Seattle Journal, February 2017
Seattle Journal
Feb 3-12, 2017, Pediatric Conference at Seattle Children’s
The day has finally come…off to Seattle, Washington. Long awaited and dreamed of. Land of rain, wind, water, mountains, the Puget Sound, Mt. Ranier…biking and hiking, green concerns, sweaters and hiking boots. And music… Jimi Hendrix, Nirvana and grunge. The music venue calender on the web must have listed 30 venues with bands every night. Several yoga studios in the downtown Pike Place area…an evening of “Sound Therapy” and yoga sessions called “Nirvana” and “Rock Out.” Elliott Bay Book Store with almost daily readings by authors.
And of course the Green Tortoise Hostel awaits me. I am that green tortoise picture with my fleece, down vest, walking shoes and new North Face backpack with innumerable zippered pockets, some lined with a baby-soft fleece that I want to keep feeling, the thought of this journey as comforting as a baby blanket. Instant Nirvana.
Tea and coffee shops – cozy, eclectic shops of European flavor, African and Egyptian art, locally roasted beans and ‘coffee art.” Long-haired older hippie owner (Ancient Grounds), kind and articulate, surrounded by 7 seven Starbucks and grateful for this; doing well.
My 65th birthday is two weeks away and these journeys…spiritual journeys for me…are permeated by a sweet reminiscence of time gone and future awaiting. I have just re-read Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets and have brought along a copy of my favorites: 18, 30, 73 of course, 104, 106, 116 and 138. As I walk down the airport concourse, families, children, couples talking, the click-click of the smooth floor over which my suitcase glides. I move onward, always onward, with my life, my journey, carrying my sweet past traveling behind me and enveloping me. I have been memorizing Sonnet 30, “When to the sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past” and before I get on the plane, I read, “Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow.” A time for reflection and introspection, a time for renewal.
Why do we seem to need the passing of time to endow the present with such deep emotion, a fuller love? I visit my parents, 89 years old and fading into confusion. My Father(Gampa) was happy to tell me that he, too, had been to Seattle, probably 26 years before. He surprises me as he often does with his wide experience of the world. He went up in the Space Needle twice, he tells me, seeing the vast city, the Puget Sound and Mount Ranier. He has been a little confused, asking what he should do about certain matters, whether to trade in his car, whether to use a walker…so unlike him to ask for direction as the roles shift, as the world shifts under my feet. A child-like look in his eyes as he asks, “What should I do?” But he is insistent in his concern for me and my trip. “You should take a lot of pictures. You will treasure them later. And go to the top of the Space Needle. Be sure you do that. And make sure that you have lunch there.” He knows my self-deprecating ways – I would not think to treat myself with lunch there. A touching moment of paternal love; a summation for me. A culmination of 64 years of nurturing, conversing, encouraging that has let to this moment. This is not a solitary, yet repetitive, series of moments. It is a single stream, a river of time, my river, unique and evolving. 64 birthdays that are not separate events, isolated in their existence. It is a one-time event that is my life. I sometimes ask my children and family during birthdays what they remember of past birthdays…4th? 7th? 10, 14, 21? …as if they were isolated events, pebbles to be picked out of a glass jar to turn in my hand, feel the texture, the shape, the color and hue, and to gently place back. Undulating waves coming to shore, one after another seemingly unconnected but in reality inseparable, indelibly linked, a one time event. My 65th birthday will be a culmination, a continuance…it is the only life I have and I must engage it to the fullest, savor it’s essence, it’s maturity and aging. It’s as if we get to see only one tree in our life time. Watching the first sprout tentatively break through the black soil, growing in strength, enduring the cold winters, green buds and leaves as the Fall comes. One season only to absorb and appreciate. There is no other.
My flight to Seattle is #1974, my year of graduation from Princeton but actually the year that I left medical school to pursue music. One of my philosophy courses was Sein Und Zeit by Heidegger…Being and Time. So interesting to me but, like so many things experienced in my youth, relatively unappreciated and so much deeper in retrospect, as I look back on myself at age nineteen, taking notes, serious and dedicated, my wife, family and children, my wonderful profession in pediatrics all a distant dream. So this sequence of existential moments, filled with beauty and pathos, hope and deep despair, flows by as a continuum, interrelated, conversant, synergistic. Perhaps the analogy, rather than a static jar of pebbles or gems is a ribbon of variegated colors and textures. It is here for me to peruse, to touch as if blind, each thread summoning scenes of youth, sounds, aromas, silent vistas. A wind blows the ribbon as it floats and dances gently, its beginning unseen by me and its end twisting in future mists.
