#2 Madrona

For a few years in my 20s, I had an apartment on the edge of downtown Seattle. I loved the urbanity, having shops and sandwiches and movie theaters within a few blocks' walk, but if I headed in the wrong direction, there was the freeway — a huge ugly gouge, between my beautiful downtown and the nearby neighborhoods of Capitol Hill.

I hate cars, hate what they've done to this world, and I especially abhor freeways.

Paul Thiry, a local architect and activist, came up with the bright idea of covering I-5 — pillars would be erected to support a roof over the endlessly flowing stink and sound of cars and trucks, and tons of earth would be poured onto that roof, and grass and shrubs would be planted, benches and trails built, until the ugly Interstate was completely submerged.

The freeway would still be there, still crowded with cars and trucks spewing poison, and, of course, still killing a few people every day in bloody wrecks. But above all that hell would be a long, narrow city park.

It's a grand idea, but would cost billions of dollars, so it hasn't happened yet and probably never will.

In the 1970s, though, a short bit of I-5 was lidded downtown. A park was constructed above, built of concrete like the freeway underneath, which sounds horrendous but isn't.

It's a block-long brutalist work of art, a maze of concrete fountains and planters, with walkways and stairways and bits of green grass and picnic areas.

You'd never guess there's a freeway underneath, if the name didn't give it away — Freeway Park.

I spent many a pleasant afternoon there when downtown was my neighborhood, sometimes illegally climbing the concrete, more often enjoying a picnic or reading a book.

Then I moved away, and eventually left the city for thirty years, but now I'm back. Seattle is my home, and it's grand. And my adventure for today was, I wanted to see Freeway Park again.

♦ ♦ ♦      

To get to Freeway Park, I bused downtown and then switched to a #2 bus.

That's a route I haven't ridden in 40 years, but today we'll be riding it, and by 'we' I mean me, riding alone and jotting notes into my spiral notepad, to tell you all about the bus, and the park.

click to enlarge

The #2 is a trolley line, powered by electric wires strung overhead. It runs south from Queen Anne to the Madrona neighborhood, passing through downtown, and of course, the downtown stretch is where it's most crowded. Stupidly, that's where I caught a southbound #2 to Madrona. There were no empty seats, so I stood.

Can't see much out the window when you're standing, and seeing out the window is the entire allure of exploring the city on the bus, so I wanted to seize the first available seat when someone got off the bus. Tragically, though, I'm a decent human, so when someone got off shortly after we'd turned onto Spring Street, I let an old lady sit down.

To my annoyance, the bus stayed at that stop for about five minutes. The driver even got out of his seat, stepped off the bus, and stood on the sidewalk. Thought maybe he'd light a cigarette or something. Was it break time? No, it was a shift change, and he was waiting for the driver who'd be his relief.

Seems a crazy place to switch drivers, though. Spring Street is on a steep hill, about a 10% slope. Wouldn't say I was worried, but I was cognizant that our 25,000-pound bus with at least another 10,000 pounds of humanity was held stationary on the steep incline solely by its brakes, with no driver seated and ready to react should the brakes slip.

The brakes didn't slip, and 75 people did not roll backwards to their fiery deaths in a catastrophic wreck. Instead the next driver walked up the hill, either a few minutes late or maybe we'd been a few minutes early. He high-fived the former driver, then sat himself in the seat, unlatched the brake, and our journey continued.

Three people got off at the next stop, and I outmaneuvered a Mexican man to grab a seat, so I could finally see something other than the other standees' arm pits.

As we turned onto Seneca Street, Freeway Park was to the left. My plan was a picnic there, but not yet. Not until the return bus, northbound.

Headed south by way of east, our bus rolled past some of my life landmarks. To the right, was Virginia Mason Hospital, where I worked in my 20s.

Across the street there's a short, stout building that I've been told was originally part of Doctors Hospital, a facility that no longer exists, but where I was born. Congratulations, it's a boy.

Down the street, there's a building where my parents sent me for mental health counseling when I was a teenager, because my general quietness and friendlessness had Mom & Dad concerned. Fifty years later, I'm still generally quiet and mostly friendless, but I've grown comfortable with it. Haven't yet killed anyone nor even been arrested, so I guess I've turned out OK.

First Baptist Church is ancient, but it has a modern electric sign that says, "Stop funding wars." This suggests that the people of that church have some familiarity with Jesus Christ, something many of the loudest Christians seem to lack.

On Madison Street, we rolled past Seattle University, where Jesuits get their higher education, and onward to Union Street, where finally enough people had gotten off the bus that it started to become a comfortable ride.

At 23rd and Union, there's a taqueria that looks interesting, Tacos Chukis, which I scribbled in my notepad and investigated later, online. Their menu has burritos under $5, quesadillas under $6, and their specialty, taco chukis, is just $3.95. The most expensive item isn't even ten bucks. I'll be back for lunch, one fine day.

