F.Y.I

Just to inform those that may stumble across my blog and read the pieces I have posted below, they were all done for a school project that I worked on this past quarter. They are lengthy, and some may even have a lot in common, but that is because they are meant to have a similar vein of content. Specifically, I am referring to the posts entitled "The Color of Habit", and " Wallingford, Wonderland." These two were meant to be done as if they were a column for some magazine. The other two posts thus far are memoirs. I have ambitions to be a journalist and am trying to get a start on it. If anyone has any feed back on any of the pieces below, I would love to here it. Just leave a comment. I only ask that you try to be nice, and if you have something bad to say, just phrase it well (pretty please). Hope you are all having a great day!

Adventure.

I remember feeling my life ambitions pulsing out of my fingertips. Images and words colliding to create an unknown that would and will always fascinate me like nothing else I have experienced. I remember writing being as necessary as air. Perhaps these memoirs are a tribute to the adventure that I experienced abroad, or maybe I will someday learn that they are simply memoirs of what it is like to be young and free of a particular direction. Writing about them is a way of bringing the sensations back to me. I am sitting in a coffee shop and my heart is pouring out onto the table, onto the floor around me, and onto the page in front of me.

As I traveled through Europe I lived off of my emotions. They fed me each day with new experience and gave me an appetite for a greater sense of awe. I was in awe of the sunrise, the sunset, the mist over the oceans, the mystery of the ancient buildings, and the adventure that I awoke to each morning. Adventure had become a dear friend, and together we ran, jumped, and flew our way around the towns, streets, and coastlines of Europe.

The excitement was tangible; it lined the hills of Albania, it brought every possibility front and center. I walked along castle walls. I climbed down rocky cliffs on the banks of Lake Ohrid in Macedonia. I got lost and was found by a group of beautiful Aussie boys. I watched poetic sunsets in Croatia from the back patio of our hilltop home stay. I remember thinking that the old man upstairs was never satisfied- he didn’t seem to realize that he lived inside of perfection. His world was filled with blue waters and ancient beach towns that were kissed each day by blue skies and endless possibility. For a few days I lingered in this world and laughed at his under appreciation for the good life; I can rightly assume that perhaps I am guilty of the same lack of appreciation for my own home.

I took regular risks and basked in the chaotic thrill that accompanied them. I drove mopeds across Tuscany and got lost on roads that seemed not to exist in the fields they carved through. I jumped off of cliffs and floated on my back in the Adriatic Sea, and stared at the sky. I thought it deliciously odd that the skies in Europe looked almost identical to the skies at home. I danced with the fishermen on the island of Capri, where the boats and the beach were lined with magic and lights and music. I thought that it couldn’t be real, and then touched the sand, and realized that it was. It was all, real.

I day dreamed about the people at home and wondered if they would ever understand what I was seeing, the air I was breathing, and the sounds that I was growing accustomed to. They will never know these things as I have known them. Just as they will never know my life as I live it. I am an observer. The things I saw will be written about and thought of for the duration of my life, but can only be seen in their full capacity within the confines of my mind. Soft and sweet are these memories, so dear to my core.

I remember having Italian class with Professoressa Baldini, and Professoressa Ruso in Florence; those women gave me a new sense for language. In between class I would watch Jesus parade around the pensione in his sandals and oversized shirts while he cleaned and bitched about our poor drinking health. I remember the look of my bed by the window, and how the sound of sirens would overtake my sleep. Dreams and reality blended together so often that I felt crazy.

When I journeyed to Tunisia in northern Africa, I ran up the mountains that burst out of the earth at the edge of the Sahara. I sat atop a sand dune one night a few days before Christmas and contemplated the placement of the stars and myself beneath them. I could not comprehend how miraculously and completely the Universe fit together. I rode camels into the horizon and saw nothing but sand in every direction. The world around me was desolate and mysterious, and it thrilled me.

Moments like these came together and built a year of my life. I rode with them, I walked with them, I wrote about them. The construction of time and the way that I remember it is of the same architectural majesty as the cathedrals that I wandered among. My 20th year of life was sculpted by Renaissance storms, and smoothed by floods of gelato. I look forward to returning someday.


