When you tell people that you go to school in Seattle they seem to automatically assume that you go to the University of Washington. Although I do have season tickets to the U.W. football games and I spend a lot of my Saturday afternoons sitting outside in the cold cheering them on that is not the school that I go to.
I go to the Art Institute of Seattle. It is located on Elliot Avenue. About one block up from the waterfront and a short five-minute walk to Pike Place Market. The view of the waterfront is breathtaking from our classrooms. The only problem is that normally the instructor is the only one that gets to see it. We, the students, either seem to have our backs to the view or our noses in the books.
I have made a lot of great friends in the 2 years that I have been going to school. Monica and Yael are my closest friends. They are both around my age, which is a few years older than the majority of students, but we have a good time together and I think that makes us do better in class. We venture around the city together a lot. Like most people in Seattle, we enjoy having coffee. We walk up to the market a lot and stop at the Starbucks that’s there. We always seem to get a different drink but rarely do we get all the same thing on the same day.
Leo was just waking up. He could hear the horribly familiar sound of rain tapping on his windowsill. He stumbled out of bed and turned on his computer to check his mail. There was none, and he was disappointed until he remembered that it was Saturday, and most people only seemed to message him during the week. His stomach felt like a Captain Beefheart album, and he slowly remembered the half-pizza he had consumed the night before.
Bored, and in doubt that anyone would be calling, he stayed online and checked some Philadelphia websites. He reminded himself how much he disliked the City Paper, then, checking another page, wondered how the Flyers would embarrass themselves against the slumping Chicago Blackhawks.
Eventually, he was bored enough to check the weather, partially hoping that the East Coast was entrenched in the eternal rain he had come to expect every day. Instead, he saw that there was a chance of snow. Instantly, he started to think about winter in Philadelphia, and how much he hated it. But he also remembered some beautiful things. He saw himself Christmas shopping four years ago, trudging faithfully through the slush, arms full of shopping bags.
Many mornings I walk west on Pike Street towards the Public Market. The space between about Third Avenue and the Market is one of the few slivers of the city core which the Downtown Seattle Association would doubtless wish to immolate and forever remove from public view. At Second and Pike, the Seattle-King County Department of Public Health operates a needle exchange, and the intersection is a harsh crossroad much of the time. Folks with collapsed cheeks pocked with telltale lesions grasp tiny styrofoam cups and move about in jerky, kinetic scrums, like the pigeons about them, beneath the ragged awnings covered in pigeon shit. The air is an acrid fog of urine and fryer oil from a nearby Teriyaki take-out.
Every once in a while, crossing Second Avenue, I see from a distance someone who doesn’t quite look like they “belong there.” One day I saw from behind a woman dressed like she might have been a bougie housewife from the suburbs. As I drew closer, however, I noticed her hair was unexpectedly disheveled and her clothes, though of good quality, were a bit more frayed at the edges than I’d seen from afar. As she turned I saw a face that probably would have been attractive not too long ago but was now touched by younger versions of the ravages that marred her sidewalk companions. Such characters make me wonder about the downward lines that connect these dots to the “normal” places such people last inhabited. Read More
Listening to the weather forecast on KUOW, I heard the announcer say: “Highs in the low 40s and lows in the high 30s,” and thought that was a wildly twisty sentence. But the bounce between highs and lows isn’t very big in winter (unfortunately) as it would be in a place like Southern California.
So today was one dull, cool, rainy winter day. Actually, if you’ve lived in Seattle too long you’d say today was a beautiful day because it never rained hard and except for the cloud cover you could see clearly. But coming from New York and having lived for a few decades in California, I know what a truly beautiful day is. There are a fair number of such in an average Pacific NW winter (and many more in summer). But not today.
After dropping my son at preschool, I shopped at Seattle’s Pike Place Market and then drove to Volunteer Park to give the dog a walk. I saw a few remarkable sights. The worst thing about all this was that I didn’t take my camera. What great shots I could’ve gotten!
I haven’t had a peaceful nights rest ever since I moved up here. I was also just so use to the small town I grew up in. My apartment is bare and there’s no food in the refrigerator. I haven’t felt this alone in a while. But tomorrow will be a fun and exciting day. Every day here is going to a new experience. I am going to start school in the fall and can’t wait to meet new people. This all sounds so fun, but what if I don’t meet anybody.
