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Goodnight Chicago, You Were Mine

It is my last Saturday night in Chicago. My room is packed, my roommates out, and I lie on my bed and listen to the city.

Tonight is a great night to be here. With summer-like temperatures and the return of Chicago sports domination, everyone celebrates, proud to be a Chicagoan. Outside my apartment on North Avenue, traffic jams the street. Horns honk, twentysomethings shout from taxis, radios fade in and out as cars drive by with open windows. Bits of drunken conversations float up to my window. Our neighbors host a party and the base thumps. There’s a light drizzle, amplifying the city sounds and washing away a gray winter. On nights like this I feel young and carefree and think of nothing but the moment at hand.

The night is close to me in my dark room, the excitement palpable, and I feel as though I’m already looking at it from the window of a jet plane. It is my last Saturday night in Chicago, and instead of dancing at Danny’s or laughing with friends, I take it in from a distance, as though I am already gone.

When I left college behind, I did it en mass, as my peers and I collectively embarked on the first real journey of our adult lives. When I left Korea behind, I shared a unique set of experiences with a small, tightly bonded group of friends. This time, leaving Chicago and moving to Denver is mine and only mine. No one else will pursue this dream job with me nor will they see the newness of Denver as I will see it. For the first time in my life I move alone.

I spent a significant portion of my childhood watching brothers and sisters go to college and beyond, watching them travel to exciting cities with interesting people, far from the humdrum of Green Bay. I ached as I watched them go and the number of people affecting my daily life dwindled. I became accustomed to feeling left behind and vowed that one day I would be the one to leave for a bigger life.

Apparently, being on the other side of leaving does not make the grieving any smaller. It’s bittersweet to realize that my life and my friends’ lives are about to diverge. I listen to my roommates make plans for next weekend and am suddenly aware that I no longer factor in. When I’m busy in Denver, my friends will still be discovering Chicago, celebrating Blackhawks’ victories, visiting Danny’s and the Violet Hour, soaking up Lake Michigan and summers in Grant Park. In all the excitement for Denver, I only considered the life awaiting me; I did not anticipate how I would grieve the life I leave behind.

So here I am, Saturday night on the unofficial beginning of Chicago’s glorious summer, and it passes me by on the street below, my life as a Chicagoan already in the past. I feel a conglomeration of emotions as I see what life here looks like without me. I watch myself disappear from the Chicago landscape, nostalgic, reflective, a little sad to see it go. It is my last Saturday night here and all I have left to say is Goodnight Chicago, you were mine.

From the Top of Chicago

Fourteen hundred feet above traffic and tourists, Chicago is entirely different. It is vast, its power and influence exaggerated by the cluster of mega structures glistening in the sun. It is colorful, alive, an efficient system of curving drives and smooth trains where everything fits together just so. I feel pleased and all looks as it should. Looking down on Chicago, I feel hopeful and energized.

Atop the Sears Tower, I touch the clouds and look across the metropolis. From fourteen hundred feet high, how easy to imagine life in this seemingly perfect city. Everything sparkles and gleams. I want to run my fingers between the streets and explore every crevice and possibility. I want to wrap my arms around Chicago, breathe it in; I can't get enough of it. Living in such a glamorous city would be a dream, and how grand life could be.

I could live in some Grant Park high rise, spoiled with lake views and skyline views, my life forever sunny and bright. I'd write on my exapansive terrace, never without inspiration or insight. I'd own a sailboat, every weekend full of lazy breezes, fireworks, and champagne. I'd dine with celebrities, shop with designers, and vacation whenever I wanted. I'd never battle wind or traffic or pollution or tourists. I'd never compete for jobs or tables or tickets. Life would be so perfect, so easy.

Chicago convinces us dreamers that we'll find what we're looking for in the shadows of its grandeur. Perhaps I moved here to live out that dream, to live amidst the city lights and iconic structures. I convinced myself I belonged here, while at the same time wondering why nothing ever worked out, never stuck. I ignored universal truths about myself that would ultimately leave me unsatisfied. I tried so hard to see everything Chicago did for me, without realizing all it did not do for me. Deep down I knew that my dream-life in Chicago was flawed.

Most of my time in Chicago, I merely treaded to keep my head above water. Based on some worn-out illusion, everything I did was a vague attempt for a life I didn't really want. I only saw what I loved to distract myself from the obvious fact that my life was largely unfulfilled. No matter how I looked at Chicago, no matter how hard I tried to revamp my life, I would never find myself.

It took a stroke of luck and the chance to see my life somewhere else that finally convinced me to leave Chicago. All at once, my challenges in Chicago made sense, my life here a stepping-stone and not the final destination. No longer fourteen hundred feet above, life is about to change, and I can't wait to start living it on the ground.

Today You Are Not Mine

Dear Chicago:

Today I do not love you. Today your skies poured flooding rains. Today your buses and trains were late, the distance between two places painfully stretching to infinity. Today your streets clogged like messy drains. Today, your mighty winds tore my umbrella apart and left me soaked.

Chicago, you got the best of me today. You unearthed memories of Seoul, of ridiculous stress, unbearable waiting and crowding, of miscommunication and misunderstandings. Today, you are more annoying than my worst day in Korea. Today you reminded me that patience is a virtue – a virtue I don’t care about when I all I want to do is punch you in the face.

