I'd like to say I've been spending the week collecting my thoughts, and that's why it's taken me so long to record my experiences from my first trip back home to Chicago. In reality, my plane touched down in Laguardia at about 10 0'clock Monday night, and I've been frantically trying to get caught up with my school work ever since. It's a gorgeous, sunny day in the mid-50s here in New York, just like it is in Chicago right now (hmmm, that would have been nice, oh, I don't know, a week ago!), I've got a cinnamon crumb apple pie in the oven, and I feel like it's a downright good time to tell you about my wonderful weekend back home.
My preparation for the weekend was less than ideal. I was off school on Thursday, but I had a ton to do. I went for a tranquil run through Queens early in the morning, did laundry, graded tests, cleaned the apartment, packed, and so on. The day felt like it was over before it started, and I had not yet finished compiling the grades I had promised for my geometry students when I was about to pass out at 10 or 11 at night. I decided to wake up at 2:30 in the morning, finish my grades, and then go back to sleep. Grading took a long damn time. By the time I was finished, it behooved me to get ready for work because I had promised to meet a student early and still had some photocopying to do.
I whizzed through the day trying to keep my students focused and myself awake. I gathered my bags after the three o'clock bell struck and zipped out of school. Instead of feeling all that excitement from the past couple of weeks hit the peak of its crescendo like I had imagined it would, I felt sleepy and kind of guilty for mailing it in during the second half of my last class. Oh, well. I could do a better job next week. Now it was time to get to the airport. I took the bus I usually ride to go home, only I stayed on to Laguardia. I became confused when I realized I wouldn't be flying from the same terminal as my last trip to Chicago, so I got off the bus to see if I could figure things out. It happened to be right where I needed to be. I zipped through security, changed into jeans, grabbed a sandwich, boarded, took off, and got some much needed sleep.
I've flown into O'Hare plenty of times, and I almost always experience a rush of nostalgia, a surge of elation at the prospect of being home again. (The one exception was flying home from Hawaii--flying home is unequivocally the worst part about going there.) This occasion blew all the other landings out of the water. I had the Blues Brothers playing on my iPod right before we touched ground. My first glimpse of downtown and the lake and the Northwestern campus just about brought me to tears. Everything flooded back--the people, the places, the smells, the tastes, the feelings--all those things that make up home. And it was all so close.
The air was cool and crisp. The night was fine. Dad drove up to the departures area a few minutes after I called. I was home.
Not much had changed. I walked up the familiar steps to the familiar door and into the familiar room with the familiar soft light and the familiar scent of Lou Malnati's pizza. In the dining room there was Dolores and Dave and Jennifer and Steven and Steven's girlfriend Heather--the first unfamiliar sight of the night--and, looking as distinctive and beautiful as ever, Holly. I missed my sister.
The rest of the evening at Dad's strolled by pleasantly, just like most evenings at Dad's do. When asked about my experiences teaching and being in the Bronx, I had trouble speaking in anything but generalities. It's the same thing I experience when I try to write in this space about what goes on at Bronx Letters. I think I'm still in reaction mode, and everything flies by so quickly that I struggle to hang on to all the little things that make up the day. My teaching experience is only now starting to crystallize. I'll give you some good words on it someday, whenever I have the time.
That first night home was a race to make my time as meaningful as possible with as many people as possible before I passed out. Given that I had been awake since 1:30 am Central Time with only a half hour nap on the plane, I think I did pretty well. I even managed to spend some time with Danimal and Sherri, two of my former co-bakers from a memorable Kim's Kitchen summer that seems like it took place forever ago. I awoke promptly at 8 am Saturday morning, having slept on a futon that I knew quite well when it resided in Zev's apartment some 200 miles away in Urbana. By the way, I apologize for including all these minute details, but there was so much history and familiarity wrapped up in this weekend that I want to write down every little thing, hold onto each part a little bit longer. I also think it's pretty funny that I ended up crashing on Zev's futon like so many times before, and it wasn't in the same city or even in an apartment that belonged to him. Such is life.
I had really hoped to go for a quick run down Sheridan Road, nestled by the lakefront in Wilmette and Winnetka. I even managed to wake up early enough. Alas, it was not meant to be. I had too much to do, too many people to see. Next up was Mom's. I took the red line to Howard and made the familiar switch to the purple line, getting off at Davis (my nostalgia for the L is somewhat dampened by the superior efficiency of the New York subway system, but the L's a lot more scenic). I caught the 250 and took it up Dempster Street into Skokie. Mom was watching C-Span and Spongebob, her typical Saturday morning. I like that Mom and I don't really need to say anything; we just get it. We hung out for awhile, watching cartoons and sharing what was on our minds before heading back to Rogers Park for brunch with Holly.
