Chicago How Do I Love Thee....

I was raised in a small town in Iowa whose inhabitants would fill approximately one-sixth of Wrigley Field and I was one of those lost souls who wanted something more than his environment could provide him with. Just, something, that elusive something, that void that church potlucks, Friday night football games, 4-H shows and county fairs are powerless to fill.

Fast forward a few years: I had recently been kicked out of college, had broken up with my academically high-achieving girlfriend after being confronted with evidence that she was planning to cheat on me and was working for a collection agency, the duties of which included repossessing cars. My roommate Ted was planning a move to Chicago to work for a famous film director and asked if I wanted to join him.

It took me just a couple hours to say yes.

I have doubted my relationships, doubted my career and doubted my abilities but I have never doubted that I landed in the right city. My first year in Chicago was overwhelming and I tended to feel guilty if I wasn't doing something every minute to improve myself: I spent Saturdays memorizing the location of every painting in the Art Institute, I attended symphony concerts whenever my paycheck would let me and then some, flocked to art films and plays and museums and galleries until my head spun. Socially, I was just as manic: a Friday or Saturday night at home was a wasted opportunity---Division Street beckoned and it did take me awhile to learn that just because the bars stayed open until 5:00 am didn't mean that I had to stay in them until 5:00 am.

Eventually I came down to earth and when I did, Chicago unfolded herself in all her glory: there were Sunday afternoons in Soldier Field with 66,000 like minded inebriated fans, Music Box matinées at 11:30 every Saturday and Sunday where they would show old, foreign and obscure films, The Green Mill jazz bar, a former speakeasy and Capone hangout that still offered some of the best jazz in the city, and storefront theatres in colorful neighborhoods where young actors could ply their trade away from the heavily commercialized loop theatre scene.

There was The Berghoff, the 100-year-old German restaurant at which my great-grandfather had worked as a waiter prior to opening his own tavern. There was the lakefront, which offered festivals, swimming and, if you hooked up with the right people, an afternoon on a sailboat. There were the neighborhoods like Chinatown, Hyde Park, Rogers Park, Wicker Park, each with its own individual feel. And parties with interesting, funny, unpretentious and well-read people.

If you lived in a neighborhood with an independent coffee shop, a used bookstore, a bakery, a hot dog stand, a laid-back bar where the staff knew your name and a place to go for brunch, then you lived in a good neighborhood. And a car was unnecessary---the trains and buses went everywhere and the easy availability of taxis eliminated the danger of getting arrested for DWI, or worse.

There are cities where the weather is always warm and humidity is lower, but I'm a Midwestern boy and I love my seasons. And there is nothing like the thrill of a cold winter night when you meet your friends gather in a toasty bar where a really good blues band is playing and then you go to an after-hours spot buried in an obscure neighborhood and the lights are low and there is a fireplace and a few regulars and you are drinking glog and you and your girlfriend decide to go home and hail a taxi and the next morning the Tribune is on your doorstep and you get dressed and duck around the corner for brunch walking carefully so as not to fall on the ice and clinging tightly to eachother and the bloody mary and omelette and coffee warm you and you get home and as you are removing your coats your eyes lock and in an instant you are naked and you are making love and there is the hissss of the radiator and the roar of the el train and you are making love and you don't want the moment to end, ever.