THURSDAY
I’d thought from the moment I arrived at this hotel on Monday that the neighborhood looked familiar, and not because of the Needle, and as I walked along I saw why. The Quick Shuttle to--and from--Vancouver has one of their stops at another hotel a block away; took that ride plenty of times.
Walking from the hotel toward downtown, the monorail made a pretty whooshing sound overhead. Basically followed that route, just for fun, and I quickly knew I’d been walking for ten minutes because another monorail whooshed by me. It really is a pretty sound--something like a Mai Bloomfield cello solo--and echoes, or is it reverbs, even better in the rain.
Went to the office this morning for a major meeting and was talking to the secretary beforehand, without flirting of course, when this incredibly stressed guy came in and took a seat.
As usual, the meetings were hella boring, but they have to be done, or else people won’t pay me to travel.
Seemingly just down the street as I got out, there’s Pike Place, and it’s been a few trips since I wandered through there.
Boy, I needed that! Though as usual it doesn’t last. I was slowly starting to get worn down by all the running around of the last three days, but since I didn’t have much planned for tomorrow, I figured I’d go all out today.
Pike’s Place is such a fascinating locale, worthy of a review, which I might do later, but for now, I think I figured out why all the shops, at least in the old part, are so tiny--it used to be a whorehouse! When you see the old sign advertising Peaches, I’m not sure it’s the fruit.
I can tell you so many stories--this time non-sexual--about wandering these halls, with that little cubbyhole of mysteries, the Lefty Store, being told to meet someone at the Sasquatch statue, Holy Cow Records, Market Magic, Old Seattle Paperworks, Pharaoh’s Treasures, Women’s Hall of Fame--oddly enough a great place to pick up gals--Yesterdaze, Metsker Maps, Market Coins, The Great Windup--toys!--Cinnamon Works, and, just for Erin the Pooh, the strip club that said, “featuring 50 beautiful girls and 3 ugly ones.” And no flying fish! And as always wondering if there was anything worth seeing in the upper floors of most of the buildings, not just offices.
After buying some special scissors and a T-shirt, which I still use frequently, at the Lefty Store--IT’S A LEFTY WORLD! The dude recognizes me!--spent some time haunting the corridors, my nose usually closed around all the fish, as well as near the Daycare center. I was looking for that man who made the clay bird whistles I had met on the forever-long Coast Starlight train so long ago, but that’s another story, and he’s probably retired by now. Did see the store with the Mexican Indian stuff, where I got a beaded jaguar mask on sale, but the last time I was there the female half of the ownership was so rude I deliberately walked by this time. Hell, I almost went back to the Lefty store to get more stuff, show ‘em what real customer service was. As I recall, the Lefty Store at the Rocks in Sydney had excellent customer service as well.
Now feeling hungry, I ambled over to my usual Pike Place dining experience, Three Girls Bakery, where the display is usually enough to get the drool started. “Because of the food or the three girls?” you wonder, a logical and hopefully innocent question. Well, I’ll just grin and attempt to be mysterious. . .
Unfortunately, for the first time ever, I didn’t find anything I was in the mood for, or generally appetizing--don’t ask whether the girls were appetizing, it’s just a name--but luckily I didn’t have to walk far to get to a produce stand, where I saw the most succulent grapes I‘d ever laid peeled eyes on. The hippie-looking guy begged me to try one, and as I looked to the side of the stands I saw a view as yummy as the grape in my mouth.
She assured me the grapes were especially sweet today, which was a mistake on her part--like they’re not gonna be as sweet tomorrow?--but I let it go. She was a perky little brunette in pigtails that I hope were the reason she looked so young--well, the shortness might have something to do with it--and throughout the entire conversation the huge smile never left her skull. I pictured her as a college student, maybe U Dub, maybe Seattle U, which was much closer. Either studying Ag, or maybe the stand belonged to her parents, or maybe it was just a job--go ahead and fanwank if you must. I really couldn’t picture her in high school, since this was school hours, not summer, and she looked like she knew what she was doing. I did not get the name of her stand, but it’s right on the diagonal corner--you’ll know it when you see it! And if you do spot her, tell her I still pine for her, just so she can look at you weirdly because she has no idea who you’re talking about.
