leaving chicago
An interlude I couldn't stop myself from writing
Between the exciting mayoral election and the continued encroachment of Sweetgreen in areas once considered meaningful to me, it feels as though I’m departing Chicago at a pivotal time. I’m sure the city will be just as bright without me, but there’s so much I already miss.
Chicago can be a beautiful place for a young person. Every month brings new activities, always something fresh lurking on the horizon.
January is for picking up a growler of craft beer and storing it in the “backyard freezer,” cracking it open when tomorrow’s snow day is announced and there’s nowhere else you’re meant to be.
February is for getting a large dark coffee (touch of cream and sugar) and plucking books off miles of creaky shelves at Open Books, deciding between Nietzsche and a bizarre garlic cookbook from the 1970s.
March is for sipping a stiff after-work cocktail in a dive bar that also sells cigarettes, somewhere geographically inscrutable, where you can complain about the weather to your friend who is busy playing chess on their phone.
April is for making the time to go to your friend’s show somewhere off the blue line, whether they’re a comedian or a musician or neither, tapping your feet the whole time and remember that summer is coming and you’ll be a person again too in not too long.
May is for squeezing in an art opening in West Loop, where you will try to think about something too hard, get tipsy off of the free two buck chuck, accidentally say something kind of weird to the curator, and retreat to somewhere you can eat tavern-style pizza and laugh it off with your friends.
June is for meeting the love of your life in line for fresh carrots at the Logan Square Farmers Market, or at least pretending to. You’re clutching your iced oat latte and so are they, and you have the chance to make an offhand comment about how everyone is dressed like your Uncle in construction. You may not get their number, but you will get some really colorful carrots, and will make a conscious note to forget the price.
July is for flipping sausages on a charcoal grill in a friend-of-a-friend's backyard, while the familiar whooshing sound of someone shotgunning Hamm's rings in your ears.
August is for climbing out of the water of Lake Michigan onto Promontory Point’s warm limestone, basking in the heat while desperately reaching for the bottle of chilled wine in your tote bag.
September is for convincing yourself to take a walk through your neighborhood before it gets too cold, humming something sentimental as you witness the leaves change, and watching your neighbors walk their strollers and designer dogs, wondering how it is that you’re both affording the neighborhood.
October is for hosting dinner parties, getting distracted by friends as a pan emerges from the oven slightly burned while someone delicately spills sauv blanc on your couch, and no one minds.
November is for committing to a winter project, like sewing a dress with fabric from Textile Discount Outlet, or designing a new shelf with help from the Chicago Tool Library.
December is for admitting you can enjoy the lights on Mag Mile, and bearing the Christkindlmarkt crowds only takes some hot mulled wine.
There is so much love in this city. I will miss my closest friends (and many others), but for now, I am ready for something new.