This morning I take off on my brief adventure . . . first, a bus to Boston, then a plane to Chicago, and then J will meet me at the airport and we will be so glad to see each other!

Yesterday was so messy and disorganized, but I did manage to mostly get my packing done . . . though I have yet to stow the extremely heavy scavenged doorknob sets that Tom is sending to J for his apartment renovation. This is what happens when you are the liaison between two builders with a penchant for free stuff: you have to drag lock sets through airports. Let us hope that TSA doesn't get all hot and bothered about them.

I still have not yet finished the most important, and difficult, element of packing: how many books shall I bring? So far I have three: two collections of poetry (Teresa's and Baron's, because I'm going to be writing about them), plus the Saunders book I've been reading. But poetry books are short, and I'm two-thirds of the way through the Saunders, and what if I run out of things to read??? This is always my horror story, and so, of course, I always bring too many books, and my family members always roll their eyes and make pointed jokes about it.

But, honestly. Running out of things to read?? What a terrible idea.

It's supposed to be cold in Chicago, a low of 14, I'm sorry to say, but I intend to do all of the things anyway . . . whatever they are, as the only plan I've made is to see the Joffrey Ballet on Sunday. Mostly I'm just excited to be with J, in his new place. And I love Chicago . . . the flat streets, the brick buildings painted with Mexican-style murals, the strange sunken yards, the alleys and their pigeons, the mysterious Catholic icon stores with the display windows blurred like broken eyeglasses, the rattling El lines, the puzzling empty lots and the occasional rooster crow, the skyline of chimneys and the haze of downtown, midnight bursts of mariachi, the air filled with languages I don't speak, and then the lake, gray and pancake-flat, lapping at the feet of the city.