Smile Politely. Speak Directly. A Champaign-Urbana Culture Blog

Backstage during a play, there is sometimes a lot of waiting, or something that looks a lot like waiting. Actors wait, reading by dim light, listening to iPods, or knitting quietly, the clicking of needles punctuating the muted sounds of conversation from the stage. The stage manager sits, idly turning pages of a script, occasionally setting off sound cues, while the director paces maniacally, ears perked like a setter, having placed all control of her show into the tenuously held hands of the actors and the audience.

Less than three years ago, I didn't think much of Champaign-Urbana--that is, I didn't think about it much at all. I'd grown up about an hour south of the cities, on my parents' farm, mostly lying in the grass with a book, or piecing art together in my upstairs bedroom--your average environment in which a touchy-feely liberal artsy girl would flourish. Flourish I did, Punky Brewster wardrobe, Tori Amos mix tapes and all, and in the summer of 2005, I was just piecing together my summer plans when I was asked by a family friend to house-sit his 1950s place at the border of Hessel Park. I moved into the house in early June with a pink thrift-store suitcase full of dresses, expecting a lazy summer of tennis at the park and ice cream from Jarling's across the street. Champaign-Urbana was just another stop on my great journey of finding Where I Want To Be and What Will Make Me Happy, this surely beautiful place where everyone knows your name and has something to share.