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Sunday (continued)
We drowsed while watching the third game of the Bulls-Sonics series on TV. We tried to figure out where to go for dinner, but it was tough going--we were all rather tired. Ray took off to a bookstore, and said he'd return soon, ready for dinner. The game ended, and we finally figured out our dinner plan: go to Gravity Bar. I figured that there would be a long line there--it's famous, and lots of out-of-towners would be eating there after the game. So I suggested a back-up plan: if we couldn't get into Gravity Bar, we walk over to Trattoria Mitchelli instead, or any other place along the way that looked good. So we had a plan. But Ray was still off at the bookstore.
Pete said he was going to run uphill to the Four Seasons to get pictures of the Chicago Bulls when they arrived. Because he was going to be "right there," he figured he'd notice when Ray returned. He would probably be back before Ray. Pete left the room.
Within a minute, I heard cheers from outside. I stuck my head out the window and looked uphill. A bus had pulled up in front of the Four Seasons. The Bulls had arrived; Pete was missing them!
I was able to tell that the Bulls were getting off the bus because of the cheers. I couldn't actually see the people get off the bus, though. I was able to tell when Luc Longley got off the bus from the quick chant, "Luc Luc Luc Luc". And I was able to tell when Michael Jordan appeared because the cheering grew much louder and suddenly there was a sparkle of camera flashes.
A while later Ray returned to the room. So much for Pete noticing when Ray came back. We headed down to the lobby and out of our hotel. We walked up the hill to the Four Seasons. Pete wasn't outside. Where could he be? "He must be in the lobby." I walked into the lobby. I looked around, spotted Pete. He was standing there with a forlorn expression, camera dangling from his hand. I glared at him and jerked my thumb in the direction of the door. We exited the lobby.
Our group walked on towards Gravity Bar as Peter jabbered excitedly about which Bulls had come back down to the lobby to sign things for the fans and which Bulls had yet to re-emerge. I smiled and nodded. We arrived at Gravity Bar. It had closed at 8pm. Fuckin' Seattle, man. Closes up way early. I had expected there to be a line of people out the door to get in; instead there was just a group of straggling loiterers left within--perhaps the staff.
So we walked back in the direction of Trattoria Mitchelli. Trattoria Mitchelli, whose owner, as Arlene's guidebook pointed out, was tired of living in a city that closed up so early, stayed open late. Entering the Pioneer Square area, I smelled Indian food. I turned. We were in the process of walking past an Indian restaurant--whose doors were wide open. "Hey!" I yelped. The rest of the group, which had been dazedly walking, came to a straggling stop. "Wanna eat here?" I said. There was some confused glancing about. "Let's take a look at the menu," I said. I walked up to the door. There was no obvious menu. I walked in. There were some menus on a table by the door. We looked them over. They looked okay.
The proprietor warned us that there was a private party going on up on the second floor, and that there might be a bit of noise. That was fine by us. As we ordered, he asked how spicy we liked our food. We said that we liked it really spicy. That was good, he said, because the food was going to be extra good and spicy for the party going on on the second floor. As we ate, the sounds of Indian dance music drifted down from above. I liked it better than the sounds of the dance music I was used to. It had a slightly more complicated beat; it was a novelty. A day later, that alien rhythm was lost from my head, though I had been able to remember it for hours after the meal. I think the name of the restaurant was Taj India. I'm sure I could find it again. It wasn't the best Indian food I'd ever had, but it was kind of nice to have something other than Italian.
The fact that there was a private party above us helped. There was the music. There were kids running around and playing tag and getting into trouble on our floor. Partygoers in costumes made of beautiful fabrics would walk past us to stand outside in the cool evening air. It was very nice indeed.
We walked back to our rooms and I got ready for bed as my companions made plans to go see the Boeing factory in the morning. I told them that I would sleep in and skip the factory. I'd been drowsing through the whole vacation. Though it was nearly over, I thought I'd better catch up on sleep. I'm not exactly sure how well plans had formed by the time I was done showering. I was pretty out of it.
We settled in for bed. Lying in the dark, Arlene said, "the rake of the Northwest." It's a sign of how tired we were that we managed to fall asleep even while giggling at that.
DAY +002: LAST HOURS OF VACATION: MAKE THEM COUNT! (DO NOTHING.)
Monday, whatever plans there had been for a trip to Boeing fell through. No-one was enthused for it--apparently, you couldn't make reservations in advance, and it was quite a ways away. Ironically, I woke up early. While other people awoke and showered and packed, I went to Starbuck's to test out the theory that if you're stuck going to a bad coffee shop, then you should order a mocha, because that way you can't taste the bad coffee behind the chocolate. I also wanted to pick up a double grande cappucino for James.
So I went to Starbuck's. It was right around the corner from the hotel. Morning rush hour was in progress. I found my way to the proper line, made my way up to the register and ordered. And then things got complicated. I wanted a small mocha. Okay, they let that one go. And I wanted a double grande cap. The person at the register called that one out as a grande cap. The person at the espresso machine confirmed that I'd ordered a double mocha and a grande cap. I shook my head. No, a single mocha. A double grande cap. The person behind the register said a single mocha and a grande cap. Uhm, but make the grande cap a double. The person at the register explained that the "grande" size was also a double. "Oops, sorry," I said, and cursed under my breath. This was the closest I'd come to ordering coffee in Seattle without having to add endless qualifiers just to satisfy the clerk.
I mean, when you order an espresso drink in Seattle, there's always an air of expectancy about the clerk. You order a latte. The clerk looks at you expectantly. You say, "A... single? latte." The clerk nods and looks at you some more. You say, "a single... short? latte." and the clerk glances each way and then back at you. "A single short latte, not too much foam," you say, and only then will the clerk actually swing into motion.
As if to illustrate this point, the person behind me in line ordered a (I think I have this right) decaf tall latte with almond. The clerk took all this in without so much as a blink and the person at the espresso machine parroted all this back and didn't seem to find it at all unusual. The next person in line ordered something just as complicated, but I couldn't remember it. Again, this order was accepted without complaint. I stared. I mouthed the words, "I'm in Hell," and hoped that I hadn't said them out loud. It was like something out of that movie "L.A. Story." The people ordering looked like innocent corporate secretaries, but they were really evil spoiled yuppies. Or were they? Do different standards apply? Can you specify that many options when ordering a beverage and still maintain hold on your soul?
My drinks were delivered. The mocha was fine.
Soon we were flying back to Oakland. I looked out the window of the plane as we flew, and with the help of Arlene and the maps in the front of Cadillac Desert, I saw the Bonneville, Trinity, and Shasta dams. Arlene spotted a sewage treatment plant. There was an area where there were neat rows of mountains that ran North-South. There were mountains that were obviously of volcanic origin, as could be seen from their caldera. "Caldera" was a word worth using, as it had come up in the IMAX film about Yellowstone. Cadillac Desert had something to say about Yellowstone as well: it pointed out that the park's manager had been so worried that some government bureau was going to build a dam in Yellowstone that he hid all the park service's boats when some surveyors came around. That story never made it into the IMAX movie. Go figure.
The plane set down. Ray dropped people off at their homes, me first. I walked into the flat and dropped my luggage. I walked into the kitchen. Jimmy's stuff was gone. Dishes were put away on shelves. I had a kitchen.
I walked down to Berkeley Bowl, the local store and bought some food. I walked back and made lunch. As I sat in the kitchen and ate a lunch consisting of an organic peanut butter sandwich on whole-grain bread with a glass of rBST-free milk, I felt very much at home in Berkeley. It had been a good journey; now I had a home of sorts to come back to. All in all, it was a mighty fine weekend.