But, back to the moment. “That really was a good choice,” she assured me as she handed me the pound of grapes that would be all I needed for lunch and took my money. “I try them every day, and they really are extra sweet today.”
“As sweet as. . .?”
She gave me a quizzical look.
“I thought you were going to say ‘as sweet as me’.”
She gave out a hoot. “I don’t toot my own horn. You’d have to find out for yourself.”
I brightened. “Okay!”
Her eyes widened. “Hey, waitaminute. . .” Then she saw my his urchin-boy grin and laughed, wagging a finger at me as she went into the back.
I asked the hippie-dude, who’d obviously seen the whole thing, what timed they opened in the morning, which was probably a dumb question to ask farm-related workers, but it did give me something to do before heading off to the airport, if I didn’t forget as thoroughly as I did with that beautiful jogger the other day.
Already munching as I walked along, I turned a corner and totally remembered the spot where I’d taken the photo of a cute teenage violinist that reminded him so much of Hilary Hahn, my fave, though she later denied it was her, while admitting the girl looked a lot like her. Oh well, I’ll make a “rosin up your bow” joke later. . . and always leave a tip when you stop to listen, it’s only fair.
The grapes being so big I could only handle one at a time, I marched past some of my other favorite eateries, like Counter-Intelligence and El Puerco Lloron--which translates to the Crying Pig, which is not as clever as one I saw in Mexico called El Puerco Relleno, the Stuffed Pig, because I always feel like one when I leave. Was pleased that I found the Sky Bridge on the first try, trying really hard not to break my blank face at the people coming up Hillclimb Corridor, better known as “Cardiac Gulch.” Luckily all my attention was focused on the next step in front of me; any grapes that got into my hand and then my mouth did so strictly on muscle memory. I was so in the zone I forgot I’d wanted to go to Procopio for some of that ol’ time gelato.
Finally got to the bottom, but did not go all the way back to the waterfront I strolled by just last night. Instead, checking the schedule, I sat myself down at the stop and waited for the trolley, line 99, once in a while talking to the impatient German or Dutch tourist who claimed to have been waiting for it for an hour, which I doubted. But he did have a point, the thing did not come at its’ regularly scheduled time, and when it did, I saw how harried the female driver was, so I didn’t say anything. To my surprise, there was a girl about ten years old--this one was easy to gauge--who took my money and, when everyone was sitting down, yelled, “Go, Mom!” Was it Take Your Daughter to Work day? I really hoped not, because if it was, all my musings about the little brunette fruit seller being legal when out the skylight. Yikes! I do so hate it when a lovely memory is so tarnished, sigh. . .
http://transit.metrokc.gov/tops/bus/route_maps/m099_0.htmlGot off a few stops later at the ferry terminal, and decided “Why not?” I’d been on Bainbridge Island before and knew a good place to eat, and the boat was leaving in five minutes, so I quickly bought a ticket and hopped on. Read all about it! in the review.
I can tell you that the place I was going to eat was closed, and now that I was out of grapes and starting to get hungry again, I wasn’t about to go searching, so I hopped back on the ferry--hey, I enjoyed the ride--and then walked the few blocks to the Metropolitan Grill, feeling completely out of place looking touristy and taking my cap off to reveal all that windblown hair.
As usual, thinking about that meal makes me want a Henry Weinhard’s Orange Crème gourmet soda with orange sherbet right now! Which means I have to get over to the BevMore for a four pack, and they’re really expensive! At least it doesn’t put me in the mood for a Kobe burger, and ever since I started this blog I’ve been thinking of Autumn the waitress anyway, so that’s nothing new, and if you really want to know what the hell I’m talking about, check out the review of the restaurant, which I actually wrote some time ago. And since I probably didn’t mention it in the review, I have to say the best moment of the entire meal was when I was paying Autumn and I told her, “I wish the guys from the office were here, so they could see I don’t ask every beautiful woman I meet to pose for me. . .” I may have never gotten a photo, but that mix of surprise and delight on her face will never leave my memory. . .