Today your cafes were full and when I finally sat down, I listed all the reasons I hate you.

Today you fail to inspire. Worse than a brutal, snowy wind in the dead of winter, your gloom on this rainy March afternoon, when spring is just out of reach, is like the last month of a prison sentence.

Come on Chicago, bring on the sun, bring on the warmth. Bring on your green trees and wide-open parks, your sparkling lake and soft breezes. Bring on your outdoor cafes and boat tours, parades and street festivals. Burn out the stale memories with your brilliant sunshine. Come on, Chicago, give me something, give me someone. Give me a reason to stay.

Stir Crazy

Once a year, I get so bored and restless that I go crazy. Frustrated, moody, and anxious, I yearn for change, something to look forward to. During these times, moving to a foreign country suddenly seems practical and going back to the worst job of my life may not be such a bad option after all.

Rescuing myself from this rut usually takes two paths: making a dramatic life change or rediscovering what’s been there all along. The first option is scary and the second so obvious I often forget it.

For now, I return to Chicago. One year ago, my life changed because I found the city and I found friends. This time the catalyst is my attempts to find a free museum, a cozy dive bar, or an underground music scene. From this a new energy comes from realizing Chicago’s vastness and complexity. (Check out some of my discoveries at WheresCool.com).

The South Loop, for example, bears the remnants of its seedy, industrial past with a sharp eye to the future. There are railroad yards, firehouses, and brothels; some intact, others converted into museums, restaurants, or jazz clubs.

On the UIC campus, next to the Brutalism buildings, is the most spectacular view of the Sears Tower. Nearby are the disintegrated Little Italy and Greek Town, still telling stories of Sinatra and Capone, their days of mystery and intrigue well behind them. What must it have been like when these places thrived? How long before they are Disneyfied for tourists?

In the West Loop, misfortune meets privilege. Industrial lofts mingle with operational factories, meat butchers spill blood around the corner from Oprah. Between and behind and under the warehouses and garages there are hiding all kinds of sins and secrets.

Then there’s Hyde Park, with few secrets, a pocket of wealth, intellectualism and quiet amidst the danger and decay of the notorious South Side.

Most exciting are the influx of new ethnic neighborhoods revitalizing areas once forgotten: the Mexicans in Pilsen, the Vietnamese in Uptown, and the South Asians on Devon.

Chicago once felt like a friend whose companionship had grown stale. Chicago once felt like little more than a conglomeration of skyline and sports, of tourist destinations and college campuses. Chicago was once a watered down, slightly cheaper version of New York City.

Chicago, in fact, is multi-dimensional, packed to the brim with undiscovered corners, thriving neighborhoods, stories and ghosts and spirit. And when I actively seek them out, the city encourages new perspectives and stirs the soul. For now, the city keeps me going.

The Happiest Place in Chicago

Yesterday I found the happiest place in Chicago. It was unexpected, during rush hour, in the least likely of spots, and finding it changed my day.

Annoyed at having waited until five o'clock to finish writing and head home, I pounded down the stairs to the blue line stop at Washington and Dearborn. As I battled the crowd of corporate clones, the most pleasant sound echoed back to me. It was the sound of a lazy afternoon, of a light-hearted crush, of la vie en rose. It was the sound of Dixieland jazz.

There, in the middle of the platform were two musicians, swaying and bopping, rambling along without a care in the world. One young man with thinning blond hair played a tuba and a skinny man wearing a black hat played the trombone. He wore tambourine symbols around his ankles that he clicked together when the song grew especially chipper.

Dixieland jazz transformed the dingy corridor into a lively music hall. Commuters shyly turned towards the sound as they watched for an approaching train, distracted from their newspapers and novels. A few tapped their feet, a few nodded, and it was clear they envied these musicians. I surely did, for it was apparent by their energy and conviction that there was nothing else they wanted in all their lives but to play the syncopated rhythms of this lovely music.

As I find myself in the middle of an existential crisis, I felt inspired to see artists so content with life. And instead of worrying about my own predicament – to chase a dream or settle for money – I merely listened to the music and let myself drift to the sunny afternoon of which it spoke.

Even the trains seemed to belong to another time, chugging into the station as though from Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, as though the people riding them weren’t distressed about bills and loans and unemployment.

I rode the train home, cheerful all the way, hardly bothered by the crowds and the unexpected stops. For a few moments, life felt A-Okay, and I basked in it as long as I could.

India Town Afternoon

With an uncertain future and an empty wallet, it seems now, more than ever, I ache to be a foreigner again. Few experiences are more enlivening than being a foreigner, navigating the narrow streets of a metropolis amidst its unusual patterns, colors, and smells. At once I feel the need to find the one taste or smell to forever imprint the experience in my memory, while at the same time not understanding much of anything, and accepting that I never really will.

So when my restlessness and nostalgia are particularly strong, I celebrate one great appeal of a cosmopolitan city: its vibrant, ethnic neighborhoods where, if I get off at the right El stop, I can be uncomfortably immersed into a busy crowd. One of my favorite places to do this is in India Town (Devon Avenue to Chicagoans), where I often hear languages I don’t understand, see no one I recognize, and Chicago’s skyscrapers are seemingly thousands of miles away.

Just four or five congested blocks comprise India Town at the northwestern edge of Chicago. The first thing I do after the long journey there is go to the Nikhar Beauty Salon for the best brow thread in Chicago. Nikhar in itself is unremarkable with its grey walls, faded posters, soft Indian pop music, and a neon sign in the window. But when it comes to price and service, it more than delivers.

