Space Needle Stories: Membership Has Its Privileges

The Space Needle and I, well, we have some history. From grade school visits as a child to recent visits with Brazilian dignitaries (i.e. my wife, Sonia, and her colleague and best friend Telma).

I can't remember the first time I went up to the top. Perhaps it was during the 1962 World's Fair with my family. Being only one year old, though, I have no recollection. But I do have memories of many visits to the top to go along with the 360 degree view permanently etched in my brain: Queen Anne Hill looking flat to the north, Lake Union to the northeast, Capitol Hill, Bellevue and the Cascade mountain range to the east. Downtown and Mt. Rainier to the south. Elliott Bay and the Olympic mountain range to the west.

The 1962 Seattle World's Fair. Let Mr. Here (From Where Out There) tell you all about it.

In the 1980's I often made it to the top of the Space Needle thanks to my sister Gina, who once gifted me for my birthday an annual pass, that allowed myself and up to three guests to visit an unlimited number of times within the year. I made good use of that card, and even renewed it for a few years.

I was laid off from my warehouse job at Pacific Stereo in May of 1984. Having had to cancel a trip to New York as a result, I spent the summer on unemployment, doing odd jobs to make ends meet, searching for work as well as for myself.

When I wasn't job searching, I spent time at the public library, reading about hockey history and perusing the microfiche of the Seattle Times' archives as I enjoyed reading old news stories, comics and advertisements. I also enjoyed walking around the city, taking the time to take in all the interesting architecture old and new I had never before bothered to notice. And I met some interesting people along the way.

One day, while walking south up 5^th Avenue, a person stopped me to ask which way to the monorail as she wanted to visit the Space Needle. As I had all the time in the world, rather than give her directions, I escorted her to the Westlake Mall station. We had a nice chat on the way. She was from Victoria, BC and was visiting on business.

As we made our way to the station, our rapport was going so well, that I decided to flash my Space Needle card and invite her as my guest to the observation deck. What the heck. I was unemployed. Might as well go on a cheap date. And she agreed. 

Upon her insistence, my acquaintance paid for two round trips on the monorail and away we went to the Space Needle. Once to the top, I showed her the sights, pointing out certain landmarks both famous (the Kingdome, the box the Space Needle came in) and personal (“I live over there!”). It was a beautiful, fresh, Seattle summer day - one of those days that only someone from the oft-gray, rain-drenched Pacific Northwest could fully appreciate.

It was exactly like the trip to the Space Needle Elvis Presley and Joan O'Brien took in the movie, It Happened At The World's Fair. Well, maybe not exactly.

While we circulated around the observation deck, my new friend and I had a nice chat about work, careers and life in general.

She could see I was searching for my place in the sun as I told her about this crossroads I had reached (I was going to say, “as I told her a little about this crossroads...” but knowing me, I don't think that was possible).

She listened to me attentively, then shared her thoughts on the subject. And I listened. She spoke to me without any judgement, which at that time, was something relatively new to me. And while she assured me that if I kept searching, eventually something would come to me, she encouraged me not to just settle for another warehouse job.

And while I listened to her, I was touched by not only her graciousness, but by the feeling that I had been meant to meet this person, so she could deliver this message.

After about an hour or so up top and a visit to the souvenir stand, we descended back to earth and caught the next monorail to Westlake. I walked her to the corner of 5^th and Seneca where her hotel was located. We exchanged mailing addresses (pre-internet days), then we said our goodbyes.

Walking back down 5^th, I was feeling good about this brief rendezvous, and I was lost in my thoughts about it, processing what had just taken place, the encouraging things this person said to me, mulling over my possibilities in life, when all of a sudden my thoughts were interrupted by a female voice:

“Excuse me, how do I get to the Space Needle from here?”

I looked up to see a friendly face greeting me. Then I started laughing. I could see from the smile on this person's face, that she wanted to get the joke. I then explained to her what had just happened earlier. This person started laughing, and with the ice clearly broken and me clearly on a roll, I asked,

“Would you like to be my guest to the Space Needle?”

Again I flashed my card, and again my invitation was accepted. She was from Pittsburgh, PA visiting on business...

Membership has its privileges. Thank you, Gina.

