The vending machine in the lounge of the Green Tortoise Hostel summed up my stay in Seattle. It was well-stocked with Diet Coke, ginger ale, fritos, laundry detergent, Pabst Blue Ribbon, condoms, padlocks, and ramen noodles, and a great big "Mystery!" button on the soda machine that I never worked up the courage to press.
I made use of some contents of the vending machine more than others. I didn't go hungry, but my clothes are still dirty.
The hostel on any given night is filled with fishermen awaiting the phone call from their companies in Alaska, where they fly to Dutch Harbor and get on a boat for three months straight, never seeing land. Or women, as many of them asserted.
During one such layover, I snatched up a particularly cute cohort to run around with. On my pseudo-birthday/Valentine's Day, I was in a trouble-making mood, which happens occasionally; I like to go up to high places and egg cars. He and I were brainstorming good ways to get arrested in Seattle. They wouldn't let us into any of the clubs because of the way we were dressed (I left my thigh-high red patent-leather vixen boots at home, dammit). I wanted to go up to the top of Capitol Hill and roll toilet paper down the steep incline of Pike St. He suggested that a general Disturbing the Peace would suffice but when we got down to the Waterfront at 2:00 in the morning, there was nobody there to disturb.
He didn't have any money. I told him I'd buy him dinner but he had to put out. So we ate a fine meal at this place appropriately named the Honeyhole, which I highly recommend. I didn't know he was only 21. I swear. But the nice thing about 21-year-old boys is that they come when called.
I heard some serious wisdom hanging out in that joint. Jamie, a wandering Brit who was pissed off because he couldn't buy his brand of cigarettes in Canada, declared, "If God were a smoker, he'd smoke Marlboro Lights." And I was talking shop with this guy who worked at the front desk. We'd bonded on our mutual love of KEXP's John Richards and Camper van Beethoven (we both went to the show). Turns out he attended BU a year ahead of me and had done some time at the Burren in Davis Square. When I revealed my aspirations of taking the music journalism world by storm, he told me haughtily, "Women are good for some things. Writing is not one of them."
Misogynists aside, I had an overall brilliant time getting to know people in Seattle. People are friendly there. And in the company of the charming <
I seriously slacked on post card duty, but I took lots of cheesy tourist pictures.
I am so obsessed with the Space Needle. I used an entire memory card on it.
Elliott Bay on the day I arrived. It was sunny and almost 70 degrees. I was walking around in a t-shirt, like, "Who brought the New England girl?"
Mt. Rainier and the red dino-cranes.
I was staying a block from the Pike Place Market. It's a magical strip, though overwhelming on a busy day. I ate some tasty baklavah and fresh strawberries still warm from the sun. It was my goal to get clobbered by a fish while they were throwing them back and forth in the market because I thought it'd make a good story but there wasn't even a close call. They're talented guys.
Hostel Life
The door to the lounge. I qualified for several pairs of complementary lung replacements while in residence.
I spent many magical moments in that window of the hostel lounge. Across the street is the Noc Noc, a truly awful club that we watched hookers and pimps flow in and out of on a nightly basis until we finally went over there to check out the situation. As we were nearing the entrance, the bouncer came out with a tire iron to take care of some unruly patrons. The music was really bad anyway.
I couldn't place Ivan's accent and he refused to divulge his nationality. He had a lisp, which was part of the problem. But I couldn't stop staring at him because he looked so much like Ben from Felicity. It wasn't even one of those things where you see someone and you're like, oh who do they remind me of? I'd be talking to him and just keep saying oh my god you're Ben from Felicity. He kept telling me to shut up because he'd never even heard of the show. Foreigner.
Sketchy Tom was the one responsible for staging the Birthday Bash in my honor. I watched him drink an entire case of Budweiser in three hours. Every time he introduced me to someone he said, "She's cool. She told a guy he'd have to put out if she bought him dinner."
Jason was a very bad influence on me. That's okay -- he's in Alaska now.
Wait -- wait -- one more, humor me:
Needle dreams,
~jt
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