As soon as I walk in, a friendly woman ushers me to an empty chair, without having made a reservation. I lay back as the woman begins. She runs the thread back and forth, back and forth, quickly and methodically, and speaks to the other women in their native language. I have no idea if she’s gossiping about the arch of my brow or India’s newest pop star. Every now and then she instructs me to hold something, her accent thick and the rhythm of her English unfamiliar. When she’s done my brows look prefect, as if I’d gone to a five-star salon downtown, instead of this little gem that charged me pennies in comparison.

After the brow thread, if I’m with friends, I head to one of the many Indian buffets on Devon, where I eat more food than necessary for a Sunday afternoon. I default to the Indian Garden, its décor straight out of a 1993 wedding banquet, its buffet predictable but reliable with curries, lamb, chicken, rice, vegetables, and my favorite, green beans with coconut. The staff is friendly, my water glass never empty, and the naan plentiful. After a feast of a meal, I have spent less than $15 and will be content for hours, even days, to come.

The third stop of the afternoon is at one of India Town’s grocery stores. In front, children and elderly gather to watch sugar cane ground through a machine to make sweet drinks on a summer day. Inside, mothers and father stock up on goods from the homeland. At these stores, the produce is fresh and reasonably priced. There are mangoes and star fruit and even a cucumber that looks like a snake. I imagine these exotic fruits and vegetables come from a secluded jungle far from the gleaming concrete jungle of Chicago. Here in the India Town markets are the most interesting packages of noodles and rice and cookies and crackers, clearly made somewhere with different ideas of what’s alluring and appealing, what is idolized and what sells. In India Town, I feel far from the sophisticated marketing schemes of yuppie grocery stores in the city, where I’m convinced to spend $10 on a box of organic rice. In India Town, I’m not lured into buying the more expensive product because of how it will make me look. Here, I merely buy because what I see looks good.

It reminds me of the food stalls crowding Seoul’s narrow streets, pointing to what I want and guessing how much it will cost. Or those afternoons at E-Mart, Korea’s national grocery chain, where the products looked familiar, but didn’t always turn out to be what I wanted. Back then, I never forgot that I was a foreigner and never felt more alive in my own haze of misunderstanding and communicative inadequacies.

I leave the grocery store and wander in and out of a few more before my trek back to Wicker Park. Having made a tiny dent in my wallet, I feel full and satisfied. I still have the urge to hop a plane to another continent, but with the taste of exotic food and unfamiliar sounds still lingering, for now it’s enough to keep me happy in Chicago.

Warning Signs

Big cities are full of warnings. Whether we hear them from friends or in urban legends, we know not to go to certain areas after dark and we learn not to use public transportation on game day. Some warnings are far more serious than others, as the consequences of ignoring them can span from embarrassment to jail to death.

Live in the city long enough and we become experts at which warnings need heeding and which don’t, and we can laugh at those who don’t know the difference.

This happened to me today when I watched a rookie truck driver cause a massive traffic jam on North Avenue, having ignored an obvious warning sign.

Unmovable North Avenue traffic on a weekday afternoon is rare. As soon as I stepped outside, I saw stationary taillights lined up at least a half-mile in front of my apartment. Realizing I could walk faster than traffic moved, I soon caught up with the North Avenue bus at the site of the traffic jam. There, just past the Kennedy Expressway, a semi-truck was stuck under the Metra overpass. The top of the truck grated the iron rafters of the bridge, hopelessly ignorant of that yellow sign warning of a twelve foot, six inch clearance.

It was a mess, as traffic exiting the expressway fed into the bottleneck. A group of CTA workers huddled in the choked lanes, deciding what to do. A young woman walking by shouted at them in a thick accent, “Ever think of lettin’ the fuckin’ air outta the fuckin’ tires?”

“Ever think of watchin’ your fuckin’ mouth?”

I continued walking and noticed that the driver was still seat-belted in the truck. He seemed either unaware of the mess or didn’t want to face it. Such a silly situation, I thought, for the warning sign had been so blatantly clear. What kind of person sees that and moves forward anyway? What must that driver’s thought process have been like? That bridge looks mighty low. There's a good chance I could get stuck, and anger a lot of people. But I will go there anyway because I can’t seem to stop myself.

At some time or another, we are all like that truck driver. We press forth when the warning signs are painfully clear. It might not even be ignorance; it might just be an urge to press our luck. Most of the time though, we already know luck has nothing to do with it, and we go ahead anyway. For the driver, going under that bridge was the fastest way from point A to point B and he was too impatient to take the longer, but ultimately more successful route. For the rest of us, it is likely impatience and unruly curiosity that get us in trouble. The only time we’re lucky is when the incident passes as quickly as it began and we annoy as few people as possible.

In Chicago, there are many warnings and even more chances for us to ignore them. Thankfully, we get wiser. After some time, our mistakes damage fewer and take less time to fix. Only then can we discern which warnings deserve heeding and which don’t. Knowing that is the difference between being stupid and taking a risk that may just pay off in the end. Let’s just hope we recognize the moments when they appear.

