Walked around downtown a lot today. There was a bite in the air, but luckily I had my Marc by Marc Jacobs fingerless $5 gloves that I bought with Michelle Orange last year on Fillmore Street. First thing to do once off the ferry was to find a good bathroom. This involved wandering through Rainier Square mall to no avail, and ended up walking into the Hilton Hotel, acting like a guest, and taking an elevator to the grand lobby. By the way, this works every time, those who find themselves in a downtown area and needing to pee. All hotels have lobby restrooms, and they are almost always nice. Just walk with confidence!
That done, I asked for a glass of water at the Hilton bar. Love that free water, man. Then I walked another ten or twelve blocks into Chinatown, or The International District, to have lunch with my friend Ann at a veggie Chinese place on King Street. It was very entertaining/excruciating to read the literally dozens of typos on the very strange menu. We ended up with orange “chicken” and a sorta boring fried rice, but it didn’t matter as the conversation was so lovely.
After that we got petite espresso drinks at a bubble tea place nearby, then walked over to the Wing Luke Asian Museum, which was very small but somehow just the right size. One side was dedicated to Pacific Northwest Asian-American history, and the other side was a space devoted to some cool art installations. For $4, it was a bargain.
We kept on toward the sound and ended up exploring Elliott Bay Books for a while. Ann told me she was going to a Hump (The Stranger‘s annual amateur porn contest) screening this weekend, so I look forward to finding out what that was like. I predicted lots of laffs. I didn’t buy any books because I have two that I need to read here first!
Finally, it was time for me to head down toward the ferry terminal again so that I could avoid too many commuters. I had a little time, so I visited the drug store inside the Exchange Building. My dad worked in that building for 25 years. I remembered the dimly lit lobby and curved bank of old elevators, and eating in the first floor cafeteria. I used to go to his office when he had to work late nights, and I suppose couldn’t get a babysitter or something. Or maybe I wanted to go — he worked in the graphics department for Metro and his office contained every art supply I could ever dream of. They didn’t use computers back then. Hundreds of felt pens, sheets of rub-on letters, pads of trace paper, drafting tables, the works. I loved being there. While my dad worked on whatever deadline he had, I busied myself drawing horses with stinky markers.