That's the main purpose of these bus excursions — seeing what's out there. Into my notebook goes anything that intrigues me — restaurants that look cheap, libraries and parks, etc. Seattle is where I live, and I'll never have the money to visit anywhere else, so my goal is to see everything my city has to offer.

First Hill is a higher-income area, filled with expensive houses where I'd never be welcome, and businesses I'd never patronize. We rolled past a branch of the PCC Co-Op, home of overpriced organic groceries, where a clapboard outside boasted a "Today's special" I couldn't afford.

Oh, and there's Central Cinema, one of Seattle's four remaining theaters that show old movies, and the only one I haven't been to.

Rolling into the Central District, the houses started looking cheaper, the streets poorer, the people blacker. Yup, there's Martin Luther King Way, and a Grocery Outlet, so this is much more my turf.

Waiting at a stop light, I watched out the window as a very old couple, an Asian man and a white woman, walked beside the bus. They were holding hands, climbing the slight hill with slight effort.

Looked like they'd been together a long time, and what you couldn't miss is that they were talking as they were walking — both of them, talking at the same time. And you know, if two people are talking at the same time, neither of them's listening. Maybe that's the secret of their long time together.

The light went green and we rolled again, and things sorta swankified out the window. This was a neighborhood where I'd be allowed to visit, but never stay. There's a library branch, though, and you're always welcome in a library.

There's Larkins Park, plural not singular, and it looks real purdy. Still daydreaming of Tacos Chukis, maybe my order will be "to go" and I'll eat it at the park, on that aforementioned one fine day for tacos or burritos.

The bus rolled down Madrona Drive, another high-income but not off-putting neighborhood. To the best of my recollection, I'd never been there before.

At the end of the line, I was the last passenger. The driver wished me a good afternoon, and I said something equally vapid and polite, and stepped off to a view of heaven.

♦ ♦ ♦     

Wow — Madrona Drive ends at Lake Washington Boulevard, so named because the second largest lake in the state is about twenty footsteps away. Wish I had a picture to post, but I never remember that my cell phone is also a camera, until it's too late.

There's not really a park there, just a narrow strip of grass with a bench, but it's certainly snapshot-worthy. The street and bus stop are twenty feet higher than the grass and bench, so you can see the water, and sailboats and motorboats, rowboats and canoes. I didn't see a way to the beach, but there's probably a path through the bushes.

To the north and south, you can see both of the city's famous floating freeways, far away but not far enough. Across the water, there's the skyline of downtown Bellevue, which is lovely so long as you forget it's Bellevue, the ritzy suburb that's become its own city of the white and wealthy.

Almost as cool as the lake view, was the bus stop. It's not merely a pole and some yellow paint on the curb. It's a block-long butt-height wall of stone, with a matching stone alcove and bench for comfy waiting.

Nicest bus stop I can remember, in the whole dang county. It probably dates back to the Works Progress Administration. Nobody puts that much effort into a bus stop these days.

A pretty lady came to wait for the bus, and said hello to me. Very few women do that, me being old and funny-looking.

To achieve utter perfection, the Madrona stop would need only a restroom, but alas there was none, so I discretely walked half a block away and peed into the small bottle that's always in my backpack for that very purpose.

Waiting for my northbound #2, I read a flyer posted on a streetlamp, announcing a march to demand "Justice for Ruth."

A few days earlier and not far from here, 80-year-old Ruth Dalton had been walking some dogs, but was murdered in an especially ugly manner. The perp even stabbed one of the dogs to death.

It's ghastly and an outrage, yes, but my impression from the flyer and the motto "Justice for Ruth," is that the people marching would be Republicans, calling for more cops. You'll never find me in that crowd.

A memorial for the deceased would be nice, but not an angry march. The perp's been arrested, and I'm confident he'll face a long term in prison.

♦ ♦ ♦     

Then came my northbound bus. I stepped aboard behind that pretty woman who'd said hello, and courteously sat as far from her as possible.

The ride back to the heart of the city was pleasant, with a seat all the way, but this being mid-afternoon the bus grew quickly crowded. And after a few miles, a personal emergency arose.

I needed a sit-down visit to a toilet, and as I've gotten older that's something that cannot be postponed for long. Block after block, I scanned the sidewalks from my bus window, looking for someplace that might have a public toilet. But nothing said 'Poopers welcome here', nor even implied it, as my need became more urgent.

Then we approached Virginia Mason Hospital, and I felt some pre-relief relief. It's open to the public, and I'm the public, sort of.

I rang the bus's bell to exit, walked down Seneca Street, then into the building where I'd been an employee so many years ago. I'd worked upstairs in data processing, but often I'd entered through these very doors.

