Yes, I’m home, back in the city. After a good night’s sleep in my own bed, I’m up writing my post in a way that’s customary: propped up in the bed in our spare bedroom, drinking my morning coffee. I do my best work in the early morning, before starting my day. I swear I could produce a masterpiece in my bathrobe. Luckily Mr C sleeps late, which gives me lots of time to compose.
What does “home” mean to residents of a big city? Driving around the Twin Cities got me thinking about how cities differ, and how I’ve come to think of Chicago as ‘my city.’ Born elsewhere, I came to Chicago in adulthood. My decision to stay here and make this my home was one I made deliberately. Beyond my domicile and a network of personal and professional relationships that sustains me, lies a vast population and universe that will always be strange. Knowing it–and loving it–could take an eternity, especially if you’re a female cat like me.
I chip away at its strangeness, recently with photography and with blogging. With each post and image, the swath of association and meaning broadens. The city may never cease to be strange, but its strangeness is now familiar to me. A pink-haired lady with Fair Isle tights? She’s my fellow-wayfarer, setting forth with faux-leopardskin pack and pink-sneakered stride.