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When the sun is out in Seattle, the natives search for what's missing from the sky. BY JENN SHREVE | on a sunny day in Seattle, you're likely to hear the natives remark, "The mountains are out today." Only when the sky is cleared of its usual gray, drippy haze can you see one of the city's greatest glories: the Olympic mountain range's snow-capped peaks jutting in the west, the Cascades to the north and south and the king of them all, Mount Rainier, rising majestically on the horizon somewhere past Tacoma, all perfect frames for the sparkling, sometimes silver, sometimes green, waters of Puget Sound.
It would be just as apt to say, "The people are out today," because on the few fleeting days that blue skies grace the Emerald City, Seattle's inhabitants -- young and old, pale and paler -- dust off their ill-fitting shorts, dig under a pile of hiking boots for sandals and head outdoors to revel in the sunshiny splendor. After month upon month of being drooled on and surrounded by dismal darkness -- shrouding the mountains like corpses in the sky -- Seattle welcomes, even celebrates, a chance to drip dry in the sun.
For most of the year -- approximately October through June -- it rains. It rains all the bloody time. Most of the time it's a light drizzle, but come spring you expect the water-filled sky to soak into your jacket, your sweater, your jeans, into your bag and shoes, until you become walking slosh. This situation is made worse by a stubborn resistance to umbrellas held by those Seattle residents who don't wish to be thought of as wusses, or more specifically, as not being from Seattle.
On a recent visit to my former home, I was fortunate enough to arrive smack in the middle of a sunny streak. And experiencing the city under those circumstances -- clear skies, mountains revealed, glistening water, kites flying -- made me painfully homesick. It was also very revealing. I had never before realized that Seattle -- surrounded by lakes and constantly caught in a downpour -- is a liquid city. After a while that moisture gets under the skin, becomes a habit or a way of life. A need. Although I spent much of my visit basking in the glorious rays, my friends and I were constantly in search of liquid refreshment of some sort, as if we were trying to replace the absent rain.
Saturday morning began with coffee. I hate to mention it because so many of the stereotypes about Seattle -- grunge, flannel, Microsoft geeks everywhere -- are fabricated. However, the coffee stereotype is true, even though Starbucks is avoided by everyone but tourists and yuppies with no taste. Caffeine addiction reigns supreme in this city. Java junkies cling to their $30 mugs like any odd variety of user. I'm one of them, ducking in and out of favorite coffee haunts throughout the day, sampling the varieties, speaking the speak: "double tall nonfat latte with a shot of hazelnut to go, please" or "single Americano room for milk, if you don't mind."
Seattle's need for the glorious bean, I suppose, is rooted in the weather. Isn't it only natural that one would seek reprieve from shivery-cold water outside in warm, milky energy indoors? Why not transform this liquid refreshment into an art? A culture? And on a sunny day, the need to refresh, to escape in a cup of joe, remains unchanged, except for one small item: ice. The morning mug of warmth is replaced with a plastic-lidded glass and straw. Cafes open their doors and line the sidewalks with chairs filled with drinkers sipping iced lattes, iced coffee, iced mochas and frappucino, whatever that is.
But if coffee reigned alone as beverage of choice in Seattle, you'd expect people to be, well, a little more on-edge than they are. The negative affects of coffee are easily counteracted by another Seattle addiction: beer.
After coffee, a friend and I progressed to Gasworks Park, which sits on the banks of Lake Union, offering a spectacular view of the city while allowing you to enjoy its own odd architecture. The park is built around rusted machinery that once provided the city with its power. These ominous structures loom in the foreground, a stark contrast to the sparkling skyscrapers and glittering water beyond them. It seems the main draw of this park, however, is its proximity to water. Sunbathers lie on the shore, the glimmer of waves reflected on their skin. Sailboats, yachts and ferries move across the water while the land-bound jealously absorb the spectacle. After a rousing game of Frisbee and a climb to the seldom-used sundial that tops a mini-slope in the park, it was time to drink Seattle microbrews in the sun.
