Your Next Bold Move

I was walking down my block after yoga class and I knew.  My bike had been locked up right in front of my house and immediately I thought I needed to lock it up in back.  I took a few steps closer and felt it – I knew it was gone.  Sure enough, as I approached my house it wasn’t there.  It was the final sign for me.  It was time to leave.

I guess I started contemplating moving a few months ago.  I had wanted to change around my apartment – something wasn’t feeling right.  Then I gave up on that idea and opted to just not come home, staying out late, events, drinks with friends or yoga every night etc.  I didn’t notice much considering that it’s not rare for me to be hyper-involved in various activities until I spent the weekend at my parents’ house and my mother made me an offer.

“Yenni, why don’t you come home so you can save money and be with the family?”  She asked.  Last time she made me that offer I laughed and said, “Are you kidding?  We’d kill each other!” Yet, there I sat, considering it for the first time in ten years.  The stolen bike was the last straw. 

I think I’m actually mature enough to move back home with my family.  Odd as that sounds, I really think I had to go through some intense growth to be able to feel excited at this prospect. 

I left home at 18 years old.  My mother and I both couldn’t wait for me to leave the house.   Between college, travels, boyfriends, jobs and adventures I managed to move 10 times in the past 10 years, finally settling in Pilsen, where I’ve lived alone for the past two and a half years.

In the decade I've spent away from home, I’ve howled with wolves in New Mexico, trekked the land of my ancestors, endured heartbreak, and climbed rungs of the business ladder among other amazing things that continue to fill me with a never-ending thirst for adventure and a smile. Today, I find myself in a different phase; one where I’m seeking a quiet self-exploration, but without the solitude I used to prefer. 

I’ve been attempting to incorporate more honesty into my life, especially honesty with myself.  As difficult as it is for me to admit: I need the support of my family now more than ever.  In these past ten years, I’ve seen a headstrong, idealistic and independent teenager grow into a full grown woman that thinks it might be nice to not have to work so hard to maintain her autonomy.  I want to spend time with my family.  I want to save money for my future adventures.  I want to come home to people that love me and care about me especially as I look forward to an arduous yoga teacher training for the next six months.

I’m really excited about moving back home.  I’m looking forward to reading all those books I’ve been meaning to in the backyard shaded by trees.  I can’t wait to spend nights throwing popcorn at my brother as we watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended version of course) in succession.  I don’t think I’ll mind the dog jumping on the bed every morning to wake me.  I’m excited about all the home cooked meals my mama will make and am definitely looking to have some deep philosophical conversations with my father about life on some long walks through the forest.

My favorite LoTR character.

I believe this stage, this layover, this stop, this step, whatever you choose to call it, is necessary, and like most opportunities that present themselves in my life I will come through this a better, more inspired, happier and more peaceful Jen.

I still, however, really really miss my bike.  

We Found Love in a Hopeless Place...

I was out with some friends hitting up various nighttime establishments.  At the end of the night, I wound up at this upscale lounge; the type that has bottle service and the women’s skirts barely cover their behind wearing shoes they can barely walk in not to mention dance in.  Not my type of joint, generally speaking, but a kind stranger handed my friend and I a vodka cranberry each as we walked in so we thought we’d go with the flow and make the best of it.

That is until I went into the restroom and overheard the conversation.  Some young woman was discussing getting her third boob job and I looked at the bathroom attendant and whispered into her ear: “I’m so sorry you have to listen to this bullshit all night.”  She chuckled and I went back upstairs.

I found my friend and then the exit and as I am waiting for a cab the bathroom attendant comes out and she thanked me for what I said; that it was hard to hear these women complain about their lives sometimes and that her best friend just lost a baby yesterday and that she was just so tired…

All I could do was hug a stranger on some street corner at 2:30 a.m. as my only reply. 

The Chicago Project: Biking Naked

Ah, Saturdays in the summer.  How I love you.  This summer I’ve been keeping my weekends as clear as possible if only to fully enjoy the freedom of the moment.

This past Saturday I enjoyed what some might say is ultimate liberation – baring it all in public.  After letting the wind blow me from Pilsen to Ukranian Village and then to Edgewater Beach I biked back to the West Loop to participate in the best bike ride of my life…naked.

