Spring break drawing to a close feels a lot like how I’d imagine Hannah Montana feels, every night, taking off her blonde wig after a sensational performance and returning to life as Miley Cyrus. Too much? Well, okay. Let’s just say, for those less Disney Channel-inclined, that going from vacation to Hopkins feels like switching between two entirely dissimilar, polarized lives. Delaware Lily and Hopkins Lily: two separate girls, two separate worlds.
This break was different, though. This time, it wasn’t the 302 area code that summoned me back. It was, instead, Chicago. I’d never been to this Midwestern wonder, and since my Hopkins best friend Maggie lives in Chicago, it seemed only logical to take this opportunity to fly down along with her — plus three other best friends — and take on the Windy City together.
We rampaged Chicago like only Hopkins students can. We were efficient with our days — from the Bean to the parks, from Sears Tower to Navy Pier to Second City Theater. We were luxurious with our stomachs, feasting on deep dish pizza, Garrett’s popcorn and Italian beef. We were tourists to the core. But with the strength of our squad-ness, our tight-knit-but-occasionally-bickery, family-style group dynamic, we managed to look adequately un-lame. And we felt ridiculously cool.
Just like it’s weird to switch from Hopkins life to vacation and home life, it’s weird to suddenly merge those two worlds. Suddenly, I’m eating breakfasts with a family that isn’t my own, asking a mother who isn’t my own to wash a pair of my leggings. It took a while to get used to the shift, but for those ten days, I blended myself into comforting, Midwestern suburbia. My friends and I, still just college kids with no clue how to make it in the real world, got to rush out into civilization every day and pretend we did, before returning to home-cooked dinners and hot showers — everything handled for us. We lounged around on basement couches and heated microwave popcorn for midnight movies. We were both friends and family, siblings and allies.
In many ways, those moments of “allegiance” were our most invigorating, and the males of our group would probably argue that they were the greatest. One day, for instance, our “squad” of five met up with our friend Nate, who lives in Chicago and was free for a few days before he left for a Hopkins rock climbing course. He took us to see his family’s downtown apartment, and it had the most jaw-dropping, incredible view I’ve seen in all my life. There was a wrap-around balcony that overlooked the whole of the city. When I stood there, right on the edge, I felt like I was soaring. That was a moment to remember.
Or, also, when the six of us ventured into the newly-created Maggie Daley park, a glorified, tricked-out playground for kids. We looked so entirely out of place: big, overdressed 18- and 19-year-olds with no nearby, related youth as an excuse. But we didn’t care. We raced down slides like our lives depended on it. That was a moment, too. Or taking a big group picture on the SkyDeck of Sears Tower, or being stopped on the street by a random group trying to sell a hip-hop album. Those were all capital “M,” co-conspirators taking on the world, allies tearing down the town, Moments. And I’m grateful for all of them.
By this point in the article, you might be wondering — uh, where do the “prose and pictures” come in? Isn’t this girl supposed to be talking about art? Well, I am. Because for me, those capital ”M” Moments aren’t the only ones I’ll remember. They’re not even necessarily what I’ll remember the most. What I’ll remember, truly, are moments like Cinderella.
The second night of our Chicago adventure, the five of us went to the movies. My friends Gabby, Maggie and I (particularly Gabby) had a longing for the new Cinderella, and the boys, Tommy and Andy, opted for American Sniper instead. Yep. Typical. But despite the cliché-ness of the whole ordeal, our movie night was surprisingly nice. We settled in with buttered popcorn, junior mints and cheesy fries reminiscing about how much we loved those Disney princess years of childhood.
And then the movie itself — beautiful. I won’t say Cinderella is the next Shawshank Redemption or anything, but for what it was and what we expected, it was perfect. So I partially blame this on the fact that I was wearing contacts that day and wasn’t used to them: Don’t judge me for this — I cried. I was just, somehow, in those hours of quiet bonding and cinematic aesthetics, overcome with emotion. Overcome with the story of the innocent, well-intentioned underdog so abused by the world around her. A simple story, well-told.
To me, that’s what Chicago was. Beyond the capital “M” Moments, it was family meals and goofy jokes with Maggie’s younger siblings. It was sleeping in and staying up, playing bonding games until 3 a.m. It was being both friends and family — a simple story, well-told.
