Arriving in Chicago

Yesterday was hard. I woke up at 5:30 a.m. to finish packing and taping boxes, looked on craigslist for apartment listings, did the frantic, empty odds-and-ends of moving day. My ex-fiance wanted to hug me when he left for work, his lip quivering, eyes dog-wet. I didn't want to cry—too much a waste of time—and luckily put off tears.

I got my luggage into the car and drove out of town, thinking to myself again that my favorite view of the town I lived in was a backward glance in a rearview mirror. But heeding the advice given Lot's wife, I didn't take even that reflected look, and left town looking only to the future. I kept wanting to cry in the car; it was strange to be leaving for good after so many years wanting to do just that.

Yesterday was the real break-up for my ex-fiance and me—the parting. Hard, hard. Coming to Chicago gave me comfort, knowing my future would be brighter, knowing I wouldn't be stuck in the ghost world of perpetual reminders, of purgatory.

I drove into the city on the Skyway and then took Lake Shore Drive north, carefully choosing the views that meant most to me, the ones that would let me know I had arrived. The lake was icy and pale, but joggers and bicyclists were still out in force. The first glimpse of the familiar lake nearly brought me to tears again. Such bitter sweetness in finally being here, a place my own volition had brought me.

I got to Roscoe Street in Lakeview ahead of schedule and sat in my car, letting the day's stress dissipate from me like steam rising from a kettle on the boil, frizzing my hair. When the time came around, I went into my friends' cozy apartment to wait out the hours until my host for the next two weeks would arrive home and I could go to his house near Lincoln Square and crash, train wreck that I already was. All I really wanted was a drink, but what I had was an herbal relaxation supplement. (Here's to your health.)

My thoughtful friend in Lakeview gave me a welcome package with maps, CTA schedules, Chicago-made products (which thank the gods included chocolate), and an Illinois Lotto ticket—I won nothing but loved it anyway. We chatted until it was time for me to get back into my car and go north. My host, Brick, and his husband, Juanito, a beautiful man from just outside Aguas Calientes, took me to dinner at a great little bistro (they smoked their own trout, how now). We spoke Spanish throughout the meal so I could practice and keep up what I learned in Mexico. It rained. And rained. And rained. Juanito put his arm around my waist and drew me under the umbrella.

Back at the house, Brick and I talked a long time over 12 year-old Scotch, getting into our pajamas and crawling into my bed. I've known him since we were stupid high school kids together in our tiny town, just testing out our personalities, just finding out our likes and dislikes, preferences, just determining the courses of our lives without any idea that's what we were doing. It was like being a kid again. It helped me feel less lonely.

This morning, my first morning in Chicago, is sunny. Already the night's chill is coming off the air, water on the cars instead of frost. Spring smells, bird chatter, children's wild whoops fill the air. Better times await me.