I’m sitting on a corner couch in a Seattle Airbnb. A white-haired , spindly fellow just stumbled into the backyard chasing a rogue chicken that had kindly greeted me earlier with a bock-bock and a neck jiggle. Tell me there is another place in the world like this and I’ll kindly tell you to piss off.
My partner and I meandered into the closest epicenter of bards and got drunk. A fellow bar rat told us about an establishment not too far from our room. We went, and walked out five minutes later with two grams of my favorite strain and a complementary candy bar. Ah, it’s a great time to be alive.
The bed we slept on was a cloud made of some magical material descended from the Gods. Saint Tempurpedic. My shoulder pain is gone and my back feels strong and aligned.
Breakfast with an old friend is a crapshoot — a gamble. Three years can do a lot to a person. I’m taking myself as an example here. Thankfully this wasn’t one of those cases of lost character and we coated our stomachs with Bloody Mary and brunched hard between bouts of laughter.
I rode that buzz through our ferry ride to Bainbridge, an island that’s host to, among other quaint delicacies, Puget-front homes and dog shops and fabric stores. We took advantage of the sun and the scenery to indulge on some state sanctioned snacks.
Queen Anne is the ‘hood of the rich' — at least that was my first impression. With equal views of the Space Needle and the bay from grand homes, I’m unclear what other impressions there are to be had. But the beer still gets you drunk and so we leaned on that constant to mask the fact that, even combined, our income is decades away from buying here.
Back to Capitol Hill we went, where bars are decorated in cobwebs and the bums practice their bum-ery in hopes of one day reaching the legends of the Tenderloin.
It feels like home. I could live here.