“Home is not so much a piece of land as a piece of soul.”

- From the amazing Pico Iyer, who spoke at an event a few months ago in San Francisco and just about blew my mind with every word that came out of his mouth.

While writers like him inspire me to be better with their brilliance, I also find myself discouraged by the vast ocean of difference between them and myself. If Pico says the above, I may as well just say “Home nice. Cats live there.” and call it a day. 

Photo by AlaskaTeacher

It’s funny how, once nostalgia begins to blur the sharp edge of memory, months - entire years even - get distilled down to a single feeling.

When I think of our apartment in Greektown I remember laying in bed and looking up through the windows that stretched twenty feet to the ceiling, seeing the Renaissance Center peeking through the fog. I know it wasn’t always foggy when we lived there, but those gray early mornings are what I remember most from that summer. 

When I think of our tiny studio in Seattle, it’s the heat I feel. We lived there for over a year, but that hot summer when we fought and almost broke up, when I slept with wet hair and the fan on full-blast, and we slowly learned to trust each other again - that’s what I remember. 

We’ve only been in San Francisco for about six months, but already the same blurriness is taking over my memories of Chicago. After five years there, in four apartments, I can remember millions of moments. But there are only a few “feelings” that remain - the feeling of cold so bitter your eyeballs hurt, of curling up under the blankets watching the snow fall, or hurrying home with the crunch of snow under my feet; the feeling of that summer heat and humidity, of drinking frozen margaritas on Saturdays or the cold relief of the AC unit after the  thick stale air of the train; the feeling of “Hammel wine night” and staying up until 2am listening to music and playing board games, and the feeling of 6am runs on empty streets covered in fallen leaves. 

We’re still creating those feelings that we’ll remember after we leave this apartment, but I already think I know what they’ll be: the feeling of walking downhill to work, seeing the movement of bodies, cars, bikes and trams below me as I work my way down; the feeling of Saturday morning runs, sweating my way uphill and down, then slowly making our way home with coffee and groceries; the feeling of picnics in the sun and rainy-day naps. 

When people ask what we’ve done so far since moving here, I don’t have much to say. We ran a 5k and joined in the costumed parade of Bay to Breakers. We’ve gone to Alcatraz and learned to make sourdough bread, eaten lots of seafood and joined a wine club, taken the ferry to Sausalito and spent a day in Napa, stayed overnight in Half Moon Bay and hiked along the coast, eaten oysters at the Ferry Building and seen sea lions at Fisherman’s Wharf, ridden the cable car (home with groceries), eaten from street carts, shopped at a farmer’s market and picnicked in the park. When it comes to ticking off the major “must-do” sites in San Francisco, we’ve not done much at all. 

But what we have done is build our life in San Francisco. I left a job that, in the end, just wasn’t making me happy, and found one where I feel valued and respected for the contributions I make. Dan’s settled into his position and continues to enjoy his new job. We run a few times a week and have both lost inches, gotten faster, and feel healthier and fitter than we have in years. We’re making friends, learning who we are in California and building a life here that we expect will just keep getting better. 

We may have only been here for a few months, and we have so much more of the city to explore, but it’s already begun to feel like home. Much as I loved Chicago, I couldn’t be happier with the change. I can’t imagine going back to the Midwest and right now, I feel like there’s no where else I’d rather be than here. And that feeling… it’s pretty good. 

top photo by scrambldmeggs

Yes, I’m a bit behind on posting my list of resolutions for this year. So what if it’s already the third day in February? You’ll notice “be prompt” is not on the list below. 

And actually it’s not even a list of resolutions so much as a list of “cool things I want to do/feel I should do/would like to try to do” at some point this year. And it’s not because I want to check them off one by one; I just think it could be cool to put them out there at the beginning (ish) of the year and see how they change in the 12 11 months to come. 

In no particular order, this year I hope to: 

Take a big trip for our 5 year anniversary (New Zealand? France? Chile?)
Bike over the Golden Gate Bridge
Run a half marathon
Go to Sonoma for a wine weekend 
Drive through a Redwood
Ski (and not die….hey, it’s been a while)
Lose 15 more pounds
Tour Alcatraz at night
Eat something that scares me (Done! Raw oysters at Hog Island. Did. Not. Like.)
Book a spontaneous trip and arrive with no maps and no plans 
Take a cooking class
Run uphill for 5 minutes without stopping (Record so far: 40 seconds)
Go on a vacation and do nothing - take a tech break and truly relax 
Eat at the French Laundry
Advance my career (in progress)
Save $X
Read at least one book per month (number so far: zero)
Get my tattoo fixed
Have date night once a week  
One weekend (overnight) trip per 4-6 weeks

It has been nearly two weeks since I last slept in my own bed. That’s nothing new when I’m traveling. What is new is that I’m not traveling and that nine of those 14 nights were spent on an air mattress, first in an empty apartment in Chicago and now in a slightly-less-empty apartment in San Francisco. I’ve now begun dreaming of my bed, and my couch, and the clothes and shoes and photos and other pieces of my life that are in a pod somewhere between that home and this one. 

