As a child, I spent a good deal of my summers in Colorado. We learned by exposure that beauty was the wild landscape, the rugged terrain, the clear blue sky, all the things John Denver sang about so eloquently. I can smell the evenings, the crisp air, even in the summer, and always the scent of pine, the burning smell, surely a campfire, although more likely a roaring fire in a wildly inappropriate large home. But wonderful, every bit of it.
And then I moved to Chicago. Hot in the summer, bloody hot and humid and unbearably cold in the winter, cold such that you think the wind might just get you before you get home. And not crisp with beautiful snow cold, icy cut to the bone cold, painful cold. And you know what, I love it. It's beautiful, it really is. Last week the husband and I went out on one of the huge boats that take off from Navy Pier, usually loaded with tourists, but this time full of his coworkers and clients, enjoying an evening out on the lake. What a view!
It's not Aspen, very few things are, but the beauty is in the skyline, and the water, and the parks, and the people. The wonderful amazing people, all 8 million of us who wedge in here (despite being surrounded by plenty of available space) and I love it.
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