What if I moved here to be alone where nobody knows my name? I woke up and open up my blinds. I found myself standing in front of the city. I look to my right and there’s Puget Sound, with cruise ships coming in and out of port. I did my morning ritual and got ready for the day ahead of me. I walked across the street to the local corner store and picked up the newspaper and headed over to Tully’s and decided to enjoy my coffee just like I heard everybody does up here. I was starting to feel like a big city man now.
I’ve had more than my fair share of running into strange people on my commute to and from school that I’ve developed the habit of racing past everyone and ignoring any shouts that nag at my back. If it’s not the homeless panhandler asking for change, it’s the mentally unstable psychopath babbling about the woes of the government. I always blared my headphones or immersed myself in a book each time I stepped foot in a bus to avoid most of these bothersome people.
One rainy Monday afternoon, it was the same routine. Wait at the bus stop in Westlake Center for the perpetually late 550, step on as it screeches to a halt, sit, and stare out the window until I got to the sane(er) turf of Bellevue. As with anyone else, I try to leave my belongings in the seat next to me so that I can have a chance at having the seat to myself.
“Hey…” a middle-aged woman nervously called out to me from across the aisle. I ignored her.
Seattle has a wonderful public transportation system. I’m not being sarcastic, either, it’s really a very fine public transportation system, as public transportation systems go. The buses are pretty clean, they’re mostly electric, they’re usually on time. They’re so good that I don’t even bother to use my car to drive to work – I just take the bus. Makes me feel like I’m helping the environment or something.
Quite possibly the only problem with the buses is that, in the downtown area, they are absolutely free. “But Steve,” you say, “that’s a good thing.” Alas, it is not so. For one thing, I live outside the downtown area, so I don’t get the advantage of the free-ness. For another, lots of very peculiar people do live in the downtown area.
I’m sure you know the type – public transit philosophers. This particular group is noted for their constant state of inebriation, and their knowledge of everything there is to know about everything. They’ll tell you everything they think you need to hear, whether you want to hear it or not.
In the downtown Seattle library several years ago, I saw two very peculiar women. They were wearing complicated head coverings — cloth veils that went from the forehead, back over the shoulders, in front of which was a layer of bangles that seemed to be comprised of many pieces of jewelry — rings and broaches — linked together. I didn’t want to be rude, or incur their wrath, by staring, so I just got the briefest of glances of them. Nonetheless, I could see that they looked pretty odd. I was intimidated.
A few months later, I saw the women on a Number 10 bus, going to North Capitol Hill late at night. When I got off the bus, they were the only passengers left, and I watched the veiled women, dressed in black this time, ride away in a fully lighted Metro bus, like eerie sentinels in a post-apocalyptic landscape. Read More
On the morning of the second day of my second visit to Seattle, many years ago, I sat in the small park north of Pike Place Market on a chilly autumn morning. I savored the crisp air, a cup of hot coffee, a Camel straight (when I could shamelessly indulge such pleasures) and a fat, pulpy copy of the New York Times (when the same day copy was a rarity in most of the Western US). This was a rich pleasure, considering how I’d spent the previous few days.
Four days earlier I’d boarded a Greyhound bus in Boston, bound west for Seattle. The one thing I remember about that node of the trip was standing in line at the Burger King inside the Boston Greyhound terminal. It was a Friday evening, and the young black women behind the counter were cutting up in between taking orders (“Whoppa…two Whalas…”). A guy in line was carrying a six-pack of Michelob, and one of the women teased him about his plans for the evening. He offered her a beer and she actually took and put it behind the counter. Read More
I sat and watched the boats as they pushed across the clear blue water, a perfect reflection of the cloudless sky above. The seabirds chattered along the pier, flying up in a flurry of flapping wings when another got too close. They fought over the remains of food scraps scattered across the ground. It was 8 o’clock. My warm breath hung in the icy morning air like smoke clouds and I blew into my hands to keep them warm. Behind me, the city was alive with the humming of traffic winding in from the highways to the city.
I walked along the edge of the water for what felt like an hour but I could not be sure. I had no wristwatch. I stopped at a coffee shop. In front of me in line was a well dressed old man. His back was arched from old age and his skin stretched across his skeleton face his arms and legs were very thin. He snapped his order to the woman behind the counter and counted out the exact change from the pile of coins in his shaking palm. He hobbled out the door.