Where Starbucks was Born

Fish, bread, glazed nut aroma, postcards, tacky gift shop t-shirts, and some fruit gave me a ton to look at as I spent my hour at Pike Place Market away from the others in my group. It is nice to have this time for myself. I made googley eyes at the fish throwers because astonishingly enough they are very attractive with lively sense of humors. The sounds of people talking and laughing as well as street musicians carried me from one spot to the next in the market. The overwhelming smell of coffee and sweets concealed any fish stench. Families strolled along with no rush since it is in fact, Sunday. This day could not start out any better in my semi-mecca, the birthplace of Starbucks.

Unfortunately, my new red shoes- which I could not wait to wear- wore me. Yes, they were cheap for a reason because the backs of my heels began to hurt early on, and by the end on the day, I had walked possibly more than in any other city, and my heels were beaten. Wanting to complain and scream all day to my group, I refused to since I had shown them off so candidly and stupidly the day before as being a great find. Now I walked/ limped in silent pain coupled with lower back strain.

The day progressed and we had traveled away from the market to the Underground tour. Since the tour had sold out without the entire group buying tickets, Dr. Spring, Emma, Shirah, and myself sprinted back to Pike Place Market for Emma to purchase a mug from the first Starbucks. Dr. Spring ran us across the city doing high jumps over fire hydrants, but I lagged behind praying that somehow my heels would evaporate.

I glanced at the city, I felt bits of Portland with a more matured atmosphere. Buildings seemed a little cleaner and more historic while people dressed a tad more on the business side. Duck boat/land trips quacked around the city and pier (ah tourism). Father’s Day brought families out and about. As I saw the kids swarming their dads, I hoped to see mine soon. I also remembered these kinds of trips as a kid a little more clearly; I complained and punched my brother, Michael, while mom tried her best to make everyone happy. If the family outing was on a Sunday, I definitely got a spanking (a Sunday ritual of mine it seemed).

The Underground tour reeled in families just as any other attraction or tour we have encountered. This one proved very different from the rest. As the guides explained how the city came to be, I soon realized each anecdote did not pave this iconic picture of Seattle. Instead, the tour showed what the 1800s truly realistically, which is similar to the twenty-first century, full of mistakes and inventions.

Seattle used to not have plumbing, so it dumped into the ocean. Then once Thomas Crapper gave them plumbing, toilets worked in reverse anytime the force of the tide flushed it back up and shot it out onto the poor sap using it. Seattle burned down with a mixture of all wooden buildings and wooden boxes of wine. I am surprised it did not go up in flames sooner than 1889. 1907 Seattle got the bubonic plague due to their inefficient food storage bringing in rats. Rat-tails, at one point, actually earned citizens ten cents (equivalent of three dollars) if turned into the government. Finally, Seattle began again with a second chance by building a new city above the old one. Ten percent taxes on prostitution actually funded this. Our guide cracked the joke, “the city was rebuilt by an industry who was flat on their backs.”

“Hahaha,” I felt uncomfortable standing next to my teachers and looking all the wide-mouthed children holding daddy’s hand.

At dinner with the group I found it intriguing to have gone on such a different tour. How many tours have I been on recently telling history minus incriminating facts: Clinton, Elvis, and the Alamo. All of the other sites had left out information about our history, American history, in order to make it better? Our group felt refreshed by the honesty and lack of glitz and glam in the exhibit and presentation. I cannot help but wonder if the average tourist would concur, or did little Tommy and daddy want to see some movie, reenactment, or false presentation of all the honorable aspects of Seattle or America in order to feel a sense of pride for it.

At the top of the Space Needle that night, I rubbed the back of my heel and gazed in disbelief at the view. Wind blowing a chill against my puckered face, I wondered how much better Americans, or people might be if we address our problems and history in order to move on. My heel hurt so I leaned against the railing as to prevent further pressure and rubbing only to realize I was a hypocrite. Here I am letting my shoe fill with blood and keeping it a secret so I would not look bad. Hmmm…

So this is me saying my shoes still look cool, but they kill my feet at least when walking in Seattle. Now no one will ask me to wear them long term again because they know the truth. My heels are still raw from Seattle.