Okay…okay…so I wasn’t completely nude, but close enough.  I also wasn’t alone; there were hundreds of us and possibly a thousand closing down the streets downtown biking naked.  It was thrilling, scary and absolutely joyful to see people’s reactions to us biking down in the buff.

Things I loved:

• All the body positivity surrounding the event – participants weren’t there to judge your body – you felt accepted no matter what you looked like
• So many different people from various walks of life: old people, young people, big people, small people, black people, brown people, yellow people, tattooed people, white people…just wow. 
• “Less gas; more ass!” chants (even though I feel so crude swearing in chants so I obstained from actually chanting the word “ass” in public)
• Feeling my bare skin against the night wind
• All the body paint, creative masks, costumes and boomboxes attached to bikes

Things I didn’t like:

• When a guy strikes up a conversation with you by saying “nice bike,” you’re not really sure that he’s looking at your bike…
• All the people on the streets taking photos.  I almost yelled at them to just experience the moment with us rather than constantly try to capure it, but I didn’t.  It must have been the lack of liquor in my body.

So I was a little shy about taking my clothes off at first and biked a little less than half the ride with my tank top still on until a beautiful burlesque boy starting talking to me as we biked together.   “You should take it off,” he said.  “Really?  I dunno…”  “Yeah, you’ll feel so free and good, just do it.”

I did do it. I removed my tank top and revelled in the moment.  If my mother could only see me now (nope, she just gets to read about it) :)

I laughed a lot, smiled at people and felt so much joy at being the highlight of so many people’s  crazy weekend stories.  I wasn’t going to go home to call my friends to say, “You’ll never guess what I saw today!”  No I was going to tell them: “You’ll never guess what I did today!”

The Chicago Project: Bridgeport

I love going to places alone. 

It’s an odd hobby that I must have picked up when I was 18 years old and had just moved to the city for the first time.  I remember how I was then – so young and fresh and wanting to experience everything – the people; the places; the day; the night…

I’ve come back to that girl it seems; the one that goes out on her bicycle late at night alone to check out the open mic night and perform for people that won’t ever know her name.  The comfort about strangers is that you don’t ever have to live up to anything.  You just share in a moment without clinging to identity…

This is one of the many reasons I love to travel alone.  I love traveling because of the complete uncertainty of where the journey will take you or who you will meet along the way; the exoticism of new places and the seduction of a moment in different vegetation and landscape.

So Chicago: how do I experience you as a tourist instead of a resident?

Let’s start in Bridgeport, a southside neighborhood not too far from Pilsen.  I walked into Bernice’s Tavern’s open mic night because I wrote a poem I was dying to read to a room full of strangers.  I was disappointed to find that it was only music.  I then scanned the room thinking about how poetry would probably not fly well here as I eyed the décor.  Signs that read: “work is the curse of the drinking class,” and “never trust a man that doesn’t drink,” permeated the walls.  I could hear thick Chicago accents over the Neil Young cover songs.  The Sox game was on in a tiny t.v. in the corner of the room.  Bridgeport is Sox country, make no mistake about it.

I knew immediately that there were two things I would not do here today:

1. Tell anyone I’m vegan 
2. Read my intense feminist poetry

Instead I noticed the little things one tends to when in a new place.

As a writer, it’s the external stimulation that drives you inward to put it all into words. It’s overhearing a conversation that inspires a poem or noticing the way the light dances on foreign walls over music. It’s reading the silence between the words; it’s contemplating life’s riddles as you watch the man and the woman in the corner whispering into each other’s ear…

Or, if you’re Bridgeport, it’s scanning the bar full of burly men in Bears and Blackhawks jerseys and baseball hats wondering if anyone is a secret Cubs fan. 

Deep thoughts.

More Chicago adventures to come throughout the summer!

Summer in the City

I know, I know….I’m sorry I haven’t blogged in a while.  It’s funny though, I forget people actually read this thing until I stop writing on it for a little while and then have people writing me emails or seeing me and saying “Hey what’s the deal with your blog?  Dammit woman, WRITE!!”  Just kidding, they don’t say that last bit, but I know that’s what they mean.

