Dance on, sistah!

August 1, 2014

Yesterday we ventured to Seattle's Pike Market and Park. The market showcases an array of vendors selling everything from shirts to paintings to jewelry. The culinary area of the market hosts all foods imaginable, including the best cherries I've ever eaten. I'm certain I've devoured at least three pounds thus far. Another favorite is a little donut stand featuring hot donuts smaller than a fist that bear a striking resemblance to the taste of beignets, and even more remarkably taste like the sugar-and-spice donuts that Nanny, my maternal grandmother, used to make for my brother and me.  Tasting these donuts on the cobblestone street in the hub of the market took me back to her kitchen. I can see her now, standing next to the brown sink and the speckled counter top, squeezing my cheeks with one hand for a smooch before she handed me a plateful. I had to text my brother and let him know what I had found. He, too, could transport himself back to 1980 to the smell and the taste of one of the simplest highlights of our shared childhood.

After scoring some wares from select vendors, my nieces and daughter and I rounded the flowered street corner to the busy park adjacent to the market and overlooking the water. The grassy hill was littered with people grabbing lunch or just some sun while a shirtless man juggled two machetes and roaring chain saw. The girls desperately wanted henna tattoos, and we luckily found the little lady to do the trick. As she decorated their hands, one-by-one, I took in the cross-section of humanity around us.

Then came the best sight thus far:  where the juggler had been, there appeared a very short lady--either Polynesian or Asian or some mix thereof--in a pointy, 1950s-esque white bra. No top. Sizable gut that spilled over a very short skirt. Black combat boots. She gyrated like a stripper in need of a pole, ran her fingers through her greasy hair, and then threw her arms in the air with glee. The bonus round came when she would bend over and shake her ass, revealing what seemed to be an adult diaper beneath her scant skirt. Occasionally she would taunt the crowd, or help herself to a drink or food in the possession of an onlooker. No one dared to fight to retrieve the stolen Starbucks cup or pastry:  this was not a woman with whom to trifle. If nothing else, I'm sure the fear of being treated to an involuntary lap dance was enough to make us all keep our distance in bewildered awe.

While the very nature of Seattle as tolerant and eclectic is conducive to displays like this, the abandon of this "artist" (mentally fit, sober, high, or otherwise) was surprising nonetheless. And, for me, the trip was made.