Seattle postcard: April 8
The daylight is slowly seeping through the clouds, and the waters of Puget Sound are going from jet black to a dark, threatening blue. The café I am in is empty, while the baristas slowly bitch about their paychecks, the state of the world, their boredom. Outside the traffic on Stewart Street is slowly picking up, cars whizzing by the odd neon sign advertising luggage, nude girls, or a Chinese restaurant. To a Bostonian, the attire of businesspeople seems curiously disjointed, in a pleasant way: a woman wearing a yellow rainslicker over a suit, her feet shod in sandals. It seems like a beautiful city, Seattle, with the same weather-induced gumption as Boston but without Boston’s comical sense of self-importance. I think I will go for a walk along the water’s edge, before returning to my wonderful babacool pension for breakfast. I love traveling west; my biological clock is ahead of all of Seattle’s, and so to me the city is moving in slow motion.