Allow me to explain:  it is summertime in Chicago.  It’s this rare and fleeting season where everyone is social and out and about, myself included.  There are street festivals, music festivals, endless parties and I’ve been quite the social butterfly.  

Summer in the city and there’s cleavage cleavage cleavage.

I am dedicating this post to Chicago and its summer splendor.

There is this sense of adventure in the air every time the humidity hits you at night.  As the warm wind caresses your cheek you forget you’re in a huge city and are transported to a kinder place.  You let your guard down; you let your hair loose.  The nights seem endless not only because you have all the 4 a.m. bars memorized, but also because everyone is in the mood to be social and be seen.

You see friends you haven’t seen in years walking down the street; you pitch a spot at some music festival and make new ones.  There is a romance to the summer that isn’t captured at any other season.  The time stops, the days turn into nights with such an easy transition you almost miss the red sunset.

Then of course, there’s the city in all of her glory.  Rooftop parties give way to a postcard snapshot of the Chicago Skyline lit up like candles on birthday cakes.  As the humidity increases your dreams intensify, colors seem brighter, your friends: more beautiful.  You embrace chance encounters and passionate conversations while refilling your vodka tonic.  You don’t know the song but you keep dancing to it anyway, waiting for the rhythm to switch and make you feel new again, like you’ve never done this before.

 The night is yours.  You own it but can never tame it.  You thrive in its wilderness, the ignorance of where this night will take you, to whom the lake breeze blows you.  Summer in the city is swinging in the park at 2 a.m. and letting your wet skin breath in the night air with your good friends.  It’s an ice cold beer over some old buddies at a barbeque.  It’s a big bite of fresh mangoes and peaches with the juice running down your chin.  It’s a first kiss with a stranger.  It’s a moment so precious and beautiful.  It’s fleeting.

That being said, I’ll get back to my regular blogging in the fall.  Thanks for your understanding.

Love,

Jen

Disillusionment and Disappointment in Chicago

“You can’t take politics so personally, they are just politics…” A friend said to me. I was visibly upset and furthermore feeling physically ill at the thought of it all.

Chicago had just had its mayoral election – the first in which a Daley was NOT running in 22 years. The City was up for grabs.
In the last wide-open mayoral race for the city of Chicago two decades ago, 68 percent of voters showed up to vote. Yesterday, only 41 percent of registered voters bothered to show up to vote at all. This is the first time in my lifetime that Chicago will have a new mayor and 60 percent of registered voters can’t even bother to show up?!?!

I’m angry; I’m really angry. It’s been a long time since a social/political issue has upset me so much personally and visibly altered my state of being. Candidates were conceding only one hour after the polls had closed.

This is not a blog post about my political views or who I thought should have won in this. I had simply hoped to see all candidates’ ideas presented challenged a bit more to artfully construct a blueprint with various viewpoints of the greatness that Chicago could be. I wanted the ideas and proposals for this great city to be subject to public approval. I wanted to be engaged. I wanted to learn more about the candidates’ plans. I wanted to be spoken to and I wanted to be inspired.

My hopes were crushed around 8p.m. driving to an election party when the news broke that Rahm Emmanuel had won the election with more than 50 percent of the vote and therefore no run-off was necessary.

It’s not the results that bothered me so much. It’s the fact that less than a month ago the world watched full of hope for the Middle East as Egypt was emancipated from a government they had not chosen. They protested out in the streets for weeks. Many people sacrificed so much just to exercise the one right we Americans deem inalienable and yet cannot muster to do on a cold day in February.

Vote.

Maybe it’s the recent travel and conversations with people that will never know the privilege of living in this country that has me much more sensitive to the global world around me these days. Or maybe it’s the patriot inside of me that will defend this country with my dying breath wherever I am. Whatever it is, I am disappointed in my fellow Chicagoans and frankly, I do not know how they can ever make it up to me or to other voting citizens of this great city. We deserve better.

Chicago Flag

Hipsters: What are They and How Can I Avoid Them?