Café da Manhã: Breakfast Brasileiro

In the portuguese language, breakfast is referred to as "morning coffee", which I think a most pleasant term to describe the breaking of our evening fast to have the first meal of the day.

Café da Manhã in Brazil is usually light fare consisting of a small sandwich, some fruit and if time permits, a freshly-made juice and of course, coffee. For some of you, this kind of breakfast is also de rigueur. And while I understand, appreciate and partake in this healthier morning meal, I miss big breakfasts.

I was always a big breakfast fan. If I wasn’t making bacon n’ eggs at home, I’d enjoy a Yukon-Style bacon n' eggs with friends at the legendary Tomahawk Restaurant (est. 1926) in North Vancouver, B.C.. Or french toast, eggs and sausages at Chace's Pancake Corral (est. 1958) in Bellevue, Washington.


No, I am not a farmer. Nor an athlete. I have no high-protein, high-carbohydrate justification for eating such large breakfasts save for the occasional weekend mountain bike ride. I just like a big breakkie. And in doing so, I'm willing to pay the ultimate price....(ie. tight pants that don't look good...)

Dan, Trilby and I enjoying a Yukon-Style breakfast at the legendary Tomahawk Restaurant in North Vancouver, BC. Upon consumption, one not need eat for two days...(Standing in for Trilby is Trilby's breakfast)

Brazilians keep it light. Most definitely the healthier and wiser choice. In fact, there are no White Spots, Denny's or IHOPs, no breakfast restaurants of any kind here in Bahia.

In our household, Sonia enjoys having the same breakfast every morning: A sanduiche made of fresh bread, which she insists on buying every day (no complaints from me, except when I have to go out and get it, which then I go into my worthless shpil about the benefits of day old bread), a thin slice of ham or smoked turkey breast, a light spread of cream cheese and slices from a small wheel of cheese called queijo de minas frescal. This type of cheese is made in the state of Minas Gerais. "Frescal" implies that the cheese is served very fresh. And while it has no real flavor to speak of, it is low in fat. The sandwich is then grilled. (We have a small George Foreman grill for our sandwich grilling needs).

 Queijo de minas frescal. Low in fat, with that non-existent taste!

While the sandwich is being prepared, the coffee is dripping. Flavorful and strong, coffee is a major source of pride in this country. And with good reason. Perhaps you've heard "The Coffee Song", a novelty tune composed by Bob Hilliard and Dick Miles and first recorded by Frank Sinatra: "...Why they put coffee in the coffee in Brazil". That’s not too far off the mark. The coffee is delicious. And one does not need more than a single cup to start the engine. This proves a difficult restraint for me as one who enjoys more than a single cup of joe . I will sometimes treat myself to a second half cup, but anything more risks a trip to the moon, that I’m not prepared to take. Sonia will always pour herself two cups. One small, tea cup of coffee with milk to start her day, then a larger American style mug with nothing in it just to enjoy the taste.

If time permits, we will also prepare a fresh juice. Usually an orange or pineapple or lime juice. I think fresh juice back home is still a relatively novel experience. I seem to recall fresh juice joints (at least in my neck-o-the-woods, the Pacific Northwest) first appearing in the late 1980’s/early 1990’s. And at home, we tend to opt for boxes of juice. But in Brazil, fresh juice is a staple, having been around probably since God created fruit. (Now, that goes back!) Freshly-squeezed juice is just as much a staple here as coffee and is made fresh both at home and in cafes and restaurants. One can find boxes of juice in the supermarkets here, but fresh juice is preferred.

And yet, in spite of all this wholesome goodness, I still miss a big, hearty, greasy, artery-clogging, cholesterol-inducing platter of eggs, bacon, sausage, hashbrowns and toast. With butter.

Which brings me to the day I discovered bacon at one of the supermarkets here. I was overjoyed to come across a classic package of bacon strips, complete with the little window for easy-viewing. The bacon was not cheap (almost 10 Brazilian reais for a single package), but I was thus inspired to put the usual Brazilian breakfast sandwich aside for one day, and treat myself as well as introduce my wife to a big ol' American breakfast.

That weekend, on Sunday morning, I got up early letting Sonia sleep in, and went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. I started the coffee, then went to the refrigerator to retrieve the eggs, bacon and butter. I was disappointed to find we did not have any potatoes with which to make hashbrowns, but I was undeterred. A hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, toast with butter and good hot joe would most certainly suffice.

