My Big Move, Part I

The day I flew off to Chicago, I kept my eyes closed during the entire flight. I heard the gasps, excited whispers as the plane dipped low enough somewhere in north Illinois and the lovely sheen of Lake Michigan shimmered below the airplane windows. No, I telepathically told my eyes firmly, you will not open. The last vision they had seen was the pulsating lights of New York fading into the distance.

And like a clam, I did not open for the first few days. Instead, I moped in my new apartment, downloading old pictures from my camera to my computer, reliving those magical days in a place I thought was home. My Friday nights were spent in my room alone, and my memory would drift out east to each and every Friday I was out drinking, dancing, or snuggling with my boyfriend in New York City.

That’s what pained me the most. His absence. After the chaotic last weeks spent packing, feeling important as friends and family clamored and clattered around my leaving, quiet had descended. There is nothing like the aftermath of a crash, the calm breeze streaming into a previously violent scene that pinpoints a question. Where is the noise? Where is the energy? Where is that one voice you want to fill the silence with? It turns out that voice was his. The only voice I would rather hear.

But moving to a new city is exciting, all my friends exclaimed. Older people would nod and sagely tell me that this is the time to explore my life. Eventually, I incorporated these words. Before stepping onto the plane to Chicago, I would tell my lamenting friends that I was excited to start my new life. I would comfort my tearful parents, patting them like little dogs and explaining patiently that I was young, and now is the best time to try a new city. Like trying a new flavor of ice cream. Easy, quick, and wouldn’t it be so sweet? All I needed to do was pack my six suitcases, and fly off into the distance. New flavor, new city, new life.

All this excitement evaporated when I realized there was nowhere to put it. I was in the middle of a strange place in Chicago. No car, no bike, no internet, no TV. Just me, my suitcases, and a small wooden room. I unpacked quickly, filling my room with items I brought from New York. There-- my tie-dyed bedspread, my wooden vases from India, my little trinkets and ornaments I hung around the room. It helped, a little. The first night, after sweating through a couple of intense hours of unpacking, I sat down to survey the results. Quiet descended again. But I was too tired to listen for anything. Maybe that is the best way to fight this, I thought drowsily, falling into my pink and green bedspread. Keep myself insanely busy.