Brunch was tasty. Kristina was sleepy. Back to Evanston to make the switch into Kristina's familiar Rav-4. Eventually we made a left onto Hollywood and I was taking Lake Shore Drive south to the city for the first time since I had my entire life packed into the back of a rented Chevy. The afternoon was spotless but traffic was heavy, so we played a bunch of songs real loud and sang to our hearts' content. Home. We finally made it down to McCormick Place for one of my favorite things in the world, the Marathon Expo. (That's right, I would be running the Marathon the next day; this entry's been so long, I bet you forgot.) Kristina and I got psyched for the race and stuffed on all the free food. I realized that I would be starting from one of the special lettered corrals up at the front. I'm not sure why--maybe I registered early this year or qualified because of my time in 2006. Either way, it was kind of cool.
Saturday night was spontaneous and fantastic. I got to see Beth and Mariya, who says she doesn't think she'll move to New York, so I might just have to follow her to Portland some time. Juan, Rick, and Aaron, three very good friends from middle school through high school, happened to walk past us while we were having tea, and suddenly we had a very large group for dinner. It's extraordinary how the more things change the more things stay the same. There I was, in from New York for the weekend to run a marathon, having dinner next to Aaron Reisberg and talking about books and movies like we were back in freshman year of high school. I don't know how to put the whole thing into words. I'm shaking my head and grinning as I write this; that's the best I can do.
Saturday night was Jon time, but the preceding events left very little of it. I picked up my gear from Skokie and got a ride into the city, but I only had about 2 hours or so of awake time before I needed to get some pre-race sleep. I made the most of my time with Jon and Sheila--who are getting married in less than a year--wow! We talked about teaching and grad school and whatever was on our minds. I miss nights like that. I hope that wherever I end up, those two are somewhere nearby.
Especially if I need to wake up for something. I didn't leave myself much time for sleep, and I probably would have been passed out right through the race (I bet you're thinking about that Seinfeld episode; I was) had it not been for Jon. He was kind enough to wake up at 6 am on a Sunday morning to remind me that I needed to wake up at 6 am on a Sunday morning. I ditched my plans to shower (it wasn't going to help how I would smell in a few hours anyway, so why bother?) and slipped into my marathon digs. I might not have the best time, but at least I could make it look good.
I grabbed a bagel and some water and caught a bus headed for Michigan Avenue. Marathon morning featured the most astonishing sunrise I had seen since Hawaii. Despite getting there in good time, the whole place is swamped with people, and you're rushing to check your gear and stretch and find your starting corral no matter what you do. I made the unfamiliar walk to corral D, and I enjoyed the added leg room it provided. It was sort of like flying first class. The national anthem emanated from the speakers. Standing for the national anthem and realizing that it's for a real life sporting event and you're not one of the spectators is one of the greatest feelings in the world. It makes you feel legit. The elite runners started, then corrals A through C, and we were on our way.
I'll have a detailed post about everything I experienced during the race, but it's a little gross so I'm not putting it into this one. Suffice it to say that the weather was beautiful, even though it crept up near 80 by the end of the race. I ran my best time of the three marathons at 4:06:06, but it wasn't nearly as good as I could have done. I was in a certain amount of pain for the last 3 hours of the race, and it sapped me of my will to break 4 hours. Looking back on it I wish I would have toughed it out and done better, but at the time I would have none of that. One of the highlights of the race was spotting my dad in the crowd and reaching over to give him a high five. That was pretty damn cool.
After the race I sipped a crisp, cool, and, best of all, free pint of Goose Island 312 beer. I drank it while I iced down my knees and struck up a conversation with a Chicago-area teacher. I had forgotten how much it hurts your body and your soul to run a marathon, and how extraordinarily exultant you feel when it's all done. I was lucky that my body didn't hurt too badly after the race. My only trouble walking came from my "roast beef" toes, which both had some nasty blisters.
I could write more about the rest of the weekend, but the action receded after the race. I saw my grandparents, took a whirlpool bath, slept about as soundly as any human being could ever sleep, and saw my former coworkers at Northwestern. Chicago, in many ways, was just as I had left it. I came back and my life picked up where it left off. Much more happened in between the conversations, the dinners, and the drives that filled the weekend, but I think it will take a little time for me to figure out what it all means. All I know is that being back in my city helped me to feel love. Real love. Deep love. And it helped me feel home. I've only been on this earth for 23 years and change, but to me that's the greatest feeling anyone can have. Thank you.
P.S.: Click here if you want to see some photos from the race. You have to select "Chicago Marathon 2008" from the drop-down menu, and then enter "McHugh" and "9167" for the bib number. They got some pretty good shots of me, and I don't look as beaten-down and devastated as in years past. Good stuff.
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