Those Who Come and Go From Chicago

A city’s life is visible in the way it changes, and more importantly, who changes it. Gangsters, politicians, hipsters, punks – they’re the ones who corrupted Chicago’s neighborhoods, turned sketchy bars into artsy hangouts, and commissioned some of the city’s most beautiful buildings. No matter their reputation, the mark they left on Chicago is undeniable.

But there are also those who stamp Chicago in small ways that go unnoticed by the general public. For me, these people were my personal tour guides and my partners in crime. They were equally curious about Chicago’s attractions and mysteries. They were special people who helped me love Chicago, but have since left the city for good. Knowing them in the city has significantly changed my life here.

It all started by envying my sister’s life in Chicago while I lived in Wisconsin. Chicago nurtured Stephanie’s admirable independence, where she could live as a true artist. Stephanie painted the streets of Wicker Park, made this city her own, and inspired me to do the same.

In my first city post-college/Korea, it was Heather Lee, a friend from college, who showed me how to keep part of Madison alive here in Chicago. Heather brought me to Badger games at Redmond’s and Will’s on fall Saturdays, and introduced me to countless friends at her beer-themed house parties.

It was at one such “Bring Strange Beer” party that I met Christine and Gisella, twentysomethings with more curiosity about Chicago than anyone I’ve met. For when I was with Christine and Gisella, I discovered Indian food and brow threads on Devon. With these girls, I salsa danced for the first time at Rumba, tried Chicago’s own Argo Tea, ran around downtown on St. Patrick’s Day, and realized that the suburbs aren’t so bad when they have swimming pools. With Christine and Gisella, I ventured to Castaways at North Avenue Beach, and never felt compelled to go again. I discovered the best noraebang in the city where I can taste Korea any time I miss it. These are girls who measure a day’s success by the amount of food they try and the number of people they meet. They broadened my horizons by expanding the places I visit, giving me the travel bug in my own city.

It’s unreasonable for us to expect friends to stay a long time, just as we shouldn’t expect cities to remain unchanged. All we can do is appreciate how these things have impacted us, and in turn, how we might have impacted them. Because of Stephanie, Heather, Christine, Gisella, and all the others who have come and gone from the city, Chicago is forever changed.

The Cost of Living

It seems like everyone these days is weighing the cost of living in Chicago. All we do is wonder how long we can survive before moving home. Just as with the cold, we wonder why we try so hard to make it here when taxes are high, politicians corrupt, and groceries expensive.

Last week, over espresso and paninis at Caffe de Luca, my friend, J.Z., and I talked at length about this dilemma. With so many variables in our lives – the economy, relationships, jobs, families – we wondered if life is supposed to feel like a permanent juggling routine. Are we always waiting for something to drop and our lives to fall apart?

Long ago, my dad warned about the excesses of our culture, of people living beyond their means. We are a consumerist culture and we have come to expect a lot from life. As J.Z. and I continued to talk, we started to realize that while some of our unhappiness couldn’t be helped, a lot of it could. As Americans, we’ve tricked ourselves into believing that retail therapy actually works. Just because we can’t buy and drink and style our way to satisfaction, life seems unbearable.

It may seem that because stock markets are crashing, we are too. But we know better; we know that no matter who we are or how much money we have, loved ones die and couples break, we lose our jobs and our families fight. All that changes – all that has ever changed – is our attitude and whom we choose to bring with us.

That’s how I see it, anyway, for as I returned to Chicago this weekend, unsure of how I was going to make it to Monday, I felt overwhelmed by this bright city. Driving into the city, the skyline a welcome mat, it reminded me of traveling to Chicago as a kid, when my siblings and I competed to spot the Sears Tower first. Compared to quiet Green Bay, Chicago’s city streets showed us the exciting lives we could have.

In Chicago, we could meet people from all over the world, whether it was at a corner grocery store or a Cubs game. We could watch sailboats from the Lincoln Park Zoo. We could run through the lobbies of grand hotels or world-renowned museums. Leaving Chicago depressed me back then, but it gave me something to dream about on dreary school days. Indeed, the only way I made it through middle and high school was in knowing I was destined for the flavorful city life.

So here I am, broke as a joke in an expensive city and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. My house may not look like a catalog and I may not be in the middle of a whirlwind romance, but I am indeed on my way to living the life I always wanted. I’ve met life-long friends in Chicago, had unforgettable days and nights, and my life feels multi-dimensional, no matter how difficult it seems. As I watch the famous skyline rise above the city amidst a wintry sunset, I can see what lies ahead of me. There is more to do and more people to meet and I’ve only just started.

Maybe we should all be more mindful of that.

Avoiding Rush Hour

It may be that the best things in life are shared, but the bigger they are, the more they must be shared. This second truism explains our appreciation for unconventional beauty and quirky personalities. It’s why tourists are despised. We love having things all to ourselves. And so, we must go out of our way to fully enjoy the things in life that are most loved.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in the city. It may have something to do with growing up in a small city, for Chicago natives stuck in grid-lock on a precious Saturday seem unfazed. But for those of us from quiet cities with wide streets, waiting more than ten minutes for anything is extraordinary. Growing up, the only traffic jams I knew surrounded Lambeau Field. For people like me, big cities seem crowded all the time, whether it’s in a museum, on the el, at a bar, or along Michigan Avenue. Hit any of these places when they’re most popular and I feel exhausted before I begin.

