Chicago.

The first time I went to Chicago, I'd never been high enough off the ground to realize how ugly the roofs of urban commercial and retail buildings are. Our hotel was across from the largest Gap I'd ever seen, and the pebble-covered, air conditioner-dotted drab of its roof seemed to blight the entire world. I was old enough to know the meaning of men smiling at me, but too young to enjoy art museums.

I remember my sister, the pinnacle of cool: Tommy Hilfiger tank top, brown leather belt, bootcut jeans, and an inch of belly slinking its way along where they all came together. Me in trifold crew socks, wondering why I was nothing like her. Just walking next to her I was older, but so aware of everything I lacked.

I remember posing for pictures outside Wrigley Field, scowling, because it was uncool to pose for the camera. I didn't even like baseball. I wanted to go shopping--not that I had any idea where I was supposed to go, or what I was supposed to buy. No idea who I was supposed to be.