On the plane, the captain announced, “The temperature in Seattle is 36 degrees, a mixture of snow and rain.” I was in heaven thinking of this.
Seattle Journey
I wait, alert, silent and listening
and prepare for my journey to Seattle
sit on my bed, feel the air on my face
softly place shirts in an empty suitcase
place Shakespeare’s sonnets in the waiting corner
two pens and paper for company
surprised that I pick up my guitar
alone in the corner
gentle songs re-emerge, calling to
a frozen February birthday
I get up and walk outside
the grass brittle, cracking
succumbing under my boots
pull out a worn ladder from the garage
walk alone to the ancient oak tree
hold my Grandfather’s clippers, handles worn satin smooth
bleached by time and calloused hands
and trim the waiting dead off the reaching limbs
Glenn Feole, February 3, 2017
I arrived in Seattle – 36 degrees, freezing with constant rain, snow flurries! I wore my fleece and down vest, a scarf around my neck, soaked and euphoric. Pine trees are ubiquitous, scattered on the rolling landscape. The sky is covered with fog and mist, rain and drizzle everywhere. Everyone has actual coats on and this seems so natural, comforting and warm. This is so unusual for me to see – I don’t thing I saw anyone every wearing a coat in South Carolina while I worked at the clinic in Greenwood. It transports me back to my childhood in Connecticut and Rhode Island, happy winter days. I must get hiking boot – my leather shoes will not last long here. Hats, hoods and most people with backpacks. Large backpacks with water bottles in the netting on the side for easy reach. Everyone with hiking boots on as well. I rarely see an umbrella. Everyone just walking in the rain, hats, hoods, coats wet and not noticed. Most men with warm beards, the women in with stylish high heels even in this weather, torn jeans and heavy coats. A distinct, natural, healthy look.
My view is always rimmed by green, tree filled mountains with homes amid the wet pine trees. Coming North from the airport on the sleek, clean Link-Line train system that everyone uses, especially the U. of Washington students, I see much poverty – blue collar neighbor hoods with thousands of small apartments. Sad to see. Hundreds of Korean, Filipino, African, Dtrian stores and restaurants. The American dream.
I call Metro for bus information and, as usual, we have a nice and long conversation…unhurried, detailed instructions, ending with “enjoy Seattle” and “be safe.” Pleasant and warm. This happened through my entire trip. Without a computer or smart phone I feel that I met a dozen friendly bus drivers who conversed with me, asked me about my journey, gave advice about where to go, helped me with directions and usually said, “Sit down, honey. You don’t have to pay. Let me show you where to go.”
Sunday, Feb 5th:
A thousand treasured memories. My third day here. I am sitting in The Crumpet – “the best chai tea.” As I write this, the barrister calls out my name, Glenn, three times, for other customers to pick up their food and tea. I keep looking up in expectation. What is gently calling to me in Seattle? It is a message to me, this calling. I finished Richard III on the plane here and I am reading “As You Like It” now at The Crumpet, hot chai tea and a crumpet and egg, my journal, and Shakespeare before me on the little table by their bakery, happy people all around me. This play is the perfect thing to read and accompany me on this euphoric quest: the gentle Duke Senior has been banished by his brother to the Forest of Arden, but he loves it in his forgiving magnanimity.
“And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
sermons in stones, and good in everything.”
I had told my family and friends upon arriving in this winter, rainy paradise how I was in heaven. Everything resonates with me. Where to begin?