After that amazing meal, I walked back to the bus tunnel, and while waiting for the green light, my always-investigating eyes looked downward and saw I was standing next to the name of the street, carved into the cement of the corner, in some fancy script. I’d never noticed that before, but could remember glancing across streets and seeing kids seemingly very interested in their footwear. It was an “A-ha!” moment.
I crossed the street when the light prompted, of course noticing this corner also had the street name, though having to read it upside down. Either way, nice.
Bus tunnel and then monorail back to Seattle Center, passing by the Space Needle, where I noticed some marionettes dancing to “Ghost Riders in the Thighs. . . er, Sky.” Yeah, I definitely needed a rest, and for once I wasn’t at all tempted as I walked by McD’s. With the grapes and the Kobe burger, and the huge fries that came with it, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to again till I got back to El Lay!
Uninteresting hours passed by in the hotel room, followed by one last uninteresting hour of business crap, just long enough to make sure I’d be going to Scandinavia in a few months. Now that all the business stuff was settled and over, I hopped back on a bus and got off right next to the Frye Art museum, with Pill Hill in the background--it’s actually called First Hill, but there’s a bunch of hospitals there, and Seattleites--like stalactites--are witty people. There’s a review below, but be warned they didn’t allow photos, the scum!
Walking aimlessly for a while after the museum, I found myself near the Metropolitan Grill again, and there was just something I needed another fix off. Okay, two things, but I was pretty sure Autumn wouldn’t still be on shift, and she wasn’t, so I settled in at the still-not-too-smoky bar for another of those amazing orange sodas, though the bartender, a totally Russian-looking guy, didn’t include any ice cream. Which makes Autumn all the more special, in my eyes, but enough of that. Stayed only long enough to finish it off, talking to a suited gentleman sitting next to me enjoying a shrimp cocktail--hey, TWO things I’m allergic to!--and trading jokes about Fresno.
Back to walking, I remembered a little clue to downtown Seattle’s geography, as told to me during pillow talk {don’t ask} : JESUS CHRIST MADE SEATTLE UNDER PROTEST! This is how you remember the order of streets, starting north of Yesler--Jefferson and James, Cherry and Columbia, Marion and Madison, Spring and Seneca, University and Union, and Pike and Pine. Have fun memorizing!
Back to the hotel, with still no need for dinner, until it came time to walk back to Belltown for another concert at the Croc Café. Instead of walking at straight angles like I had the previous times, on this trip I zigzagged the route for fun, and to see new things. When I saw I’d gone as far south as I needed to, and noticed I only had to go one block to the west, I luckily looked up in time to see the name of the store on the corner, enough to make me stop: Salon Divas.
Making sure it wasn’t a hair place, I peeked in through the window and laughed, thinking of the dancing waitress I’d fallen into severe like a few hours ago. I might have figured her for a dance instructor, to earn a little extra cash, but luckily she was as un-diva as they came.
It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t know what kind of dancer she was. She coulda been salsa, coulda been ballroom, coulda been hip-hop--shit, did I just think that?--coulda been a ballerina. . . coulda been exotic. Hmmm. Glad I hadn’t thought of that before.
Concert, and its venue, already reviewed from the Tuesday show.
I got back to the hotel much later than I expected, where I fell on the bed and temporarily died.
Bohemia Therapeutic Massage is theoretically part of Pike Place Market, located in the Sanitary Market Building--so named because it was the first to outlaw horses on the premises--but it faces First Street; no need to go into the labyrinth of little shops to find it.
