dailyeatings

Nearly four months ago I left Florida and moved to Chicago. It’s been, well—

I live in an apartment in the rear half of a 3 story brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined road in the middle of what was once Little Italy. On sunny days, mid morning, the turning leaves and the wind and the houses perfectly align in such a way that I catch myself smiling on the way to class, for no real reason whatsoever, other than sheer amazement that I’m actually here.

So I haven’t really purchased a bed yet. For the first two months, I slept on an inflatable Coleman camping air mattress on the floor of my kitchen. It was, at the time, the only piece of furniture I had that was capable of supporting a human body, other than the deck chair I stole from the walkway outside. I later purchased a futon from Ikea, a nice one, really, which is more than adequate as a couch but doesn’t accommodate my height This is perhaps the only time I’ve ever been annoyed at being tall, as my feet stick out over the edge of the mattress. Nevertheless, I slept on the futon for a month or so until my back told me it was much too hard and I went back to sleeping on the air mattress, this time in my bedroom proper. I don’t imagine I will be inviting girls over to spend the night anytime soon.

In the interim, I furnished my apartment almost entirely with Ikea goods, and despite my earlier protestations over My First Apartment clichés and grave oaths sworn about never settling for that kind of shit I discovered myself reacting with a heretofore unknown domesticity, to the point where I light scented votive candles at night ‘Because it’s relaxing.’ It’s scary, in a way, to know that part of me enjoys this sort of thing—passing through Crate and Barrel with my parents one weekend I caught myself looking at immaculately decorated furniture sets, the kinds that have prices that I would have previously considered the realm of sultans and robber barons, and I thought, “Once I start working, I’m totally getting this sofa.�? The 20 year old Chuck Palahnuik-obsessed, crusading anti-materialist thrift store elitist version of me would’ve burst into flames upon hearing that.

I’ve been to a lot of shows. Well, no, I went to a lot of shows for a while, and then I stopped. I lost some of the hypomanic fervor, it got a little colder day by day, and school started demanding considerable chunks of my time. The same happened to my photography. And my daily wanderings downtown. And museum exhibits. And trying out new restaurants. And my desire to ride the el to random places. When I got here, I was propelled by the euphoria of finally moving back here and being on my own and having the world at my fingertips and then… creeping responsibility, colder weather, growing loneliness. I didn’t expect to fly forever, but lately I’ve come to notice that I’m much lower than I had previously thought.

The same could be said about friends. Not that I haven’t met interesting and engaging people here, I have (especially at shows, I’ve made the most random, unexpected friendships talking to people at shows) but at the same time, it’s nearly impossible to find somebody who is roughly in the same mental space. I don’t quite fit in with my peers in my classes—in one, I’m by far the oldest; in others, I’m the youngest; and in the last, I’m the only one of my major program in the class. Outside of school, I end up doing nearly all my city exploring and wandering and restaurant-testing alone, not because I don’t want others around, I do—you wouldn’t believe how often I wish x were here so I’d have somebody to do all these random, new-to-the-city things with—it’s just that between partying vs. exploring, taking photos, seeing shows and people-watching, the majority of friends I have made tend to find the latter boring, and I have long had my fill of the former. And being a non-Chicagoan, finding mundane and little things amazing… I not sure where to find more people who are in similar situations. Or more precisely, where I’d find people who aren’t so jaded and settled in their city lives to share a little enthusiasm for ‘the little things’ that still amuse and gratify and perplex me daily about living here. And no, Craigslist is not an option.