“When are you going to be in the city again?”
I hear this a lot.
I lived in “the city,” for over ten years. I was raised in a suburb about 30 miles outside of city limits and moved to Chicago at 18-years old to go to college. I lived all over Chicago. Rogers Park, Wrigleyville, Humboldt Park, Little Italy and Ukranian Village. I worked as far north as Evanston and as far south as South Chicago. I love Chicago. Of my limited travels and my unabashed bias, I declare it the best city in the world. To me, at least.
Chicago hasn’t been the only place I’ve lived. I lived in small towns, too. As small as a fishing town in Paraguay to a couple of small towns in central Illinois (one college, one non). They each had their pluses and minuses, they each drastically changed my worldview in different ways.
After I had my daughter, I moved back to the suburbs where I myself was born to raise her with the help of my family. Like all new places, I had to start over, make new friends in my new (again) community and a build a new life. I’m very happy here. At times my life in Chicago seems like yesterday and at others, light-years away.
“We’ll get together next time you are in Chicago!”
As if The City were this necessary, delicate ecosystem where our PH-balanced friendship could survive. Outside of it, even a mere 30 miles, it would turn inside out and die, like a virus on a toilet seat. Continue reading