Sweet Home Chicago

Visiting a former coworker at my old office.

There are pieces of myself that I left in Chicago. And visiting them did a world of good to my heart.

Leaving them again, not so much.

I can't tell you what it is that makes Chicago different from New York City. All I know is that as soon as my taxi entered the heart of the city, I felt relaxed. And relaxation is not a state that I find myself entering while roaming the streets as a tiny worm in the Big Apple. Ever.

New York puts me into a place of anxiety. Sometimes fear. I guard and shield myself there. My social anxiety and panic attacks may not fully flood me, but they brim beneath a thin surface. I'm on edge. I'm defensive. I'm uncomfortable. And I'm certainly not happy.



An outgoing, attention-loving person who is afraid of other people and would prefer to deal with them in the introverted seclusion of the internet. What am I?



In Chicago, I don't notice my bubbling insecurities. Even in loud bars and restaurants, not a single threat that an attack might fully manifest itself and tailspin my life (yes, I just used tailspin -- incorrectly -- as a verb. I'm creative; deal with it).

Did I have a single social anxiety attack in the two years I lived in Chicago? If I did, I can't remember it now. And yet, I remember every one I had in Michigan. And in Indiana. And in Florida. And in London. And in New York. I don't even remember having to tell people in Chicago that I had an anxiety problems. In every other city, I make sure someone I'm out with knows, so that they can help to remove me from the situation in case of an attack (as I am often rendered both illogical and incapable of doing anything of the sort on my own behalf).

Sure, I'm still not as great at handling group social situations as I am one-on-one (Chicago can't change that), but I don't feel as guarded because of them. Overwhelmed, awkward, and verbose? Absolutely. But not guarded.

Chicago is a cuddly bear that holds me tight. A place where I lived alone on a street between two halfway houses. A place where drunk men often followed me home and I danced with homeless men on street corners. I rarely felt in any way threatened or endangered. And I don't know why.

A part, I'm sure, was naïveté. My KGB sense was never properly developed. My subconscious finds danger where it doesn't exist, yet fails to recognize the dark shadows lurking around corners.

Part of it is the safety of the company I keep. In New York, I'm more frequently alone. And if I do happen to be out in social surroundings, I generally know one or two people, whom I follow around pathetically.

Maybe it's because Chicago was the first place where I was ever truly on my own. Though not where I was raised, Chicago is the place where I finally began to grow up.

I learned how to explore when I was there, though I tragically never made it as far as I like to think that I did. The south side (aka the majority of the city) is largely foreign to me, aside from the walk from the Red Line to my friend Mike's old apartment, where I often found myself for New Year's Eve, St. Patrick's Day, and several invented excuses to party along the way.

Maybe it's just the familiarity of places. Though I passed a Walgreens that hadn't existed (and it totally made me forgot the layout of the area, and made me temporarily concerned that perhaps The Holiday Club uptown had closed -- which was upsetting for reasons beyond my ken, as I never actually entered that shabby, trashy building; it now appears to have been renovated, and far more friendly than in my memory).

Something about the city seems... roomier than New York. Less dense with tall buildings, perhaps, although it certainly doesn't seem that way when gazing at the skyline. The streets are... wider? No. But drivers are more polite. I never feel like I'm going to be run down by a rogue car when I have the right of way at a crosswalk (ironic and hilarious if you remember that I was at Clark and Fullerton on the fateful night when I was hit by a car and thrown into oncoming traffic... but I prefer to ignore that event).

[Side note -- I just reread the aforementioned post. And while I haven't had this thought since I wrote it, I agree with myself in something selfish, morose, and generally horrible: when I die, I want it to inconvenience people.]


People in Chicago are just so... nice.

My 1st apartment building in Chicago, at the corner of Broadway & Barry.

I revisited an old book store that I love (I'm not sure if this is its official name, but the window reads "BOOKS: RARE MEDIUM WELL DONE"; a Yelp search suggests that it is actually called Bookman's Corner -- but there is no sign calling it that -- and is located at 2959 N. Clark St., by Binny's in Lakeview). The old man there has grown even older. I reminded him that I used to live nearby, and that I used to come in and reorganize (or perhaps just "organize", because they had previously been strewn about with no rhyme or reason to their placement) his Shakespeare collection by publisher (as only a true Shakespeare geek would do, so one might more easily track down editions by Arden or Folger) and subcategorize by title. He used to call me "little sister", and make me feel so very welcome. I told him his store is my favorite in the world, although I didn't mention that the reason is it's overwhelming disorganization (it is far easier to strike gold in a store in which people have to put in effort to see what is there; most people prefer the used book store that is organized like a Borders, but there is no mystery there, and the good finds get snatched up as soon as they are placed out, by mere novices, as opposed to the hard-searchers who deserve their treasures). He didn't seem to remember me, but he sure did try to fake it. And he insisted on giving me both of the books I was buying for the grand total of one dollar. He called it a graduation present. He has now surrounded his register in a cave of stacked books taller than I am (5'6"). He began insisting to me that he had a book "somewhere" in there that he knew I'd love, but I stopped him from searching, as I feared the whole book structure might collapse on him like a Jenga tower if he took anything out. (If you go there, say hello to the old man for me. And buy me something weird for a dollar. I'll pay you back, and I'll adore you for it.)