I live in Pilsen, a Southside neighborhood of Chicago.  It is a traditionally Mexican American neighborhood.  In the summertime you can hear the bells of the paleteros (popsicle vendors) down your block.  You can get fresh corn on the cob with mayonnaise, lime and chile powder in front of the grocery store.  The streets are littered with beautiful murals by the neighborhood's rich artist community depicting Aztec warriors, Mexican families, and even statements about immigration.  It is a vibrant community both culturally and economically.

This neighborhood has undergone a transformation within the past few years.  Some would call it gentrification which is a scary word for the die hard political activists that live here; others would call it the inevitable cycle of Chicago neighborhoods.  The popularity of one neighborhood shifts in an ever changing array of hotspots in the City.

One constant of the evolution of Chicago neighborhoods are the hipsters.  Looking for cheap rent and interesting neighborhoods they are the first sign that a neighborhood is changing.  It's kind of like following the rats on a sinking ship to safety, if your real estate follows the hipsters then you're in for a return on your investment eventually.

http://1thought2many.wordpress.com/2010/07/17/hipster/

http://www.hipstertravelguide.com/archives/187

I don't quite know what hipsters are, despite many of them being my generational peers, but I do know what they look like.  They generally wear skinny jeans and shop at thrift stores.  They prefer to look like they haven't eaten in weeks or perhaps they enjoy the whole I may have been a creepy looking serial killer in the 1970s but it's cool now because it's 2011 look.  Living in Pilsen I have made the following observations about hipsters:

1. They like art, music or photography but are not necessarily heavily involved in the arts as a career path.
2. They choose to be poor; many from a wealthy or white collar background move out of the suburbs into the city to live off of thrift store clothing, PBR, and cheap food.
3. They have no definable political issues.  They are the quintessential "rebels without a cause."  They don't want to be mainstream yet have nothing non-mainstream to rally against.
4. They seem to be apathetic about life, often living very transient lifestyles with no real career paths working low paying jobs with minimal responsibilities.
5. There is an odd obsession with "low culture" and truck drivers for some reason.
6. They are incredibly self-involved.  They have low paying jobs yet somehow manage to have ipods, ipads, iphones, imacs, Steve Jobs phone number etc.
7. They go out of their way to be weird and awkward in social situations because they somehow think that their awkwardness makes them cool.  Again, with the self involvement here, it's a graduation of indie emo rock mentality (no one gets me, I want to cut myself) to hipster mentality (no one gets me, I'm going to embrace it and be really weird so I can try to be cool) - no I didn't just make up that twisted logic.
8. They will not admit to being a hipster if asked if they are a hipster (I've asked several hipsters if they are hipsters and none ever answer yes)...fascinating.
9. They LOVE bicycles, especially fixed gear bicycles.
10. Their taste music will ALWAYS be better than yours, according to them, of course.

The boy, the bus stop and me...

She had a moment while sitting on a bench waiting for the bus.  One of those moments that twinges on those lost memories at the beginning of a long love affair: the flirtation with ambiguity, the naivety of her youth, the newness of every single little freckle on her lover’s body.

She didn’t run to catch the bus today and instead waited.  She had forgotten to look around all these years because she was running after the bus and now she waited and wished she could sit there all day in the winter’s brisk, fresh snow just to watch. 

She had played the game so well these past few years.  The city looked like a handsome boy smiling and turning away only to look again and smile at her while her face blushed so bright she couldn’t help but smile back.  He would never speak to her though.

All of a sudden she was eighteen years old again, new to this city, these buildings like these giant enigmas filled with strangers.  The pigeons on the street peck at crumbs under the lights on Michigan Avenue.  She is enamored with each begging squirrel, each lingering look from a stranger or the ones that shift quickly by hoping not to be seen.  She is in love.

She is faced with uncertainty all of which is surely leading her away from her lover, Chicago.  The city: the one who nurtured her sweetly in all those bars she nursed a whiskey or a broken heart, in all of those apartment buildings and alleyways.

The city: the one who showed her through mazes of endless streets, brick buildings, steel bridges, wrong directions on the way to finding someone, maybe something new today, maybe herself.

She kept an array of little notes friends and lovers had written her from stupid drunken conversations to times of desperation. They seemed so insignificant at the time but they were like the pigeons now, another extraordinary ordinary moment she’d forgotten to notice.

