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.