old pleather

I'm still getting used to Seattle. I've been living in the outlying area for a little over two months now and don't get to spend much quality time in the city proper. The time I do spend is usually in the general vicinity of the U and includes: 1 bus, 2 coffee shops, 2 bars, and luckily, a yarn shop. I still feel like a sneak getting on the back of the bus during rush hour and have to constantly remind myself to pay my fare when I disembark. The other day I was exiting one of the long, white buses with the slick pleather seats and the faux wood paneling. I fumbled my bus pass as I tried to show it to the driver and had to retrieve it from the floor. I apologized, to the driver, to the other passengers who were probably quick and discreet when showing their fare, and to myself for being so clumsy. As silly as it might seem, awkward events like this one make me long for my old life in Portland -- where I understood the whims of public transportation. Where I knew the best bread shops and happy hours. Where other people fumbled.

Despite all of the fumbles, there is something glorious about a new city. A box waiting to be opened. The perfect coffee shop - anticipating me with a clean corner table, a nicely pulled espresso, and a warm oatmeal scone. A stone bench hidden back in the corner of a park - dedicated to the memory of someone who loved obscure nooks in a grove of rhododendrons. The best chair in the library for daydreaming on the fall leaves while trying to study inflammation. There is something lovely about making a little place for yourself in a new corner of the world.