My favorite used book store. It's even less organized on the inside.

[Side note -- I remember the days when I wanted to emulate my Chicago Shakespeare coach and have a bookshelf filled with slowly-acquired editions of every Shakespearean title. But now I see that my life is going to be far too transitory for that to be practical. I have given away everything but my Folgers, which smell so very nice and have the most practical set-up for note-taking and easy side-style footnoted references for establishing quick context and explanations. But I know they will not be placed in my tight-packed bags for California, so perhaps it's time to part with even them.]


At another one of my former used-book hang-outs, the grouchy shop owner always seemed inconvenienced by my presence. But this time, he said, "Hey, I know you. The actress, right? You went back to school. You in movies yet?" He said that I "look like that Black Swan chick. That's kind of a compliment, right? If she's working, I bet you'll be famous, too." If only the world worked that way. He then told me how great he thought Eddie Murphy was in Dreamgirls, and how confused he is by Johnny Depp's success, because, "That guy can't act. Did you see that stupid tourist movie he did? And the headless horseman one? I just don't get it."

The first place -- and only -- place I've ever lived alone.

My street intersected itself. Clearly I lived at the nexus of the universe.

I passed by my second apartment in the city. The one where I lived by myself for the very first time. And as I went to take a picture of the now-vandalized awning, the owner of the convenience store on the ground floor came out of his shop. "Actress! You are back!" I sometimes struggled to understand him through his thick accent. "It has been long time. Must be four years, yes?" He then gave me an ice cold bottle of water for the hot day before saying, "What you need? Anything you want, you take! Anything! Anything!" He told me all about the crushing hospital bills that he had just succeeded in eradicating. The strange new Walgreens had been hurting his business, but he was less concerned about that now that he was no longer drowning in medical debt. It was the happiest I have ever seen him. I wish I could pronounce his name.

The nice man who remembered me.

I feared that my favorite restaurant, Pizza Rustica, had closed. In reality, it had moved across the street to a much larger location, and gained a liquor license (which is actually too bad, as I always thought it's "Bring Your Own Wine" tradition was charming... though I'm not a wine-drinker, so I'm not sure why I should care). I ordered the same thing I've always ordered: pappardelle salsa rosa. And I almost started crying when I ate it alone in a hotel room on the corner of State and Grand (using my hands in a most comical fashion, as I had forgotten to request a plastic fork).

Seriously, go here. And get pappardelle salsa rosa.

My very first boyfriend came into the city my first night there. We went out to drinks. It was the first time that we had seen each other since I broke his heart on June 9th, 2007 (I have a strangely good memory for dates... even ones that any sane person would prefer to forget). He has a long-term girlfriend who seems great for him. It was good to see him. He had been my best friend for such a long time, and that changed abruptly when our relationship ended. Somehow, I hadn't anticipated that when I broke things off. I thought we could just stop making out during the monthly visits that we had, but our relationship would otherwise remain similar. What a strange child I was. (Can you be a child when you're 22? Because I'm fairly certain that I was one. I started this blog about 4 months after I broke up with him, so if you're feeling masochistic, by all means go back through some of my earlier posts and judge for yourself.)

I had a brunch on Thursday with three gals I went to graduate school with (and the nearly-two-year-old son of one of them, whom I had not yet met). They are all lovely and progressing in their lives in amazing ways. And -- as is the mark of spending time with a group of other actors -- it was the least I was asked/expected to talk about myself amongst all of my interactions with others in my trip to Chicago. In some ways, that was a nice change. And after all, it had been between 3 months and 2 years since I'd seen those women, so there was less to ask me about.


There may have been a small part of me that thought, "Why don't you want to find out more about how AWESOME I am?" And then I immediately began the mental self-flagellation of, "Why am I so selfish and egocentric? They are all AWESOME, too!" And don't roll your eyes when reading this, because the majority my readers are either bloggers or actors (or formerly of either category), and I hope you are self-aware enough to realize that you are all just as narcissistic as I am.

I revisited my old workplace. I planned to go for half an hour, but I ended up staying for an additional 5. As I walked around the office, I was surprised to see so many remnants of myself there. Little things that I'd made for people were still tacked up in their cubicles 4 years later. A gumball machine that I apparently used to own is displayed prominently in the middle of my department (I had a gumball machine? Why did I have a gumball machine?). One former coworker reminded me that she had me autograph a pillowcase before I left, which she now keeps in a ziplock bag in her linen closet, ready to be placed on eBay as soon as I "get famous in Hollywood." One coworker has even kept some really, truly horrible perfume that I left behind.

