World’s Slowest Sunday

I just stumbled into heaven. St. Germaine cocktails, charcuterie, free coffee, live jazz. And to think, this morning I thought it would be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

I woke up to a text from my roommate backing out of our plan to explore the Ballard Farmers Market. It was a grey, chance-of-rain morning, but this is Seattle. If I let rain stop me, I would never get out of bed. Frustrated, I decided to bike over alone.

But first — a shower where a rhino beetle crawled on my foot, a breakfast where I found my strawberries and raspberries — bought just two days ago —  overrun with fruit flies, a consultation of Google Maps that told my lazy ass that bussing to Ballard would take 20 minutes longer than biking (and renting a Zipcar would cost 40 bucks. Yes, I checked.). Bah humbug. Terrible, horrible, no good.

As has happened to me many times before, I felt absolutely perfecto once I was mobile. No more anxiety, no more stress. When I’m riding, my only concern is riding. And so I did. My new home is less than a mile from the Burke Gilman. I coasted for a minute, blinked, and found myself happily on the trail. There were few bikers out; it was mostly runners and hot dads with young kids. The sky was still grey, but I think I saw the sun once. I stayed on that lovely flat trail through Fremont, bypassing their farmer’s market, and went straight on through to Ballard.

As always, the Ballard Farmers Market was gorgeous and full of large black dogs. I bought raw honey from Whidbey Island, three peaches, three apples, a bunch of carrots, a bunch of golden beets, a bag of root vegetables, and a 3 dollar head of garlic. I sampled raw sprouted hummus, salted anise caramels, bite-sized pieces of apples, peaches and plums, kimchi sauerkraut, and ginger peach soda. I put a hemp salve on my burn and it Did Not Help.

I saw raw milk for sale, illegal in New York! The one time I got raw milk back in Ithaca, my roommate and I had to drive to a farm a ways outside town. I loved it, and never went back.

Once my backpack was full and my money was gone, I was ready for a cup of coffee. When I’m alone, I can spend hours searching for the perfect restaurant or coffeeshop. The first cafe was too narrow. Another had only tea. I kept walking until I saw a crowd of people outside Bastille. I assumed they were waiting for brunch until I saw a sign: World’s Slowest Bike Race St. Germaine. I’m slow. I entered.

I never got to compete, but it didn’t matter. Come on back. Free cocktails on the right. St. Germaine with sparking wine. St. Germaine with Bombay and lime. And the left: Pickled veggies, deviled eggs, baby lettuce, salmon. Up above: a cello, a horn, a live jazz band. And please enjoy the St. Germaine macarons.

I was dazzled, and I was ashamed. Despite all that glamour, I still went up to the bar and asked for a cup of coffee. And it was on da house.

Raise da roof. I sat alone and wrote and enjoyed my drinks. Happy Sunday.



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About Emily Suggests

Pineapple rock, lemon platt, butter scotch. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a christian brother.

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