My friend Laura, recently retired and hence the object of much envy, has long wanted me to come visit her in West Seattle, instead of her always visiting on this side of the water. But, alas, the drive across that awful bridge is just too daunting unless I have Rebecca along for moral support. So, wanting to get together with Laura and to explore some of fabulous West Seattle, I rode the bus across the even more terrifying Alaska Way viaduct. The danger there is earthquakes, as the viaduct is reputed to be on its last legs. The least tremor and it will go crashing to the ground, crushing all within crushing distance. Awful indeed, but less immediate than the horror of changing lanes on that frightful bridge. The bus was a pretty yellow and red, super fast, direct one and got me there in minutes. We started our adventure at Mexican restaurant where I ordered a too giant burrito that I was unable to finish (and hence felt guilty about – I am such a good Catholic – always feeling guilty about something.) But I had no trouble gulping down the yummy horchata, a most delightful Mexican summer treat.
Our true intent was not really lunch, but a walk in Lincoln Park, through the forest and along the beach. The first thing I did was to lose my glasses, but Laura and St. Anthony worked together as we retraced our steps, and Laura found them. Had she not, it would have been particularly distressing as it would have been the second pair of glasses I had lost in two days – the first pair having gone missing in my premier glasses-losing place, the Cathedral.
|Laura found my glasses by this rose bush|
I believe that the last time I visited a West Seattle beach was an evening when I was about eleven years old. I came with my grandmother, several great aunts – her sisters - and a then youthful Aunt Dakki. The beach was a narrow one, surrounded by deep forest, and reached by a dirt road, and in its remote position, quite deserted, except for us. There was the huge trailer of a logging truck parked nearby, and logs floating along the water’s edge. I fancied myself a mighty lumberjack as I danced from log to log, risking a splash and a salty dip. Everyone was certain that I would fall in and get wet and dirty. Then - Oh dear! My grandmother, had to go to the bathroom. The only private place seemed to be under the logging truck. So under it she crept. When she emerged, the back of her coat had the greasy imprint of the underbelly of a logging truck on it. This adventure remained a family story for years, and Dakki still occasionally refers to it. Everyone, including my grandmother, thought it was funny, but if it had been my coat, I would have been sad. I was relieved, however, not to be the one to have gotten dirty, despite their dire predictions.
|Afterward, we had tea and coffee at this adorable person's coffee shop. |
She waited vigilantly under our table for a crumb of biscotti to drop,