This is Sunday, I am in a hotel room somewhere in the United States. Where am I? I ask myself, disoriented and uncertain. I've lost my bearings, veered away from something. I've gone elsewhere, beyond the boundary lines, but of what? of Monterey County that I am so used to and know like the back of my hand? I am so familiar with my own routine, it seems, that I don't even remember what I'm about, what's important, where the ground is, so to speak. I am drifting spiritually, unmoored, not too unhappy, but I am vaguely dissatisfied with the unmooring and know I need to do something about it.
After I sit up and take stock of the hotel room, my mind clearly recalls that I am in Seattle. Ah, good. A new city, a fresh start.
There are a few breaths left in the month of October; it's not gone yet. Shivering maples and poplars line the avenue outside our hotel entrance. Leaves spin and dance when gusts of cold air pull them, stem from twig, in urgent rushes. In a ballet of spinning color, the spiraling colors drift quietly to the dark streets.
Uphill from the hotel on First Avenue is Pikes Place Market, one of the most famous of all American marketplaces. Seattle is hilly, not as severely as is San Francisco, but it does pose a few challenges on certain streets. There is a steep downslope from our street to the waterline further west, indicating that this was a bluff or cliff top in the past. Every hill we see near and far is encrusted with houses, businesses and industry. Ferries and cargo ships move silently across the open bay. Humanity is moving busily, and even though there is a roar from the engines, it seems silent and remote somehow. I have not yet found a connection to it other than the simple fact that it is a city.
Creosote, fish and yeasted breads are pungent in the air as we round the corner and find ourselves face to face with the market street. Cobbles and bricks, neon and painted signs point to the interior of the buildings before us. It's The Market, the gathering point of produce, meat, fish, and prepared goods. Come in, sample, try me out, it all says, I am here before you in my weatherbeaten glory, with stories to tell.
Once inside the market, the energy and exuberance of a real place, one that has heart and soul, simmers and moves. It is labyrinthine and carnival in nature, but it is nothing if not alive. So, we begin to explore. Above my head and eyes, arrows outlined in neon point left or right. I am a sucker for color, see each one and turn to look. In this dark autumn morning, the shouting fishmongers, vivid neon and fragrant food booths tackle my senses and lead me astray. I am handed slices of d'anjou pear, dabs of marionberry jelly, drops of blueberry vinegar and a spoonful of cranberry chutney. It's dazzling, a confusion, a riot of distractions. It roots me to the ground and sends my mind in a spiral. Why cannot all of life be like this festival? Has it always been so and I've missed it? I try to discern the ebb and flow of energy around me and pull out into quiet corners once in a while, watch the movement and listen to the sounds, the pulse at the heart of it all.
The men and women who work here seem carnie-like, remind me of the midway at the county fair. They are jaded by the shuffling mobs of tourists they see every day, need to hustle hard to make a dollar, compete with each other for the attention of the bewildered hordes.
Just when we reach overload and feel our eyes glazing over, we eject ourselves into the bright daylight outside on the cobbled street of Pike Place and stand blinking, inhaling deep breaths of air, gripping our purchases. I feel like I've just left a stream of energy, the flow too much for me to cope with. I've eddied out.
We walk north along the sidewalk and shoulder past the entrances of small artisanal bakeries, a cheese factory, indoor malls containing aromas from India, China, and Thailand. The enticements seem to be unlimited. We're well past our usual breakfast time, so the hunt begins for a suitable place to rest our feet and eat something. We have no idea. One French bistro-like restaurant up an incline from our street is jammed; no room today. We continue north on Pike Place and find Etta's. What great luck.
It is not great luck; it is fantastic luck. The food is unusually wonderful, and the place fills quickly after we arrive until there is no room left at all. I choose a corned beef hash that bears almost no resemblance to the Hormel's product I've chewed on in leaner times. It is savory and hearty, and I believe I have been cured of what ails me. But, then again, maybe I'm just not hungry anymore.
We leave the heaven of Etta's and are drawn back to the market, enter there, turn and bend along the courses of its interior. There are many pathways in the market building, many levels, lots of doorways, alleyways, stairs and doorways. It's a blood stream, a river, a crazy place with twists and turns, dead ends and long straightaways. It pulses and flows with the buying and selling all through its innards. I had no idea. It spits me out again. I take more deep drafts of air and calm down little by little.
Uphill we walk until we reach a plaza where an indoor shopping mall faces us. We dive into it and find a more modern and planned mall environment. It is nothing in comparison to the wail and call of Pike Place Market. We are heading for the monorail ride to the space needle, which was built in 1962. The ride is approximately a mile long and feels like a Disneyland jaunt in Futureland. It costs $4 roundtrip.
Frank Geary designed the building that folds and undulates around the Electronic Music Project (EMP). The monorail's track curves through the middle of two of the sections of the building, stops, and we step off the train through doors that glide open soundlessly. A park surrounds the area, which is pleasant and quiet today. There is a building called Seattle Center where we snack and rest. Suddenly, we see a sign for La Dia De Los Muertos, a Mexican tradition honoring deceased relatives and friends. Elaborate altars, rejuvenation of grave sites and special celebrations are held in remembrance of loved ones lost. I remember my own as look at the decorations and celebrants. It is tender and loving, honest and simple, handmade, real.
The EMP is a place celebrating electronic music. Jimi Hendrix had hoped for a church of sorts where people could come together to appreciate the power of amplified sound, he said, and its ability to transport the mind and spirit to a different place. They have built a Sky Church within the space that is impressively automated. It strives to surround one with music and visual spectacle. For me, it seems complicated, one-dimensional, hollow and meaningless. I find no love in it at all. No tenderness of memories gained one precious moment at at time over years and years. It is all lost on me and leaves me cold. Odd. I love music. But I love love a lot more. What is represented in a few handmade altars and in the faces of the relatives framed on them speaks to me much more clearly.
The darkness of a soulless place, even though it is filled with strobed and pulsing extravaganzas, cannot provide nearly the uplift and depth of emotion a few silent moments in front of a dozen flickering candles give me.
Seattle is a roaring modern city within which I found a pulsing heart in its marketplace. In one day, I have recalled faces and words when I saw a few flickering candle flames. Did I need to come to a darker, colder place to provide counterpoint to the eternal warmth of love?
I had to walk backwards, bend over, crouch down, squint my eyes. I looked from different angles than I usually do. I found it created a sort of visual warp through which I could enter, a way to exist differently, if only through my eyes.
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