We’re here. We spent our last day in Chicago with the first and best friend we made in the city, sitting at the bar where, one year ago to the day, I told Dan that 2011 would be the year he got the job he deserved.

The next day we rose at 5am from our saggy air mattress to a blizzard, which was just bad enough to remind us why we were glad to leave, but not bad enough to delay our flight. We boarded the plane, arranged the cats’ travel boxes at our feet, and then watched as our home for the last five years got smaller and smaller. When we landed, it was a blur of dropping off the cats, getting a Zipcar, getting an air mattress, getting some dishes, and getting some groceries, until we collapsed into another inflatable bed at 9pm. 

The apartment Dan picked out is darling - small, but cute, with bay windows and blond hardwood floors, French doors and two(!) walk-in closets, one of which will serve as my very first official home office. The street is noisy and the kitchen is woefully small, but I think once the furniture arrives, it will feel like home. 

I’m anxious to go see the city, already making lists of everywhere I want to go and everything I want to do. But I’m also really looking forward to doing nothing for a few more days, except laying on my long-lost couch, and getting reacquainted with my bed. The city is out there, shiny and new and waiting for me to discover it. But there’s a simple pleasure in the bed that knows my body best, and in being surrounded by so much familiar stuff, so they city can wait a little while longer. 

Here’s the thing I both love and hate about the rise of blogs. Reading a person’s blog allows you to feel like you know this person, know what they like and dislike, know their sense of humor, know “who they are” but really, you have no clue. You only know their online persona, so it creates this false sense of intimacy when really you have no relationship with the person whatsoever. This leads to trouble. 

I meet a lot of bloggers through work; we all seem to be in the same circles and it’s easy to make connections with the writer of a blog I enjoy. But there’s one blog I love and have been reading for about a year now where that hasn’t really been the case. For whatever reason, I’ve just never really commented on her site, but instead been one more anonymous reader. I find the writer totally delightful. She seems like the kind of person I would be friends with if we lived in the same city. And now that I’m moving, we will be in the same city. So of course we’re going to become best friends! Oh, except that she has no clue who I am. 

 - - - 

When I was in first grade, we moved to a new neighborhood where I knew no one. I noticed some kids riding their bikes around the block in front of my house, but I was too shy to just say hi. So when I started to see the pattern - they passed by about every five minutes - I decided to arrange a way to meet them. I grabbed a plastic necklace and waited until I saw them turn the corner. Then I cut the necklace so that all the tiny round beads would come cascading off right as they passed by. Just as I had anticipated, they stopped to help. But in devising my genius plan, I didn’t think of a way to actually engage them in conversation, or you know, even say hi, so after they helped me pick up the mess, I mumbled a thank you and they got back on their bikes and rode away. 

- - - 

I’d like to think my interpersonal skills have improved since then, but then I find myself trying to figure out how to do the equivalent of the dropped necklace on the internet. Do I just start commenting on this person’s blog and and mention that I’m moving to the same city? Or just drop a note…”hey, I’ve been reading your blog for a while now….I’m moving to your city and totally think we should be friends….I know you don’t know me….I’m not crazy,” which of course makes her think you are, in fact, a little crazy. Because sane people do not need to reassure others that they are not crazy. 

But then, you’re asking a total stranger to be your friend, simply because you feel you know the intimate details of her personality, while she, up until receiving your creepy note, had no idea you existed. So of course you need to explain that you aren’t crazy, which then makes you wonder if it is a bit crazy to invite a total stranger to be your friend. 

Yeah, probably best to just drop that whole idea. 

On another note: hey! I’m moving to San Francisco. Want to be my friend? I promise I’m not crazy… 

Photo by Josh Liba

“You move more than mobsters in the witness protection program.”

That’s what our former landlord said when we contacted him to let him know we’d be asking for a reference for a new apartment in San Francisco. 

