I left California this week. One week, I'm running around soaked in math, cooking 'till 1am, bitching about the (complete lack of) weather, racing my bike around campus, and the next . . . I'm stopped.
Early this week, I'm back in Chicago, luxuriating in the greyness. My color-saturated eyes find peace in the Gothic stone architecture of my old campus, in the leaf-less ivy vines, the flagstone walks, the true Midwestern flatness. I spend an entire day working where I used to work, eating where I used to eat. Nothing is quite the same, nothing quite fits, but it's home, and I may as well have never left.
My time in Chicago is filled with details. A haircut, the Conservatory by the zoo, a museum, dinner in Chinatown, dinner on campus, dinner downtown. People ask me about exciting plans, and I mumble about long walks. I spend three days being completely content and at peace with the world.
One day on Campus, one day in the city, then I'm on a plane South, to see my family. Here I make my brother practice violin, and all my spare time is spent sewing pants. They will be good rain pants back in Cali.
West Coast life shines through the week in pulses. Messages from friends, a stray hour in which I escape to work. In California, I go climbing every week. Luckily, we have family friends here who climb, and we got to go with them. Climbing is not something I like to miss.
It's a week outside of California, and outside the life I have started there. A week of old, worn comfort before I have to jump to my feet again, and run off.
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