A year ago this Monday I woke up at 6 am, shoved my screaming cat into a bag and got on a plane to Chicago. I told myself I was going just for the five months that my free housesitting situation allowed me, because five months would be enough time to get to know a new city and the people in it. Did I know on some level how entirely preposterous that theory was? Maybe it was a way to protect myself against the fears that come with jumping in with both feet, alone. Or else I was just naive and thought I'd instinctively know which direction to head on the el train (I didn't) and that a city of strangers would welcome me excitedly with open arms (they didn't). The past twelve months have brought me a job and a layoff, many new friends that I worked like a damned dog to make, and some painful separation of wheat from chaff in the life I left behind. I'm happy here. I now know that I, and anyone with an ounce of sense, should follow their instincts. I don't *love* Chicago like my bones love Brooklyn, but it still hasn't been that long really. I do like it an awful lot though. And the people in it. And I like myself far more than I did a year ago too.
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