My dad looks like a tourist. He and my stepmom are taking pictures of the skyscrapers every 30 feet and commenting on all the different languages they hear. They look like bumpkins, never mind people who are gainfully employed and well traveled. They ask me what it’s like to live in Chicago, how much of my time I spend at Navy Pier, and my thoughts of deep dish vs. thin crust pizza. I am reminded in our conversations that we may live 1,000 miles apart but we exist a world away.
A year and a half ago, this was just a pipe dream.
A year ago this was some scary reality.
Two months ago, it just started to feel like home.
Right now, it doesn’t feel like it will always be, but feels just right in the moment. I feel like my license says Bostonian, my address says Chicagoan, but my heart says neither. My heart says me. It says that I could wake up anywhere in any situation and find a way to make things happen. That might not constitute as happiness but at least I can move forward regardless.
I figured out that when you detach your identity from a place, you can contently be just about anywhere.
So deep dish always beats thing crust. I never spend any modicum of time at Navy Pier because there is nothing it provides me that I can’t get farther west on Grand.
As for what it’s like to live in Chicago, well I can only speak for myself, but to me it’s like never really knowing where you’re going, but still feeling like you’re getting somewhere.