by V. Buritsch-Tompkins
I keep forgetting to write about how much magic there is in the air here.
You breathe it in with the glistening dashes of rain and glimmering sun as it slides across the corner of your vision. Pike Place is alive with vendors and customers, cheesemongers and painters, artisans and floral farmers. When the moon finds a space between the rolling ocean of black clouds in the middle of the night, you see the sky wink slyly at you before closing its eye once more.
And then there’s mass transit. They que up in orderly lines, like at the bank. On the actual bus, it’s so silent you could hear a pin drop over the humming engine. Everyone, for the most part, finds a way to be peaceful and silent, without having too much to say to their neighbor or disturbing the people beside them.
On a whim, I ducked into a bookstore. To my delight, it had a back entrance which led to an interior brick façade and electric-lit gaslamps. Tables of ladies and gentlemen eating pastries while on their lunch break were scattered through the alcove as I rubbed my eyes. A dream? No, a pastry shop. Who knew? I didn’t, but I’m not local.
And this, my friends. This has been just the most recent tips of the iceberg. It rolls weekly, and something new appears. Something fun. Something pretty. Something delightful.
Time for me to join the magic.