Post Dudley/Drinking -Day of losing an hour blog

Dudley last night was fantastic. But that goes without saying, Megan and I met for dinner at a very fun restaurant in Ballard called Madam K's. Now, Madam K's used to be a brothel, so the story goes. So the atmosphere is energetic and fun, and a bit sexual...in a good way. It would be a great first date place. Their food was outstanding - garlickly and delish. If you're ever in Seattle, I recommend their Marconi and Cheese...

Today, however, is the fuzzy day that typifies a Sunday after Dudley and drinking. I woke this morning, not really sure what time it was since I only changed one clock last night. But alas, I headed to my Sunday haven, HotWire Cafe. Aside from their ability to whip up a frothy yummy mocha, its a quiet simple atmosphere in which I am finding it nice to just hang out.

Here I sit at HotWire, surrounded by the aroma of strong, bold coffee. There are more people in here today (did I mention its a wireless cafe?). All characters in my Sunday morning play. Let me set the scene.

HotWire is an eclectic cafe that speaks Seattle, I think. Its warm, almost grungy atmosphere is home to many folks looking for that delicious coffee treat to get their day going.

The people. A young couple sit in the corner holding hands and seemingly happy. The girl giggles at a joke/story the young man just finished. Her giggle is annoying. Almost nails on the chalk board esk. Opposite them is a slightly older girl/woman reading a text book with a look of complete confusion on her face. She brushes her unruly hair away from her face and sighs. Several men in the joint. All connected with their computers (I fit in today with my laptop and the tippy tap of typing, little do they know I'm typing about them). Most of these men appear to be glaring at their computers with an almost empty expression. Bored really. The mood is light as I sit here with my Orange Kiss Mocha (my new favorite) and organic turkey sandwich (post drinking viddles of the best kind). The newspaper I have been reading is tossed aside in a scatted mess of yesterday's news. Sad, depressing, non worthy accounts of the going on's of Seattle yesterday.

I have next to me my "book" - the book that's been my quiet companion to my trips to HW. It’s the book that keeps me coming back to my sanctuary. I feel this overwhelming sense of solitude as I sit and read. I'm surrounded by many, but feel quiet, content, alone, and unassuming.

The barrista with his flamed tattooed arm is a typical Seattle looking gent. He wears a hat, dark rimmed, bold glasses. A haphazardly trimmed beard around his sharp, yet almost round, jaw. Dark, coffee colored eyes, two silver hoop earrings adorning his ears. He is the master. The barista. The reason people come here. His ability to expertly froth the milk and pull the shot and together delivers them into a glorious goodness of coffee. His mastery is more than pulling shots and frothing milk. No, he's an artist. Atop my mocha is an art piece, a milk designed leaf that begs you to not drink and destroy the art.

In bliss of my surroundings, I sit and watch. With each opening of the door I am greeted with an expectation as to who the next unknowing character of my Sunday chapter will be. A sporty couple waltz in, eyeing the place for their "spot". A grey haired man who seems more out of place than in place here. A hippy woman saunters in with bells on her sleeves, happily announcing her presence. A young mother, looking tired and frustrated with her terror at her side, orders to go - I secretly thank god for that. As I watch I am struck with how all these people personify Seattle. They are rugged out doorsy types, intellectual types, geeky types, and just casual coffee loving types.

Part of the aromatic atmosphere is the music. Its played loudly, but not so loud you can't think. Though with a slight hang over, its a bit too loud. Its an exciting, odd blend of blue grass and Celtic. Hard to explain really, but I find myself enjoying it. Certainly not something you'd hear on the top 20 radio stations. No, this music fits this place. A bit familiar, but a bit odd.

And so I sit, surrounded by the sound of the coffee grinder, the music, and the chatter...ah...this is heaven. My weekly ritual. My Sunday afternoon, weekly visit to an unexpected sanctuary.