Chicago, you seduce me every fall. I remember first arriving at Northwestern and thinking how it was possible the rest of the world was not flocking to this paradise. Every day is 70 degrees, with a honey sun and a sky-blue lake. Why do you fuck so badly with my emotions? In a few months I will curse you, I will rue the day I met you, with your biting wintry breath breathing down my back and slipping under my collar. I already DO regret meeting you and falling for your devious ways. But now, I am madly, deeply in love. I can walk down the street and hear someone practicing an aria, or some form of opera — are they all arias? And then a few houses down, it’s piano, some song filters out to the street, and then on the corner, it’s saxophone. And the whole street is its own medley of open-windowed jams. What? Are we in Paris? To what do we owe this luxury? Earlier this week my new theater group rehearsed in an immaculate art space that used to be an auto garage — with art-covered walls painted orange and mustard; the old garage door open to let in the breeze through long white silk curtains — Are we in Cuba? To what do we owe this luxury? Damn it Chicago. DAMN IT, I can’t leave you, and I hate you and I love you.