Thursday, April 17, 2014

I remember the morning I left Evanston–and Chicago, I thought at the time, for good. It was early, early morning, sky still dark, and I had checked out of a Holiday Inn. There wasn’t much ceremony, really, or traffic for that matter because it was the trucking hour: that time of day when only long-distance truckers are out and about. I love that hour. The air feels clear and quiet, with the promise of possibility laid out before you. I remember topping off the tank, pointing the compass to Charlotte, and that was that.

Eight years later, I’m headed back for a visit. Chicago is finally thawing out, making it that much easier to reminisce without the specter of frostbite. I’ll be there mainly for work, of course, which means the visit will be brief. Won’t have the Swedish chariot handy, so I’ll likely take the train. Food will figure prominently into the trip, but it won’t be fancy by any means. Pie à la mode. Cheddar charburger and chips with a side of mild. A firm “fuck you” to my health regimen, in other words.

It’s the places I’m still working through. Campus comes to mind. Is the Lakefill as compelling as it once was? What’s it like to walk down Sheridan Road without the cloud of a due date or midterm hanging over me? First dorm, first office, first apartment out of college? The list is long, but in my heart of hearts, I know where my inaugural stop will be, assuming it’s still there. It’s a parking lot. The parking lot, where it all started, one summer afternoon long ago.