The first city where I felt like this was Seoul, where every hour was rush hour. Nothing irritated me more than standing for an hour on the subway at ten p.m. on a weeknight. I dreaded navigating a transfer station amidst ten thousand Koreans, rushing by on both the right and left, their only concern the departing train behind me. Throwing elbows was imperative to surviving the chaos. At times, I had to give up, abandon my agenda, and follow the crowd, especially in the consumer-frenzied COEX Mall or Myeongdong shopping district. Other times, I did anything to avoid a crowd, no matter how out-of-the-way it was.

Compared to Seoul’s congestion, Chicago is an amateur, but it doesn’t mean it’s immune. During rush hour or on the blue line, I feel claustrophobic, anxious, annoyed. I get irritated with things that have nothing to do with the people around me. My alarm was too loud this morning. The pages of my book always stick together. Why were there no Red Eyes left? These things would go wholly unnoticed if I had a seat and weren’t staring into someone’s hair-covered coat.

Thus, one of the most valuable things I have learned while in Chicago is how to take advantage of its quiet moments. After a year and a half becoming significantly annoyed, I have cultivated the best ways to enjoy a headache-free Chicago:

Avoid rush hour
For almost four months, I worked from seven in the morning until four in the afternoon. Waking up at five a.m. was brutal, but my day was noticeably brighter on half-empty trains and wide-open sidewalks.

Wrigleyville is better on Thursdays
Thursday nights in Wrigleyville are void of its most unattractive parts: unnecessary cover charges, over-priced liquor, and duders with nothing but a pick-up line. Whether its cheap sangria at The Bar Celona or a free cover band at the Cubby Bear, my friends and I delight in fighting no one to have fun on Clark Street.

Forget that cute little brunch place everyone raves about and go Mexican instead
There’s this yuppie-meets-hipster brunch place in Wicker Park whose line out the door is as much a signature as its white chocolate and caramel covered pretzel pancakes. While imaginative and charming, patrons are rushed in, out of step with the laid-back rhythm of a Saturday morning. Far more enjoyable is Caoba, a Mexican restaurant whose wait staff is eager to please, whose chips and salsa are constantly replenished, and whose tasty food arrives quickly and lasts all day.

If you must go somewhere popular, be early and have a backup plan
As should be expected from the most fabulous speakeasy in the city, The Violet Hour has quite the demand come Saturday night. So popular is this Wicker Park hangout that patrons are actually turned away. After many attempts to show it off to friends, I realized just how early I had to arrive to get inside. Thus, I either get there at six p.m. or drink at the diner next door until my name is called (they call your phone, how chic!).

Find a way to be in the middle of it all without actually being in the middle of it
Millennium Park may be a Chicago landmark but the pictures don’t look so great with a hundred other tourists in them. Instead, check out the lawn of the Shedd Aquarium, whose grassy hill on the bank of Lake Michigan offers one of the best skyline views. A mere ten minutes from Millennium Park, it has become my favorite Zen place in the city. The sun shines brightly and the breeze from the lake is pleasant and cool. It is the best place to feel the energy of the city without any chaos.

Savor a good walk
There are few Saturdays or Sundays when I must be somewhere at a certain time, so instead of rushing, I lose myself in a good walk. Often the best way to explore a city, walking means not thinking about the bus that’s twenty minutes late, crawls once it finally arrives, and is so full it could bust open at any moment. To avoid the headache, I make a great playlist and happily enjoy Chicago’s streets with my own soundtrack and easy footwork.

Getting Used to the Cold

We in the Midwest often think we’re tougher than everyone else. Given our brutally cold winters, we believe our superhuman blood equips us to withstand Mother Nature’s harshest moods. Midwesterners believe it is a rite of passage, surviving a full year of blizzards, droughts, and everything in between. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.

But are we really as tough as that?

Maybe not, but we must survive anyway. And part of that survival lies in knowing what the landscape ahead looks like. Now that I’ve lived through twenty-five, bone chilling, Midwestern winters, I’ve begun to understand what to expect. When it is thirty degrees below zero, I know to make the most of my time in the sun. I know to wear ski gear in layers and forget about fashion. I read the thermometer before stepping out so I know just how to lean into the wind. I’ve learned to navigate Chicago’s underground tunnels and avoid certain el stops so I don’t have to step outside. I’ve learned to walk fast, because running hurts even more.

But there are times, when no matter how much I’ve prepared, I’m still not ready. I heard the news and I brace myself, ready to plow through the wind. And outside, my expectations are exactly right. It sucks. It stings. I’m mad at the whole world because it’s still difficult even though I knew it would feel this way.

It’s enough to make me reconsider my whole lifestyle. It’s enough to make me wonder if I really need to venture out to begin with. When it’s so cold, can’t I just stay inside, safe and warm?

Obvious reason aside – I doubt I could get exclusive privilege to telecommute for four months – there are plenty of justifications to face the cold. When we don’t venture out, we lack a depth of perception, a sense of reality, and we risk losing ourselves completely. When we don’t venture out, we forget just how fragile our safety and warmth is inside. It could all collapse in a second, and we’d be alone in the cold and darkness.

So we must depend on our tools, skills, and even our vices, to pull us through the depths of winter. And the more we endure, the more we acquire, so that each time, it’s just a little easier. Indeed, it changes our blood.