Sonia eventually woke up to the glorious smell of fresh coffee and bacon and made her way downstairs, happily surprised that I was not only making breakfast, but a homemade AMERICAN breakfast that she was going to sample for the first time.

Sonia poured herself a cup of coffee and went to sit outside, while I finished making breakfast. In putting the food on the plates, I didn't get cute with it. I didn't make a face with egg eyes, toast ears and a bacon smile. But I did make sure that there was some presentation - a bit of egg-shui - as I wanted Sonia to fully enjoy this gastronomic culture shock.

With the table colorfully set and the plates fully loaded, I made my way outside and presented Sonia with an American Sunday morning classic - bacon and eggs. Her eyes widened as she looked at all the food on her plate. It was quite a bit I will admit, but I figured it was also Sunday, we would be going for a walk afterwards and we could always skip lunch. And dinner.

Sonia thanked me for making breakfast and started in. I then turned to my plate and began to enjoy something I hadn't had since I was last stateside..

　
I picked up a slice of toast and buttered it. I then began to savor each item on my plate, enjoying every bite as it magically transported me back to greasy spoon diner land: Max's Broiler, the 5-Point, the Mecca, Ozzie's, Beth's, Mae's, Master Chef, the Slocan, Slickety Jim's, The Templeton, The Sylvia, De Dutch Pannekoek House, countless other places tumbling through a vortex of my personal breakfast history a la The Time Tunnel...

Thoroughly enjoying this trip back to the griddle, I pulled my face out of my plate long enough to see how Sonia was doing with her very first homemade, North American-style, calorie-intaking, girth-inducing, no holds barring breakfast feast, hoping she was enjoying it with as much gusto as I was.

But Sonia had yet to take a single bite of her breakfast. For you see, she had taken the eggs & bacon, put them between the two pieces of toast and was making herself a sandwich. As always.

Café da Manhã: The sound, saner, simpler breakfast.

Space Needle Stories: 1973

When I was a child attending elementary school every so often my mother would pick me up in the middle of the day. These occasional pick-ups were bittersweet. While I was overjoyed to be leaving school in the middle of the day - so long, suckers! – the joy was tempered by the reality that my mother wasn't picking me up to take me to McDonald's for lunch then afterwards to a double feature at the John Danz. 

War of the Worlds? Planet of the Apes? Not today.

No, I was going to the orthodontist. I was going to the chair, where a guy in a white garment with matching mask was going to stoop over me like a mechanic, twisting wire, tweaking bits of metal, adding water – spit - giving my mouth a front end grill so to speak in order to help straighten out my teeth and lessen my overbite, or as we kids used to call them, buck teeth.


Dreading what was awaiting me on the other side of Lake Washington, my mother and I quietly made our way across the Evergreen Point floating bridge in the family's blue 1969 Impala with KIRO 710 on the radio, giving us the news of the day. Normally, I wouldn't have hesitated to thumb a radio button to one of the three AM pop stations in the area – KJR, KING or KOL – but today I wasn't in the mood for Bennie and the Jets.


We connected onto Interstate 5 southbound, and my nervousness rose as I knew we were now far out of the safety zone of my school, my friends and my home in Bellevue, and much closer to the danger zone of my orthodontist's office on Cherry Street in Seattle.

But as in previous trips to the orthodontist, there was one friend in the big city I knew I could count on to give me comfort before having to climb into the chair.

The Space Needle.

The Space Needle and I were born around the same time. I was born in March 1961. Construction for the needle started less than a month later in April. It was built for the 1962 Seattle World's Fair as not only a shining symbol for the fair, but a world-renowned monument for the city and for googie architecture. 

605 feet tall to the top of its antenna spire, the Space Needle with its observation deck and rotating restaurant, in keeping with the fair's space-age theme, was originally painted the colors Orbital Olive, Astronaut White, Re-entry Red and Galaxy Gold. In the early 1970's, however, the needle was repainted to a more conservative all-Astronaut White and Orbital Olive.

Left: The original Space Needle colors - Orbital Olive, Astronaut White, Re-entry Red and Galaxy Gold. (some might call it orange) Right: In the early 1970's, the needle toned it down a bit. Click on the image for a better view.