We didn’t expect to move to the Bay Area. In fact, when I wrote the previous post a few months ago, I expected we’d stay in Chicago until next year, at which point we’d head east, to the land of seafood and cheap rent. I obviously had no clue that at the end of October, Dan would be laid off from his job (where he’d worked for five years) and that after a month of applying to countless jobs and having multiple interviews, he’d end up with two job offers in San Francisco, exactly four weeks after his layoff date. 

We’re thrilled to live in California (also land of seafood, but with much, much higher rent), but not so thrilled about the moving part. If given the choice between planning my wedding all over again and doing another cross country move, I’d opt for the wedding. I’m pretty sure I could do it cheaper and at least I’d get a party and some gifts when it’s all over. Hell, I’m still going to have a party and give myself some gifts when this is all over. Between living in an apartment full of boxes and having my new “office” be the couch (which sounds fun until you think about trying to type on a laptop on a couch for 8 hours; I now have the spinal curvature of an 80 year old woman. With scoliosis.), freaking out about money, and madly missing Dan, who is currently in the city starting his job, it’s been a pretty miserable week. 

But by January 2, this will be my view.  

Okay so that won’t be my exact view. I’m pretty sure that view costs an extra $2000 a month. My view will probably be of an alley where homeless people go to die, but it’ll be in San Francisco. 

So yeah, we’re moving. Again. Which means that my cats have lived in more cities than most people have. 

I’m sure we’ll be very happy in our new home though. Just call us Katia and Don, the Hummels. 

Photo by @Melbourne

After five years in Chicago (come this December), I’m starting to think about saying goodbye to this city. We’ve always had a love/hate relationship.

I hate the sweltering summer days of 90+ degrees and stifling humidity but I love those breezy warm days when the shines in the sun. I love the chill in the air when fall comes and the leaves turn brilliant colors, but I hate the winters that bring with them that oh-my-god-did-my-eyeballs-just-freeze cold that makes me feel so frozen in my bones that I don’t leave the house for days on end. I hate the crime and the corruption but I love the museums and the restaurants. I love that there is always something to do. I love BYOB. I love the el, even with all its delays and the mechanical groaning and creaking that echoes down my street. I love this city and I always will. 

I just don’t want to live here anymore.

Luckily, I’m not leaving yet. Dan and I have set a target move-out date for next fall, which means I have one whole year to suffer through a freezing winter and then a sticky summer  say goodbye to my beloved city. So I’ve compiled a (work in progress) list of everything I want to do before I go.

1) Ride the Navy Pier Ferris Wheel (yes in five years, I still haven’t done this!)
2) Spend a day at the beach (I know, I am a bad Chicagoan)
3) Picnic in a park
4) See a movie screening in the park
5) Notebaert Nature Museum
6) Drinks on the patio at Trump
7) One more visit to Hot Doug’s
8) See a show, opera, or ballet
9) See the Nutcracker on horseback at Noble Horse Theatre
10) Take a tour of the trading floor at the Board of Trade
11) Museum of Contemporary Art
12) Dine at Alinea
13) Dine at Les Nomads
14) Midwest trips - Kansas City, MSP, Madison, Six Flags, Indianapolis, Lake Geneva (again) and the SW Michigan Wine Trail (again)

What am I missing?

From Dan: I’m going to start naming all my computer files things like “the world” and “a baby from a burning building,” so that every time I save a file, I am a hero.

A) I hate when people say “bless you” when I sneeze. Because then I have to say “thanks”. But why should I say thanks? They didn’t really bless me. And even if they had the power to do that, why does sneezing warrant any attention from on high (other than the fact that people used to believe your heart stopped when you sneezed)? We don’t say “bless you” when someone burps, or yawns or performs some other involuntary bodily action. Can’t we just let my forceful expulsion of germy mucus mist go without comment? Or at the very least not force the event to result in me saying “thank you”? Imagine if everytime I farted, I turned to the person next to me and said “hey, thanks”.

When Dan and I first started dating, I told him if he was going to insist on saying “bless you” when I sneezed, I would say something equally useless when he did. After months of me saying random words and nonsense phrases after his achoos (“schadenfreude!” “glocken pepper!”), he finally just stopped acknowledging my sneezes.

B) Today Dan watched Pirates of the Caribbean while I wrote. When a character said “Huzzah!” I looked up and asked Dan why we never say huzzah. Our marriage needs more “huzzah” I said.

C) Hours later, I sneeze. Dan (from the other room): Huzzah!