This is the beautiful thing about Chicago. This is not one city. This is several hundred little villages all packed together, each with their own distinct flavor and culture. One good thing that being the most segregated city in the north brings is that we can travel to a dozen different worlds without ever leaving home.I’m sitting on a warm blanket on a cool summer night in Grant Park, watching the Blues Brothers on a huge screen with a few thousand other people.

There’s one beer in my hand and four in my liver, and I’m howling at every joke along with the rest of the crowd. Lawn chairs, picnic baskets, and empty bottles of wine litter the grass; green during the day, but black right now. To the east the moon is rising over Lake Michigan, casting a long, rippling shadow all the way up to the pier. To the north I can see the unfinished 92 story Trump Tower where they filmed the final showdown between Batman and the Joker. The lights are always on inside, even though nobody has moved in yet.

On Summer Tuesday nights in parks all over the city, you can catch these movies. They bring out a diverse crowd; cinephiles, families, college kids, and the people who just like drinking in the park every night, no matter what’s going on.

I lean back on my elbows and take a swig of my beer, then exhale. I have a hundred and three things to be worrying about right now. I have to find another job, get out of my parents’ place again, think about which train to take back home, keep the bubbly blonde next to me happy, stop drinking so much and finish that novel I’ve been working on for too long. But right now, none of it registers as important. Right now, I’m on the lake, sipping a drink and enjoying the evening breeze with several hundred new friends for the night.

Could I do this in a dozen other cities around the world? Probably. I have been grumbling about moving out of Chicago for the last three years. “I want to see the country.” “I’ve lived here all my life.” “I just want something different,” and so on. But right now, all of that seems simply ridiculous. Of course I could be doing this in another city, but why on earth would I want to?

If I am feeling artsy I can take a trip to Wicker Park and enjoy the hip, young, vibrant, obnoxious Bohemian scene. If I crave a beer, buffalo-wings, and a ball game I can go up to Wrigleyville or down to Southport to take it all in. If I want to see whales, sculptures, and plays I’m only a short train-ride away from the cultural center of the lakefront.

This is the beautiful thing about Chicago. This is not one city. This is several hundred little villages all packed together, each with their own distinct flavor and culture. One good thing that being the most segregated city in the north brings is that we can travel to a dozen different worlds without ever leaving home.

Is it perfect? No. Some people will tell you not to go west of Pulaski or south of Roosevelt. None of those people grew up here, though. Danger is just a fact of life. You either ignore it or you embrace it, but you keep right on going.

It’s easy for your mind and your eyes to wander during these outdoor film festivals; a man-made mountain range, an enormous green space in the heart of it, a sea of blinking lights, and girls sweating in sandals and shorts walking by every few minutes. It’s a wonder that anyone can pay attention to the movie.

My neck starts to hurt from the angle of propping myself up, so I lie down on my back and she joins me. We stare up at the night sky in relative silence for a minute, and then she asks me:

“Whatcha thinking?”

“Nothing. I’m just content.”

On second thought, I can’t do this in a dozen other cities around the world, because place is unique.

The Windy City. The City of Big Shoulders. New Gotham. Call it what you will, it’s still home.