Better yet, there are times when I prepare for the worst, and it’s better than I expected. I prepared for snow and instead it is melting. I expected gray and instead there is sunshine. I saw wind and instead felt a breeze. It is beyond a pleasant surprise – it is a true miscalculation of expectations and it feels wonderful.

Does that mean it’s better to rid ourselves of expectations to roll with the punches? Absolutely not. But it does mean survival is easier with a positive outlook and chipper disposition. They’re so much more charming than doubt and insecurity besides. It may not make a person tough, but at least it makes her happy.

Inaugeration Day 2009

On this most historical day in American history, it seems appropriate to remember Chicago's greatest moment in recent history. On Election Night 2008 I was one of the lucky Chicagoans at the Obama Rally in Grant Park. My story may not be extraordinary for anyone else, but for me, it was the most incredible night of my life. The enormity of this once-in-a-lifetime night compelled me to write about it. Below is the email I sent to family and friends the day after the election.

The night started at three in the afternoon, as I met up with seven other friends at the entrance to Grant Park. Through a series of corrals and checkpoints over the next four hours, we chatted with strangers, speculated outcomes, and joked around. As we neared the final check-point at seven thirty, we could hear Wolf Blitzer faintly in the distance, and murmurs and then shouts ran through the crowd. "Virginia?? He won Virginia??? What? Oh. Pennsylvania. That's old news." At seven thirty, my friends and I entered the main event, already packed with thousands of people. The stadium lights, the jumbo-tron, the concentration of news cameras, the skyline, that stage off in the distance -- it was overwhelming. With little thought, we made our way into the crowd where we stayed for the next four hours.

The next four hours felt like the biggest, coolest party in the world. CNN was broadcast from the jumbo-tron and we had a perfect view. We tapped our feet, tried to get on TV, and watched the election unfold before us. The first group of states Obama won were no surprise, but drew loud cheers anyway, a warm-up for later. Even Elizabeth Dole's defeat drew woot-woots and fist-pumps. As CNN evenly projected the states, people speculated the chance of a McCain upset. The optimists scoffed, "There's no way Obama can’t win. How can you think that?" To which my friend Rob aptly replied, "I'm a liberal and a Cubs fan. I know what disappointment feels like."

The first memorable moment was victory in Ohio. The crowd bobbed up and down in celebration, and we all patted my friend Laura on the back for voting absentee in Ohio. Then we got updates for other states, their chronology a blur. Obama was leading in Florida. Obama won Wisconsin, Michigan, New Mexico, Colorado, Minnesota. Then, on CNN John King hypothetically gave McCain every other state up for grabs. That's when we knew. Rob, Laura, Christine, Jake, Carolyn, Jim, and Justin and I all looked at each other, a look I have never seen in my life. It was first a question and then an answer. He's really going to win.

Even though we knew, nothing prepared us for what was next. Again, just chit-chatting in anticipation, we stopped when CNN said a major announcement was on the way. We stared at the screen in anticipation. They were going to call California. Washington maybe. Hawaii too. And then "CNN Breaking News" flashed on the screen.

The crowd exploded before I saw the full sentence on screen: "Barack Obama elected President."

For as long as I live, I will never, ever forget that moment. I could barely form thoughts, for these unfamiliar feelings of success and elation were bursting to get out. We looked at each other with eyes bulging and mouths open. A million thoughts flooded my brain in a second: Omgomgomg. President Barack Obama. White House. Bye bye Bush. African American. Leader of the Free World. Kenya. Hawaii. Irag. Afganistan. Indonesia. North Korea. Chicago. Grant Park. This is History.

We jumped and jumped and jumped. Screamed at the top of our lungs. Clapped until our hands were raw. We hugged and high-fived. Quite literally smack-dab in the middle of two hundred thousand people, we could hardly take it all in. It was like time stopping, and speeding ahead at the same time. It was like winning the Super Bowl, graduating from college, returning home from a long absence, New Year's Eve, and hearing my favorite song all at once. It's hard to imagine feeling that ever again.

Maybe it seems a bit much, but for my friends and me, this was all so rare. Victory. Joy. Possibility. For the liberals of my generation, the only major history we've witnessed were school shootings and 9/11. The last time our "team" won an election was 1996, when we were just twelve. For two-thirds of our lives, the other side has won. For two-thirds of our lives, we had to remind ourselves, "Maybe next time." For one-third of our lives, it felt odd to chant "USA" without sarcasm. For one-third of our lives, the American flag represented "Maverick diplomacy" and "fear of the foreigner." We came of age in a country lead by a man we hate, an administration we fear, and an ideology we reject. But finally, FINALLY, our pessimism gave way to optimism.

At the rally, I chanted "USA! USA! USA!" at the top of my lungs with every other American there. We put our hands on our hearts during the Pledge of Allegiance. We joined in the National Anthem, singing without reservation. We were Democrats, we were liberals, this was our America too and we wanted the whole world to know it.

The rest of the night can only be described as the purest form of rejoicing I've ever seen. I grinned the whole time, receiving jubilant texts and voicemails from friends and family. All that was left was Obama himself.

When he finally did arrive, we cheered and stood on our tip-toes hoping for a glance. Because we stood on flat ground, we had no view of him except on the jumbo-tron. I never actually saw him. But I heard him, and felt that giant crowd respond to the memorable speech, and even noticed the Secret Service helicopters above. The crowd was relatively quiet, listening, some too emotional to cheer. I felt proud and was incredibly grateful to have been there.