Her drawings were gateways to periods in her life.  She sat in the living room of her mind remembering the friends that had come and gone, the neighborhoods she had known so well.  They were little snippets into her history – like playing a song from your childhood that would leave you uncertain as to Now’s time and place.

She didn’t get on the bus and instead went back home.  She put on a record and began the process.  The cardboard boxes each categorized so neatly: Kitchen, bedroom, books, bathroom, office…  She sat sorting through drawers and putting new labels on the boxes: Christopher, 2809 N California Ave., Summer ’06…and each item in the box was a familiar pain to the heart, a tinge of anxiety then release, like a needle entering a vein delivering instant relief.  She knew her anxiety hurt her more than the prick of the needle.

She took a deep breath and found a vein pumping her blood back to her heart.  She plunged the syringe into herself of too many late nights, loves lost and friends loved and began to feel the relief. She let go and allowed her tears to rinse the blood off her arm.  Her work was done here.  

Let's Evolve (for our daughters)

I'm re-posting this from a previous blog because obviously the world isn't listening fast enough:

I’d been debating whether I should blog about this type of thing or not, but part of the reason I started my blog was so that I could have a voice in a capacity that I am not normally able in other aspects of my life.  I work within the business community in Chicago.  A great deal of the type of work that I do has to do with developing strong business relationships with business owners and other stakeholders within the Hispanic business community.  I also happen to be a young woman and I like to go out and have a good time by which I mean go out with friends, colleagues, etc. and have a couple of drinks while getting to know each other better or at an event etc. 

It has been more than once that certain men within this community have tried to leverage their position or the role they play within my current network as an excuse to be able to behave inappropriately towards me or towards other women.  It’s become increasingly frustrating for me to deal with and all the while I keep asking myself why I should have to deal with it. 

It’s a catch-22 situation with so many shades of gray.  There have been many many times when I’d like to tell the person exactly what I think porque "no tengo pelos en la lengua," however I’m increasingly cautious of the nature of business relationships and knowing the type of animal I am dealing with.  Most of the time these men that behave so inappropriately are so threatened by women’s power or by feminine energy that politely telling them to please never touch you again or to please fuck off is a direct threat to their masculinity. (Of course I wouldn't say it that way..but I'd want to)  Most of these men are dealing with so much insecurity that to threaten their masculinity in a public place among colleagues and friends would cause the type of reaction that can be explosive and incredibly mean.

As a young woman in business all I have is my reputation.  I need to be incredibly protective of it.  I am careful of the circles I am around and try and keep those circles tight.  Rejecting the advances of someone who is influential within this type of community and that has a strong voice within the organizations and corporations that I work with calling you a man-hating feminist or bitch generally doesn’t preserve your reputation.  Also, when so much in this world is based on perception and not reality; the smoke and mirrors of who you are becomes quite the ugly picture.  I would hate for all the amazing men that I know, that can call themselves feminists, that do their best for their sisters and daughters and wives to help advance other young women in business without having to play this game, to think of me as something so far from what I actually am.

So I sit back, biting my tongue, lumps forming in my throat out of anger, and smile sweetly laughing along to the disgusting conversation while sinking deeper into my chair.  What can I do?  If I ask them to please not speak to me in that manner in the nicest way, then I become the prude that everyone feels they need to be careful around to protect my feelings and that's not who I am.  I’m simply a rational human being that hates having to put up with other peoples’ issues or bullshit simply because I was born 26 years ago a woman.  I make sure they feel my icy reaction not encouraging their behavior, but am I condoning it by not saying anything?  Have I become part of the game that I hated?

I am so grateful to all the women that came before me in business for paving the way so that I could work within this world and feel around me an endless sea of possibilities.  We still have so much work to do but now it’s up to me and the intelligent women of my generation to do it.

I had had quite a few close calls with men in the past while traveling by myself in Mexico and in Spain.  They upset me at the time so much but they were “cultural differences” or “cultural misunderstandings.”  I was different; I came from a world where women could say what they want, could be free, could travel by themselves and have a great conversation with someone of the opposite sex and it not mean she was wanting anything more.  Now, I see this in my community and my own backyard and the issue is more complex than what I ever imagined.  It's imbedded in all societies in some capacity and it's going to be a long hard road to change it, but I've got my walking shoes on and I'm in it for the long haul.