My former coworker kept my blueberry muffin perfume and my teal Play-Doh. Even he seems puzzled as to why.

Several of my former coworkers kept hand-made notes I made them with their nicknames. Made me wish I had spent more time on them to make them more attractive.

The room I went into at my old office to take the phone call offering me a spot in the grad school of my dreams.

(ETA: While I do not miss cubicle life, I do certainly miss having a job with regular socialization. And a regular paycheck. And health insurance. And my 401k. Man, no wonder people give up acting for real jobs.)

I went on Facebook, searched for "Current City: Chicago", and invited roughly 230 people to see me while I was there, hoping that 3-5 would actually come through. I think the grand total of Facebook friends I actually saw was 22, which made me feel like a minor celebrity. And my goodness, how I missed people.

I'm trying not to be bummed about the one close friend who acknowledged that I was in town, but then made no effort to see me (or communicate any sort of regret about or reason for not being able to see me.)


I first invited people out to cupcakes at Swirlz, which had been my favorite stop on the blogger cupcake  crawl. The second was a bar called Fat Cat with fantastic mixed drinks that I remembered from a friend's birthday party five years ago. Both were just as lovely as I remembered. And the people I saw, even more so.

A Hi-Hat, which involves grapes, basil, vodka, simple syrup, and ginger ale. An unexpected drink, yet super delicious.

I had forgotten how interesting my Chicago life had once been. The people I saw while there were ones I knew from college, three plays I'd been in, National Novel Writing Month, blogging, work, and through mutual friends. (By contrast, I lived in Florida for 3 years and 99% of the people I knew in that state were people I met through my grad school theatre. I have been in Connecticut for 1 year, and ONLY know people I've met through work and my parents, and none of them are my age.) The two events I organized for people to see me, none of the people who showed up knew each other, and I had to go through a new round of introductions with each new entrance. It was good fun.

The people were the best part of my visit. And the fact that some of them called me "Sunshine"? And some called me "Aiea"? *thump thump* Something about hearing those names made me feel more complete.

I may have done some overdramatic crying the day after I returned. Thinking about the city. And the people I miss. And what my life might have been like if I had made other choices. I'm not stating regrets; I just like to daydream. What if I had been braver when I lived in Chicago? What if I had been bolder? What if I had been more blunt (or, at the very least, more honest)? What if I had known better than to waste my time with events and people that didn't deserve my attention? What if I had made the absolute best of my time there, instead of wandering the streets confused and aimless for two years? What if I had made friends sooner, instead of staying inside the walls of my apartment for the first year I lived there? What if I had been perfect?

Two days before I moved away from Chicago, I was casually watching the Beijing summer Olympics with a friend as we ate day-old pizza and played quizzes on the internet. Now after a 4 year absence, I found myself in a bar with the same friend, casually watching the opening ceremonies in London while sipping mixed drinks and telling tales of stupid things I've done in front of celebrities (because name-dropping isn't quite as gauche when self-deprecation is involved, right?).

London. A city I once thought might be my home. Maybe someday it still will be. But after returning to Chicago, I know which city is my favorite. Even with the horrific crowded subways filled with Cubs fans who don't disembark until Addison and Clark (by contrast, the Tube is like the Metra). Even with the centipede-infested apartments that a friend who just moved to Chicago reminded me exist. Even with the painful, teeth-chattering winters that left my skin dry, my fingers numb, and my heart so very lonely (it's hard to socialize when you don't want to leave the relative warmth of your apartment).

(Side note -- Guys, I forgot how rambling my blog posts are. Do you actually read this? HOW? I'm betting there is a good amount of skimming involved. No shame in that. I've been writing this on and off for most of the day. And I figure if I'M getting distracted from it, surely you all are as well. Maybe you should try to spread out reading my posts over a couple of hours and see if that makes them more interesting.)

To be honest, visiting Chicago has messed with my head a little bit. Phil said, "I was so worried you'd go to Chicago, and fall back in love with it, and not want to move to LA." And while I will most definitely be moving to LA next month, part of my heart wishes that I were going more in the direction of Lake Michigan than the Pacific Ocean.


I thought returning to Chicago after grad school would feel like regression. But what it actually feels like... is home. And that's a tough feeling to let go of. I hope I can move back someday. Maybe star on a Chicago-based sitcom. Maybe get into the old boys' club that is the Chicago theatre scene. Maybe even do that thing that other people do where they settle down and have normal lives. I don't know what the future will hold, but I do know that I'm happy when I'm in Chicago.


May you find a way to go home again. And may you be better at saying goodbye than I am.

~A~


P.S. Something went wrong with my iPhoto, and I lost half of the photos I took while in Chicago (the only ones I have are ones that auto-loaded to DropBox. Not that they were great pictures anyway, but still. Totally bummed.