Life in the city

I am back in Los Angeles, yet again. I flew home last night from Chicago, thousands of miles up in the misty air, flying above canyons and mountains and tiny square homes, sprinkled across the vast Midwest like confetti on cupcakes, or stars exploded in the inky night sky. I thought of On the Road and of all of the winding and lonely roads that create the veins of the Midwest and I imagined the wind, the smell of manure. And great fields of corn sprung high and oceans wide.

I was rained out in Chicago. It’s as though the city heard my siren calling and decided to test my backbone. My friend and I made the trek for deep dish pizza but only got two blocks from her condo before my jeans were soaked up to my mid-thigh and I could hear the squish of water in my puma shoes. Drenched, we sat down at the nearest pizzeria we could find (not too hard, I suppose, in Chicago) and we shivered in the air conditioning as we ate and chatted.

The next day my umbrella broke. I had been pushing on the “open” button too hard and then the stubborn thing gave out on me. Refused to open unless I twisted it and pulled it as hard as I could. I toured Wrigley Field in the gray drizzle with a half-open umbrella, my gray sweatshirt spotted with rain, my hair pulled back against the wind.

Such is life in Chicago, I suppose.

I snoozed on the plane back to Los Angeles. I awoke after an hour or so embarrassed to find my mouth hanging open, literally, and I hoped the man next to me didn’t notice my limp face and sleepless twitches. Within the confines of the yellow-lit cabin and hum of the engine, I ached to write. I ached to travel even more and I ached for Chicago. I ached for the big wide world and all of the things I couldn’t have, didn’t yet have and didn’t even know I wanted.

But again, this morning I was launched back into Brentwood life. In my morning pilates session women more than twice my age and with insanely tight asses spoke of brunches in Westwood and tapas in Encino. I had parallel parked in the Village area and jogged to class, greeting the black lab that hovers outside our studio door with an enthusiastic grin. I was back to discussing green tea (shrink and drink!), indie films and whatnot while the morning California white-yellow light churned through the ceiling-high window panes.

Such is life in California, I suppose.

And yet, still. I still checked online ads last night for jobs both in Los Angeles and Chicago. Like poison, Chicago has worked itself once again into my veins and it's running through me now, proud and stubborn and strong.

And so it goes.

Back in Brentwood. Many dinners this week with friends, book clubs and writers groups and hiking this week in the Santa Monica Mountains, high up where I can see the ocean and wild flowers below.