I walked what feels like 10 miles today. I sat down in Millennium Park and watched a bundle of Jewish men with their black pants, white dress shirts and the traditional yarmulke playing a game of football. I love watching a mix of cultures collide and clash in this overwhelming city.
Since I moved to Chicago I have yet to do the touristy thing and venture out and explore the innards of the city. The year before I moved, I had the tourist locations down to a science.
I have these moments when I am taken aback. Moments when I look at symbolic Chicago, the Sears Tower, the Bean, Navy Pier, the Hancock Building, and I say to myself, I live here. Sometimes that awe captures me and cradles me into a nostalgic cocoon. Sometimes, I have to really be in it, really absorb myself into the moment. I live here. I live here.
On the way back to my cozy little apartment on the outskirts of downtown, where I can look down my street and see the Hancock Building in plain eyesight, Mori and I discussed the prior day's events. Jolted swiftly out of my dreamy city views, I decided... the city will eat me alive. Which it has in ways. Which it did yesterday. Which it has on many occasions in the past two years.
I find myself being tricky. Maneuvering my way out of situations and falling back into others. I find myself being a mixture of feisty and sweet. The Iowa sweetness I was known for fades and rises and quickly fades again.
The smell of the city, I tell Mori, is like a carnival. The food, from the city's massive amount of restaurants, mixed with the subtle flavors of the car smog... is delicious.
If the city plans to eat me alive, I hope it does. I hope I go down with ease. I hope there won't be any struggle. I hope I preface the entire maneuver with, that was a great ride. So go ahead city, eat me.
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