Seeing the Space Needle from I-5 as I made my way to the chair, was of great comfort to me. The Space Needle and its environs – the Seattle Center – signified happier times. It conjured up memories of spending whole days there with my classmates. For those of us who served on school patrol, every year we would be rewarded with a day at the Seattle Center, given tickets to all the rides and carte blanche to have the time of our lives. And we did: The Zipper, the Skyride, The Flight to Mars, the Wild Mouse, the arcade, the Food Circus, Jones' Fantastic Museum and of course, the Space Needle.

As we passed the Space Needle in the distance, I kept my eyes on it the whole time, giving it my full attention as if it were talking to me: “Where you going, Lou?” “I gotta go to the orthodontist...” “Oh man, that sounds rough.” “It's not going to be fun.” “Well, hang in there, kid. Keep your chin up and for crying out loud, stop by for a visit, Lou, it's been ages!”

My eyes riveted on this crazy tripod with the flying saucer on top, it entered my mind that one day I would love to live in the Space Needle. But even at 12 years old I knew that wouldn't be happening anytime soon or later for that matter, so I re-thought the idea that perhaps one day it would be nice to have a place with a view of the Space Needle. Of course, I figured a place with a view like that would cost millions and I would have to be as rich as J.P. Patches to afford it. And while I never obsessed about it, the dream stayed quietly with me throughout my youth.

Eventually we entered the downtown core, and I could no longer see my 605-foot inanimate buddy. The visit, however comforting, was over and the butterflies returned as my trip to the chair was imminent.

But like all my other trips to the orthodontist, I would survive.

(An individual starts clapping slowly. Stands and continues to clap. Others join in. The applause grows stronger. Cue John Williams soundtrack...or perhaps a Bronx cheer.)

Fast-forward to 1981

I received a phone call from my girlfriend who tells me she’s found an apartment on Capitol Hill, that she thinks I will just love. The rent was $285 a month. A little more than I was wanting to spend, but she recommended I come take a look before disregarding it.

The apartment building, St. Ingbert Apartments, was – still is - located at East Harrison Street and Bellevue Avenue East. It’s a beautiful 6 story brick building with art-deco ornamentation. St. Ingbert Apartments was built in 1928 by contractor Ludwig J. Hellenthal, whose family had been pioneers in Columbia City. The name St. Ingbert was taken from the town in Germany in which he was born. The building sits on a hill just above Melrose Avenue, which parallels above Interstate 5.

St. Ingbert Apartments, 309 East Harrison. Photo from Seattle.gov Department of Neighborhoods. Used without permission.

I met my girlfriend over at St. Ingbert Apartments, and we went inside to meet the landlord, who seemed less a landlord and more a strict schoolmarm. After listening patiently and politely to her presentation of the tenants’ building rules, she then led us out into the dimly-lit hallway with thick 1930’s era carpeting and made our way to the old Otis elevator with the manual sliding gate door.

We made our way down one flight to the second floor, and exited to our left towards the apartment, #203. The landlord explained to me that it was a bachelor apartment. She opened the door and to the right was a fairly long narrow hallway. The hallway opened up to a bright, spacious living room with high ceilings, hardwood floors, a sofa bed and walk-in closet. Past the walk-in closet was a narrow kitchen with a small, but charming 1950s formica table with two chairs, a Murphy ironing board, a little nook for the telephone, an electric stove, refrigerator, sink and what was once an icebox now being used as a cupboard for dry goods.

I was in the apartment for only a couple of minutes and already I was feeling good about the place. But the one element that my girlfriend thought would seal the deal, the pièce de resistance, was the view looking west:

View from apartment 203 facing west. Click on the image for a better view.

She was right.

Sold.

Or rather, rented. With the Space Needle in full view, from a little higher vantage point but essentially in the same area as my passing visits, this was the place I wanted to live. And it's where I lived my childhood dream for the next seven years. 

Of Baciagalou, Baciagaloop and Bacigalupo

Being one who often takes the ball and runs with it without exactly knowing to where he is running, I only just realized, after 5 years of posting here, that the title of my blog, which is in Italian, could be a bit confusing not only to non-Italian speakers, but to Italian-speakers as well. Allow me to explain. Lasciami spiegare...

Nella mente di Baciagalou-In the mind of Baciagalou. 

