jaunt

Seattle is not a big city, let's just get that out of the way.
620K of us live in the metro area; with about 2 million dwelling in King County.
I mean, Brooklyn alone has over 2 million people. We're a borough. A village. An outpost.
I heart Seattle, though. I had some errands to run on this misty Saturday morning, had to get to the U District by eleven for an appointment, so I laced up my New Balance, hoping an hour-long run through Queen Anne and Fremont would take my mind off my hangover-churning gut.
I walked up QA hill and dropped a coat off at Blue Sky--it's weird still to go into a green dry cleaners, you  brace yourself for that blast of hot chemical smell and there isn't any!--then started my run.
I ran past a diner, past the usual hungry brunch crowd standing around outside.
I passed a cafe, smelled coffee, heard the blast of an espresso machine and snippets of conversation.
I passed a car where an exasperated dad was trying to get his daughter buckled in, trying to explain that her drink wouldn't fit in the cup holder.
Crossing the Fremont bridge, the air over the water turned colder and wetter. I took some extra breaths, filling my lungs with oceany air. I took the 41st St footbridge over Aurora, looked at the Seattle skyline, half-shrouded in mist. Then through Wallingford--more coffee shops, a bleary-eyed mom texting outside the tae kwan do studio. On 45th, traffic was stopped for construction (it feels so good to run past stopped cars). I smelled corn tortillas at the Mexican place I still haven't tried. An older woman sat at a high table and dribbled hot sauce on a taco.
In the U District I avoided the Ave (it seems to always smell of puke and exhaust now), did my errand, joked around with a friendly salesguy, then got myself to Lucky's for veggie pho, hangover remedy extraordinaire--hot noodle soup with plenty of jalapenos, basil and sriracha makes everything right.
Then, finally, missions completed, I could stop in with my thermos at etg for java, friendly faces, and neighborhood gossip (Rebar, an errant barista). Now, at rest, with coffee, Wesley Holmes and a story that needs work.