I awoke one spring morning in an apartment in Rome. It was 5:30am and the birds were singing the day to rise just outside my window. As I opened my eyes I felt it all come to an end, a gentle close to a long and unforgettable story. It was time to go home. Those beautiful European bird songs would be left behind in a matter of hours. I would be air borne and on my way back home again. I can’t help but to wonder how much of me is left behind in those streets, or how much of my thoughts are lost in translation by the romance of the language. I suppose if I ever return, I will know just how much of me still lives in another part of the world.

The Color of Habit

There are many colorful characters who choose to spend portions of their time within the walls of a coffee shop. These individuals will find themselves in familiar caffeine territory on a weekly, daily, or perhaps hourly basis depending on the nature of their addiction. Those that choose to be frequenters of a coffee shop have discovered a caffeinated zest for life; a way to make it through the days with a mundane sense of purpose that is just enough to thrill their hearts into contentedness. In any case, finding a place to sort through time in the company of others, and with a caffeinated beverage is a comfort that is unlike any other. Seattle provides many places like this for the wearied souls to come and let go of the grey and shake off some of the rain.

The Essential Bakery is one such place and is located just two blocks up from Gas Works Park, with a pleasant view of downtown Seattle. There are several office buildings to the south, houses and apartments to the north and east, and the city dump to the west. These neighboring buildings and their goings on provide for a colorful mix of customers, even on the greyest of days.

Arvind is the name of one of the regulars, and I find him to be oddly intriguing. He is soft spoken and very much a creature of habit. He comes in around 1pm, Monday through Friday, and orders a cup of soup with old-school Pizza Bianca. The soup changes, as we don’t offer the same soups everyday, and that is about the only thing that he will gamble on. Arvind is a thirty-something microbiologist from India that studies the proteins inside of cells. He wears a navy blue sweater over a button-up collar shirt, and has clean, decently groomed facial hair. He is the type of gentleman who thrives on life’s tiny pleasures, like guaranteed soups of the day and microscopic discoveries in the laboratory.

Slavek is another individual that frequents the café. He comes in everyday for lunch, and then again at the end of the day to pick up left over bread for charity. He is the bread man. Slavek is Polish and has a very distinct European manner; he is passionately open to life. Some of the things that he says are often misinterpreted by the staff, but having spent some time in Eastern Europe, I am aware that he is just your average Joe when considering the culture abroad.

Slavek drinks Earl Grey, precisely three pots worth each day, and has a pear salad with added turkey. He has ambitions to write a screenplay, and from what I have heard, his idea sounds completely sellable; a man that has a freak accident on a racetrack, afterwards has chameleon-like abilities and is able to act as/become the people around him. Slavek thinks that it will work because it combines action and matters of the heart. I think it might work because it is completely original. He loves to share his ideas, and I love to hear them.

Over the six months that I have had the privilege of working in the bakery I have come to adore these individuals, and many others. I know what they like to eat, and when. I know their habits and ambitions, and have had the pleasure of witnessing their interactions with each other. Slavek and Arvind can often be seen eating together by the window on the south side of the café.

These gentlemen have become just as much a part of my routine as I have become of theirs. The habits formed by caffeine and frequent visits to familiar places bring color to what can otherwise feel like a monochromatic existence. These two have entered the world of The Essential Bakery and made it a part of their lives; it may not be as important as feeding the hungry or uncovering scientific mysteries, but it is a part of life nonetheless. Routines, no matter how big or small, can help to map out the seasons in such a way that we navigate through the days with a sense of belonging and a taste of friendship.

This is what a coffee shop in a rainy city has to offer, relief. Relief from crazy schedules, from tireless rain, from heavy skies. The lights and smells in combination with the right cup of coffee and a familiar face, have the power to significantly enhance your life.

A memoir for John.

He came and went, a delicate transaction with the light and the days. His moment of passing was quiet. No big flashes, no crashing sounds, just a small pocket of time where the birds kept singing and the seasons kept changing. No difference other then the slow and calculated release of his spirit. My dear friend quietly slipped through the silence to the other side, and that was that.

I can remember the first time that I ever saw him. He was cleaning our house and smiling a huge smile when I came into the room. He said hello as if he knew exactly who I was and everything about me. I bet that he did. I was eleven years old and walking through a battlefield and he saw this. John offered me a hug, and I accepted. This grandfather of a man showed up one day a housekeeper with wisdom to share. Within a few months he was living with us. John offered literature and positive thinking as a way to change a life. As I grew, John became a friend and a mentor; he changed my life.

