All things go: The pull of the Lake Effect
A love story about falling for the idea of a place (in my mind) and the importance of listening to intuition
This essay is Part One in a three-part series. It’s about leaving what’s familiar, finding comfort in the unknown, and falling in love with a city, sight unseen.
Back in May, my husband went to Detroit on a trip for work. As one does when in a new-to-them place that they mildly enjoy, he started looking at real estate on Zillow and sending it my way. Big, beautiful tutor houses for what we’d pay for a studio apartment in our part of Brooklyn.
Though I entertained it for a few days, sending my own finds back to him, I finally said, “I’m not moving to Detroit. It’s not walkable”.
We sat in bed one night and started spiraling into a conversation of where could we move, if we were to (which of course we wouldn’t but…where could we move?). I’m born and raised here in New York, and though I spent most of my 20s split between Baltimore and the Bay Area, I always assumed I’d come back here, settle down, and not leave again. My husband and I both enjoy city life, but one thing we don’t hold at the same level of importance: owning real estate.
Maybe it’s because I was mostly raised in a rental, or most of the people I knew lived in rentals, but owning my own home or apartment1 just isn’t important to me. I wasn’t raised to think it’s this grand investment that sets you up for life, and honestly can’t imagine living in one home long enough for that to be worth it or the case.
My husband has always been clear he wants to own something, and the reality of the situation is that with our current budget in New York, we can afford a one or small two bedroom apartment in our current neighborhood, and something bigger if we move further out into Brooklyn (or—gasp—Queens2).
And so, the choices are: buy something here that we don’t love in a place we do love, continue to rent until…until when?, or look at other places to live.
Most New York families that want more space or what not choose to move to Westchester or New Jersey or Long Island. The New York area suburbs don’t feel like a viable option for us—neither of us have any desire to live next to New York, and we’ve made off-hand comments that we’d rather move somewhere else all together than a suburb near where we are now.
So where else could we live?
That trip to Detroit seemed to spark something in both of us that I couldn’t quite explain at the time—even if Detroit wasn’t the city, we became open to the possibility that there could be a city out there that fit the bill. But there were a lot more cities that didn’t.
So that night, where we sat in bed, we started a conversation I didn’t think would lead us anywhere. I went with the obvious one first—why don’t we move back to Baltimore? My husband’s veto: while it would be nice to be close to his family, he’s not interested in living there ever again he says (not because he doesn’t like where he’s from; I get the sense it’s more of a ‘been there, done that’).
He brought up San Francisco again, which was my veto. I don’t want to move back to the Bay, and our money is equally useless out there. It’s a great city, but I guess I too feel like I’ve ‘been there, done that’.
We continued to pitch cities back and forth. “Philly?” I asked. “Too much like Baltimore,” he retorted. “L.A. could be nice,” he remarked. “I’m not moving to L.A. unless we can live in Venice or Santa Monica and I never have to leave Venice or Santa Monica, and even then I think the only thing that would keep me from being miserable is the beach and the weather”. A quick Zillow search showed that there wasn’t really a financial benefit to living in L.A.
This continued for what felt like a really long time, ping-ponging U.S. cities to each other, but ultimately there was always a reason why Denver or Boston or D.C. or Austin or Seattle or either Portland or San Diego or Providence or The Bronx or Pittsburg or Charlotte or—well you get the picture—weren’t viable options.
“I could move to London or Berlin,” I threw out there, knowing damn well the answer I’d get—moving abroad wasn’t happening. I tried to make a case for Vancouver or Toronto not quite counting as abroad, but alas they do.
Finally, my husband turned to me and said, “What about Chicago?”
I immediately scoffed. I don’t know why I scoffed, but I had an audible reaction that was likely paired with an eye roll. I was ready to dismiss that and move on.
I think the words “fly over state” came out of my mouth (I’m sorry!!!) and then I said “I need to live on a coast—or at least near water”. Because even Austin at least has a river running through it.
I knew Chicago was on Lake Michigan but kind of thought that was like the Hudson or East Rivers—water the city is situated on but not water you would ever swim in. I assumed we’d need to drive to Indiana to get in the Lake. I learned I was wrong.
At this point in my life, neither of us had ever been to Chicago. My knowledge of the city was from shows like The League and Shameless and The Bear, and from people telling me for decades that I’d “really like Chicago. It’s like New York but cleaner”. I’d always wanted to visit, but the opportunity or reason never came up.
Despite my initial reaction, we kept talking about it—for some reason, we couldn’t stop.
We did some research then and there, sharing facts back and forth.
“Okay,” I said. “Chicago has the population of Brooklyn but is twice as big, physically. That might be nice”.
I looked up historical weather patterns, “Jeez, the temps in the winter are low”.
I typed Living in Chicago into YouTube and found a few videos from people who lived there. We found one channel aptly Living in Chicago and watched a few.
Over the next few weeks, we kept finding ourselves thinking about and talking about Chicago. We started seeing Chicago “signs” everywhere. Cubs hats, U of Chicago apparel, and Bulls jerseys, sure, but more niche clothing too—random shirts, hats, and backpack pins with the words Chicago or city flag sprawled across.
We started meeting more and more people from the area, we’d hear a random mention on the radio in the car or in a TV show, a co-worker or mutual friend sharing they just got back or were planning a trip to the city, etc3.
There was the time that my husband saw someone wearing a ‘Brooklyn-Chicago shirt’.