I rose at 4:30 a.m. to shower and prepare for my odyssey to the pediatric conference at Seattle Children’s, a feeling of excitement permeating the cool air. I stand in the dark for half an hour at the bus stop a few blocks from the hostel with the poor, homeless and blue collar workers. The African-American woman driving the bus won’t take money from me. I have a $20 dollar bill …”Just what I like – a man with money. Sit down dear.” With no smart phone, we converse about directions…about pediatrics and life. The bus line is wrong and she drops me off far from Children’s. It is still before sunrise, raining and dark at 6 a.m. and I am in a nice neighborhood. I spot a Westport looking mother, in her 50’s and attractive, who has a cup of coffee in her hands. I am wearing jeans, a baseball cap, a fleece and comforter and large backpack as I approach her in the cold rain. She is surprised that I am a doctor…walking…asking directions to Seattle Children’s for a conference. She is kind. “You’re walking?” She accepts this fact and asks “Don’t you have a smart phone?” No… I think that we would not be having this pleasant interaction if I did. So, she points me in the right direction. 1 ½ hours of walking, more than 55 blocks…glorious blocks in the rain. 65th and 45th NE Ave South, then 12th Avenue east to 50th Ave. On the way, I saw the “University District,” the eclectic Racer Café on Roosevelt Ave. that had wanted to experience later for its jazz iimprov, evenings of sitting in a circle singing folk songs.
Then I ran into the exquisite, Princeton-like campus of U. of Washington, stopping for a map. Many long and steep hills climbed. Finally, I saw Seattle Children’s: a rustic oasis that kept me emotional, tearful throughout the day with its natural grandeur and the gentleness of the entire staff…administrators, the doctors who lectured and the young women pediatricians…serious, calm, attentive. They seemed like a community, friendly and caring. The professors displayed a notable lack of ego with detailed, exquisite presentations of data and experience but given with a humbleness, a sense of humor and compassion. A middle age Japanese pediatrician who also does obesity counselling – apologizing for getting emotional , almost crying as she explained weight issues are often emotionally basaed; love the child as he or she is, understand rather than direct, use mindfulness, slow down. We breathed through a straw for one minute to help us with mindfulness and also to experience the anxiety that goes with a sense of deprivation when we forcefully restrict food intake. She shower her favorite picture, of a Mother nursing her baby; a picture that always moves here. Our first experience of life is being fed by our Mother, as we are held and loved.
To me this was typical of the depth of feeling in the presentations. The Infectious Disease doctor was a clone of Kevin Kline in American President…kind, warm, self-deprecating with his sincere manner. When you treat an infection, he explained, you want to irradicate the bug, not just injure it. Like (he demonstrated) drowning a monster in your bathtub (he puts his hands under the water, his eyebrows raised, watching wide-eyed)…then the head comes up again (surprise on his face). As parents, we have all played these bathtub games.
The organizers were precious. So concerned that I had walked so far, giving me a $5 Starbucks card as a gift from Children’s. (The ubiquitous Starbucks was across the lobby – a huge one.) The professor of dermatology looked like he was 24 years old, an artistic black t-shirt with wide neck, the latest shaved-head haircut, styled on top. He probably was a member of the LGBT community and everyone loved him. Extremely kind and attentive, answering all questions, again with ego. As I left, he was talking with one last resident, smiling and looking eye to eye with her, answering every question with a smile, a laugh. Inspiring.
…………………………..
Wednesday, 2/8/17
Thousands of precious memories…too innumerable to recount, to convey the depth of joy, discovery, walking in the cold rain, a fleece and down vest keeping me warm, as scarf around my neck, soaked and happy in the downpour, constant physical exertion, samples of food and coffee and tea everywhere.
From As You Like It:
“Did he not moralize this spectacle?
O, yes, into a thousand similes.” II.i.44
I have a thousand similes to convey these experiences.
I just went into the first Starbucks at Pike Place Market (1971). (There are 157 Starbucks in Seattle I learned…and probably an equal number of small, eclectic coffee shops.) My card didn’t work due to a crack so she gave me a coffee for free. A gift for my trip to Seattle she said. I am now in Le Panier, a French pastry shop, reading Shakespeare, eating a delicate, delicious “panier” with coffee. It is raining and cold outside at 7:30 a.m. Walking all day – often 8 a.m. to midnight just energizes me, especially in the freezing cold and rain, with warm conversations with my humble friends from the hostel to light my journey here, a journey not of place, this emotionally moving location, but of the moment…shared. Whom have I met?
Bronte from Australia (24 yrs old, talking of soup kitchens, which her Mother does in Australia…sharing my experience to tell her mother, about my meeting Mother Teresa after going to the soup kitchen run by the Sisters of Charity in Philadelphia. Bronte cried.)
