1808

There’s nothing quite like walking home from Trader Joe’s with two paper bags full of groceries shrouded by the mistiness of the cool, damp air only to be faithfully greeted by a sweet, old friend: The Cap-Hill Cat. I’m not sure what his actual name was as no one seemed to know that answer, but he was always affectionately there waiting in the sidewalk for a passerby to give him some love and ear scratches, or at least to hold still while he snaked around your legs purring delightedly.

Or, maybe you’re heading to your favorite coffee spot, and you round the corner only to find a luscious bush full of blackberries. These delightful, lovely scenarios were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to living in my favorite city.

For a year of my life, I was fortunate to call an old, three-story nunnery at the edge of Capital Hill my home. We affectionately referred to it as The Mansion. It was here that I lived with thirty other idealistic young adults in the city of Seattle. We each worked for a different non-profit throughout the city and also took part in the urban institute, Serve Seattle; however, Serve Seattle was only a very minor part of my magical year of whimsy and adventure. As I grew to know the city, my days became enraptured with spontaneity and independence.

I spent almost every day doing something new or spending time with someone new. Never in my life had I been surrounded by endless options: Monday night silent films at the Paramount or fire dancers at Gas Works Park on Thursday night. Laying by the pulpit at St. Marks Cathedral listening to the mesmerizing chants of a monastic choir on Sunday nights and Saturday morning brunch with a random group of new friends. Getting to know Anne who owned a tiny teriyaki shop right down the road and becoming a regular at Bauhaus Coffee Sunday mornings. Everyday was new and exciting for me, which ushered the mundane and boredom right out of my life.

As an extrovert, I found so much pleasure living in a ginormous nunnery where I could host large groups of friends for potlucks and parties. So many of my housemates enjoyed the comfort of staying in with each other and strictly spending their time with each other, but in a city with such eclectic, talented, and interesting people, I couldn’t stand the thought of limiting my time with a few people.

I loved that at the drop of a dime I could conjure up a trip to Beth’s Diner at midnight with a group of people to slam a few plates of cinnamon rolls, or put together a house show for the community. I loved that when home felt a little too crazy, there were always friends who needed their pets cared for, and they would graciously let me stay in their small, one-bedroom apartments. And, if I couldn’t find anyone to do some activity with me, I knew that new friends were sure to be found by just stepping out and doing something on my own.

To this day, I miss the fabulous, fierce mama who always waited with her babies at the bus stop with me every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning. I miss being taught dances by her four-year-old daughter and listening to the giggles of her sweet baby. I miss saying hi to the familiar homeless faces that frequented the park near our home, specifically a man named Stan who never seemed to be without a smile and a hearty laugh. I miss staring at the majestic mountains shooting up from beyond the water and city scape. I miss Sunday lunch at Michou with my friends in Pike Place Market. I miss my kids at the drop-in center who taught me the right way to eat Hot Cheetos—with cream cheese—and made me painfully aware that I will never be a successful billiards player. I even miss hearing the tourists quacking from a Duk tour downtown.

There is no where quite like this gem I was so fortunate to call my home, and as my year wrapped up in Seattle, I tried so desperately to stay. But, as fate would have it, I wound up in a new place that has slowly chiseled away at my biased heart. Now, in my new home, I’m more likely to be greeted by skittish, stray chihuahuas or feisty, feral cats. But let’s be honest, no one is walking anywhere with grocery bags here in Phoenix because you’ll die of a heat stroke or incinerate on the sidewalk before you make it home. My new home is so starkly different from my Seattle home. Heck, I’m starkly different than my Seattle self, and when I tell my stories of Seattle I remember the days where I felt I was truly my most authentic self.