There was a point in time when I saw more of him than I saw of my own father. There were cracks in the foundation of my relationship with my dad and I questioned whether or not they were reparable. Instead of focusing on this question, John helped me to focus on the bigger picture. I began to question the universe instead. I read existential literature and saw shifting shapes when we spoke. His face shifting forms, the air tingling; the adventure was beginning, the growth was happening. Life was altering its course, but staying on schedule. I was growing up, and in the company of love and wisdom.

We went out to coffee, out to movies, roamed around the mall aimlessly, talked about my mother, joked about my father, he told me stories of his youth and how he came to own all of his tattoos. John told me how he had gotten the tattoos on his knuckles, and how he had then removed them in his 50’s. We went to movies that opened the mind, he gave me books to the same effect; slowly giving me a greater responsibility in my life, showing me the beauty that surrounded me despite my sadness.

John had stories upon stories about all the places he had lived, about his childhood in Florida and his fascination with alligators. He told me about his strange experiences with women, about the disappearance of his daughter and how he had to rescue her. He told me about when he lived in Mexico in a milk truck that he drove around, and all the people he befriended there over his years as a nomadic milkman. We would go out to proper English tea at the Queen Mary, and he would see a familiar face outside; next thing I knew I was listening to him reminisce in Spanish about his time down south. He wanted to finish rebuilding his trailer and head back down to South America to revisit all those friends of old. I loved his dreams. I started to dream more of my own.

The funeral was something out of a dream; white fields in December, bright sun, blue sky, long roads, black coats, rifles, tears, and goodbyes. I was teaming with humorous confusion, giggling with delight at the knowledge of his presence. We stood at the finish line a bunch of strangers with a similar story to tell and an absent champion. The day sneaking past us with spiraling breadth on cold, winter air. I’ll never forget how it looked; the sky was open, full of change and sun, the snow was young and innocent.

John guided me through transitions. I went from an awkward eleven year old, to an angst filled teen, to a college bound young adult. All the while we greeted each other with the deepest of loves and the greatest of care. John taught me the importance of chocolate in combination with good health. He used to leave dove chocolates on my windshield along with silly cards that weren’t signed. That was his trademark, anonymous cards with beautiful pictures. We went to fairs together and talked about how fun it would be to have a mistress. He encouraged love in all its forms, and reminded me that each and everyday that I managed to smile and see the light was an accomplishment like none other. He was proud of me. Eventually, I was proud of me too.

The busier that I became, and the farther from home that I went, the less I saw of him. Each time I came back and saw him it was clear that he was aging. Still a striking older man, but slowing down a bit. He made silly mistakes about where to park his car and stopped being able to hear the turn signal; it got left on for an obnoxious amount of time, but I never had the heart to tell him this. It was strange to watch a seeming super hero begin to fade. His light never dimmed, but his vitality faded. I started to realize that he wouldn’t always be around the way that he was then.

When John left, died, went away, I woke up a little more. Standing at his memorial service in the cold, I was acutely aware of my newfound alertness. How strange to be left behind by a loved one. There is still so much that I don’t understand.

Eventually our visits were brief. They were profoundly filled with joy, but always in passing. I would think about him often and hope that he could hear my thoughts or feel my love. I think that he could. I know that despite his strength and wisdom that he became scared. The distance between him and his loved ones grew. We were all getting older; friends, children, lovers. He was aging the fastest.

One day, when the sun was shining and the possibility of the moment seemed endless, I was told that he had a tumor. It was terminal, and they weren’t going to operate. He would not survive and wanted the quality of life and not the quantity of days. Not long after that he was put in a home down near Federal Way. I visited him. The first time he recognized me and we cried together. He was scared but only showing strength. He was dressed to the nines, as usual. John always looked classy, even in his deathbed. The next time he forgot who I was for a little while. His recognition of me came in waves, when he couldn’t remember he seemed embarrassed and uncomfortable. I didn’t stay long.

They didn’t tell me when it first happened. I found out two days later. A few weeks after that I received an email with the information and location for his memorial service. I thought about his smiling face and all that he had done for me. I figured that he was listening so I told him how much he meant to me. I often talk to him still. The conversations are a bit one-sided these days, but still heart felt. He was a joyful man, with endless amounts of stories to tell about the significance of life and how it should be used. I intend to use part of my life to honor his. This shouldn’t be too hard; all I have to do is love.

