My last night in Chicago

I have been a New Yorker for one and a half weeks. To be honest, that's about one and a half weeks longer than I ever imagined being anything else besides a Chicagoan. It's not that I couldn't fathom leaving Chicago; I probably would have bolted for Cambridge or New Haven or Manhattan after high school if the opportunity presented itself, and I never had a terrible aversion to leaving. It's just so strange to be anywhere besides Chicago. In some ways, it feels like I haven't left. I still read the online sports page of the Chicago Tribune every morning, I check Tom Skilling's forecast from time to time, and I talk to people back home fairly often.

One of the reasons I'm happy to have stayed in Chicago for as long as I did is that I was finally able to make it home. I'll explain what I mean by that. I've always thought of myself as something of a contradiction--a loner who gets along easily with people and makes great friends, an intellectual who prefers a pickup game of basketball in the park to the stacks of a library, a Guinness-and-Jameson's-drinking hardcore Cubs fan who bakes pies in his free time. With my interests pulling me in so many different directions and my mind continually cluttered with thoughts and opinions and re-evaluations of who I am and why I do the things I do, it's difficult to feel genuinely at peace. To put it another way, and I often do in my verbal encapsulations of these scatter-brained thoughts, it feels like looking for home. Those moments of contentment can be few and far in between. I had one of those moments before I left for New York, and that's when I realized the extent to which I had truly made Chicago my home.

This recognition of home happened the night before I left town. Making good on a long-standing promise to celebrate Holly's 21st birthday with a fishbowl filled with Swedish fish and more margarita than should ever be in one place at one time, I was in great spirits. Such great spirits, in fact, that Holly convinced me I should entertain Zev's invitation to play whirlyball that evening despite not being remotely close to finished packing for my imminent departure at 9 am the next morning. (For those of you who don't know, whirlyball is a combination of bumper cars, basketball, and lacrosse; it's the sport of champions.) So we made our way to the whirlyball "court" in Zev's car. I was chirping away from the passenger's seat in a tequila-induced splendor while Holly was in the back patiently trying to keep the buildings and street lights and other cars from whizzing around quite so nauseatingly fast. (Note to self: when you're making a margarita that's the size of a fishbowl, there's really no need to make it a strong margarita).

We reached our destination, and when I walked through the door I was quickly ambushed and engulfed by a flood of silly string. For the first time in my life, at least the first time in which I was old enough to savor it, I had a surprise party thrown for me. This was a big deal. You see, I've taken part in going-away parties and I've been on the surprise end of surprise parties, but I honestly never thought I would be on the surprised side. It's just not who I am; at least I thought so. It goes back to what I wrote about contradictions. I have plenty of friends, but I don't have one distinct crew that would band together to arrange something like this. Also, despite my generally outgoing personality, I don't like to draw a ton of attention to myself, and I hardly feel worthy of the effort that goes into a party. This was a big deal.

The entire event caught me totally off guard. I should have learned by now to expect the unexpected from Kristina. She put the whole thing together--making sure everyone could come, tabbing Zev to deliver the set-up, and getting Holly to seal the deal (poor Holly, I don't think she remembers anything that happened after the car ride that night other than her headache the next morning). Kristina has always had a way of making the best things come to fruition, and it turns out she had one more trick up her sleeve before I left.

So there I was, surrounded by the people I love the most, people who displayed their love and affection for me the best way they knew how--with silly string. Beneath the shock of the moment, the taste of the Swedish fish, and the worries about whether the silly string would stain my clothes, I was left with one feeling, undeniable in its clarity: home. This was more than one night of bumper-car-generated euphoria; this was the past ten years harmoniously converging. This was all the adventures, the stories, the late night conversations, the timeless moments spent with each person in that room. It was the love.

The feeling extended to people who were not playing whirlyball that night. It extended to my mom, who will always be my map and my guide; to my dad, who knows how to make sharing time feel like home; to my grandparents, who love me always; to my aunts, uncles, and cousins, who I miss more than I express; and to new friends, who inspire and astound me.

The next day I packed up my rental car and drove across the country. I am so unabashedly happy to know that when I make my way back I'll be coming home.