Fuerza to all of my sisters!

I leave you with this poem I wrote when I was 19:

When I was younger I used to turn my turtle onto her shell just to watch her extend her neck and flip herself over.  Now I’m rolling out of someone else’s bed with the taste of vodka and cigarettes in my too-dry mouth remembering voices praying a thousand Santa Marias in the living room of my abuela’s house the day she died.  My parents used to carry wooden rosaries, my brother and I would carry thick fallen branches we’d find in the woods.  They always gave me splinters and made my hands feel dirty but it wasn’t as bad as the time I stood, just barely, pushed against a fence my hands forced over my head by a stronger hand, while the other wandered around my chest looking for what other secret places he could find next…my hamster used to dig into the wooden chips of his cage to try to escape, but he never did like I did, into this giant ant colony of a city and life is writing me Post-It notes:

• ·         Don’t forget to pay your rent
• ·         Remember how he loved you once?
• ·         And so Jen…who are you now?

Speak Softly and Carry a Big Stick

My phone died yesterday.  I was supposed to meet my friend at this bar I’d never been at.  I ended up walking the wrong way and came upon this park downtown.  I saw this gorgeous dog and its very friendly owner.  I stopped to chat with her for a bit (and try to get directions) and as destiny should have it; she’s a business owner.

I told her my dream of owning my own business one day (well, one of them) and she was so gracious to offer me some good advice: speak softly and carry a big stick.

I don’t have any tattoos.  I used to date a guy with tattoos (okay maybe there were a couple) and I’d always get asked if I had any.  I don't.  I always said that I enjoy not being defined by things physically like piercings or tattoos because it allowed me to be more shaman-like: shape-shifting from board rooms to wolf sanctuaries to galas.  I liked being ambiguous and non-definable – there’s power in that.  I realized that from an early age that if others can’t grasp you, they can’t pin anything to you. 

 I’m grateful for having walked a mile out of way into that park last night.

I was afraid to be alone. Now I’m scared that’s how I like to be.

It’s been close to 10 months that I’ve been living alone.  My apartment goes in phases of cleanliness and complete and utter disorder.  I like to measure my mental states by it sometimes. 

Things I’ve learned these past ten months:

• Singing and playing my guitar whenever I want is worth the extra cash in rent.
• Occasional insomnia bothers a lot less people when you live alone.
• Drinking wine alone while drawing is okay; drinking whiskey, however, is not.
• I can become much like a hermit and not see people for days (aside from work) and retain about 60% of my sanity, which in my book is pretty damn good considering it’s probably only 65% at best.
• I’ve developed a closer relationship with my plants than I ever thought possible.
• No Jen, you do not need to purchase a box of mangos because of a really good deal. Food spoils a lot faster when you live alone.
• All those dishes piled in the sink ARE all really yours.
• Cooking is a lot less fun when you know you’re the only one that will partake in eating the meal.
• No checking with the roomies to see if the TV will be free when you’re in the mood for a flick is awesome. J
• No one to watch the movie with is slightly less awesome.  L
• Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches are nutritious and delicious and make for a great breakfast, lunch or dinner!

You can go a little further in extremes when you live alone with no one to draw you back or remind you that you are not an island.  My tendency to float off on boats to the exotic islands in my head is quite impressive.  I forget there’s a huge land mass I live on called CHICAGO and that accepting phone calls from friends might be a good idea before getting all Tarzan-like: having existential conversations with volleyballs (Wilson), or thinking your pet fish is really a prophet born into a fish-like body and he’s been trying to tell you about some world disaster for weeks now.  Tragically, you don't speak fish and when you watch the news and learn about the tornadoes taking over Kansas your prophet-fish gives you that all-knowing look while you sink into an uncontrollable guilt for not speaking fish.

Like they say, everyone should live alone at least once and perhaps, have a dog instead.

Downtown

Walking around downtown today to meet with my friend for lunch and I realized how dead the city feels to me sometimes.  Everyone going about the same old business, the same restaurants, same routine, day after day...

Routine sucks the soul out of me and maybe I didn't mind so much when I was living in the mountains of New Mexico - everything around me was alive - the earth, the plants, the water...