Jim from Beijing (my first roommate at the hostel). When I walked in, Jim was unpacking his suitcase, very shy and quiet. I introduced myself and we talked for a long time. He is an accountant and was here for the second time, just to relax and see Seattle again. He loved the city. I told him about my pediatric work. He was perhaps 6 feet 2, a gentle giant with a baby face. He looked out of the window at the bustling center of Pike Place in the rain and said, “I take picture.” I agreed that that was a good picture. He said, “No. I take picture of you. OK?” So he took my picture with that backdrop and explained to me, “I will send this to my Mother and Grandmother in Beijing. They are worried about me. They say that America is so violent. I will show them my roommate, a doctor.” Very sweet. I walked in on him later that evening and he was standing in front of the tiny sink and small mirror, his whole face covered with a thick layer of shaving cream, with beautiful pants and shirt on, getting ready for an evening on the town. (This was Friday night, my first night.) His baby face did not have one strand of hair on it, but I knew this made him feel great as he stood there smiling.) I saw him outside of the hotel, waiting for his friend who he had met on his first trip to Seattle who came spend some time with him again. He told me he was waiting for Uber, showing me his phone excitedly. It was raining and windy. Where are you going, I asked. To have dinner…at the Cheese Cake Factory! It was six blocks away.
Jim’s friend, Tom, was an aborigine from Australia who spoke Chinese. He had been educated in America and was extremely witty and funny. He was moved by my story as a pediatrician for the poor and kept telling me how much he admired me. I ran into Jim, Bronte and Tom the next night in the hostel’s main room at 7 p.m. and Jim stood up, shouting to me as he greeted me happily, like a long lost friend. We all sat together and talked for a couple of hours. At one point, I asked Tom if I could walk to China Town. He said, “If you litmus test is to walk 55 blocks, you can walk anywhere in Seattle.” A funny, insightful guy. I didn’t see Tom or Bronte after that night and saw Jim on Sunday only…my first introduction to a sense of heartache when these precious friends leave the hostel. There is something about spending so much time talking, laughing, sharing our histories and experiences, walking together that creates an instant, deep bond.
Sunday morning, I was having breakfast as usual around 7 a.m. and met Lina, a young woman of 27 who was had political asylum from Belarus (near the Ukraine). She had written a letter to the paper that was critical of the government and they were going to put her in prison for 2 months. She went on a trip to London and went to the US embassy. She was from Philadelphia. I was just listening to her explain this to Winslow, a 60 year old hostel member from Norwalk, Ct who was a great conversationalist among these international travelers. As we all talked, Lina and I decided to walk to the museums by the Space Needle. As I asked the front desk about a free tour, a young twenty year old from Australia, Tammy, was listening behind me and asked if she could go with us. She was a gentle, articular woman who looked like Nicole Kidman with long brown hair. A gentle spirit. We went back to the table and Mateus, a young man from Germany, was listening to our plans. He was friendly, had a heavy German accent, and was handsome – a carbon copy of Joey from Friends. Could he join us? Of course. This was the beginning of two full days together.
I showed them many of the museums around the Space needle (the Cahuly Museum of cut glass, science museum, SIFF film venue, we helped roll a huge snow ball at Pike Market, went on a 1 ½ hour walking tour of the international area by Pike Market. We then walked up a steep road to see Kerry Park (perhaps an hour of walking to get there in the snow and rain). This park is said to offer the most beautiful view of not only Seattle but the best view on the West coast. It was spectacular, a moving panorama of the Puget Sound and the majestic downtown.
This area, Queen Anne, is one of the nicest (and most expensive) in Seattle. The prior day I had walked up the steep, seemingly 45 degree, Queen Anne Boulevard for an hour, with my backpack in the rain – fun and exhausting. I had walked so much that I felt invincible. Visit something two miles away? Up three hills? I can do that… I returned to Queen Anne (by bus this time) several days later to visit the highly recommended Cederberg South African Tea Shop – exquisite tea. Many jars of tea to smell first. I smelled them all…my favorites being Lapsang Souchong with its earthy, smoky, tobacco aroma; roibois vanilla and vanilla camomille. Heavenly, with aromas of sweet tea, vanilla, ginger wafting through the air, a fire going. The cold rain dancing outside through large glass windows with vistas of the quant main street of Queen Anne, a tree-lined staircase outside ascending a small path of the guarding hills . Tea delivered on a silver tray, hour glass timer with three settings, one specifically for my tea, a knitted tea cozy covering the small delicate metal teapot. A small, delicate, very sweet short bread cookie bursting with flavor. A caressing of the senses. I met Connie here, the barrister – young art student who works here during school. She recommened The Henry Art Museum on the U. of Washington Campus…beautiful. Also, The Frye Art Museum in Capital Hill (past 9th street, on Cherry and Terry Ave.) It was here, walking the long downhill slope back to Seattle that I called Ben. He is in a relationship and his world has “ascended” as the negativity of politics has melted away, conversations with her, long and filled with laughter. A Father’s dream. A great moment.
