When I Travel to Seattle

So, then there was the summer I lived in a hut on the beach.

Now, in fairness, the beach was on Friday Harbor Island, a very small and very pretty little place nestled between Washington state and Canada. Forget about the picturesque and tropical scenes of the Caribbean. This was nothing like that. We're talking arctic waters here.

Still. It was a hut on the beach. And I lived there for a summer.

In any case, this is not a blog about places I've lived. This is a blog about places I've traveled. And now begins the story.

During the summer I lived in a hut on the beach, my friend Dashing and I made an excursion to Seattle. Why would we leave the scenic beauty of an island paradise for the dingy charm of an urban landscape?

Firstly, the rustic nature of island life had started to wear thin. We delighted during the first several weeks that a small rowboat was our only means of accessing the main town; this novelty wore off quickly.

Secondly, I dislike nature and was ready for some city time.

Thirdly, Bruce Lee.

"Qua," you ask.

"Let me explain," I reply.

My friend Dashing had yet another friend, a man who loved Bruce Lee. Bruce Lee is, evidently, buried in a cemetery in Seattle. In a gesture both touching and well-considered, Dashing wanted to make a rubbing of Bruce Lee's gravestone. He would frame this rubbing, accompanied by an 8' x 10' of Mr. Lee, and make a gift of it at an upcoming birthday.

I had never tracked down a grave before, let alone a famous grave, and agreed to join the journey.

Journey, incidentally, is not hyperbole. The trek from Friday Harbor to Seattle required a boat ride, followed by a long bus ride. This trek left us hungry upon our arrival to Seattle and prompted Dashing and I to find a small Indian buffet for lunch.

Let me say here that I adore my friend Dashing. That being said, let me add he is also the most frugal being I've ever met. At movie theaters, he will ask for a free cup of water, then add lemon juice and sugar packets to it from the condiment bar until he has a substance that palettes something like lemonade.

The point of this inclusion of character? That our Indian buffet, while absolutely delicious, was also less than $5.00.

"Plot point," you ask.

"Naturally," I respond.

With deliciously and cheaply filled bellies, Dashing and I began the long walk up a tall hill to the grave site of Bruce Lee. The cemetery was about what I expected. Large. Grass-covered. Rolling hills. Hemmed in by an ivy-covered chain-link fence on three sides. Lots of headstones, broken up by the occasional mausoleum.

Dashing and I decide to split up and find Bruce Lee's headstone. It is only moments after Dashing is out of visual range that I realize I need to use the restroom.

Immediately.

Perhaps this is common knowledge, but it had not occurred to me until that moment that cemeteries do not have bathrooms.

And so began the concentrated powerwalking that comes with convincing your body it does not need what it needs. I marched at a frenzied pace about the graves, muttering to myself that I would be fine, that the gurgling in my stomach would subside, that I absolutely did not need to go to the bathroom.

But who was I kidding?

At the far end of the cemetery, near one of the chain-link fence boundaries, I saw a nice-and-wide mausoleum. Safely hidden behind its walls, I gave my regards to the Peterson family, dropped my pants, and braced myself.

Do you know what goes through your mind in a situation like that? I mean, the instant you accept the fact that you are shitting on a family's grave?

"How am I going to wipe?"

That's what you think.

While in the midst of working out that little logistical problem, I came upon another. Leaning there against the Peterson mausoleum and finding some modicum of gastric relief, I realized that the ivy-covered chain-link fence was more sparsely covered in ivy than it appeared at a distance.

This realization came with a second one: there was a preschool playground gurgling just beyond the sparsely ivy-covered chain-link fence.

Do you know what goes through your mind after such a realization?

"I am going to jail today."

That's what you think.

Did I go to jail that day? Did the group of four little girls playing hopscotch by the fence look over, meet my eye, realize I had my pants down before them, and begin a shrieking cacophony of children? Did I escape notice altogether? Was I forced to sit-and-drag like a stray dog? Did I actually pause upon leaving, paying my respects to the Petersons for their hospitality?

None of these details matter much. But that's what happens when I travel to Seattle.

I'll trink to that!

As this be a travelin' blog, Heidi suggested we set the stage with some tales of travels past. I like this idea, so here is the exciting story of my one real excursion out of the country, to the mystical faraway lands of Germany.

(I did walk across the border to Mexico once, but I don't think that really counts.)

Once upon a time I was 15. I was in high school, with all the angsty-yet-meaningless high school problems you might expect. I played violin in my school orchestra as well as Symphonettes, one of Arizona's young-folks orchestras, and I had a healthy and bizarre father-crush on the man who conducted both.

That year, the powers-that-be at Phoenix Symphony Guild decided to take us Symphonette players and our bow ties to Germany. We would go for a week, stay with host families, play a few concerts, tour some interesting stuff, and head back home. My parents sweetly decided to cough up the however-many thousand bucks it would take to send me over there. I know it must have been difficult though I'm sure I didn't appreciate it enough at the time; now that I'm older and wiser I'm all the more grateful to make up for being a bitchy teenager back then.

You can't really take in a foreign country in a week, of course. But my host family was delightful, the food was amazing, and it was very, very cold. Today I couldn't tell you what pieces we played for our concert, but I remember clearly the halting and dictionary-laden conversations with my host family, the crazy windy roads, the delicious cheese-and-butter sandwiches my host-sister? made for me to take to rehearsals.

Other things I remember clearly:
~There was a kitchen both upstairs and downstairs in the place where I stayed. This often led to my complete confusion as to which level I was actually on.
~Seriously, the simplest meals were fucking amazing.
~Coke was everywhere. There were giant advertisements telling me to "Trink Coke." My host family, assuming that since I was American I loved the stuff, gave it to me with pretty much every meal. I hated Coke.
~Teenagers should never be allowed to have amazing world adventures. They're just too bitchy to appreciate it. We went on a double-decker bus tour of several chateaus, and the bus driver told us about each castle as we passed it. Of course, most every kid just wanted to gab with their friends, play video games, make out in the back seat, etc. So every time this poor man spoke again the groans got louder and louder, until he finally came back on the intercom and said haughtily, "I think I just won't talk anymore." A few, including the girl sitting next to me, cheered. We got into trouble. ... Looking back, I feel pretty bad for that guy, even though I wasn't a cheer-er. Teenagers are assholes.
~Germans apparently don't pull their punches when it comes to journalism. We received a review in a local paper after playing a concert; they described our skills and our screwups with equal page-time. I think it was embarassing at the time but now I think it's funny. ;-)

Germany at 15 was fun and interesting. But I really didn't appreciate it the way it needed to be appreciated. Which is why I want to travel now at the ripe old age of late-twenties, where I won't have the layer of hormonal angst to obscure the wonder of going somewhere radically new. This time I'll cheer the bus driver on. ;-)

What is "Heidi and Jeannette Go To Tokyo?"

Hey folks! Welcome to the new collaboration between Heidi and Jeannette of "Heidi and Jeannette Go To Tokyo" fame!

Heidi and I have a dream. We want to get to Tokyo within two years. I've never been there, and she hasn't been there recently, so it's time to go!

This blog represents not only our hopes and dreams, but also an excuse to write more often which we both desperately need. So add us to your RSS feed and click an ad or two if you feel like it. Tokyo ni!