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Monday, August 30, 2004

Relic No. 2: Pacific Morning

Another found item on my hard drive. From a few months ago.

Monday, May 3

I'm up at 5:00 and out the doors of the Westin hotel by 5:45. Too early I know, but I want to wake up with Seattle. And a mission is in mind.

Donning jeans and a light jacket, I head west on Stewart Street, away from the rising sun but toward the ocean and the Olympic Mountains. The streets are quiet, making crosswalk signals superfluous suggestions of authority, teachers with no control over their students. It's Monday morning and the city is slow to wake. I imagine the worker bees are lying in bed after a long weekend of beautiful sun and 70-degree weather, reminiscing over a Saturday and Sunday now lost, regretting the return to the office. Even the street bums with their long beards, cigarettes and flannel shirts look reluctant to start the week again. We share the street in silence. They are too tired or too hungover to ask for spare change; I am too tired or too selfish to offer any.

Four blocks from my hotel, Stewart Street collides with the public market. Just two days ago, the area ahead of me exploded in color and vibrance that stretched as far as I could see to my left and to my right. Small-time merchants, surrounded by buckets of flowers of every variety imaginable, smiled hello and arranged a bud here, a stem there. Whether they were there for the money or for the enjoyment of sharing the beauty of their products, one can only guess. Two days ago, I regretted the limitations of my luggage, wishing I could bring home this flower, that gourmet chocolate, that ridiculously oversized belt buckle. This morning, though, it is quiet. Homemade advertisements and store signs remain in place, leaving an echo of the previous day's activity that thwarts desolation. The dawn is rising and the market will again buzz.

I head south two blocks to the centerpiece of Seattle's public market: the fish market. Yesterday's ice remains, undaunted by a night apart from the blank-eyed halibut and still-legged crabs who once nestled in its depths. I wonder where yesterday's fish went. To a freezer, only to return today? To a back-alley Dumpster? It doesn't matter, really. Their cold-blooded lives are finished no matter how you dice it. But still: Where did they go? Tired of looking at dirty ice, I pull back a jacket sleeve to examine my watch: 8:05 a.m. Minneapolis time. Simple subtraction is difficult after a long weekend with minimal sleep and several open bars. ... 6:05 a.m. Pacific time.

It's early. Twenty-five minutes to spare until the market opens and I can accomplish my goal. Fifty-five minutes until I meet my two co-workers -- sleeping now I'm sure -- and head to the airport.

The garish neon sign outside Deja Vu is impervious to the time. I pass its luminance and walk into the aroma of Seattle's Best Coffee. It doesn't matter if it is the best, I still won't like it. Good morning, barista. You're way too chipper for 6 a.m. on a Monday, but I'll go along with it. A small chai, please. Oh, and a chocolate donut. Don't forget the receipt. For here, please; I have time. Thank you, as well. Sitting on a cushioned stool, I watch the sun make its way into the canyons of office buildings and department stores. Another beautiful day and I feel at peace and expectant, ready to return home even if it means leaving a city that is alive and promising. Sweet caffeine and beloved chocolate stretch out and refresh me, and my thoughts are active enough without a newspaper in front of me.

There are certain moments when I feel truly alive. Sometimes they come unexpectedly, driving home from work with the windows down, watching a fly ball come toward my outstretched glove in left field, laughing with children during their weekly discussion with the pastor. Other times, I look for these moments where they most often are found in my life -- lazy Sunday afternoons with a good book, late evenings alone at home with a favorite CD and a kitchen floor good for dancing, meal-time discussions of life and meaning and happiness with those I love. This morning I sip chai and wait for the famous Seattle market to open, and I recognize this as one of those moments, and I am grateful. There is nowhere else I would rather be, no other person I want to become, no other path I want to take. Times like this are renewing and balancing and restoring and necessary for my sanity, really. I wonder, do we not all have moments like this? When we take stock of where we are, where we've come from and where we're going, size up the challenges and the shortcomings and realize that life is pretty damn good, after all. Perhaps your moment takes different forms than mine -- deep thinking on the pooper or watching an intense football game or biking on mountain trails. The important thing is that these moments exist in every person's life, and that we jealously guard them.

Pulling back from my thoughts, I refocus on the outside world. 6:35 a.m. Perfect. Out the doors of Seattle's Best Coffee, across the street (this time obeying the crosswalk signal) and into the fish market, framed by buildings on the left and right, mountains and open water behind -- a sight that awes my Mid-Western mind. Four or five men are now shoveling new ice chip on top of yesterday's. Here, too, is renewal. Yesterday's filth covered by today's purity; a new day is here.

Fifteen minutes of ice shoveling and motion. A group meeting, ending with a loud and guttural Huu-aaaa!!!! Community in action. I stand a few feet away, watching the commotion.

"Can we get you anything?" (Pony tail, scraggly dark goatee, friendly eyes and voice, older than 25, younger than 30.)

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah, we're ready. Anything in particular you're looking for?"

"Salmon."

"Let's go for the wild salmon -- much better than farmed." Points to a 4-foot-tall bin, packed with whole salmon on ice, silver skin complementing white ice.

"Which one looks good?"

"They all look good." All have wide open mouths and pale eyes that stare into space. What should I be looking for?

"How about this one? Should feed six."

"Looks perfect."

A one-hand grab, a quick fling and the salmon flies through the air and lands in the sure hands of an Asian man with a moustache.

"You want this whole or filleted?"

I can only imagine coming home with a two-foot long fish, head and all. Knives and I are not friends. Not to mention I am disturbed by those fish eyes.

"Filleted, please."

"Where you going?" I tell him.

"When are you leaving?" I tell him.

"Ah, plenty of time to get this home. Get to the airport early, though. And hope there isn't a security breach, because then you'll be there all day. Make sure to tell security we aren't using dry ice -- it's a gel pack. Want some crab to go along with this? There's plenty of room in the box."

"No, thanks, I wouldn't know how to cook it."

"Alright, then. That'll be $31.08." The usual credit card transaction.

"Enjoy the salmon."

"We definitely will. Thank you."

And that's it. Simple interactions, questions, requests and deliveries. Mission accomplished. The newly beheaded and boxed salmon and I turn east, away from the fish market, but toward the hotel, the sun and home. Renewed and satisfied with my amphibious trophy, it's time to go on to the next mission.

Posted by Aaron on August 30, 2004 12:20 PM