Tammy, Mateus, Lina and I stopped at several coffee shops along the way, getting food at small deli’s, the inexpensive Dick’s Burgers as well. I showed the MoPOP but it was closed that day (Monday). The details of what we saw though do not tell the whole picture. It was the talking, sharing, laughing that was special. I learned about all of their lives. Lina’s suffering in Belarus and her struggles here. She had written a letter critical of the government and they threatened to send her to prison for three months. She went on a trip to England and sought asylum at the U.S. Embassy there. Her advice to me, “Don’t go to Belarus.” Meteus’ 3 months of journeys around the USA, his engineering studies in Germany, about Tammy’s work at a ski resort in Canada for 3 months, meeting great friends there, her family in Australia, her goals going back to college. Tammy and Mateas began a relationship that day, teasing each other and talking more and more intimately. Tammy and Lena got up to use the bathroom at one restaurant as we warmed up, leaving just Mateus and I. I looked at him and said, “Tammy is such a nice person. So funny too.” He looked wistful, thoughtful. It was awhile before he looked at me and said slowly, hesitating. “She is…so…ironic. So witty. I love her conversation.” There was silence. I said, “And she is beautiful…and smart.” He just looked at me. Then he said, “But I am in Germany. She is from Australia.” I said, “What does that have to do with it?” He smiled. That evening, I saw them for the last time as she was arranging her bus trip at 6 a.m. to Vancouver before flying to Australia. Mateus was also looking at the computer, their heads touching, whispering. He was going to Vancouver too…
She had run out of most of her money and had the bare minimum of clothes, her socks soaked from the day. I gave her a gift of a clean pair of gym socks saying “One of the secrets of a joyful life is a pair of clean, warm socks.” We all hugged, exchanged emails. That was the last I saw them. Another heartbreak the next day as they were all gone.
I have met so many people. One twenty year old woman from Japan who was visiting Seattle in hopes of finding a job. She had been turned down for jobs in Japan and her Father, who sounded very authoritarian, told her to go to the U.S. to increase her English skills and apply for jobs. She had little money and was worried about her future. As was very common even in the hostel, among all nationalities, she would spend hours on her smart phone…listening to music, looking a pictures. I started to make conversation one evening just to draw her out and she not only shared her concerns about work but said that she loved to play music. I had mentioned that I had played bass and that I had played mainly Earth, Wind and Fire, as well as a band she probably hadn’t heard of called Average White Band. She pulled up a youtube video of herself and her friends in college playing “Pick Up the Pieces.” She was on sax and played incredibly well. She had quit the band after graduation though to pursue her profession. Incredible.
The next day at breakfast, I met Cathy, a young woman from Germany. She was a social worker working with gardening therapy for geriatric patients with dementia. Her boyfriend in Germany was studying geophysics. She has applied for a different job when she discovered her interest in the environment and conservation through her gardening work, but was deeply disappointed when she was not admitted to the program a year ago. As consolation, she took time off and initially went to Australia, working at a Vineyard. She hitchhiked a lot and make three very close friends with three women from France who worked with her at the Vineyard. Currently, she was traveling in the U.S., seeing areas that meant a lot to her, the focus being on nature. I told her of my travels the days before and she asked me to walk with her. We both were bundled up with backpacks, hats, scarfs and took the train (Link Line, clean and efficient) early that morning and had a full day until 11 p.m. with many adventures. It was cold and rainy of course…and beautiful. We walked some of the campus of U. of Washington, her only concern was to see Mount Ranier. Then a long 1 ½ hours trek across bridges and through small quaint neighborhoods in NE Seattle to the Japanese Arboretum. We saw Sequoia trees... but they were cordoned off so I couldn’t touch them. (Being intellectually curious, I asked a guide the difference between Sequoias and Redwoods, wanting to see both…there was none. We did a lot of laughing that day.) We wanted to see the Japanese Garden there…but it was closed. Next, we sought out the Rhododendron Glenn…but could only find the sign. It was a day full of glorious ‘nothing.’ We walked for hours south to the eclectic Capital Hill area in Eastern Seattle to see an art museum called Vermillion, highly recommended by a young artistic person at the Cuhuly Glass museum. The gallery was small, with bare walls, and a few pin ball machines. They were between shows they explained…more nothing. We did find the highly recommended Café Vita coffee shop that I had visited the day before during a two hour walk and I had my second, glorious “dirty Chai” – savory Chai tea with aromas of ginger, vanilla, pepper, spices that penetrated my psyche with happiness, with a shot of espresso. I don’t drink caffeine, but this was heaven. A vegan restaurant, The Plum Bistro on Pine and 11th, was recommended by Damian, from Ireland so we stopped and had a vegan lentil soup and “Mac and Yease” (not cheese), also heavenly and the décor was eclectic, pure Seattle. In this area was the elegant Starbuck’s Roastery as well.
