Der Zwischenzeit

Position: 47°35’22.4″N 122°22’47.4″W

Der zwischenzeit: literally ‘the time in between’. In English we would say ‘in the meantime’. I like the literal translation. That’s where we have been for the past couple of weeks. Somewhere between here and there. Our northwestern idyll is coming to an end and our wanderings finally ground to a halt. Run aground on the shoals of medical exams and preparations for our return to boat life. Lest this blog fall foul of every geriatric trope that exists in modern culture, we will eschew the details of our sundry medical condition(s). I will only say that for a couple of folks eligible for a discount on Seattle’s water taxis, we are in above average fettle. The redistribution of our modest means will have to wait for an act of G–.

Speaking of water taxis. Should you find yourself at a loss for something to do while visiting West Seattle, take a water taxi downtown. It is quick and cheap and tickles your sailing bones in ways that a bus cannot. Tom, having lived all his life in Seattle, had never taken the water taxi. For our pen-penultimate day sitting Gus, Tom drove down for a visit with the express understanding that we would cross Elliott Bay in the finest style King County Water Taxis could muster. For only $2.50 per person, we clambered aboard and felt the vital thrum of a diesel engine resonating through our feet for the first time in six months. It made us homesick for Aleta.

Sewage

Once on the other side, Tom led us to an aging pub and then downstairs to a damp, unoccupied bar. It was the kind of space normally reserved for punk moshers or perhaps a FetLife IRL event. (I’ll leave it to you to Google that…) You see; to help pay for college, Tom was a tour guide during the summer in downtown Seattle. That guiding should pay enough to help cover tuition gives you an idea of how old Tom is.

Steeped in local knowledge, he also had a set of keys that gave him access to parts of the city folks never see. The depths. The lower levels. The dank places below ground that existed before written history arrived on these shores. Like many cities, Seattle plunked down a bunch of buildings in the 1870s only to raise them up a couple of decades later. Rain and mud and sewage all ran downhill until the city burghers (or more likely their wives) said enough is enough. Something had to be done! By a twist of fate, a huge fire tore through the city in 1889 and cleared the way for change.

Elevation

On rebuilding everything was elevated at least twelve feet and in some places as much as 30 feet. Roads, sidewalks, buildings all stood taller. The new height allowed for a series of sluices and sewers to run underground, alongside the rest of the utilities. Better yet, the raising formed a labyrinth of tunnels with arched ceilings and thick glass blocks that let in light. That laid the foundation for Tom’s job 80 years later. Over the decades the glass blocks had turned from frosty-white to rose-purple. There was just enough light to see where the old pipes with their comically large valves entered and exited the building and for us to make out the outlines of the original brick vaulting. Back on the surface, we walked towards Pike’s Place Market. Tom guided us as he reoriented his mental map, taking in recent changes to the area.

The Pink Door restaurant has been a Seattle institution since 1981. Unlike many such ‘institutions’ this one relies on its quality and service today, not on its reputation from 40 years ago. Sitting at the bar, we shared a delicious sampling of Italian appetizers and pasta. Generously, Tom picked up the tab. Thanks Tom!

Spares

Back in West Seattle, we overlapped with Mark and Diane for a night after their return from watching the FIS Women’s World Cup ski racing finals in Sun Valley, Idaho. The following morning, we bid them adieu and gave Gus a big hug. Then we turned south for Vancouver and Portland to prep for our return to Aleta. That included chores like paying taxes, visiting doctors, filling prescriptions, and playing several rounds of Canasta with Tai, Ava, Wade and Lauren. By the time we left we had a dedicated bag packed full of spare parts, tools, and calcium supplements. All of which are directly or obliquely necessary for repairing Aleta’s broken damper plate. More on that in a week or two.

Jack

Molly (our recently adopted Nissan Murano) ended up parked behind Wade and Lauren’s garage resting on jack stands. Molly got used to critters nesting in her nether regions when she lived in Albuquerque with Carol’s dad. Part of preparing her for storage included a fresh oil change and thanks to a promotional flyer from the Green Drop Garage that popped through the door, it was free. Green Drop’s name and deep purple and green livery gives it a marijuana dispensary vibe. The staff were friendly and very thorough.

Nathan, our advisor [sic], took a photo of the fluffy cotton remnants of a mouse’s nest he found clinging to Molly’s air intake filter. Parked where she is, I have no doubt she will become a wildlife refuge again. Although, I am keeping my fingers crossed Washington’s rats won’t gnaw through rubber like the pack rats in New Mexico did. Replacing her windshield washer hoses 18 months ago was a lengthy exercise in debrided knuckles. Pulling a cover over her, I hummed the tune to those immortal words of Jim White, “Got a Corvair in my yard. It hasn’t run in fifteen years. It’s a home for the birds now. It’s no longer a car.” Not knowing when we’d be back, we left Molly’s keys with Wade and Lauren with strict instructions to sell her before she turns into an aviary.

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