I know there’s a proven phenomena around this—buy a specific car and all of a sudden you’ll see more of that car on the road than ever before. Because you’re subconsciously looking for it, you’re more likely to see it.
Even though I know that, it was a bit too much of a coincidence to see that much Chicago while walking around Brooklyn.
We started sending Zillow links back and forth and scanning House Hunters episodes for the ones that take place in Chicago. We kept watching YouTube videos. We kept wanting to learn more.
I ended up with free tickets to see Illinoise a week after our initial conversations and exploration. A show that depicts movement—literally through dance, but also narratively through a trip from Illinois to New York City. In hindsight, of course I ended up seeing this show when I did, the tickets landing in my lap.
Finally, in June, I turned to my husband and said, “alright, if we’re going to keep entertaining this, we need to go to there”.
We booked flights for the end of August and an Airbnb on the border of Lakeview and Lincoln Park—two of the neighborhoods that Jordan (our YouTube realtor from Living in Chicago) continuously ranked #1 and #2 of the top neighborhoods in Chicago to move to.
In mid-June, we went up to my parents’ place in Northwestern Connecticut for the weekend. My husband and I went out to dinner while my parents watched our son, our first date night in awhile, and we decided to try a place in town that was new to us and looked pretty good.
We walk up to the restaurant, which was in an old Victorian home (one of the small ones, not the type that the Charmed sisters lived in). The house’s front porch became the outdoor seating area for the restaurant, and before we were inside I turn to my husband.
“Can we please sit outside?” I plead, even though it was a bit windy.
He agrees.
We get seated and order our dinner. We probably talk about our day, whatever milestone our then-11-month-old has recently hit, and the drive up. We probably try each other’s drinks and remark that we like them.
We start talking about Chicago.
It starts off as a lighthearted conversation, realizing we haven’t checked Jordan’s YouTube channel in awhile, discussing the neighborhoods we want to visit in August, my desire to still see the Bean, his desire to walk up Michigan Avenue. I mention really wanting to eat at Lula and Avec4.
The conversation then gets deeper before I can control what is happening. He asks me if I am still seriously committed to exploring it, as I am the one who tends to waiver. I go into a spiel about how it’s scary and how it’s unexpected. I didn’t think we’d move, especially not this far from our friends and family, and definitely not to a place where we have no tangible connection to. But even though it’s scary and honestly makes me a bit sad, there is something pulling me to keep thinking about it.
The unknown and scary things about this move have never been reasons to not do it. I don’t feel torn between these two realities, but acknowledging the excitement of one is also acknowledging the truth of the scary and sad bits. It’s a bit heartbreaking thinking about leaving the city that raised me, and I find myself mourning the idea of giving my kid that experience too.
At some point, I start to tear up—the reality of realizing I want to explore this is sinking in and what we have to give up in order to get to Chicago has also smacked me in the face. It feels silly to be so emotional about a place we still haven’t visited and yet something deep in my core is telling me that even if a move doesn’t happen, exploring this is right.
As I’m wiping tears away, I look out onto the street. I see a guy walking by the restaurant in a lavender and light pink striped Rugby shirt. Sprawled across his chest is the word Chicago.
“Don’t be too obvious,” I say to my husband, “but you need to turn around and look at this guy’s shirt.
He does, and we both look at each other, eyes wide. I think I start laughing, and I probably start crying again too.
If there was any doubt that the other seemingly constant signs we’d seen over the past few months were coincidences, this one was clearly not. The timing of him walking by as I’m crying about how torn I am feeling, the fact that my husband agreed to sit outside, the randomness of being in Northwestern Connecticut. Heck, I think we almost didn’t even go out that night, too tired from the drive and life with an 11 month old.
Our food comes and the conversation naturally shifts away from Chicago and a potential move. As we’re finishing our last bites, and I say with a bit more conviction “everything is telling us to explore this full throttle. Let’s see how we like it in August and go from there”.
As those words are leaving my mouth, our friend in the pink and purple Chicago shirt walks by again, this time in the direction my husband is facing. We laughed again, and I probably cried again.
I’ve always been sensitive to the pulls of the Universe and listening to what it’s trying to tell me. From a quick idea in bed one night to crying about moving to a place I’d never been, one thing that was immediately clear over those few months was we needed to see this city and see how we liked it. There was a chance we’d get there and really not like it, or like it as a place just to visit, and I was okay with that — in fact, part of me was probably hoping for that.
I also knew there was a chance this was a place we could see ourselves living in, and I was prepared for that reality too.
But I couldn’t have been prepared for what would come next.
In Part 2, we land in Chicago, begin to take it all in, and I test the universe by asking for more signs.
In Part 3, we go back.
I’m much more keen to find myself in a situation where I can afford rent in the city and a mortgage in the country. Though that’s not my reality, nor am I doing a whole lot to make that a reality…
This is a joke and isn’t a knock to Queens! I spent 18 years of my life there! Plus college summers!! Queens is great!
As I write this from a coffee shop I frequent often, I happen to look up and was faced with two Wrigley Field plastic mugs, positioned on display on a shelf behind the counter.
Spoiler: we made it to both and yeah, lived up to the hype.
Even though I know what happens next (I'm the husband), I desperately need to read part 2.
Good to know I’m not the only one zillow-ing and scouring house hunters with my husband. We know we want to move in 2-3 years, and I can totally relate to all of the mixed emotions in your essay. Loved it and can’t wait for part two!