Our last trek was to The Royal Room, an iconic jazz club in Southern Seattle. The sound man told me that the owners were very devoted to jazz in Seattle. They had previously owned The OK Jazz club, the premier jazz club in the city, where all the jazz luminaries played, such as Quincy Jones and Miles Davis. They were enormous fans of Thelonious Monk. ( I shared my Monk story…Gampa and Uncle Ray having sat with him at a small table between sets in Greenwich Village in the 1950’s.) Tonight there were four groups, all very far out – hard to explain the sheer exuberance of the performances. The first was a group of four musicians, four saxes, bass, tenor and alto, that would let loose a cacophony of noise, random bursts without common melody or rhythm that started together every few minutes and then abruptly stop abruptly, synchronously by some unifying force. As you listened, you could hear random interactions, rhythms wildly divergent that would intersect and then take flight. The whole evening was a microcosm of life, chaotic and beautiful, with only seeming nois, sudden flights of souring beauty permeating our realities. The second group was a renowned trumpet player who played into a sound box/synthesizer for other-worldly melodic lines. A woman had dozens of cymbals, pots, rattles, utensils, bells, chains that she would play, and an older guitarist would scratch at the strings, changed of course by various electronic instruments. An overwhelming sensual onslaught. Wild, primal. The third group consisted of two musicians, both with animal furs covering their head, ears, shoulders, crouching over large African drums that they would beat, howling into a microphone, dancing, reeling, glaring at the heavens, a moog synthesizer also howling with beautiful vaunting sheets of orchestral music. I was completely mesmerized. A Rorschachian rumble of primal, primitive, raw emotion with an avalanche of sound. Jungian, exhilarating, a coming of age, an initiation.
(I had missed an evening of eclectic electronic music at…Kremwork in Capital Hill. In Ballard, there was Tractor Tavern (country), Sunset Tavern with electronic rock-pop. I never made it over to this area unfortunately, Northwest of Seattle past Queen Anne)
When they finished, the group I was awaiting was going to play…the irresistible Suffering Fuckheads. We had laughed all day about seeing them. How could you not? I told Cathy that of course I needed a tee shirt and bumper sticker. Maybe to wear to the office or while raking leaves in my quiet suburban neighborhood. It was now almost 10 p.m. and they hadn’t played yet. I was talking with the young sound engineer (there were only about six of us in this atmospheric bar) and he said, “Do you see that man over there with the red Irish cap?” He pointed out a skeletal, waspish short man about 70 years old, a thin Irish looking leprechaun with a gray balding head and a ready laugh. He said, “That is ---- Schein (?), the best Hammond B-3 organ player in the world. He is part of the Suffering Fuckheads.” The hurriedly decided to play for us, setting up in the front of the bar, by the front door and window. The drummer looked like my former, gentle housemate in Cranbury, NJ, Phil Gross, an astrophysicist at Princeton: lean with a big wild “Seattle” beard, laughing, perhaps 30 years old, with a huge grin that matched his joyous manner. He laughed again as I mentioned my 1974 Fender Precision bass and how I had bought it new, talking of our love of the B-3 Hammond organ and Rhodes keyboard. Then they played. He was by far the best jazz drummer I had ever heard, with joyous interaction with the Hammond Organ…just the two of them. Three African-American musicians, dressed in suits and ties between another local gig, came in to listen to one song, hooting and howling with delight at the genius of their music. Giving high-fives and departing.
