I am sitting in a recliner near my brother's pond. It is a mellow Friday afternoon; the sunlight, which is so rare a thing in Seattle, is filtering through the cottonwoods. I have been updating my various writings to reflect my new location. Last night my sister-in-law hosted a Starbucks picnic by this pond. About twenty people attended, most were shift managers at the Starbucks my sister-in-law manages.
One of the things you will notice right away when you are in a Starbucks is the flurry of young successful people who stream in and out the doors. There are eight billion Starbucks in the Seattle area. If you get lost in downtown, don't worry, there is one on nearly every block. I mention this because some people cannot live without caffeine. Thankfully, I am a morning person, but I do occasionally get a latte at Starbucks just because I like the festive energy of being in a Starbucks. They can grow on you.
I will not attempt to write the correct names of drinks the young employees shout out for pickup on the counters of Starbucks. Most of their drinks have names that are for the hip coffee crowd. I don't know the lingo. Regulars rattle off the names like "A tall iced mocha latte with a swirl of cinnamon and attitude to go." I should have written the names down when I was in the Starbucks at 1111 Third Avenue, where it meets Columbia Street in downtown Seattle.
The other thing you will hear every ten seconds in Starbucks are employees asking, "What can I get started for you?" This is a polite way of asking, "Will you be spending the day here and ordering over $500 in coffee drinks and snacks?" When these employees go home and fix dinner for their loved ones, they sometimes forget and say this same line. It works for most things in life: romance, cars, musical jams.
I had phone conversations today with prospective employers. I wasn't feeling my best; my voice was somewhere between Danny DeVito and Marlon Brando. You can never be too charming in phone conversations. The important thing is to come off as sincere, and to quickly gauge the mood of the person to whom you are speaking. Jovality works with some and not others. Using the phrase, "I'm a team player," will hit the bullseye every time. Employers do not like rogue elephants, Lone Rangers, desperadoes, loose cannons, or she wolves. Wonder Bread is always safer than Dave's Killer Bread.
I was feeling a bit punk after the soiree by the pond, so I was not as lively and extroverted as I can be on the phone. I am trying to find the perfect place to work, and the trick is convincing strangers that I am a remarkable writer with a slew of poignant, comic, and relevant things to relate. Think of me as the reincarnation of Vonnegut, without the cigarettes and suicidal tendencies.
A very nice way to kill some hours is to go to the swanky Seattle Main Library, which is at 1000 Fourth Avenue. It has a sleek modern look, and is constructed of glass, a whole lot of cement, steel, and open spaces. I estimate it keeps several hundred window washers employed. You can ride the elevator to the fifth floor and find a ghost town made up of books, you, and utter silence. It isn't like the library in Eugene, Oregon, which is a thinly veiled home for the homeless. No, this library is a perfect romantic getaway, a segue for authors and others hungry for literary libations. It is a cathedral created in homage to the written word. But even this wonderful locale has been a victim of the economic meltdown. Posted on the empty reference desks and counters are notices that due to budget cuts the library will be closed on such in such a day. Talk about a wake up call for those who doubt we are in economic hard times. You might not know it in a Starbucks, but you know it when you see those closure notices.
Another thing that is fun to do in downtown Seattle, if you can't catch a Mariner's game, is to go to free art galleries. I haven't been in downtown but two times since I arrived, but once I walked up to Capital Hill, which is about fifteen blocks up the hill from the port. It is an enclave where alternative businesses thrive. I saw a shop offering sewing classes. I didn't want to be there at night. The fabric of Seattle's vibrant downtown showed signs of wear. To get there you should take Pike Street, if you plan to walk. I had dropped off samples of card ideas to a company in Capital Hill. My ideas were not your average card ideas of course. They were pithy and sometimes odd comedic ones that I figured the in crowd of Seattle might appreciate. Not far past the card company, at 700 Terry Street, was the Frye Art Museum, which had an exhibit of work by Gabriel von Max: Be-tailed Cousins and Phantasms of the Soul. I had a nice time there; galleries have a calming effect that double expresso latte's never offer. Von Max, a late nineteenth century painter, often created work with mystical and religious themes. So don't expect to see Bambi. Their gallery cafe is nice and not too expensive. It would be a great place for a first date.
Let me tell you why I like Seattle: it is by the ocean, it has cool islands to the north and west of it, business people wear jeans fairly often, lots of people are into the arts, and there are lots of writers and artists to meet. It is Liberal Land, and you can dress however you want, and think whatever you want and no one will think badly of you. It is a town that evokes tolerance. But some hate Seattle, just like they hate most places that get a lot of rain. The rain, yes, the rain is a downer to some, but my god plants are really green all year long. My brother said that summer didn't start until August this year, and last year summer was forgotten altogether. It jumped from Spring to Winter. It is a nice place for writing.
Below my brother and sister-in-law's house there is a small creek. My brother calls it "Little Frenchie Creek," but it has no name. But the salmon spawn in it every year, and more arrive in some years than other years. In 2009 there was an enormous run of Coho in the stream. My brother filmed videos of the scarlet red fish in the stream, and one showed him trying to help them over an obstacle. The barrier lay at the end of a slightly crumpled large metal culvert; an old cement wall had either been washed down the stream from some unknown location or it had been there all along and had fallen over in sections. My brother was in hip waders tossing the flashy red fish over the barrier. It was near the end of October and the water was very cold and moving fast. It is moving slowly now, but in a month the fish will be here. They know the stream by scent, and find the unnamed stream amongst a thousand other streams. How do they do that?
It is like my finding this quiet place. It's a bit of a mystery and a miracle.
