I write to you from the wilds of Chicago, where it is 6:30 a.m. and my body is highly confused by the combination of daylight savings and central time. Currently a cat named Krusty is attempting to walk on my head, so pardon any typos. From my window I see dark gray clouds scudding across a pale gray sky; I see the brick chimney of a sausage factory, the backs of row houses, a line of bare trees twitching in a cold wind. It's very cold here--13 degrees--and last night, as we walked through the neighborhood, the breeze tore up pant legs and down collars, and British meat pies for dinner seemed like manna.

Today I think we're going to the Garfield Park Conservatory, just so we can see some green and pretend our boots aren't full of ice. Otherwise, I have no idea what we'll be doing, and that is fine. I'm just so glad to be here, even if this cat is treating me like a yoga mat.