Baciagalou is a play on words from a word that is a play on words. It comes from the Italian-American dialect, baciagaloop.  (Botcha-ga-loop)

Baciagaloop has different meanings depending who you talk to.  Some say it means an idiot, a moron or a goof. In their movies, Abbott and Costello often mention a  Mr. Baciagaloop. Others talk about baciagaloop meaning a romantic fool.  The great Louis Prima from New Orleans, Louisiana with roots in Sicily once sang a song about this romantic fool, "Baciagaloop (Makes Love on the Stoop)". 

Its origins may come from the northern Italian surname of Bacigalupo, which is found mainly in the region of Liguria. 

In doing some research about the name and this bit of Italian-American slang - and there isn't much out there - I came across this boccone saporito (tasty morsel), that just might shed some light. Mind you, this is merely speculation on my part, but please indulge me.

I found an obituary from the New York Times dated December 1, 1908. In that old, gritty, classic New York Times' typeface the headline announces: "LITTLE ITALY MOURNS IL GRAN' BACIGALUP'|Undertaker Who Has Buried 1000 At His Own Expense Awaits The Tomb..."

The obit goes on to say: "In the history of Italian immigration in New York there has been no one Italian to struggle from the bottom to the enjoyment of such prestige as did Bacigalupo. In his fight out of poverty and into fortune his name came to be one to conjure with, for it is a matter of the colony's history that he allowed no Italian to miss a proper burial because of poverty..."

Charles Bacigalupo (His name may have originally been Carlo Bacigalupo) started undertaking at night and shining shoes in the daytime.  For funerals, he acquired a second-hand hearse and rented horses from a local livery stable.  One of his first funerals was for an Italian who had lived in poverty. As an act of charity, Bacigalupo took care of all the funeral arrangements even though it was difficult for him to meet the expenses involved. For the rest of his life, Bacigalupo continued with this charity.

Word soon got around as to what kind of a man Bacigalupo was, and his business grew as a result.  His funeral parlor at the south of Mulberry Bend Park (which was located just outside the notorious Five Points neighborhood in Lower Manhattan) boasted a stable of horses as well as "the only automobile hearse" in the city at that time.

Mulberry Bend Park, New York City. Image from Wikipedia.

Bacigalupo didn't just serve the Italian community either: "Not alone with the poor of the Italian colony did Bacigalupo concern himself. Many an unfortunate white woman found dead in Chinatown was saved from Potter's Field by him, and when, several years ago, the bones of nine Chinamen were disinterred in Brooklyn to be shipped to China, Bacigalupo was called in by the wealthy Chinese to arrange for a funeral procession with 200 coaches."

Bacigalupo was held in such high esteem, that the people began to refer to him as Il Gran' Bacigalup' (the Great Bacigalupo).  Just the mention of his name garnered great respect:

"...on one occasion a night worker in a more fashionable part of the town having suffered from the operations of a hand-organ man for many mornings cast about for some Italian of importance who might rid him of the nuisance.

A friend who knew Bacigalupo secured this note, which was handed to the organ grinder the next day:  'La tua musica non mi piacia. Anda via e non retourna gia. BACIGALUPO.'  (Your music doesn't please me. Go away and never come back)  The Italian scurried away from that block and never returned."

And yet another example of how the people held Bacigalupo in such high esteem. The community of Little Italy entrusted him with the amountof $5000 to be delivered to the Catholic church on his visit  to the Vatican in Rome. Not only did Bacigalupo contribute the money but also "a wonderful and costly garment to the Holy Father".

While Bacigalupo never talked much about his charity work, (It was said he buried over a thousand people on his dime), he did enjoy talking about his big funerals and even boasted about driving the second coach in the funeral of Ulysses S. Grant.  He is also credited with introducing dirge-playing bands at funerals in Little Italy, which: "...have taken on a splendor at reasonable prices, the like of which early immigrants in New York never dreamed of seeing..."

The obituary of Il Gran' Bacigalup' concludes with the reaction to his death: 

"In the Bend colony the news of the death of the undertaker caused general mounrning (sp) yesterday and last night, and when the funeral arrangements have been made thousands of Italians will turn out to pay tribute to the memory of 'Il gran' Bacigalup'.' Business will cease during the hour of the funeral."