It's summer in Chicago and I should be grateful considering the winter, but the concrete and steel buildings are robbing my creativity, one floor at a time.  I happen to work on the 16th floor.  My soul is being sucked out of me.  Ode to the mountains: I should be with you instead.

Hi! Welcome to Chicago – it’s nice to meet you – here are the keys to my apartment.

So I belong to this website called Couchsurfing.  Couchsurfing is an online community where you can build a profile and then search for people in whatever city you are planning on visiting worldwide to host you.  

Hosting generally entails the following: lodging at your home and sharing cultural experiences as a native or resident of that particular place they are visiting.  Surfing means that you stay with a stranger and are prepared to see a new city from with a local perspective and twist.  The hosts can suggest great local hangouts where the Chicagoans really go as opposed to the tourist traps although there are the classic joints that visitors should check out which in my opinion include the following: deep dish pizza, Italian beef if you’re into the whole meat eating thing (I’m not, but I do live in a city who’s backbone has historically been the meatpacking industry), The Art Institute, The Field Museum etc.

Then of course my personal fave spots: Simones J, local Mexican joints here in Pilsen, Greektown, Little India by Devon, Wicker Park, The Green Mill, street festivals, downtown...  I also try to cater to each person’s individual agenda or taste. 

I love hosting for a number of different reasons.  I make new friends from all over the world and it’s a beautiful thing to share my home and life with an outsider and always leaves me with new perspectives from their point of view.  I learn about lot about different countries, different political systems from people who’ve lived there – not just read things in books.  It also gives me an opportunity to fall in love with Chicago.  For instance, at the beginning of the summer I had a young guy stay with me who was a comedian – he had a show here in Chicago and so we met up after work near the spot where his gig was at and I had the most amazing time laughing and getting introduced to the comedy culture in my own city. 

My biggest take-away from hosting was living in New Mexico for two months taking care of wolves.  After working at a dead-end corporate job that I hated for a year right after graduating from university I found myself stagnant and bored.  I had hosted this couple who told me about Wild Spirit Wolf Sanctuary and volunteering there and three months later I was on a plane to live with wolves myself: a life changing experience.

I’ve had visitors stay with me from all over the world: Australia, England, Germany, the Netherlands, Mexico, and Spain.  I’ve also had visitors stay with me from all over the United States from all walks of life.  I’ve had rich people stay with me, poor hippies travelling from city to city trying to find themselves, academics, self-taught prophets…it’s been an experience to say the least.  With each visitor my mind expands further and further while I realize how little I know.  It’s humbling, enlightening, and beautiful to connect with others in this fashion.

I’ve had varied reactions from friends when discussing how I participate on this site.  Generally, it’s something like: “I hope you don’t get murdered.”  Or “You’re not afraid that they will steal things from you?” or “that’s really cool – why do you do it?” Or “You’re so trusting of others – I could never do that.”

It’s not for everyone and I think to really belong to this type of community you have to be willing to have an open mind and an open heart for others.  You also have to understand that this isn’t a site where you can just go to someone’s home and crash there for a night ‘cause you’d rather not pay for a hotel – it’s a reciprocal type of thing.  Surfers have made me dinner, taken me out for a night on the town, cleaned my place, sent me gifts from their home countries or post cards or letters, maintained in contact, provided awesome business or life advice, and generally wanted to share experiences with me.

Alicia from Australia :)

Corey from California and her pet snake who also couchsurfed at my apartment.  :)

I research my potential visitors well via their profile to see their references and I generally won’t host people without references or anyone that I don’t think would make for interesting company.  I don’t host everyone who asks and do it to my convenience. 

I’ve sang karaoke with a German chick at an all Spanish karaoke bar, I’ve found hidden bars in Chicago I’ve never known, I’ve walked for miles and miles directionless all over this city, I’ve stayed up until 5 a.m. to watch the sun rising over Lake Michigan, I’ve had socio-political debates, I’ve heard some amazing live music from surfers in the comfort of my own home, I’ve had amazing meals not prepared by me, I’ve gotten recommendations for future travel destinations and above all I’ve got friends all over the world waiting to host me someday.  J