is going to change in large, fundamental ways. But I'm worried. I know this city now. I know my parts of it well. We've reached a level of comfortable stasis. I'm worried that I'll never be able to walk to work again. I'm worried that I won't find tacos al pastor that I love as much as the ones at Buena Vista. I'm worried that no Gay Pride Parade can ever compare. I'm worried that I won't find good thrift stores and won't like the nightlife and won't have any Muslim coworkers and will have to drive, like, everywhere, like, all the time.

Thank you, Chicago. Thank you for three beautiful years of life. Please don't forget me.

"I hope that you will think of me
In moments when you're happy and you're smiling
That the thought will comfort you
On cold and cloudy days if you are crying"

Photo courtesy of LAP Photography. Copyright 2005.