Not far from Pioneer Square in Seattle is the Cherry Street Coffee House, a hidden oasis of superb coffee and healthy eats.
Sure, there are plenty of little joints scattered around Seattle, but I keep finding myself going back to this one. Cherry Street also boasts one of those bohemian dining areas that beg you to sit down, pull out your laptop or your Moleskine, and start creating.
That it’s a block from my company’s Seattle office, a block from my preferred hotel, and a block from the LINK light rail line to Sea-Tac make it one of the best-located writer’s nooks on my list anywhere.
I think it’s time to cook up a reason for a deductible junket…
Apart from California, I’ve spent more time in Arizona than any other state. It was home for two years in my twenties, and I apparently left a part of me there, because I keep finding reasons – business and personal – to go back.
I still harbor a secret dream of buying a spread in Cave Creek with a Spanish-revival ranch house and settling down with rocks, lizards and books.
In the meantime, I have this mug.
The sky is still dark as I crawl into the shower here at Wrigleyville West, but it is somehow comforting to hear the sounds of my neighbors stirring.
I face not the new day alone.
On my long, windy walk to breakfast today in downtown Chicago, the results of yesterday’s rain showed themselves along the Riverwalk. The Chicago River was up 2-3 feet over flood stage, and access to the Riverwalk was closed.
We’re going to see more of this, I suspect. One wonders if Chicago is ready.
Reading on my balcony in Deerfield, every few minutes my eyes are drawn skyward to the sound of a jet, or of a southbound flock of Canadian Geese.
Autumn has sneaked into the Midwest. Hopefully it will grace my home shores of the Strawberry Coast soonish.
I don’t find many here in Illinois who share the sentiment, and I acknowledge that my joy at the coming of Fall is colored by the mild and pleasant winters of the California Coast rather than the lake effect blizzards that punctuate the season hereabouts.
For me, the sharpening chill of October evenings makes me think of sweaters, thick socks, and a good book with a cup of something hot. It means fast boat rides on windy chop, migrating whales, and the constant tang of the Pacific in the air. It means comfortable camping in tent and RV, a banket across my legs before the campfire is kindled.
It is meals in a Sukkah, a giddy dance with the Torah, the ranks of children knocking on our door on Halloween, Thanksgiving dinner, Chanukah lights, carols, movies, and school breaks with my son. It is the World Series, my son’s basketball schedule, and bowl games.
Fall is first and foremost an affirmation of life in the maw of the oncoming chill. And for that it will ever be my favorite season.
Fly on, old friends, I think as another flock honks southward. May you find peaceful flyaways far from the engines of airplanes.
Dusk descends in pink on the lights of this big-shouldered town.
Apologies to Carl Sandburg. Nonetheless, I feel his inspiration.