Trekhprudny Lane

We are happy here. Happier than we were in Chicago. I realized this today as I was skating alone in brilliant sunshine on the pond, while Lula napped in her stroller. (I figured out how to skate backwards, though I can't always pick up much speed.) I am not sure why this often grim and inscrutable place has turned out to be good for us. I remember thinking with relief and dismay and guilt, though, back in Chicago, while waiting at red lights, how unfailingly normal and safe everything was... down to the last detail: the strollers and the fonts, the shade of blond highlights, the snacks, the furniture, NPR, the jog after work, the farmer's market, Target, the same plants in every condo windowbox, the-stripe-facing-up-and-to-the-right. I was relieved to have excaped the Polish/Puerto Rican ghetto and Lord knows I love to shop but I would wait impatiently for something, anything, unknown or startling to cross my path, for someone to step outside the Wrigleyville script. We'd wander down Devon Avenue every third or fourth weekend, hoping for interesting encounters. We looked to the university, IRIM, taxi drivers, playgrounds in Rogers Park, and troops of immigrant nannies and housekeepers for the same thing. Perhaps I should have shown more initiative, seeking out people exceptional for their creativity or their backgrounds, but I was not sure how to begin or what I had to offer.