Every single time I turn that bend on the 90/94 expressway and suddenly the brick buildings and the hulking steel structures appear in front of me . . . I feel a settled-ness, a calmness, a great big warm sigh of relief right in my belly and my head and my heart. And yesterday was no different. I love Chicago.

Yesterday, I had the entire afternoon all to myself in my Grandma’s apartment. I re-organized my suitcase. I’ve not had a moment to do this for several weeks. It’s difficult to get going in the morning when you can’t find your toothbrush. Then I laid down on her bed and took a few deep breaths and then thought, “OK . . . what next?”

Then it hit me . . . my Chicago friends were having an afternoon BBQ. There is just no way I can be in the state of Illinois and not go see all of them. And now, reflecting on it, I’m so glad I did. It was a magical convergence. It just so happened that there was a special training event going on in town and so several of my friends from Detroit, St. Louis and San Francisco also showed up. I didn’t tell anyone I was coming up either, so when I ran into the courtyard, everyone was really surprised. It was great. I mean, there’s nothing much that compares to ten of your favorite people all arguing over who gets to pick you up and bear hug you first.

I retold all my latest adventures and a few of these friends pointed out that for the four years they’ve known me, I have always been a gypsy. (I hadn’t realized that, not really.) I put some pieces of the puzzle of “what will Anna do next” together and ran into some folks who can help educate me about straw/cob housing – which is my latest interest. Everyone is trying to convince me to move there.

We ended my 24 hours in town with lunch at one my favorite restaurants – Lula- located in Logan Square. I highly recommend this cafe – the food is always local, fresh, unique and priced very reasonably, especially considering the eclectic mix of items that they serve. They serve brunch daily, not just on weekends and everyday the menu changes. I had the beet & arugula bruschetta – one of my favorites. Their bread is always grilled to perfection, never doing damage to the inside of your mouth the way alot of bruschettas have a tendency to.

Also the art there is always really great. I’ve been patronizing Lula for four years now. When I first lived in the neighborhood, they were never crowded during the weekdays, so now to arrive on a Monday afternoon and be put on a wait list was impressive for the tiny cafe that I’ve grown to love so much.

So I left late this afternoon, heading back down south, rambling ever closer to Nashville. I was going to drive all night, but an old friend in Champaign just called and so we’re going to catch up. Yup, the adventure always continues . . .

The first time I drove into Santa Fe was last week. I noticed work crews of prisoners in orange jumpsuits picking up trash by the city roadside, in a heavy traffic area. A city bus pulled away from the corner, revealing more orange-clad workers, trash bags in hand, bending over.  And then all of a sudden, it was like slow motion. I watched one of the guys stumble and try to catch himself, but he just kept falling. I actually had time to think, “Oh my god, I think that guy’s gonna fall in the street!”

And then that is exactly what happened. I watched the guy fall – right into the busy six-lane divided highway - right in front of my car. Only thankfully he was up the street nearly a block, so by the time I approached, he’d already scrambled back up to the sidewalk.

It reminds me of the time I was riding my bike in Chicago under the Fullerton street exit off of I-95 . It was about 10PM. I was on a neighborhood street that sort of branched off from the on-ramp. I had to ride past the on-ramp entrance to continue down the street. And for some unknown reason, just as I rode across the on-ramp, I busted HARD and fast on my bike, a rarity for me.

The side of my face was all of a sudden lying flat on the smooth, oily pavement of the busy Interstate on-ramp and the wind was knocked out of me.  I actually had enough time to think to myself, “Holy Shit! I’m lucky that there are no cars coming at this moment!” before scrambling up and picking up my bicycle and getting the hell out of that busy thoroughfare.  

I worked in The Burque for one week last November. When I was here that last time, I splurged and purchased a fine silver and turquoise Pakistani necklace from a Swedish woman with an intense handshake who runs a new-age type crystal shoppe/bookstore. I wore the necklace to my next destination, Chicago, whereupon, the very next day, one of the platelet hinges snapped. Admittedly, this happened while I was dancing super-hard with a bunch of friends in front of a juke box at one of my favorite Chicago beer joints, Estelle’s. Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed, but also, kind of impressed with myself that I was able to break a hundred dollar necklace simply by some crazy booty-shakin’.

Yesterday, I was in Inga’s store again, this time purchasing a hard-to-find book. I re-introduce myself and mention that I purchased a necklace last fall – and that it broke two days later. Inga pauses, looks at me over the top of her bifocals with a gaze equally as intense as her soul-stroking handshake and says very evenly, “You know, dear, zat vhen someting like dis happens, it is because zat necklace has protected you from some-sing.”

“What?” I ask. I don’t really know what I was expecting her to do about the busted merchandise, but I truly wasn’t expecting her to tell me that the necklace saved me from some sort of attack – psychic or otherwise.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s true. Once, I was coming home across a darkened parking lot, and my necklace broke.” She shuddered. “I know it protected me from some-sing!” She smiles. “I can recommend someone to fix it . . . ”

For the record – I do have a tendency to believe these sorts of things, but that belief system certainly has limitations. The only thing that I can’t shake about her explanation is that . . . . OK, let’s pretend that she’s correct and that it did “save me” from some-sing. Why did it break whilst I was dancing, surrounded by friends? I have to hand the prize of proprietary excuses to my local crystal shoppe owner, Inga. I’ll be back to her store; it’s a good store. I just won’t buy any more jewelry there.