Seattle at night

Megan unfortunately had to go to a birthday party, so I’m changing my address in Seattle again. I already have a new offer, the key is next to the door. She just forgot to mention where. Only after an hour of war-walking in the city do I receive the new address by email. I make my way downhill to the bus, in constant fear of being run over by my trolley.

Unfortunately, there’s no-one in West Seattle at the moment. I hide my stuff in the garden and head for the next park by the sea. Over the mountains outside Seattle, impressive clouds move inland again. A dead jellyfish almost half a metre in diameter lies on the beach.
Tree trunks float in the water in front of it. The seaweed is growing thickly. Do I really want to kitesurf here? Anyway, my wind curse lasts for the rest of my stay in Seattle.

I troll through Lincoln Park for a few hours and then head back to Klaire’s house.
She arrives 10 minutes after me. I go shopping and cook something in the evening. Another grin, my karma is getting a little more centred again. In the evening, Klaire suggests a party. We pick up a friend of hers and drive to East Seattle.

There’s a big tent in a car park on a highway. In front of it are Mustang wrecks and motorbikes. The party is neither public nor private. Something in between. I’m told the police might come. Inside, the first thing I have to do is sign that a) I brought my own alcohol and therefore b) it’s my own fault if I get hit today. Weird.

The television is showing American trash films from the 60s, thematically somewhere between “Schoolgirl Report”, “Cheech and Chong” and “American Psycho”. Hustler-plus pictures hang on the walls. A vintage car from the 1930s is parked next to the entrance, cross bikes next to the pool table and something that looks like a Batmobile on two wheels next to the bar. There is plenty of alcohol available and it is used.

New people come in all the time, from all over the country, a colourful mix. Many have German ancestors or at least know a lot about Europe, which amazes me. The drunker we get, the more they know. I’m only shocked by one rocker who plays “Who the fuck is Alice”. The rest is nice dirty sound from the bottom of the second drawer. Or bagpipes with 3 per mille, also entertaining. A lot fits in. We drive home around one o’clock.

The next morning’s headache is considerable. On the first walk of the day, I bang it on a ceiling beam. Now it’s really impressive. Klaire is already at work. It’s raining. I drive into town and enjoy a delicious shishkwarma at Pike Place Market. Then I ride the downtown bus almost to death (almost hitting a cyclist in the process) and head to Underground Tours.

Seattle was built on pure tidal swamp at the end of the last century. For years, it was pooped after the tides: when the drain was flooded, there were “down” town slurry fountains up to 6 feet high from the upper hills. So everything was backfilled up to 10 metres. The underground tour goes through the old ground floors and today’s cellars, the old red light district and under today’s sidewalks.

Mosquitoes have found my Achilles tendon. Only on the right. One bite on top of the other for a fortnight. Then always walking. Now the thing looks like a Mayan step pyramid on a high holiday. Very bloody. Every time I walk, despite the bandage, I think to myself that I should be the main character in an extremely bizarre Alldays advert.

Later that evening, my karma gets out of balance again. Klaire has new guests and cooks up some brilliant fresh tuna. Unfortunately, the new guests are vegetarians. I eat three portions. From eleven onwards, I can only be used as a sleeping couch decoration.

Thanks for the stay, Klaire!