2:44 until my arrival time in Chicago Oâ€™Hare. Ironically, as a Wisconsinite child, I Never would have identified Chicago as â€śhomeâ€ť, quite the opposite, as they, after all, were the opposing football team in our division, and a Cheeseheads love for Â´da Pack runs deeper than the cholesterol in our beer and brat fed hearts. However, living a quarter of the way around the world in a land where Wisconsin is either â€śThat 70Â´s showâ€ť or â€śwhere?â€ť Chicago became my home, at least as a point of reference to answer the latter comment. Not to say this new found love of Chicago is necessarily false... After all, my motherâ€™s relatives lived there and as a child it was the one and only long car ride Iâ€™d ever take, the closest thing we ever had to family vacations. I remember drinking in the exotic information from the car windows, awed at everything, and how much bigger, faster, more exciting it was. My college boyfriend of 4 years lived there, which meant Chicago was also the first long car ride I ever navigated as the driver, and this now seemingly small accomplishment was art that time monumental. I had the power to Go. In a way, I suppose it set the stage for all of this: the travelling, the love of the road, and the desire to always see a new place. So yes, flying into Chicago is like flying home for me, despite the state line. As always, the shock of Americans catches me in the departing airport, and overwhelms me in Oâ€™Hare. For one thing, we are Big! And round, and tall, and broad, and wide. The best diet I will ever have is a flight home, as I go from average with slightly wide hips to downright slender in just a few hours. We are also loud, and our accent is blaring, carries easily and slightly drilling. I do realize this is my accent Iâ€™m on about, not only theirs, but my points remain valid. Give me a Norry nacker accent any day.