Year One

Last night, I went to an outdoor concert in Millennium Park. Meteorologists warned of strong storms all day, but when evening came around, the weather was absolutely perfect. I excitedly stopped at Jewel for some snacks, then hopped a train into the loop. I was thinking to myself that despite the fact that I’ve been in Chicago for six years, this would be my first Millennium Park concert experience.

But as I picked out a spot, spread out my blanket, and unpacked my food, I had a strange sense of déjà vu. I realized that I had been to one of these concerts before—just once. During my first summer in Chicago, I came to an orchestral performance of Romeo and Juliet. I had spread out a blanket and food, just like I did last night. I was alone, and before the concert started, I pulled out a book and read. At some point, a chunk of potato salad came out of nowhere and landed on my blanket. It was quickly followed by the apologetic mother of the child who had thrown it. She cleaned off the potato salad and offered me some food (which I politely turned down). It made me smile to remember that night.

As I thought more about my first year in Chicago, I recalled a lot of other little episodes like that. I didn’t know a single soul in Chicago when I moved here, and so I spent a lot of time alone during the first year, especially that first summer. I used to go to Navy Pier after work, walk out to the end of it, look across the water, and pretend that I could see home. (At the time, Chicago did not feel like home—and I didn’t think it ever would.) I went to Navy Pier, voluntarily and often. Can you believe it? Navy Pier! I can’t stand that place now.

On the weekends, I spent a lot of time at the beach. One Saturday, I went up to Loyola Beach to watch the annual painting of the stone benches up there. When this proved to be less interesting than it sounded, I walked out on the pier to gaze at the skyline. A little girl walked up to me, looked at me for a moment, then seemed to decide that I was worthy of a conversation. Her opening line was, “I’m wearing a dress!” The rest of the conversation went something like this:

Me: “It’s a very pretty dress.”

Little girl (about 4 years old): “Is that Chicago?”

Me: “Yes, that’s downtown.”

Little girl: “My dad works there.”

Me: “I work there, too.”

Little girl: “Do you work the same place as my dad?”

Me: “I don’t think so. There are a lot of places to work downtown.”

Little girl: “You’re right. That’s a lot of buildings.”

At this point, whomever she was with came and shooed her away from me. I can remember thinking that it might be the only conversation I would have all day.

I also went to a lot of plays and movies alone. For a while, I declared Friday to be obscure play night, and I bought tickets to tiny shows in tiny theaters. I saw a series of truly bizarre plays. One started at the end and ended at the beginning (but I did not realize this until about intermission). One seemed pretty normal and easy to follow until two random, inexplicable goats showed up on stage. Obscure play night was a parade of absurdity, and consequently a lot of fun.

I also saw as much large-scale theater as I could. Every day after work for at least two months, I went to the Oriental Theater to enter the drawing for front row Wicked tickets. (It wasn’t until over a year later that I finally won.) Sometime around Christmas, I bought myself a front row ticket to see Chicago. It was kind of liberating to walk all the way down the theater aisle to the front row all by myself. Paige Davis of TLC’s Trading Spaces fame played Roxie, and she threw some fake flowers into the audience at the end. One landed in front of the man sitting next to me, and he handed it to me. I felt silly for being so grateful, but I accepted the flower with as much grace as I could manage. After leaving that show, I went to Daley Plaza and walked a lap around the giant Chicago Christmas tree. The night was clear and beautiful, and I felt so full of peace. When I got home, I put the flower on display. To this day, the flower remains part of my centerpiece. It makes me smile to look at it now.

Looking back on all of this now feels like remembering a different life. I was so alone then. I was working my way through two separate and equally terrible cases of heartbreak, as well as dealing with the full force of my social anxiety issues. It was a terrifying time for me, really. But all those issues really pushed me to fill my time with activities that did not allow me to wallow in my apartment. A “Get Up, Get Out” movement, I called it. And it left me with a series of really interesting experiences, and you can tell by the stories above.

It bothers me a little that I have not thought about these things in so long. I suppose it has a lot to do with the fact that I have no one to talk about them with. No one else was there. The experiences live in my memory only.

I wouldn’t go back to that time for anything. It was a time before a really knew myself, and a time characterized by bouts of extreme unhappiness and extreme fear. Still, I think it’s good for me to remember the things I experienced that year, good, bad, funny, sad, bizarre, and hilarious.

I don’t know how to end this except to say thanks for reading, and for giving me a way to remember.