The next morning, I woke to my alarm. I shook my head, rubbed my eyes, thought ‘Is it five already?’ and then stopped when I remembered the night before. Holy cow, ohmygod, Barack Obama is President of the United States.

It was a beautiful day to wake up in America.

Shake the Blues Away in Chicago

Only in a truly fabulous city can you start the weekend in a terrible mood, convinced that a good portion of the people in this world are inherently bad, and end the weekend feeling hopeful, the blues having been charmed away.

It started Friday night at Kingston Mines, one of Chicago’s great live music venues. Egged on by the emcee’s cheers for Chicago’s pride and joy – “Can I get a yeah for Obama?!” – I danced and danced, the steady bass my lead, the electric riff my motivation. Jake accompanied me on the floor, likely out of pity (albeit well-concealed pity), just so I didn’t have to dance alone. With good friends at my side, I felt loved, and felt great joy in my heart for those around me.

This feeling continued Saturday afternoon at Doug’s house in Lincoln Park, where I found the host drunk and disproportionately happy. Grilling one turkey outside and roasting another inside, Doug entertained a few of us with hilarious stories and inappropriate jokes. The thing I love about Doug is his simple sense of purpose. Only Doug could host a Thanksgiving dinner in January for no other reason but his everlasting love of good food and good friends. By the time I left, I had laughed my way to contentment.

Saturday night hit a peak more than ninety stories above Chicago, at the Signature Lounge in the John Hancock Building. Always touristy, but surprisingly charming, my friends and I sipped cocktails, pretending our lives were more glamorous than they are, watching the world glitter below. It reminded me of the nights I gazed at Seoul behind the glass of Namsan Tower, enthralled by the lights and activity below. Above the city like that, I felt there was nowhere else I’d rather be but Chicago.

In big-city fashion, I followed the lofty Signature Lounge with a stop at the very grounded Map Room in Bucktown. A true neighborhood corner bar, the Map Room boasts map-papered walls, shelf after shelf of National Geographics, and the best imported beer in town. I chatted the rest of the night away with Christine, Doug, and Safet. A tasty framboise in hand, surrounded by a refreshingly impartial crowd, I felt totally satisfied.

Sunday rounded out the weekend with some pleasant surprises. The afternoon was sunny, so even though I had to work, the views from my office were beautiful, and happily reminded me of the night before. For dinner, my friend Matt took me out for Korean barbecue, where we reminisced about living and traveling abroad. Always down for something exciting, Matt suggested we follow dinner with salsa dancing at the Cubby Bear. It turned out to be a memorable night of dance lessons and Latin rhythms. I went home feeling as though I’ve only just begun to discover Chicago’s fun.

Now the weekend has ended, and even though I made little progress on anything of consequence, I’m in high spirits. I’m in a better place than at the beginning of the weekend, convinced I have the best friends in the world.

Waiting for Summer

As much as I’ve come to like Chicago, it’s worth pointing out that it was during the winter that I nearly left it for good. It’s no secret that Chicago is unbearable in the winter: the unforgiving arctic wind, the un-shoveled walks, the inadequate CTA, the seeming lack of trees, the blaring eyesores. Without the white-light avenues and twinkling skyline, Chicago is flat out ugly in the winter. So ugly, in fact, that most Chicagoans consider moving to California at least once a week.

As I feel with any multi-dimensional being, I’m disappointed to see its unfavorable side. On particularly challenging days, I throw a fit and swear it off for good. When I see the unattractive side, I wonder how I was ever charmed by it in the first place. And just when I’m on the brink of writing this thing out of my life for good, it delivers a pleasant surprise, and I see its goodness once again.

Chicago delivers its pleasant surprise in the spring, continuing through the end of fall. For the thing that lures us to Chicago, and what keeps us coming back, is the summer. I fell in love with Chicago during the summer and the city became my home.

And what a summer that was.

I watched that summer from the lawn of the Shedd and the offices of Aon. I drank that summer at the Drake Hotel and the Violet Hour. I screamed that summer on Six Flags roller coasters. I danced that summer at Danny’s. I tasted that summer at Greek Fest and Wicker Park Fest and May Fest. I caught butterflies that summer at the Coldplay concert with Katy. I heard that summer at Union Park with Vampire Weekend and Spoon. I saw that summer on the silver screen as Batman saved our city.

There was Venetian Night with Marcy and friends, watching the sky sparkle from the cool grass along Lake Shore Drive.

There was the third of July, gallivanting around the loop with Rob, and a million other people too.

There was that afternoon with Blair when we started a heart-to-heart at North Avenue Beach and finished with espressos at L’Appetito at John Hancock.

And there were those lunches in Grant Park, reading in the garden, watching the old men rest on park benches, the nearby traffic quieted by the flowers. There were those lunches too, walking with Carolyn to Buckingham Fountain, chatting with Christine in the shaded grass of Millennium Park, listening to cheesy music with Jake in the plaza.

There was that night that started with tequila in Wicker Park and ended with country-western dancing in Uptown at five o’clock the next morning.

There was that game when I cheered on the Sox with Jessica, the Cross-town Classic at Wrigley when Chicago divided into black & white, red & blue.

There was that afternoon snapping pictures at Lincoln Park Zoo with long-lost friends from college.

There was that date by candlelight on south Michigan, the air still, the possibilities endless, the city suddenly poetic and romantic.