I remember holding his image in my pocket. His smiling face and strong waving arm printed on a funeral program. Onward he went without fear, just love. I smiled back at him just like he had always done.

Wallingford, Wonderland.

In this life we are looking for places to put ourselves, positions to occupy, and projects that will make us stand out. We look to each other for approval and recognition of whatever places or positions we fill, and for ideas of what the next project might be. We are subject to the weather and to the seasons. No matter the decade, or the extent of high tech toys available, we are affected and forced to make choices based off of our surroundings. Wallingford presents itself as a place to reside amongst our surroundings and let life happen.

I have lived in Wallingford for most of my life. There is something about this cheery, down-to-earth neighborhood that keeps bringing me back. I have traveled to Europe, lived in Canada, and beheld the most breathtaking views from some of the world’s highest mountaintops, and yet I keep coming back to this place. Where the streets are familiar, the smiles are usually kind, and the sun is a mystery guest.

Wallingford is located in the north end of Seattle, just across the water from beautiful downtown. Seattle receives an annual average of 36 inches of rain each year. While this number alone may not be enough to give Seattle the title as one of the nation’s rainiest cities, the name is well deserved. The rain in Seattle is slow and persistent. The clouds that bring it will show up days ahead of time, release a light drizzle for a few hours, and then remain for days after their delivery has completed. This can make for some monochromatic views and emotions, but the citizens of Seattle battle it out. In a city where eight months out of the year can be described as grey and gloomy, Wallingford is a welcoming world that offers a little bit of emotional relief from the chaos of weather-gone-wrong.

There is a wonderful mix of small-town friendliness and big-city livin’. The well-known 45th Avenue is the main stretch through the center of Wallingford and is lined with old buildings, warm coffee shops, odd boutiques, and a mixture of people. The Guild 45th is the neighborhood theater and services any age, but is especially great for couples that have a few decades behind them and are looking for a way to get out on a Friday night. Everything is within a comfortable walking distance whether its QFC, Hollywood Video, Dick’s burger joint, or Molly Moon’s for some ice cream. There are a good variety of grungy, little bars that offer an escape on any night of the week. Especially Moon Temple, a poorly lit bar attached to a mediocre Chinese restaurant with a jukebox and a few smiles to help move the night along; a personal favorite of mine. These things make for a quirky environment where anyone is welcome- from stuck-up, uptight schoolteachers to crack addicts desperate to get off the streets; anyone fits even if not everyone is readily accepted.

This may seem like a negative spin, but in reality it is just life functioning as it has done for years in a colorful and rain-kissed neighborhood. Representing the confused, preteen underbelly of the city of Seattle. The city is young and still trying to find its feet. Neighborhoods like Wallingford express this with an eclectic mix of modernity and history. The people that live here reflect this mix of old school tradition and new school liberalism and together create a comfortable, unique environment to live in.

Having been a Wallingfordian for most of my life there are a few things that I have come to expect and own as part of who I am and part of my upbringing. These additions likely apply to anyone that has lived, or lives in this unique pocket of Seattle. Being from Wallingford means that I have spent time among many types of people. It means that I am liberal, and that I likely vote democrat (and I do). It means that I spent many Friday afternoons in high school getting drunk in public parks under the false protection of trees. It means that I agree with the mayor when she decides to shut down the city for a mere two inches of snow. It means that I have smoked marijuana in a park with bunnies in view, or on the back porch of someone’s parents house during some aimless summer day when I was 17. Being from Wallingford means that I have felt the seasonal lows due to lack of vitamin D and too much rain, just as much as it means that I have rejoiced with a heavenly excitement when the sun showed up again in May; the mystery guest returns and is more than welcome every time.

The point is that Wallingford offers itself to the city of Seattle as a location of life; as a place to reside and play out the days among a colorful variety of people with a large diversity of self-proclaimed purpose. In a city where the weather will likely bring you down and get the best of you, this collection of homes, lives, and scenes will give you the zest for life that is sometimes hard to come by. Wallingford will do this just by showing you all the faces and all the places that life could take you, but always welcoming your life and providing you with the courage to live it out and live it good.