It’s sort of ridiculous, homesickness. I keep telling myself to get used to it, but part of me is resigned to always having these unexpected moments of nostalgic pull towards another place.

See, I’ve been cruising right on through the last two seasons of The West Wing, and today I happened to be watching an episode where they had some B-roll establishing shot of Chicago. It wasn’t a skyline shot, or a landmark shot showing the Art Institute or Lake Shore Drive or even Water Tower. It was a backside shot of the Loop – unassuming office buildings (one stood out only because it was bright red brick), and the El train, with a few cars most likely running westward on the South end of the block.

And can I tell you, I still gasped, and tears still sprang into my eyes, and I didn’t even know why until the caption appeared, telling me I was in Chicago, even though I knew that already and didn’t need to be told, my brain and my heart were clearly already in the scene. The next shot was a top-down of a hotel lobby, with part of the sidewalk outside showing through windows, with little crustlets of snow, and everyone wearing overcoats and rubbing their hands, cars just outside the shot emitting those huge poofy white clouds of exhaust that are common in sub-zero temps. And even though I am pretty sure they shot that bit in L.A., I let my mind wander to downtown, to the way the wind feels whipping through the tall buildings, the movie-perfect river bridges near the Opera House, etc. etc.

Over the years it feels like I’ve made myself fall in love with my own city, but while I was busy looking for my heart’s delight there, I loved it anyway, in my own way. I keep having this reaction to it, after all, when I see the city in movies or TV: back in the months before a certain comic book movie hit the theaters, I had the opportunity to get in an early screening in Burbank. That first shot, sweeping over Jackson St., the old post office, I’ll never forget it. I gasped aloud, and my co worker sitting next to me patted my arm and grinned at me humorously, half-seriously asking, “You OK?”

I gotta get back there at some point. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I need to fill up my eyeballs with, I don’t know, snowdrifts and wheezing articulated buses and Navy Pier lit up like a painted lady tourist monstrosity (with a really decent Shakespeare Rep house). Me, standing there, breathing deep, soaking up as much home as possible.