We ventured to the Fremont District, an eclectic neighborhood that rests upon a narrow waterway. It's a wonderful place. Vegetarian and Thai restaurants line narrow streets, sandwiched in between brew pubs, vintage clothing stores and apartment buildings. A controversial statue of Lenin overlooks one corner, declaring the neighborhood's independence from mainstream American political thought. The Fremont Troll, a gargantuan mud sculpture squeezing an actual VW Beetle in its claws, lurks under the Aurora Bridge, which hovers over the neighborhood. We ducked into the Dubliner, one of many local taverns, through the dark, smoky bar section and out onto a lovely patio overlooking the water, where we could sip beer at our leisure.
Seattle houses four major breweries -- Redhook, Rainier, Hale's and Pyramid -- and numerous small ones. From amber, hops-laden brews to thick, malty concoctions, Seattle's bars boast some of the finest beer in the world. Next to Munich's magnificent beer gardens, I'd be hard-pressed to name another city with a finer and more varied assortment of ales. Beers in hand, their brown hues set off by golden sunlight, the afternoon was sipped away. The need for a nap grew increasingly urgent ...
The night was warm and humid, and we sought reprieve in a cool, dark movie theater. When the movie ended, I ran into a group of friends who had just exited from another film. We headed back to the Fremont District for drinks at Dad Watson's Bar and Restaurant. Even without the sun, we were seeking liquid refreshment; and we sought until the bar closed and the proprietors gently shooed us out into the early morning air.
Sunday. My stomach was a ball of tortured knots. The thought of coffee was nauseating. Food was unthinkable. But a big Sonics playoff game was on. I met with friends at a trashy sports bar on the southern edge of Ballard, a primarily Norwegian neighborhood on the way to nowhere, and attempted to down just a little more beer. It was horrible. Just a few miles west are the Ballard Locks, where, in season, you can watch salmon struggling upstream to the embrace of fishermen's nets.
The sunshine shone down on Ballard's funky cobblestone streets and small-town shops just outside the closed shutters, beckoning, while the Sonics scored enough last-minute points to carry the game into overtime. More than sunshine, more than coffee, more than beer, Seattleites love their home teams. I suppose the residents of any city do. But the pull of the Sonics' possible entrance into the finals was far stronger than the sunlight, as proven by the steady trickle of sports fans into the bar. Perhaps Seattleites love the Sonics more than liquid -- but I doubt it.
As the weekend progressed, the sun made its slow retreat behind the usual dismal cloud-cover. On Monday the lure of the water was overwhelming and I boarded a ferry to Bainbridge Island, one of many bucolic landmasses that house the city-weary of Puget Sound. These islands serve as homes for folks who don't want to be bothered with most of civilization and tourists attracted by cutesy restaurants and an abundance of trees. As the skyline, space needle and all, grew smaller and dimmer, I turned my attention to the mountains, which hovered like ghosts behind a shroud of gray haze. Likewise, the residents of Seattle were abandoning their parks, their warm-weather gear, their iced coffees -- retreating like the mountains behind the white walls of their homes.
A sadness crept over me. How unfortunate that such beauty stays hidden for most of the year. How rare are those days when the sun illuminates the mountains, the water, the spirit. A pang of regret shot through me: to think I had wasted any of it indoors. As the sun flickered in and out of the clouds, I had lunch along the marina on Bainbridge, then laid in the grass of an adjacent park as the sun departed from the day for good. It was still light as the ferry carried us back to Seattle's docks, where the Pike Street Market overlooks the Sound and numerous brew pubs, coffee shops and restaurants sell their vast array of liquid refreshments. It began to rain.
Interested in finding out about Seattle's "sewage scandal" on the Underground Tour or where to find the best Northwest salmon? Check out Wanderlust Marketplace's thorough Seattle guide.
Been to Seattle? Was it raining? Share your Pacific Northwest memories in Table Talk.
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