“He was actually quite fond of Seattle’s weather, and not merely because of it’s ambivalence. He liked it’s subtle, muted qualities and the landscape that those qualities encouraged if not engendered: vistas that seemed to have been sketched with a sumi brush dipped in quicksilver and green tea. It was fresh, it was clean.”
― Tom Robbins,
I’m dreaming of Seattle today. Of rainy days, and hilly streets. Of coffee shops, and the boardwalk by Pikes Market. I’m dreaming of gorgeous, great big bouquets of iridescent lilies, little peach roses, sprays of baby’s breath; at the end of the day, they spill out of nondescript white buckets, vibrant and fragrant and half-price, waiting to be taken home and loved. Norah Jones playing the soundtrack of the city – I want to wake up with the rain/ Falling on a tin roof. I’m dreaming of pierogis on a park bench by the waterfront, and of the hours wandering the floors of the window-filled Public Library. To the red-striped awning of a coffee-stand on the street, the glossy black espresso maker atop a light oak counter-top, and the barista handing the coffee over in classy black-and-white cups – to-go – because we had to hit the road early that morning.
I’m thinking back to the city’s beauty and unexplained nostalgia. It’s as if Seattle has been missing someone for all of its life, and every time it rains, it misses that someone all the more. Almost every day, the city, tucked under a gray, smudged sky, offers the chance to hold bittersweet in a corner of the heart, and I love that. It’s exciting, without the dangerous, heady feeling that accompanies the streets of Chicago or New York City; and quieter, eclectic in parts, colourful, and when the morning sun hits the harbor, the city glows like a shaken snow-globe with light specks in place of snowflakes. With our backs to the skyline, we drive away, coffee cooling in the cup-holder, and part of my heart left behind. Someday, someday I’ll be back.
To keep dreaming just a little longer: