Visiting Pike Place Market was a mandatory must-see on this trip, and that activity fit perfectly into the last day of our schedule, after a day and a half of Seattle summer activities: running around the lakes, barbecuing, watching fireworks over Lake Union, taking in a Mariners game.
Typing out our time in Seattle actually looks a lot like a list of beloved St. Paul summer activities, which might explain part of why I love Seattle so much. It matches my favorite pieces of the Twin Cities: the culture, energy, lakes, outdoor opportunities, arts, and so on, but then it also throws mountains onto the horizon and into the mix. The weather has been amazing every day I’ve ever spent in Seattle, and on clear days, you can see a great view of Mount Rainier from the city. (That view was an unexpected surprise on this morning’s run.)
I spent more time at the St. Paul Farmer’s Market than the Minneapolis one, so I’m not the best person to provide a comparison, but I think Pike Place Market has a totally unique feel that isn’t matched by anything in Minnesota. It’s a huge market with aisles and aisles of flowers, fruit and fish, with tables of art, socks, toys, t-shirts and other curios mixed in. There are also loads of restaurants covering a wide range of kinds of food: pastries, Greek, Thai, breakfast, Mexican, ice cream, chocolate, and of course, coffee and fish. Besides the red sign, Pike Place Market’s iconic scene is probably the fishmongers tossing huge fish from one end of their shop to the next. It’s a satisfying mix of cheeky tourism and a glimpse at a local tradition.
Josh and I didn’t know what to expect when we stopped by the market for the first time two years ago on our first visit to Seattle, and we became temporarily but utterly fascinated by it, visiting the market every day we were there and eating our way through the aisles of produce, fish, and treats. We were excited to spend a day there on this trip, too. It wasn’t even a point of discussion as we sorted out our plans.
As we made our first pass through the market this time, I think we both had a moment of feeling surprised that it was the same place as last time: that life had gone on and on for two years since we last visited, but when we arrived, found the same man still singing in the alley by the clam chowder restaurant. People were still crowding at the top of the hill to take photos of the iconic sign and by the fishmongers to snap photos of fish flying through the air. The spectacle was just as wonderful and amazing as before, but I felt torn momentarily between the natural pull from the restaurants and shops I adored--to replicate the zeppoles and sandwiches and ice cream and wine from our last trip--and avoiding those spots in favor of trying new things.
The gentle tension dissolved pretty quickly. We remembered the layout readily, but even wandering past familiar spots, it’s easy to find unfamiliar corners and also easy to give into spontaneity. (Example A: a vendor waves a nectarine sample at me and I make the fastest impulse purchase in world history because it was so good.) Way in the basement of the market, we found a quirky shop featuring, for lack of a better description, archived things. By the door, there were stacks and stacks of old Sports Illustrated magazines, and there were similar shelves full of old advertisements grouped in categories like “travel,” “alcohol,” and beauty products.” But what grabbed me were the boxes in the back corner of the stores labeled “Yes, this is heaven: It’s all $1.00!” Inside the boxes, I found the epitome of the phrase one person’s junk is another’s treasure.
The boxes were full of old newspaper clippings, photographs and postcards. There was no rhyme or reason, no hint about where the memorabilia originated. Honestly, it felt like remnants found in the bottoms of old drawers after people die and their descendants don’t know how to begin identifying the characters in the photos and letters. One postcard opened with the apparently timeless “By the time you get this, I’ll be home!” in careful script. Some photos were blank; others were labeled meticulously with names and dates. One could argue that they were meaningless pieces of paper without the context of family histories. But I could have spent hours flipping through the boxes, making up contexts and stories.
As an aside, I’m working on paring down the posts that contain utterly hokey conclusions, which apparently are a personal forte. To be sure, not every tiny story or box of unlabeled photographs should be extrapolated into an obvious larger narrative of life revelations. Today’s trip to the market was just a reminder that one of the lessons I love best about travel is that sometimes gems are found in surprises, not plans or expectations.
I spent more time at the St. Paul Farmer’s Market than the Minneapolis one, so I’m not the best person to provide a comparison, but I think Pike Place Market has a totally unique feel that isn’t matched by anything in Minnesota. It’s a huge market with aisles and aisles of flowers, fruit and fish, with tables of art, socks, toys, t-shirts and other curios mixed in. There are also loads of restaurants covering a wide range of kinds of food: pastries, Greek, Thai, breakfast, Mexican, ice cream, chocolate, and of course, coffee and fish. Besides the red sign, Pike Place Market’s iconic scene is probably the fishmongers tossing huge fish from one end of their shop to the next. It’s a satisfying mix of cheeky tourism and a glimpse at a local tradition.
Josh and I didn’t know what to expect when we stopped by the market for the first time two years ago on our first visit to Seattle, and we became temporarily but utterly fascinated by it, visiting the market every day we were there and eating our way through the aisles of produce, fish, and treats. We were excited to spend a day there on this trip, too. It wasn’t even a point of discussion as we sorted out our plans.
As we made our first pass through the market this time, I think we both had a moment of feeling surprised that it was the same place as last time: that life had gone on and on for two years since we last visited, but when we arrived, found the same man still singing in the alley by the clam chowder restaurant. People were still crowding at the top of the hill to take photos of the iconic sign and by the fishmongers to snap photos of fish flying through the air. The spectacle was just as wonderful and amazing as before, but I felt torn momentarily between the natural pull from the restaurants and shops I adored--to replicate the zeppoles and sandwiches and ice cream and wine from our last trip--and avoiding those spots in favor of trying new things.
The gentle tension dissolved pretty quickly. We remembered the layout readily, but even wandering past familiar spots, it’s easy to find unfamiliar corners and also easy to give into spontaneity. (Example A: a vendor waves a nectarine sample at me and I make the fastest impulse purchase in world history because it was so good.) Way in the basement of the market, we found a quirky shop featuring, for lack of a better description, archived things. By the door, there were stacks and stacks of old Sports Illustrated magazines, and there were similar shelves full of old advertisements grouped in categories like “travel,” “alcohol,” and beauty products.” But what grabbed me were the boxes in the back corner of the stores labeled “Yes, this is heaven: It’s all $1.00!” Inside the boxes, I found the epitome of the phrase one person’s junk is another’s treasure.
The boxes were full of old newspaper clippings, photographs and postcards. There was no rhyme or reason, no hint about where the memorabilia originated. Honestly, it felt like remnants found in the bottoms of old drawers after people die and their descendants don’t know how to begin identifying the characters in the photos and letters. One postcard opened with the apparently timeless “By the time you get this, I’ll be home!” in careful script. Some photos were blank; others were labeled meticulously with names and dates. One could argue that they were meaningless pieces of paper without the context of family histories. But I could have spent hours flipping through the boxes, making up contexts and stories.
As an aside, I’m working on paring down the posts that contain utterly hokey conclusions, which apparently are a personal forte. To be sure, not every tiny story or box of unlabeled photographs should be extrapolated into an obvious larger narrative of life revelations. Today’s trip to the market was just a reminder that one of the lessons I love best about travel is that sometimes gems are found in surprises, not plans or expectations.
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