It all passed so quickly.
I finished my in flight movie, six dollars and I don’t even get to watch the commentary, when I looked out the window and I see under a smattering of cloud coverage a vast expanse of lights. A mass of humanity reduced at this height to twinkling dots and lines among the surrounding darkness. The size of that stretch of shimmer could only be boasted by a few cities in this country, only one of which I was passing on this route: Chicago.
Direct flight: Salt Lake City to JFK. The returning trip from my sister’s wedding. It was a beautiful ceremony I’m sure, not that I could tell you personally. Mormon weddings happen in their temples, card carrying members only. I haven’t been in one for 5 years, and haven’t been in with clear conscious for a few years more than that, but I was still eager to see my family. The incoming flight was anti-climatic. I didn’t realize till I was in the air how much I wanted to see Chicago. Yet, we passed to far south, cutting across Indiana and southern Illinois, no where near The Black City. I kept my eyes on the flight route on the screen embedded into the seat in front of me. I craned my neck to get some sort of view when we were in the area, but to no avail. So on the return, the happy return to my home of Brooklyn, I assumed we’d be on the same route and didn’t even give it a thought.
Then it was under me, glowing in the dark night. I looked on with equal measures of excitement and skepticism. Maybe it wasn’t Chicago? That was all silliness though, it was unmistakable, gleaming next to the inky black of Lake Michigan pocked with bright piers, notably Navy Pier jutting into her cautiously like a child’s toe testing the waters. This was my Chicago. I pressed my forehead against the small porthole and watched. Tears rolled freely down my cheeks as we drifted by.
It all passed so quickly.
I sat back in my seat. My fevered head left a damp spot against the thick plastic window. I didn’t particularly bother to hide my sniffling nose, I’d been making good use of my Kleenex box the entire trip anyhow.
I lived in Chicago for one year and four months, I always round it to a “couple years” when I’m telling people of my travels. It does generally strike me as odd how fondly I remember the city. The time that I spent in the city itself was abysmally small in comparison to the time I spent dwindling in its southern suburbs, amongst the cornfields and the city’s lower class outcasts. The trip to the city was an hour on the commuter train, The Metra, as it snaked through government protected woods and dilapidated lots scattered with broken glass glistened in the sun like diamonds. You were just as likely to see a buck foraging in the fallen leaves as you were a domestic disturbance. The train didn’t see either, it moved along steadily to the heart of the black city, the windy city, the great Chicago. The throngs would hurriedly dissipate amongst the dark towering buildings and the air would chill as if this area code were a separate plane of existence, all its own. Walking through the center of the city, The Loop, at night I would look at the gothic towers and wonder how this wasn’t the real inspiration for Gotham. The grimacing, crumbling faces of gargoyles staring through you; the overwhelmingly foreboding presence made by the deep blackness of her tallest towers; the swell of her river and the chill of her lake; the roar and sparks from the teetering elevated trains that cut through the scenery of even the most elegant neighborhoods and blocked sun from our lonely eyes; the prison that unsuccessfully tries to remain non-descript, but climbs above it’s neighbors and makes passer bys wonder whose eyes are peering through those slits of windows. Chicago: a skeleton once the dark comes, when the commuters have left to their homes, but she still speaks at night. Tales carried on the wind, she whistles in your ears and chills you to the bone.
I loved that city. It was clean, it was vibrant, it was beautiful. I cried the first time I saw the skyline coming towards me, the Sears Tower stood solidly at the center of it all, easily half of it’s bulk covered by the cloudy day, but still instantly recognizable. I remember coming out of classes late at night tired and defeated at the thought of being up early in the morning for a full day or work and then more classes. Then I would see the lights beaming on the bold, gothic eagles adorning the corners atop the giant stones that make up the grand and towering Chicago Public Library and it would set my heart on fire. I could feel it beating in my chest as if stabbed by a shot of adrenaline. I remember walking in the streets under the shadow of the elevated train tracks and looking to the sky as snow drifted down between the buildings. I remember winds that chilled me so deeply I though perhaps my ears and face would never fully return to normal use. I remember my dog seeing snow for the first time, romping around excitedly for so long his paws would hurt and we’d have to carry him back into the house. I remember my cat touching that white drift and recoiling as quickly as possible back to the warmth of the house. I remember Kyle. I remember coming to the city with all the hope in the world for our future together. I remember leaving it with a 4 year relationship fully extinguished.
I can’t help but think of him as I pass over. After long unappreciated days in business casual and business bullshit, he works part-time delivering sandwiches. He pines for a married woman, who still lives 2000 miles away and may never move for him. He dreams of a future that is constantly being pushed out of his grasp by excuses, whether his own or from the people who are close to him. Every night as he lays alone under the sheets it hurts. Feelings of frustration, failure and heart ache. I still care and I still worry. We talked at first. It was different certainly, but held a certain comfort. Now I know he doesn’t want to talk any longer, whether it’s his own hurt or something deemed necessary by his new love I don’t know, it doesn’t frankly matter. I respect his wishes as my stomach turns and my heart aches for that old city of Chicago.
Yet, my stomach leaped as I felt the plane start to descend. My home is now New York. The distinct shimmering grid let me easily smile down on my neighborhood. My heart is warmed, but only just enough. That’s the dichotomy of this city, the mixture of disdain and fierce loyalty. I know it will only be a matter of time till I move on. Till yet another plane brings me to a fresh destination that will become my home. Then this grid will be a no more than an ache in this ailing heart, a warm tear on this cheek as I pass over.
But that time is not now. So until then, hello New York, I’m home.
October 24, 2008 at 2:23 pm |
Hi Becca,
Nice writing…I have a Navy Pier blog mention round-up guide on my website and have featured your post about Chicago in it. If you’d like me to take it down. Otherwise, thanks, and keep writing. Jody.