Such was the life of Charles "bye-bye" Bacigalupo. An Italian immigrant who came to the New World and made his mark by embracing his newly-adopted country and its citizens regardless of their bloodlines.

I would like to suggest that perhaps the word, baciagaloop, was derived from Charles Bacigalupo. Being a prominent, well-respected person not only in Little Italy but in much of New York City, I could see his name being used initially by the Italian community as a bit of good-natured ribbing; as a compliment in good fun to someone who had performed an act of charity or simply a small act of kindness.  ("You brought cannoli? Eh, bacigalupo!") 

The use of his name as slang could also have come from people's envy of Charles Bacigalupo.  Seeing one of their own make such a name for himself in New York could very well have brought out bitterness, resentment and plain jealousy in some, and perhaps it was used sarcastically:  ("Oh yeah. That guy. He's a regular bacigalupo..")

And maybe, just maybe, this word and its spelling shifted over the years moving away from the person Charles Bacigalupo and becoming its own entity*, a word separate from the person, to the current definition meaning someone who is not only soft-headed but soft-hearted as well. ("Whattya? A baciagaloop?")

But I am just speculating. A theory as it were.

As for my blog title, Nella mente di Baciagalou, it is a play on baciagaloop and my name, Louis. I'm a romantic fool, un pagliaccio, and I use this blog to share my observations, my thoughts, my stories and other tidbits that are running in my mind. And with them, I hope to engage conversation. And learn. And grow. And never stop doing so.

Here's to Charles Bacigalupo.

*To clarify this idea of a person's name becoming its own entity, a separate word, please view Episode 5 from Season 3 of The Simpsons: "Homer Defined"

The People's Team

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about the two local soccer teams here in Salvador - Esporte Clube Bahia and Esporte Clube Vitória. (If you'd like to read the post, click here) In writing, I described E.C. Bahia as the people's team.


Just to further illustrate my point about Bahia, I would like to share a couple of images I came across the other day, that I found not only touching, but I think demonstrate well this idea of Bahia as the people`s team. These images come from yesterday's Correio (The Mail), which is one of a few local newspapers in the city.


The images depict a warm homecoming for E.C. Bahia. Almost 300 fans turned out at the airport to greet their heroes. And what exactly did Bahia do to deserve such a heartfelt welcome? Win a state championship? A league title?

Front page: "Dreaming High"

Neither. Bahia, promoted last year to the first division (Serie A) of Brazilian soccer, have played only six games into the 2011 season. Their record stands at two victories, two losses and two ties. They are currently riding a modest two-game win streak. 


For most sports teams, this kind of outpouring of affection is usually reserved for an important victory like a playoff position or a championship, and not for a season recently started. But the Bahia faithful love their Super-homens.


The people of the people's team show their love.

Back page of the sports section: "Well Loved"

Cat Fight, 2:30am

LAURO DE FREITAS, BAHIA, BRAZIL, 2:30AM - Woken up by the sound of a cat fight. Bella, who is sleeping on our bed, and Squeaky, who is sleeping on the floor, are accounted for. I get out of bed and make my way outside. I open the door and Rocco quickly comes inside. I look down the street to see a cat in a tree and another at the bottom trying to get at him. The caterwauling is coming from the cat in the tree. Suddenly, the tree cat falls out of the tree and into the river. All goes quiet. I am half-asleep and haven't quite processed what just happened, but I start to head over to the river bank. Suddenly, I hear a splash. I look towards the other side of the river to see the cat climbing out of the water, up the embankment and running away. A most impressive escape.

Rocco: "I didn't see nothin'...don't know nothin' about it."

Seattle, 1983

It was a frigid Monday morning in January as I made my way up East Harrison Street to Broadway. I was running late and needed to catch the number 7 to the University District in order not to be late for work. I had had a few friends over Sunday night and we were having such a good time listening to the Revillos, X-Ray Spex and watching the fledgling MTV, that we did not want the evening to end. So we had extended our little soirée into the midnight hour. And now I was paying the price.

Just as I reached Broadway, I could see the bus pulling out from my stop. Nuts. I was going to be late. Once the light changed, I made my way across the street and took my position by the bus stop sign to await the next number 7.