When Cathy and I got back to the hostel at 11, we sat down with Damian from Ireland (who would join us the entire next day) and talked. There was a tea tasting going on and I went over and introduced myself to Lina, a young Chinese woman in her 30’s who was sitting alone. She was artistic looking with a knit winter hat on pulled to her eyebrows. She knew a lot about tea, saying she was an expert, and had us try her special blend that she brought with her, pulling out a bag of what looked like small black twigs. It had a strong earthy flavor. Jim, my roommate from Beijing, had also made me a similar cup of strong tea the night before. The four of us must have all talked together for hours. When I mentioned the Suffering Fuckheads, I pulled out my notebook and we all contributed to swear words from China, Ireland, Germany and America. Quiet Lina from Beijing would suddenly jump up enthusiastically, saying with much enthusiasm, “I know the word for mother…ker!” rapidly writing out the Chinese characters in my notebook. I have not laughed so much in a long time.
The next day, Damian, Cathy and I took a walking tour of the International area of Seattle (just South of Pike Place) which was much fun. We then toured the Seattle Art Museum (donation only, thank goodness), seeing an Andy Warhole (Elvis Presley) and a Jackson Pollock (inspiring, freeing). I loved their interest in nature, in just being together, as we all decided to take the ferry to Barnesworth (?) Island. Freezing cold, icy rain with gusts of wind and we laughed the whole way. The Ferry was enormous, seeming as big as 4 or 5 movie theaters combined. We took pictures of the receding skyline in the dusk as the rain poured down, hair swirling in the wind. We walked to the island and came upon a small, cozy wine tasting shop that held 3 small tables and three stools at the counter. They tasted 4 different wines and I, a non-drinker, sniffed and savored each wine’s bouquet; a wine smelling pub crawl for me. Smells are very important emotionally for me and I loved the earthy, chocolately aromas that seemed to stimulate something powerful within my amygdala. I kept returning to them. The bathroom had two gorgeious prints form France that were drawn in the 1930’s for a wine distributor, Nicholas ----. I told them that was the best art gallery I had found in Seattle and that they should charge admission to their bathroom…hopefully rotating the pictures. The woman doing the wine tasting had an English accent and was lovely and friendly. At that moment the owner walked in serendipitously. He was English looking, classy with sweater and khaki’s and took my questions very seriously about the prints, pulling up articles and explaining to me in detail about the artist, Paul Iribe. He had bought one in Paris…very hard to find. They were drawn specifically for a wine distributor there. The second print he had bought at a very exclusive gallery in New York. The husband of the woman behind the counter had been a music producer and was enchanted that I had taken time from medical school to play bass in a funk band; he shared stories with me of the various famous musicians he had produced…a pleasant, companionable conversation. Returning to the island on the ferry, in the dark, was peaceful. We then went to the Owl and Thistle to have the best fish and chips in Seattle per our tour guide that morning, absorbing the low-key Irish atmosphere. At around 8 p.m., sadly I said goodbye to them on the sidewalk as they both walked off together to catch a bus to Vancouver, hugging and Cathy blowing me a kiss, kind Damian smiling, waving, standing in the rain. Overwhelming grief for me. We had all spent so much time together, only seeing nature and art, not concerned about buildings, searching for the elusive Mount Ranier at U. of Washington, always in the rain, rejecting “Munichy” cafes (to perfect, wealthy). Cathy was going to find work somewhere in Vancouver and just experience the city for a few months. I admired here as she walked away, loaded with a gigantic back back that towered over her head and a smaller back back slung over he front, large winter coat and knit hat. All her worldly possessions right there, her new friend Damian at her side, smiling and waving to me, going to ski near Vancouver, taking a well earned break from his high tech job in Dublin. He was a humble, gentle soul, funny and sensitive. My heart was broken yet again.
I returned to Seattle Children’s Hospital again on Thursday to attend the resident’s Grand Rounds, bringing back emotional memories of my time at Cincinnati Children’s and all of our devotion to learning, the intellect, for the benefit of the children. I feel such a restoration of faith in our human condition being here at Seattle Children’s. The list of contributors to the hospital consists of dozens of beautifully placed oval placards on the wall outside of the conference hall, the size indicating the amount of the gift. Three-quarters of a billion dollars from Microsoft; another 40+ million dollars form the Bill Gates Foundation. Paul Allen also in the 100’s of millions. Similar donations from the the husband and wife with the last name of Boehing as well as a couple named Nordstrom. So compassionate. Twenty million from the physicians who work at this hospital. Humbling.
