Did your nose itch? (Probably not.)

Hosting is a privilege. I can nourish the people I love - family and friends - and share life. We forge our bonds through experience, laughter, and conversation. Sometimes there is sorrow, but that is where we find strength and support each other.

We recently had friends visit Chicago from my hometown. They weren't coming specifically to visit me, but I'm going to selfishly claim that I planted the seed when I saw them last Christmas. I loved showing them around, introducing them to a few things that I love and sharing pieces of my adult life with them. I welcomed them, and I was surprised when I realized that by showing them where I live, I felt even more at home. I understood a little deeper what my cousin felt when she thanked us for visiting them recently - in Japan.

I can count on my two hands (sadly, it barely requires the second) the number of times family or friends from Kentucky have made the trip since I moved north. Even though I've been here long enough to qualify for "Chicagoan" status, I seldom have the opportunity to share this part of me. I don't get to welcome my family into my home, share my favorite foods, show them the things I see every day. This part of my life is unintentionally closed to them. We can't talk about the view of the city from the lakefront, the feel of sitting on the rocks looking out over the beach and the water, the smell of ethnic foods, or the sound of the train in the quiet of early morning. They don't learn my context, and I'm lousy at conveying it.

This reminiscence makes me try harder to visit my friends and family who have also expatriated from their hometowns. I suspect that they sometimes have moments as well when they feel a bit cut off. (Or maybe that's just me...but regardless...) I realize that I am woefully out of touch with my oldest friends and family, and feel helpless as I watch our homes, friends, occupations, marriages, interests and concerns grow distant and dissimilar. Those first few feet of foundation for these relationships are still there, but the rest of the structure has diverged in alternate directions. Is this just part of "growing up"?

Chicago is a lovely place in the summer, and San and I have an open door, empty futon, and stocked refrigerator. I can't wait to revisit some places I've neglected, such as San Francisco and North Carolina, and meet some new places like Virginia. It's high time we refresh some stale memories and create some new ones. Does your nose itch yet? I hope so...let's have visitors.

Home in the Neighborhood

I’ve heard my neighborhood referred to as “the bohemian part of town” by people who have lived here their entire lives. I never really took on to it in the last two years that I’ve been here. However, in a conversation today, I realized that “bohemian” is probably an appropriate adjective. I mean, we don’t have a naked cowboy and the scent of patchouli won’t assault your nostrils, at least not when you’re on the sidewalk. We do, however, have a wandering minstrel, who owns at least three stringed instruments that he plays as he strolls along the streets. We also have a black man in a kilt who walks a bichon frise. More than one home has an arguable excessive, though tidy, number of mosaics, stained glass windows, and other artwork hanging from their porch and in their front yard. The older woman who lives in the condo next to mine has “decorated” the hallway with her “art” which generally consists of a clock, some sort of plastic flowering bush with a duck perched in it, and something seasonal. There are garden animals in her parking spot, featuring a rabbit, frog, alligator, and their little metal and acrylic friends. Another of my neighbors has obscured the make of their car with liberal bumper stickers. One of the restaurants up the street is decorated with foil balls dotting the ceiling tiles, framed paint-by-number posters, and reclaimed mailboxes that have been morphed into sea animals. The local coffee shop gives the Starbucks across the street stiff competition. It all makes me feel at home.