![Guest Blogger Week: City LoveAn Open Letter to My Fair City Dear Chicago,On this, the (near) eve of my departure, I give you my words. They come from a well of admiration, driven by reserves of memory. I first approached you alone, aglow in my search for adventure and education, but I left you beaten, my wing bent under me. Years later, after gnashing my teeth on unpalatable substitutes, I returned, unsteady, unsure, but full of hunger for you. But suddenly you were open to my affections—or perhaps I was finally mature enough to make the commitment to you. Where I once saw you as detached, I now found you eager and welcoming. Where I once lamented your coldness, I now found you warm and joyful. Seemingly overnight, you became the complex, energetic, and delightful city I knew you could be. It is true what Carl Sandburg says. No romance can remain unblemished. You are wicked and crooked and brutal—these are things I accept about you, and in accepting, have come to love. But you are also mischievous and determined and fervent. You are the street musician winking at me as he croons, the shaggy-haired art student smoking his last cigarette, the mother holding her child’s hand as she navigates the crowded sidewalks. You are the smoke in a narrow alley, the shine of metal on a skyscraper, the careening inertia of an elevated train. You are the life that moves and inspires me. And it is also true: as I leave, you are “bragging and laughing that under [your] wrist is the pulse. and under [your] ribs the heart of the people.” And in those hearts is enfolded mine, beating ever ardent, ever true—though I might be too distant to hear you. Yours,Thao](http://25.media.tumblr.com/Z6d3GZ7X9noz4k5f0Eg11M6Oo1_500.jpg)
Guest Blogger Week: City Love
An Open Letter to My Fair City
Dear Chicago,
On this, the (near) eve of my departure, I give you my words. They come from a well of admiration, driven by reserves of memory. I first approached you alone, aglow in my search for adventure and education, but I left you beaten, my wing bent under me. Years later, after gnashing my teeth on unpalatable substitutes, I returned, unsteady, unsure, but full of hunger for you. But suddenly you were open to my affections—or perhaps I was finally mature enough to make the commitment to you. Where I once saw you as detached, I now found you eager and welcoming. Where I once lamented your coldness, I now found you warm and joyful. Seemingly overnight, you became the complex, energetic, and delightful city I knew you could be.
It is true what Carl Sandburg says. No romance can remain unblemished. You are wicked and crooked and brutal—these are things I accept about you, and in accepting, have come to love. But you are also mischievous and determined and fervent. You are the street musician winking at me as he croons, the shaggy-haired art student smoking his last cigarette, the mother holding her child’s hand as she navigates the crowded sidewalks. You are the smoke in a narrow alley, the shine of metal on a skyscraper, the careening inertia of an elevated train. You are the life that moves and inspires me.
And it is also true: as I leave, you are “bragging and laughing that under [your] wrist is the pulse. and under [your] ribs the heart of the people.” And in those hearts is enfolded mine, beating ever ardent, ever true—though I might be too distant to hear you.
Yours,Thao
