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Dec. 14th, 2007 01:00 pmI wish I could describe how Pike Place Market affects me.
Let's start with the way I started grinning the second I was dropped off outside it and saw the big neon clock, shall we?
And then we can go on to the violin/guitar duo I stopped to watch just inside the market building, and the smell of fish, and the way even the fish-throwers were quiet just then so the musicians could work. Then we can travel down the market to the many, many fruit stalls, all of which pale in my estimation beside the permanent stall that my family has gone to for decades, where the people, I suspect, recognize us, and give out slices of apple and peach, and sell rasberries that mean Pike Place to me.
A little farther down are the crafts, the beeswax candles, the organic clothes, the handmade everything. I always have to restrain myself from buying an entire wardrobe here. There's another violinist here, a scruffy young man singing in the nasal drawl of bluegrass and old country.
Across the street are more permanent shops -- the Souk, which smells of spices and India, where we bought papidams when we lived here in '97, and the Greek places selling baklava, and the original Starbucks with its creaky wooden floor. There are more musicians on the sidewalk. The doo-wop choir isn't out yet, but the dog man is, with his Cat in the Hat hat, two big dogs, and an accordion, giving directions to tourists. Down a bit is the man who wheels a slightly-miniaturized upright piano to this corner and plays for the crowds; down from him is the man who brings incredibly well-conditioned cats to the Market to encourage people to adopt from his shelter.
Every step you take along Pike Street hits you with a new scent. Fish, cold and fresh; a multitude of fruits; honey; bouquets of flowers; spices that can't quite be identified. It's never quite an overload.
The people range from dreadlocked, pierced girls to businessmen getting their morning coffee to the musicians in their fingerless gloves, to me, walking through and unable to hold back a grin.
Part of me belongs to Pike Place. I suspect it's the writing part, because I know, to my bones, that there's a story in Pike Place waiting for me. I suspect it's a romance; I suspect there's a magic that the regulars are aware of and that the tourists catch glimpses of; I don't know if it's a movie or a novel or a play or a book of poems, but it's waiting for me.
ETA: DUDE DUDE DUDE there are people supporting the WGA strike outside this Starbucks! MUST GO TALK TO THEM.
Let's start with the way I started grinning the second I was dropped off outside it and saw the big neon clock, shall we?
And then we can go on to the violin/guitar duo I stopped to watch just inside the market building, and the smell of fish, and the way even the fish-throwers were quiet just then so the musicians could work. Then we can travel down the market to the many, many fruit stalls, all of which pale in my estimation beside the permanent stall that my family has gone to for decades, where the people, I suspect, recognize us, and give out slices of apple and peach, and sell rasberries that mean Pike Place to me.
A little farther down are the crafts, the beeswax candles, the organic clothes, the handmade everything. I always have to restrain myself from buying an entire wardrobe here. There's another violinist here, a scruffy young man singing in the nasal drawl of bluegrass and old country.
Across the street are more permanent shops -- the Souk, which smells of spices and India, where we bought papidams when we lived here in '97, and the Greek places selling baklava, and the original Starbucks with its creaky wooden floor. There are more musicians on the sidewalk. The doo-wop choir isn't out yet, but the dog man is, with his Cat in the Hat hat, two big dogs, and an accordion, giving directions to tourists. Down a bit is the man who wheels a slightly-miniaturized upright piano to this corner and plays for the crowds; down from him is the man who brings incredibly well-conditioned cats to the Market to encourage people to adopt from his shelter.
Every step you take along Pike Street hits you with a new scent. Fish, cold and fresh; a multitude of fruits; honey; bouquets of flowers; spices that can't quite be identified. It's never quite an overload.
The people range from dreadlocked, pierced girls to businessmen getting their morning coffee to the musicians in their fingerless gloves, to me, walking through and unable to hold back a grin.
Part of me belongs to Pike Place. I suspect it's the writing part, because I know, to my bones, that there's a story in Pike Place waiting for me. I suspect it's a romance; I suspect there's a magic that the regulars are aware of and that the tourists catch glimpses of; I don't know if it's a movie or a novel or a play or a book of poems, but it's waiting for me.
ETA: DUDE DUDE DUDE there are people supporting the WGA strike outside this Starbucks! MUST GO TALK TO THEM.
