Three years ago today, I arrived in Chicago. This whole adventure in big-city living began a year and a half before I arrived here, while I was still a resident of Fargo, North Dakota. In the first year, I found myself being grateful that I was in a city as big and busy and diverse as this one. Since then, it’s been a daily struggle to keep myself sane.
Some cities, I’ve been told, decide whether you’re worthy of living within them by testing your ability to handle it at its most intense. New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago are all members of this club, as if there are qualifications for being a resident of such a place. After three years, it’s clear to me that I’m not qualified to be a Chicagoan. Try as I may, I would rather be almost anywhere else most of the time. It isn’t that it’s a bad place to live; it just doesn’t fit.
Chicago has some beautiful places, like the Osaka Garden in Jackson Park, and Montrose Point Bird Sanctuary. It has some great food, like Frontier Hopleaf, Cafe Spiaggia, and XOCO. There are some great people here, like some of the friends I’ve made along the way. But at the end of the day, those aren’t enough for me to want to stay.
I’ve been told that I move too much and that I need to settle somewhere. That’s the point. I don’t know where I belong yet. I do know that it isn’t here. Three years in, and I feel like a visitor. An outsider. My goal is, within a year, to have picked a new city and either moved there or be in the process.