I've been spending a great deal of time in Collegetown lately. It's one of the socially warmest places I've ever known, and I'll sorely miss it when the quarter's over. It's easy to understand why alumni dream of returning to Collegetown to raise their families. It's the kind of town where a longshoreman stops on the street to ask a hippie how his day's been. And he cares.
I was outside a landmark-but-closed Mexican restaurant, reading an article taped to its window. Locals were resurrecting the restaurant. A woman came outside to smoke and, noticing that I was another human being, chatted me up. I liked her instantly. I explained that I was teaching and spending the night up there. She explained that they were all painting furiously in the hopes of reopening that weekend. "C'mon in and help!" she chirped. I declined.
"What else do you have to do tonight?" she countered.
Nothing. Nothing at all. But I'm wearing completely inappropri—
"Turn your clothes inside-out!"
But my dog is in my hotel r—
"Go get her!"
And so did Ed and I join a small community of painters, furiously finishing their labor of love. Everyone told tales of what the restaurant meant to them. First dates, first kisses, food on credit. "How about you, John?" someone asked. "What's your story?"
"Um. I just kinda followed the ponytail in here."
I take great reassurance from the ease with which I assimilated into Collegetown. Seattle might not have damaged me, after all. Mindful of Katrina's insistence that Seattle is fine, that I'm just a moron who after 13 years here is still incapable of recognizing the boundaries between Seattle and the areas she herself deems icky, I've had a fun couple weeks. When walking around Seattle, I engage locals like I would in Collegetown. I'm warm. I'm inquisitive. I make eye contact. I make them so paralyzed with discomfort, they swallow their own faces. I expect a restraining order any day now.