saturday, april 19th, 2008

 
One of the first things I did when I moved to Seattle was sign up to volunteer at the Seattle Aquarium. It was not as if I woke up one morning and said to myself, I simply must begin working with sea cucumbers today, instead, I sort of stumbled upon my stint as a docent. It was the aquarium's position on the downtown waterfront, a few blocks from Pike Place Market and steps away from a covered outdoor shack that served what I still consider to be the world's best fish and chips, that led me to its door.

For the first month or so after I relocated, I lugged around the heavy burden of perpetual homesickness. I missed my friends and family and often questioned why I moved to a place that was undeniably beautiful but afforded me nothing in terms of friendship and community. During those first lonely weeks, I discovered that one of the few places that could vanquish my homesickness and remind me of why I made the move was the perpetually bustling fish and chips shop. I knew no one when I moved to Seattle besides a friend who was consulting out of state and on my days off from a new job, I would wander to the waterfront alone, order a basket of perfectly fried halibut, not too greasy, not too dry, served with golden steak fries along with the requisite microbrew, the charms of which one inevitably succumbs to as a Seattle resident. Paper basket of sunny goodness in one hand, winsome bottle of beer in the other, I would settle into a spot at one of the communal tables in the outdoor seating area that jutted out over Puget Sound.

Perhaps it was the communal tables that made me feel a part of a social scene, even if none of the tourists actually cared that I was there, or it could have been the gentle glide of the ferry boats pulling into harbour as they shuttled people back and forth from Bainbridge Island, their confident bellows indicating that all was secure as they pulled safely into shore. It might have been the view. Nothing quite compares to licking greasy salt off your fingers then cleansing the palette with a malty chestnut colored beer while enjoying the theatre of the Olympic Mountains looming above the Sound in one direction and the imposing majesty of Mount Rainier floating over the clouds in the other. I'm not quite sure what kept drawing me back day after day to that fish and chips shop but it comforted me somehow and while I would later view it as a place that only the tourists visited, I was always grateful to it for getting me through those first few terrible weeks.
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