The residents, professors, staff…incredibly sensitive and compassionate. Today’s lecture to me was like karma with my interest and writing of poetry and philosophy: the Klavano Holistic Care Lecture Series. Today was to be on poetry, journaling and healing for patients and providers. Encouraging self-care among the residents…they even have a “residents wellness week” where they encourage journaling for the residents. When the journal, she mentions that they won’t stop when the time is up, tears streaming down their face.
I spent several days by myself walking the city, seeing those special places that had been recommended to me. I went to the Columbia Tower, a very tall skyscraper, that offered a free view of the city from the Starbucks on the 64th floor (before changing elevators for a fee to go to the 90th floor for the best view). The multileveled lobby had an art gallery that I went into: I had a wonderful conversation with Beth, the curator of an exhibit of women artists in Seattle. She wants to see my art work, especially the children’s book about a visit to the Met. She was gentle and was adamant about seeing my work. Very kind. As usual, I find that everyone here will easily engage you in an extended conversation – asking questions. Even the lastest bus driver asked about my visit, making recommendations, giving me a free ticket upon learning that I am new to Seattle, and then wishing me well.
Beth Betker, Half-sweet Productions, www.betkerart.com
halfsweet@betkerart.com, 206-619-1887
Would like my art and poetry. Best art supplies: she orders from Jerry’s Artarama in Raleigh.
I then went to a Mystery Bookshop and, on the way, ran into “Bitches Bisquits.” The owner of this eclectic restaurant gives contributions to the homeless, to the LGBT community and others every two months, the young woman behind the counter told me. Hilarious… “from trailer park to table.” I went up to the counter and said, “I’ll take one Hot Buttered Bitch…please.” (bisquit, butter and Nutella). I told the young nose-pierced, tattooed worker how much I enjoyed the place and what they did for the community. She asked about my visit, what I had seen and liked. She made recommendations on music venuse. Great converstion. Her name was Louise. I mentioned Kelly’s twins and she said that Kelly was her 1st name but she went by Louise. We laughed. (She recommended Numos and Barboza in Capital Hill, 11th and Pike), also Highline (loud, rock)
At a bus stop going to a film festival, I met a young Chinese man in his twenties, dressed sharply in a nice jacket. He asked me directions and we rode the bus together as I showed him where to go. He is from Beijing. I asked what he did there and he said that he worked for Microsoft and was attending a conference in Seattle. Microsoft does much research in China. His specialty was AI (Artificial Intelligence). I invited him to the hostel with his friends form the conference, perhaps to meet Lina, the single woman from Beijing.
Saturday, my last day in Seattle, was bittersweet for me. I walked alone to squeeze in the things I had not had time to do. I hiked up to the Space Needle and joined the crowds as we zipped up to the top. The view, of course, was spectacular. The beautiful Puget Sound, gray, misty, ships going by with a backdrop of myriads of pine trees and mountains, the constant breeze as well. I have mentioned that Gampa was insistent that I do this…and to be sure to treat myself to lunch. It was an emotional moment for me with Gampa about to turn 90, picturing him right here so many years ago, young, confidently pursuing his business accounts, entertaining and enjoying the other business people he was meeting, having lunch at this elegant, slowly rotating restaurant. The restaurant was packed with happy people, many families, all enjoying a great meal and a special view. The meal was $50 so, of course, I declined. But some day…
I then went to The Pacific Science Museum, spending hours watching the exhuberant children looking at dinasaurs, walking through the butterfly exhibit, listening to demonstrations of vision and light, dry ice and cold, the children howling with laughter. Seeind and playing a theramin (i.e. Good Vibrations), sitting in space capsules, looking at planets, stars, insects, animals. The best was the laser show that featured songs by Michael Jackson. It was a deeply moving, fun, transporting experience as many of us lay on our backs on the carpeted floor in the pitch black, rows of large speakers piled high against the wall, children and parents everywhere in awe. A combination of his compassionate words (Black and White, The Man in the Mirror) and the strong rhythms of his music. As the lights came on when it was done, I saw a Latino Father holding his young son in his arms, dancing, smiling and singing to him… “the man in the mirror.” The global community right before my eyes.
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