I have no regrets about leaving Chicago for Portland. None. Chicago is lovely to visit. Like all big cities, it tries to corral you in the nice parts when you visit, so that you do not have to smell or see the ugly wobbly bits that make up most of the city. Living in Chicago is like carrying around a big rock that is towing a boat. Everything hurts and grinds and the only way to manage it is to get blind drunk until you no longer care that you've grown a Ditka mustache and say things like ""The Jewels"" when you are referring to the Jewel (a grocery store).
In my occasional bittersweet nostalgia, however, I do have a few things that haunt me. I long for the distinctive chirpings of cardinals that used to live in my side yard, all red and cool looking amidst the blight urban blocks of grim city. When I get melancholy hunger pangs, they cry out for the chaotic perfection of the Chicago hot dog: Vienna beef dog from the water, steamed poppy seed bun, diced raw onion, tomato, nuclear relish, pickle, sport peppers, mustard (no fu*@ing ketchup!), celery salt and a side of crispy fries upon which ketchup is allowed.
This is the screaming child on an airplane of hunger pangs. This is the mad desperation of a man jammed in a closet with ""Love will find a way"" by Pablo Cruise stuck in his head chewing his own hand off so he might jam bits of it into his ears. This yearning cannot be put down easily. It bites back. When this hunger calls you have two choices: pony up a few hundred and hit the airport for ORD, or come to Wayne's. Find me at Wayne's most days.
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