Anyway, I ran the numbers, and I could afford it. Today. It would be tight, but I could do it, even if I couldn’t find a job for a year; I could do it. Which is an incredibly comforting thought. I can actually get out of here after grad school, if I want.

That might seem odd, the girl who named her blog Small Town Wren (the girl being Wren herself) is fantasizing about leaving the Midwest forever for a big city? Yes, because being the small town has never been the ideal. But, having grown up in a small town and attending high school in an even smaller town has always been central to the construction of my identity. During my childhood, Batavia had less than 18,000 people. Even now the 2000 census puts us at 23,000 (and the trend growth suggests the 2010 census will put us at around 28,000). Back then, there were more cornfields than neighborhoods. And I spent my high school years living in a northern Michigan town of ~600.

Growing up and coming of age in the middle of nowhere isn’t something you can ignore in your worldview. And those who don’t know me might suggest that it makes me an ignorant fool. They’re entitled to their opinion and their ignorance. I’ve experienced more diversity than a number of my friends back in New York City have.

I’m a city girl and I loved New York City. But I missed the trees, and the sky and weather that didn’t make you feel filthy all the time. San Francisco has always been the balm to New York City’s problems. And I’m thrilled that it looks like I can make that dream a reality.

Chicago’s transit system is generally a much friendlier place than the MTA. I’ve never really had to put up with a lot of things that are just part of life in New York. For instance, I have never-ever been touched inappropriately–on accident or otherwise–on the CTA. I’ve never seen genitals on the CTA either.

Last night, however, was by the far the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been made to feel on any public transportation system. It started on the Red Line. I sat down at around 9:30. About 15 minutes later I felt the prickle of being watched. And then I noticed this guy just staring at me. He looked away as soon as I spotted him. No big deal, I told myself. I’m used to being looked at: I am an attractive young woman after all (not that it makes it okay for dudes to stare at me all creepy like). But again, it didn’t rattle me.

But then he kept staring at me. His eyes kept finding me and the look he had was not the kind I’m used to dealing with. It was all out staring, and without embarrassment at all.  And it made me uncomfortable. I’ve never felt that uncomfortable before from just being looked at.  I felt uncomfortable enough that when we reached my stop, I waited for the doors to open before collecting my stuff and rushing out.

I thought that would be that. I kind of laughed at myself when I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t. I didn’t see him.

I walked up Adams to Union Station to get on the Metra back to Aurora. I got in a car and sat down, pulled out my book, and thought I’d just read for the 20 minutes until the train was scheduled to leave. But then I felt that prickle again. I looked around but nothing. Then I looked up. Sitting above and across from me, and still staring me down, was the dude from the Red Line.

Okay, it’s one thing to be a creepy dude staring at me on a train, it’s an entire different thing to follow me to a different train and continue being creepy. I texted my sister and a friend immediately, then promptly switched cars. Luckily, I did not see him again.

The whole situation really shook me though. I’ve never felt that vulnerable in a public space before. I’ve never felt so violated without being touched. I’ve never felt so threatened without an exchange of words.

I mean, WTF? Why do some men feel like this is acceptable behavior? I am a woman, but I’m a human being first. Don’t follow me and certainly don’t be a creepy fuck about it.

I still have fake blood under my fingernails. It’s really wedged in there and I still haven’t been able to dig it or wash it out.  No worries: it compliments my bruises well.

I must confess, I did not spend Halloween in my small town. I flew to New York City to visit friends and attended the Best Party of the Year: Hallowmas.  Hallowmas is the show the World Inferno/Friendship Society plays on Halloween every year, and it’s always pretty awesome.  This year was no exception.

My sister and David (previously mentioned) have been going for years. I joined in while I still lived in New York. I couldn’t dream of missing it this year, and flying across the country with my sister is always a trip. It started out with a Toasters show and ended in a pool of sweat, exhaustion, and euphoria.

I broke my stagedive virginity at this show. Three times. The feeling of leaping into the hands of total strangers, praying they will catch you, is a total exercise of release. You relinquish control and judgment and just fly. And when they catch you, and suddenly you are swimming above a moshing crowd, all fear is gone. You are entirely in the moment.

That is why I love mosh pits so much. It is all those reasons and more. You cannot fight the pit, only let it take you where it will. No one has control of the pit; it is the sum of it’s parts. You dive in and just go. Yes, you will get bruises, and I have many, but they do not hurt. It’s total surrender.

This Hallowmas brought the return of old friends and meeting of new. Max came to this show, and he’s been at ever Inferno show I’ve been. New friend Eoin was introduced and I hope he will return again soon. My sister and friends found him in London. It’s just a shame that the day after had to be spent calling out some people for questionable morals.

Photo courtesy of Konstantin Sergeyev.

I still have my ode to Halloween in the works, but I’m still quite exhausted from all the antics. I do, however, have bruises, and how I love them.

I look like a battered woman, and in some ways, I am.  A lover or dis-affectionate friend did not give these to me, however.  The best party in the world did.  I spent Halloween in a mosh pit, and I fought hard.