I expected a security guard to harass me, but there seemed to be no security at all. So I walked up a few steps, and down the hallway. Then I suddenly remembered exactly where the men's room would be, if they hadn't remodeled it away.

And they hadn't! Down the hall and to the right, I stepped into the same room where I'd peed and almost certainly pooped all through the early 1980s, I sat and did what needed to be done in 2024.

Thank you, Virginia Mason Medical Center, from the bottom of my bottom!

♦ ♦ ♦     

Leaving the hospital, it was only a few blocks to Freeway Park, so I walked down the hill to what I'd thought would be the day's main moment. After all these years, the park is still beautiful, but it was also a disappointment.

I'd forgotten that the entire experience of Freeway Park is built around flights of stairs and more stairs, but for me in my 60s, "more stairs" is too many stairs, by definition.

Also, all the fountains were off, apparently permanently. Everything was dry and sorta rusted. Who knew concrete could rust?

This being downtown Seattle, the entire park stank of urine. It's unpleasant, but inevitable in a park with no restrooms, in a city with about three public restrooms, but none nearby.

And just as I was thinking that, a homeless man not twenty feet from me started peeing in a bush. I actually heard the splatter, before turning my head to see the peeing.

Two sandwiches were in my backpack, but my appetite had been scuttled. Instead I waited at the bus stop, thinking what I often think when I encounter the homeless —

It's a crime how these people are hated and ignored, their lives ruined by intense poverty, health or mental health issues, and/or drug and alcohol addiction, all with dang near no help offered.

Lots of my own life has been poor, never homeless but sometimes close, and I've often known people who were. In my experience they're ordinary folks with one rotten turn of luck, or a weakness for the bottle, or the needle. There but for the grace of God, as the cliché goes... but I don't believe in God, and we never give the homeless any grace.

♦ ♦ ♦     

My next northbound #2 was another standing-room-only ride. It's great that people have come back to public transit after COVID and all, but this route needs to run more often than once every fifteen minutes. Most of the way through downtown, I rode standing up.

When a seat became available, I settled in and enjoyed the rest of the outing, through Belltown and past the Seattle Center again, same as the #1 Kinnear a few days ago, until we climbed Queen Anne Avenue.

At the top of the hill, Olympia Pizza and Spaghetti House is still there, and looks forever unchanged. I only ate there once, but it was a memorable disaster, which I then re-lived on the bus, riding past.

I'd called the cable company to complain, waited on hold for an hour, and then talked with someone human, competent, even kind. She had a sexy voice, too, so I'd flirted, and we'd arranged to meet at Olympia Pizza.

I'm still astounded at myself for having the courage to ask out a stranger over the phone. That was the closest I ever came to having 'game', as the kids say these days.

But in person, that woman was as pretty as her voice, which flummoxed me, so our conversation was mostly silence and sweating. The pizza was delicious, but between bites I said the wrong thing every few minutes. She seemed relieved when we awkwardly said good night, and of course there was never a second date. (My apologies, Autumn, if you're out there somewhere.)

Rolling past those embarrassing memories, our bus veered off onto some side streets. Something called The Good Society was the only thing worth jotting in my notebook. "Beer for the greater good," is their motto, and the prices are right. I'm not really a beer guy, though, and their food menu is mostly snacks.

The #2 came to its northbound end of the line, near Butterworth Funeral Home, where they make the famous syrup (an old joke). I walked the block, then ate the sandwiches from my backpack, tuna with cranberry.

There's no bench, so it was a picnic standing up, like much of the journey had been.

♦ ♦ ♦

When the next southbound #2 came, I was the only passenger. We went down the hill, and into downtown, where the bus of course became very crowded again, and I transferred to the #99 that always brings me home.

Queen Anne, it occurs to me, had been remarkably homeless-free. Guess the huddled masses, yearning to breathe free, don't like climbing the hill?

On three different buses, south and then north and then back to downtown, there'd been no obviously lost souls riding. That's peculiar, probably rare even for the #2. There are usually, effectively always bums on any bus — a drunk sleeping in the back, or someone high and talking nonsense to themselves, or someone just quietly sitting there broadcasting the homeless vibe and scent.

There were several on my bus ride home.

♦ ♦ ♦

And that was my tour of the #2 bus. It's not a ride recommended for the view, which was lovely at the lake, but never anything special out the window.

The bus is occasionally kinda herky-jerky because trolleys always shake and bounce, and it was unpleasantly overcrowded during the route's downtown spine, in both directions. The #2 is utilitarian, gets you where you're headed, but like this article, the best part is when it's over.

9/8/2024  

Transit Takes
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →

itsdougholland.com
← PREVIOUS          NEXT →