May 11-12, 2016
Chicago was my first solo trip.
I went to visit a long-time friend, Nora, who I had known online from the turbulent years of high school–a friendship forged in anonymity, but it quickly turned close. It was, however, also a way for me to start traveling on my own, which eventually led to a whole slew of trips and plans and makeshift road trips. This was the beginning of that growth–a whole new gateway on the journey to who I was supposed to be. It was exciting! Exhilarating! Terrifying!
I also found out I abhor airports.
It’s not the thought of travel that makes me anxious. It’s not even the amount of people, although crowds make me nervous and constant chatter puts me on edge. I think what causes me the most anxiety is the fact that I don’t have control over what happens during the screening process, nor do I have control over what may happen with the aircraft or flight plan. It sounds irrational when I put it into words, but anxieties often act in such a way–they manifest as what may simply seem like small inconveniences, but in reality wreak much more havoc on the human psyche.
May 11, 2016
When I finally made it to Chicago, touching down in O’Hare to one of the busiest airports I had been to thus far in my short life, Nora and I absolutely ran to one another when we finally spotted one another in the crowd. Through the crowd I spotted her, the mop of brown hair and glasses matching mine. The elation I felt after having gone so long without seeing her practically bowled us both over.
This was someone I grew up with, who helped shape me as a growing adolescent, even if we had never really seen each other much off-screen. Friendships that begin over the internet are funny that way. They don’t necessarily follow the same conventions a normal friendship might. In many ways you know more about that person than you might of real-life friends. It may seem silly, in all honesty, to feel close to someone whom you haven’t met for more than a handful of moments, but it had a profound and lasting impact.
It felt like coming home.
That first day, after having left for the airport at the disgusting time of four in the morning, was utterly exhausting. I remember very vividly the ride over the Nora’s house, with the trees lining the sides of the road, thinking that this was a side of Chicago I hadn’t seen before. It was a home–not the tourist destination that I had seen so many times before on my previous trips during my youth. Nora had left me that first day to get settled into the spare bedroom of her house, introducing me to the family dog Ellie (a real treat!) before heading off.
So, I set to exploring.
Ellie and I wandered around Nora’s neighborhood while she was out, the leash swaying as we walked, dragging as she stopped every so often to sniff around a few bushes or staring across the street. It differed from the yellow and green mottled lawns of home, the sky bright and blue compared to the mellow overcast hanging above Chicago on that day. I was struck by the quiet serenity the neighborhood afforded me as we walked, the greenery rustling overhead as I listened to the patter of Ellie’s paws on the pavement.
I felt at peace.
May 12th, 2016
“Would you want to go to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra?” Nora asked me early that day. “Some of my friends are going.”
We sat in her kitchen, the light streaming in through the glass doors leading out to the backyard, lush with late-spring greenery. We had mulled over what we were doing that day when she suggested it. It had been such a long time since I saw any classical orchestra in concert, and Nora and her father were both pretty musically inclined–he taught piano lessons in the attic upstairs and she played flute, the same instrument I had chosen all those years ago–that it seemed natural to her.
“Sure,” I replied with a smile. “Sounds like fun!”
Nora and I visited a few of her friends during the day, and in the meantime she showed me a few gems in the city–mainly some pretty bomb empanadas and The Chicago Diner near uptown. Anyone who knows me well would know I absolutely adore trying new places to eat (I always have) and while traveling I always make it a point to seek out the unique parts of the places I visit. We sat over a plate of vegan (yes, vegan!) diner delights and traded stories of blooming friendships and mishaps.
But despite the amazing food and new people I got to know quite quickly is such a short about of time, what struck me the most about the day came later.
The Chicago Symphony Orchestra performed in the Orchestra Hall in Chicago, nestled between a group of buildings across the street from Grant Park. A beautifully designed building–it had been built in 1904–it stuck out against its industrial neighbors. The foyer and beyond were drenched in reds, golds, and creams, the velvet carpeting slipping past the open doors to the auditorium where the orchestra would play, with the chairs neatly aligned in curved rows.
The group of us–Nora, her friends, and I–sat near the back, waiting through the seating of the remainder of the guests, chatting about the musicians and how Nora had even wanted to take her musical training professional before settling into a program in Arizona. I had missed talking with her, of course, and we knew that even through long distance and time, we could always pick up our friendship almost exactly where we left off.
Suddenly, the lights dimmed.
The lights over the stage fell on the shoulders of the musicians filing onto the stage, holding their instruments delicately in their hands. The seating. An introduction. A breath.
And then the orchestra played.
I had forgotten how breathtaking a classical performance could be, the rise and fall of the music echoing in the hall, bouncing across the ceiling the swelling into the crowd of spectators. I watched with bated breath as the orchestra played, men and women swept up in the music as they told their own story in the way they performed. I was lost in their enthusiasm, and by the time we realized it was over I wanted more. But not everything lasts forever.
It was raining when we emerged from the orchestra hall, the clear sky from that afternoon absent in the coming drizzle. We took shelter underneath one of the overpasses near a subway exit before stopping in for donuts at Stan’s Donuts & Coffee, a small little shop on a strip of one of the roads downtown. I bit into a lemon custard donut at the bar across from the counter, the powdered sugar sticking to my finger as Nora and I chatted. We watched the cars pass by the open windows, foggy from the condensation in places, droplets sticking to the glass.
I couldn’t help but think it was a wonderful way to finish an evening with good company.
Sam