It didn’t take more than a minute inside, talking to Bo, the massage lady, to realize the store title was apt in more ways than one. Both the store and the lady herself gave off a hippie air, and as we spoke during the massage she quickly told me she was from the north part of the Czech Republic, known to most people as Bohemia, so the name was both literal and figurative.
Bo looked to be in her middle 40s, but very casually told me she was approaching seventy. If that’s a testament to her lifestyle, than I’m jumping on the massage bed right now. Her arms had muscles bodybuilders would be proud of.
Took a while to find a place to store my backpack and clothes that wouldn’t be in the way--the actual massage room, on the side, was a bit tiny--but finally I was lying on the table and she was oiling me up and working dem muscles. It was pretty amazing that she spent the whole time on just my lower back, yet used so many different techniques. I’m also amazed that I remember any of it, since she kept me pretty entertained with her musing and ramblings. She seemed to talk nonstop, starting with have I ever been to Bohemia, of course, but she was also a good listener. Perhaps no one who’d ever come into her store knew what a Bohemia was, and I was the first who’d actually been there. She laughed heartily at the joke that the Bohemian language had so many accents it looked like a bunch of flies had fallen on the page. I don’t know if she has similar experiences with all her customers, but for some reason I felt like we really bonded.
Even after we were done and there were no other customers for the moment--she said lunch hour was her busiest time--I stayed awhile to talk. And as I walked out, along with her very cool red business card, she handed me a parting gift--a tiny ceramic ladybug! I still carry it everywhere I go; it’s become a great luck charm. . .
And for good reason, too: every customer there, the women as well, was wearing a suit, but neither the seater nor the waitress--Hi, Autumn!--raised an eyebrow at my touristy garb--shorts and a hoodie, plus camera around the neck--nor made fun of my windblown messy hair, as I had just come off the ferry and I’m like a dog who likes to stick his head out the car window and smile; my ears aren’t as long, though. For such a fancy place all the workers seemed to be pretty laid back, and seemed to genuinely enjoy working there, which in this rarified type of eatery surprised me--absolutely no attitude from anyone--but pleasantly. And you can tell it’s a pretty ritzy place when a guy dressed as the chef--maybe the chef himself, but doubtful--comes out to deliver your plate instead of the waitress.
Okay, on to the food, which after all is the real reason for coming to a place like this, even if the service can affect how much you enjoy the meal. {Well, I suppose some people eat her to be seen, but to hell with them.} Another thing I'd heard about was that Kobe beef, a specialty Japanese meat where rumor has it the cows are fed beer, was the best tasting in the world, and I believe it. In fact, I ordered the burger without any condiments, just the meat, cheese, and bread--either a naked burger or wearing cheese lingerie, you choose--so I could really get the taste of the Japanese beef. Having never spent more than five dollars on a burger, I can honestly say this one was well worth the twelve dollar price tag. In combination with a Henry Weinhard's orange creme soda, which Autumn suggested I try, and some really huge table fries, it was one of the best meals of my life! I ate around three o’clock, and didn’t need to eat again till the next morning! And I came back a few hours later to have another one of those orange tongue lovelies in the bar, though the Russian bartender didn’t put any orange sherbet in it like Autumn did.
{As usual, thinking about that meal makes me want a Henry Weinhard’s Orange Crème gourmet soda with orange sherbet right now! Which means I have to get over to the BevMore for a four pack, and they’re really expensive!}
And I have to say the best moment of the entire meal was when I was paying Autumn and I told her, “I wish the guys from the office were here, so they could see I don’t ask every beautiful woman I meet to pose for me. . .” I may have never gotten a photo, but that mix of surprise and delight on her face will never leave my memory. . .
Next time I'm gonna try the steak. . . and I hope Autumn is still working there.
Somehow this was better than the Harbor Cruise I’d taken a few years ago, despite the two redheads I met on. . . but I digress yet again. It seems that when taking a tour you feel like you HAVE to look at everything, all the touristy things the guide points out; this is even true on a boat tour, which is why it’s so much better on regular public transportation, where you can look at anything you want or nothing at all.