I remember my first Chicago as baby-blue skies, golden sunsets, emerald green grass, fireworks and catchy melodies, running around the city, north to south, with nothing to lose.

I can’t help but wonder that when the summer is that good, is it great enough to withstand those intolerable winter months? Must our feelings always be so volatile? What is the value of being patient with the muck and irritation?

The fact is, we are all valuable creatures and our attention must be earned. We must be persuaded to stay through the winter so we can enjoy the summer. We also must be convinced that bits of summer can be found in the dead of winter. And when someone or something convinces us to stay, we hope that the investment will have been worth it.

This is my second winter in Chicago, and I believe my investment was worth it. I‘m enjoying brilliantly sunny days and endless nights more than ever before. I’m just so much more excited for what’s to come once the temperature climbs above zero.

Get to the Point at Danny's

There are few things more irritating than a putz. Hemming and hawing, every decision is dramatic yet unbelievably lacking in exigency. A putz is complacent, free from the agony of passion without an outlet. They lack agency and watch opportunity pass them by.

Personally, I am far too impatient to waste time deciding how I feel about things. Most often, I am lucky enough to feel immediately and have a hard time understanding those who can’t even identify their feelings. Maybe this is a bit judgmental, and I try to be conscious of this flaw. Nevertheless, my appreciation runs deep for all things straightforward.

One of those straightforward things especially close to my heart is Chicago’s best hangout, Danny’s. Every night is bettered by a stop to Danny’s.

Situated around a quiet corner just off Damen, it’s a bar in a house, barely recognizable but for the Schlitz sign and thumping base. Inside, its unpolished wood floors creak with the weight of the dancing crowd, tables strewn about, candles lighting the place here and there. Reminiscent of the best house parties in college, Danny’s drinks are cheap, its air thick, its energy contagious, and its music fantastic.

Danny’s gets to the point. From the no-BS bouncer to its minimal decoration, Danny’s seems to say, “I am a bar. You can dance. You can talk. You can do whatever you want. And then some.” At the same time, Danny’s has the uncanny ability to keep away the duders, sorostitutes, and wannabes. It is the most wonderful filter for those of us who absolutely love Danny’s. You either love it or you hate it, and if you’re not sure, don’t bother, there’s a line.

In a world suffocated by insecurities, Danny’s is a refreshing escape. It seems like everyone these days is in the middle of an identity crisis – insecure, unsure, afraid to make a move, and too complacent to chase what really matters. Danny’s knows what it is. It encourages those who know who they are and what they want.

I love Danny’s because it makes me feel like myself. I love Danny’s because I feel satisfied – like I’ve just made a series of decisions with rewarding outcomes. I love Danny’s because I can end any night there and feel fantastic. I love Danny’s for its lack of pretension. I love Danny’s because it is everything I love about Chicago.

The Latest Great City

I believe every great city has a pulse emanating from its center to its very edges, creating in its wake a kind of illusion to which everyone feels drawn. Cities that pulse are cities that inspire, cities that move and change and grow, drawing people in and never letting go.

New York, Rome, Kuala Lumpur. These are just a few of my favorite cities with that inimitable beating heart. They have diverse, compact neighborhoods, gorgeous skylines, flavorful food, summer festivals, great shopping, and above all, incredibly interesting people. And after visiting these cities, I could barely imagine living without that kind of identity.

For a while, I didn’t believe Chicago had it. I didn’t feel physically drawn to one central place, nowhere with the lights and life, nowhere to feel revitalized. I had been to Chicago hundreds of times, to Wrigleyville, Navy Pier, John Hancock, and even Wicker Park. So when I moved here, I was simply not curious about the city.

Granted, there were other factors to consider. Out of college for a year, I thought I had transitioned into the real world, that I had grown up and grown a thicker skin. Little did I know, the transition was just beginning. It took forever to find a job, and even longer to realize how long it would take to do what I really wanted. It took forever to find a café to really spend some time at. It took forever to make new friends, find a nightlife, and find that groove to remind me that indeed, life had changed since college. I felt unhappy and figured Chicago was to blame. Without energy and identity from my immediate surroundings, I felt especially lost.

Now, more than a year later, I can see that it wasn’t the physical landscape of the city getting me down. It was a whole bunch of factors I couldn’t control, but that I had to live and work through anyway. In the process I transitioned and changed and perhaps found that beat – if slightly faint – that I so longed for.

If I were to pinpoint one moment when everything changed, it would be a Sunday in April when I went south for the first time. Initiated by the always-curious Christine, I met up with her, Jenn, and Marcy in Chinatown, spending an afternoon with three beautiful, intelligent, fun, new friends, seeing a side of Chicago I had never seen before. It was seeing new angles on the buildings, discovering new tastes and smells on the little cliché streets of Chinatown that I realized how little I really did know or appreciate about the city. I was bored and turned off until I saw this new side – and not an especially glamorous side, but one with an interesting story and its own little beat.

And then I realized that maybe Chicago didn’t run on one huge generator in the middle of the city. Instead, Chicago’s energy pulsed from many, many little points around the city. I also realized how it is the people who not only make you love where you are, but who also make a city’s pulse. Since that day in April, I’ve made new friends, discovered old ones, and am happiest when they are all together. After all, Chicago, just like anything worth the effort, is most enjoyed when it is shared.