Shivering in the cold winter air, feeling the effects of a little too much vino and too little sleep, 5 o'clock shadow on my face as I did not take the time to shave, I dreaded being late for work. I prided myself in always being on time, yet I could not be bothered to prepare for an early work day by going to bed at a decent hour. When will I learn?

I started to think about how I could get to work on time. I enjoyed walking to the U-District from Capitol Hill, but I only had 20 minutes to get to work and the walk took almost an hour and half. I didn't think of phoning a cab as it was not in my budget to do so, so the only option left was to stick out my thumb with the hopes of hitching a ride.

There I stood on the corner of East Harrison and Broadway, looking a little rough, left hand stuffed in coat pocket, right arm and thumb extended in classic hitch-hiker pose. I wasn't having much luck. Cars coldly passed by without nary a glance. Couldn't blame them. Who would want to pick up that gaunt , grizzled-face little punk in army surplus boots and trench coat on a cold Monday morning? But that didn't stop me from passing judgment and sarcasm on each and every car that passed as if they owed me: "Psh. Jerk." "Thanks a lot. Creep." "Oh, don't worry about me. Dick."


View from my apartment on East Harrison and Bellevue Avenue East, Capitol Hill. February, 1983. It was cold this day, too.

Time was running out for being on time, and I was about to give up hope of ever hitching a ride, until I heard a rumble in the distance. Coming from the south on Broadway, a Harley-Davidson chopper made its way towards me. "Uh oh", was my initial reaction. The chopper pulled over. "Where you headed?" asked the biker gruffly. She was wearing a brown leather biker jacket, black boots and a wide, blue bandana wrapped around her head. She had dark skin and chiseled features. She was a handsome woman.


"I'm heading to the U-District, to Pacific Stereo", I replied. "I'm heading that way, hop on", she proffered. I was 21 years old and had never been on a motorcycle before. I had ridden a mini-bike in my prepubescent years, but that didn't count. This was the real deal. And I was apprehensive. "Ok", my voice cracked as I mounted the back of the bike, I could just see myself flying off the back, cracking my skull and never hearing the end of it. "Um, is it okay if I hang onto you?" "Yeah, go ahead!" she shot back as we pulled out with a roar. My body jerked backwards, but with my hands already clutching her jacket, I held on and eventually wrapped my arms around her waist. I wasn't about to let go.


We made our way north on Broadway to 10th Avenue East then took a left on East Roanoke Street. As we approached I-5, which would have been the fastest way to get to where I worked as it was right off the freeway on Northeast 45th Street, the biker called out to me, "Let's take the scenic route!" "OK!" I shouted back. We then made our way down to Fairview Avenue East, a less-traveled route near Lake Union.


It felt like we were the only ones on Fairview Avenue as we made our way north. We might have been. Lake Union was serenely beautiful and reflected like glass in the early hour. Although the sky was a clear blue, the sun had not yet reached the lake or surrounding area, so all was still under a frosty shadow. The ice-cold air was invigorating as we made our way north. My hands, clasped in front, were freezing. But I didn't complain as I was enjoying greatly my first ride not only on a motorcycle, but on a chopper...a Harley Davidson....A HOG! GETCHA MOTOR RUNNING.....


We eventually made our way to Fuhrman Avenue East, then onto the University Bridge. We were soon to be arriving at NE 45th Street, but I didn't want the ride to end. I wanted to continue on to Everett, perhaps Bellingham, maybe even to the Canadian border! I just wanted to keep on going, I didn't want to go to work in a warehouse. Although I didn't realize it at the time, this was more than just a first-time ride on a motorcycle. It was also a reminder that I could be doing something else in life. But at the time it was just a feeling, that I had yet to process. And it would take me another 5 years before I would figure it out.


Eventually we reached 45th, and I shouted to my friend, “You can just let me off here. I'll walk the rest of the way!” To which she replied,“Naw, I'll take you there!” We turned left onto 45th and headed a few blocks west to the Pacific Stereo where I worked. We pulled into the front of the store with 5 minutes to spare, and all my colleagues who were sipping their morning coffee , watched me arrive with mouths agape. I climbed off the hog, and thanked my friend for the scenic ride. “Yeah, that was cool”, she concurred, “I'll see you around...” And with that, my hero sped off onto 45th and was gone.


I was starting off the week in fine fashion.