I went immediately to the top deck, where I was met--literally ran into--two fully-black-clad, down to the shades, “cops” in short sleeves and shaved heads. If it wasn’t for the Belgian on the leash--a dog, silly!--I’d wonder if these guys were hired actors, they looked the part so well. If it had been hired security by the ferry company, I might wonder if they were trying to stop thefts, but since these were cops--might have even been Feds--the answer’s pretty obvious. Though from my experience I don’t see why a ferry would be considered that great of a terrorism target, but okay.
Like the girl who worked at the Space Needle who was bored at looking outside, there were plenty of people on board who were into books, computers, cell phones, or listening to music with their eyes closed, completely blasé about the view. I can’t imagine getting jaded at vistas like these. In addition to all the preeeety trees in just about every direction, there were plenty of cold rocky beaches, some with timbers strewn about. There was also what appeared to be a small town right on the beach, just one row of large buildings before the cliff, which made me wonder how anyone got anywhere there--no dock, no road, no way to come down the cliff. . .
Since I’m a total explorer I went off to check out every part of the ship, as always ending up in front, where the wind blew my hoodie right off my head the moment I stepped around the corner. Had I put on the cap it would have been at the other end of the boat in a couple of seconds, so I simply stayed there talking to a couple from Montana while my sneering ego wondered if I was going to meet any gal who would take one look at my hair and laugh. . .
The trip back from Bainbridge island was ever better, sight-wise, with a wonderful view of the cityscape, from the Space Needle to all the skyscrapers to Smith Tower, looking all lonely to the right. If you knew enough of the city landmarks you could spot the sports stadiums around Pioneer Square.
Hey, there are much worse ways to spend an hour!
The Frye Museum is located east of downtown Seattle, in an area commonly referred to as First Hill or Pill Hill, because there’s a bunch of hospitals all around you, as well as Seattle University. It is a REAL hill, though, so if you’re not driving take bus #3 or #4 so you don’t arrive tired.
It looks kinda small from the outside, but felt really big inside, with plenty of places to sit and rest. The store and café are indeed tiny, but I had a lot of fun talking to the older lady who was clerking the store, one of the most talkative people I’ve ever met.
On to da show. I found their collection similar to the Huntington’s, in Los Angeles, though of course much smaller. It leans toward the pastoral and portraits, mostly late 1800s/early 1900s, with no sign of taking a risk on anything. Don’t get me wrong, it’s pleasant enough, but I have to say Mr. and Mrs. Frye had a very narrow taste when it came to art.
But while I was there I saw an amazing--unfortunately temporary--exhibition called Moon Beam Caress, by an artist named Joseph Park, a graduate of the Cornish School I mentioned in my Seattle blog. I’m not what you would call a Modern Art fan, nor do I spend any time gawking at anime, but somehow he’s managed to fuse the two. Half of his works on display had otherwise cute animals acting as humans, and usually acting very bad. One famous example had a gang of teddy bears/rabbits beating up a darker version. Most are sublime, like a painting of an NYC subway with a teddy bear trying to get out, or another bear ironing a short, or a rabbit sitting on a crate taking a cigarette break.
And all in an almost cartoonish style, though there’s nothing silly about them. Most disturbing was the elephant-like submarine commander with the chilly gaze.
Someone told me this story about modern art, reputedly told by Picasso, but I can’t be sure: “When a master like Cezanne paints a wild horse, you see a wild horse, but when I paint a wild horse, you may not see the horse, but you will see the wild.” There’s one painting of a very wild horse, with tresses Farrah Fawcett would be proud to own, that somehow bridges the gap between those two extremes.
He also takes famous paintings and puts his own spin on it, like Ingres’ “La Grande Odalisque” now being played by an elephant. There’s also Canaletto’s “Venice,” which he paints as if he were looking at the canal scene through a glass of water, or maybe after a nuclear holocaust, with the buildings looking melted. I loved his stuff so much I actually bought the book, which I NEVER do!
