The One Where They Go to Seattle
The final leg of our first continental crossing was a rather brutal one, friends. From our campsite in Yellowstone to our Air BnB was something like twelve hours of ruthless road. Maybe more than that. Back on exalted I-90 all the way through Montana, with a quick stop in beautiful, hip Bozeman for some earth-shattering brunch at a place called Jam!, and across the upper tip of Idaho (Coeur d’Alene seemed gorgeous), then straight across the entire state of Washington into the Emerald City herself. There were some beautiful sights along the way, like a cartoonishly perfect Bob Ross sunset across the Washington horizon, but man, it was a damn marathon.
By the end of it I was slap happy, singing songs I’d just made up with the lyrical content of a randomly assorted set of alphabet refrigerator magnets. I had been listening to podcasts until my brain was leaking from my ears and every time Siri interjected with a navigational command I hopped to attention like a new recruit before his fuming drill sergeant. I missed one of the final turns and then had a weird moment where I couldn’t understand the layout of the street I was turning onto, nearly causing an accident. We were both deeply thankful when we rolled into our parking spot and I was able to safely stumble into the back entrance of our rented pad, little birdies circling my head like a Looney Tune recently pulverized by an anvil.
The following morning I went for a lovely run out in the cool evergreen air. The neighborhood we were in, and all of Seattle really, is composed of a series of considerable hills. I took to them with ease, my legs having been quite rested the day before, and began sort of wandering around the place, trying to find the road that led me to the Puget Sound, which I could see shining in the distance. I didn’t find any such path, but I did run myself all the way to the bottom of the most savage, merciless hill I’ve ever had to run back up. Halfway through I was wheezing and whimpering, gagging a little and kind of crying. At the top of that hill came the many others I’d come down prior. By the time I saw the driveway of our Air BnB I regretted the day I was ever born and everything in between then and this stupid trip. Sometimes it’s good to punish yourself, even when you don’t know what it is you’ve done wrong. The good lord knows you’re guilty.
I eventually found the Puget Sound, well after the near-death experience.
Once I’d overcome that trauma, we hopped in the van and went for an oil change and windshield wiper replacement. Don’t worry, the rental company pays for all of it. After that whole thing was through we headed off to Pike Place Market, Seattle’s classic tourist attraction. Any local worth their salt will probably tell you to avoid the place, the same way a true New Yorker would gag if you tried to get them to meet you in Times Square, but as first-timers we knew we had to go. And hey, the place was a lot of fun.
When visiting any major city, it’s always best to have a hip, savvy tour guide who knows their way around. They can steer you away from overrated traps and toward hidden gems and they always know where the real food spot is at. We were fortunate enough to have precisely that on this leg of our journey. Gabby’s friend Scott has lived in Seattle for the past four years and his knowledge of, and taste for, the city’s many offerings was pretty impeccable. Before I’d ever even met him, he’d sent us to a great taco place (Poquitos) and directed us to The Comet Tavern, a rad dive bar with hundreds of dollar bills stapled to the ceiling.
Later that night Scott came out to meet us at a place called Linda’s Tavern. He’s a super affable guy and it was nice to see Gabby have a chance to reminisce about the time before I knew her. Something she does not often get to do. I took it easy that night on Capitol Hill, sipping on Red Hooks as the two old friends exchanged memories.
Seattle is an awfully beautiful place. It’s distinctive in the fact that it offers its citizens the wonders of both natural beauty and manmade marvel; right at the rim of bustling downtown is shining Puget Sound and just across it is the dignified splendor of Mt. Rainier. The place is clean and hip and full of intrigue. The people seem more calm and kind than I’m used to. They smile and nod and hold doors for one another. Washingtonians. Seattleites. I’m curious to know more about them.
We had brunch with Scott the following morning at Oddfellow’s, a trendy spot in Capitol Hill where the menu is short and all the waitresses wear horn-rimmed glasses. Before we were seated, Gabby and I wandered into the finest bookstore I think I’ve ever seen. The guy behind the counter was elated to show me where I could find the book I saw displayed in the front window, Roald Dahl’s Book of Ghost Stories. Halloween draws near after all.
We went downtown that night, ate some wonderful Turkish food at Miss Café and then met Scott and his partner, Brian, at Optimism Brewery where we quickly split to go grab some rum-based drinks at a rum-based bar called Rhumba. We conversed late into the night about Scott’s damn fascinating experiences on his own country-wide travels not so long ago. He was lost for three and a half months, woofing on goat farms and wandering America the beautiful. I loved it all.
He told us one particularly funny tale about being in Yellowstone National Park and coming across an animal hidden in the trees. Looking closer, he thought he saw a moose. The very idea of coming into contact with such a magnificent beast brought him to tears. He cried. Then he realized it was an elk. This, to Scott, was absolutely humiliating. I’m not sure what’s so embarrassing about it, but to hear him tell it, it brought him great shame. We laughed over that quite a bit. He then went on to proudly say that he did eventually see a moose, and cried once again.
We met an amazing Uber driver that night. Tesfa, from the African nation of Eritrea, a brand new country to me. Our friend Tesfa was passionate and personable and he was genuinely floored by our story. It was unfathomable to him that we had driven across the entire continent and were now chatting him up in the back seat of his Toyota Prius.
“Every part of you is a story. Your hat, your jacket, your hair,” he raved, “I want to know your story.”
So we befriended him on Facebook and sent him a link to this page. I hope he’s reading right now. Hi, Tesfa. Thank you for the kind words.
The following day we set back out into the city, tried out some ridiculous Pike Place clam chowder, got a peek at the first Starbucks ever and the famed Space Needle, and then stopped by both the Starbucks Roastery and Victrola Coffee Roasters. As much Seattle as we could cram in, and all on a trademark gloomy day.
Once we’d gotten in as much Emerald City as we could with the time we had it was back in Fishtank and down the 5 for a relatively quick trip to her sassy sister city: Portland, Oregon.
