Delayed...

Today was mostly a bust. The weekend trip was over and that meant reluctantly packing all of my belongings. I managed a shower; I even washed my hair.  Now I'm rather glad I took the time to do that this morning.

With an early morning meeting at 7:30, Quinn drove us to the location shoot, a McDonalds on the outskirts of Seattle. Quinn and M talked up a quaint breakfast place only to find out that it is closed on Mondays.  Our only option was to eat where the commercials will be shot.  I reluctantly choked down a sausage burrito and had my fair share of coffee before getting back into Quinn's minivan for the drive to the pre-production meeting.

It was more sitting and waiting there.  People buzzed around a large conference room table and a stylist brought in wardrobe choices for the actors.  One by one the "talent" showed up.  The men talked color options and accessories -- a language that seemed quite foreign to most of them.  I sat away from the group on some couches against the window.  There were outlets there to charge my various devices, and I decided it would be best not to add my two cents to their conversation. M called me over to the big table for our shared lunch.  Actors filed in with wardrobe options and it was hard not to lend my own commentary.

The meeting wrapped up around 3:30 in the afternoon and it made the most sense to go to straight to the airport. There'd been a huge crash in Delta's reservation system that completely grounded flights for the airline for hours this morning.  I assumed (wrongly) that everything would be back in working order by the evening.  No such luck.

I have been waiting here ever since that afternoon drop-off.  It is nearly 8 hours later.  My flight ran late and had to be changed to a direct flight home.  Then, the direct flight got bumped from 9:30pm to a 12:20am departure.   The screen says we'll be boarding in 45 minutes; however, after 2 plane changes and 3 different gates, I won't believe it until I'm actually on a plane and taking off for the east coast.  I've spent much of the day counting my chickens and nothing has hatched.  I even had to fight to claim my original seat assignment.  

There are people all over, crowding any seats they can find, plugged into the walls to charge their devices, leaning against columns with tickets in hand. Waiting.  A child is wrapped up on his blanket, his head clearly on the nasty airport floor.  I keep telling myself if I manage to get through this without getting sick, it will be a miracle.  Airport germs are even more pervasive than hotel room germs to me.  We are a herd of various folk stranded together. But as the time ticks by, our resolve softens a bit, and we too end up on the floor, completely resigned to collapse.  You can only hold on so long.  

My husband, who was so adamant of my visit this weekend is now apologizing for the complications.  Like everything else, it is out of our hands.  We are left just waiting and hoping.

Back on the West Coast

Lana del Rey has a great song "West Coast" -- you can hear it here.  It was playing in my head on loop as the plane touched down in Seattle.  It's been almost 20 years since I've visited.  In 1997, I was a college kid visiting with my brother for a track and field event at UW. Most of my time was spent with him and David (our college buddy who lived here).

This time is different.  We are in downtown Seattle, and it has an entirely new vibe.

Our hotel balcony is a twelve foot by two foot iron rod perch across the street from the historic Cinerama.  They show movies in 70mm format. Suicide Squad is playing now, but I've got no interest in seeing that.  No interest at all.  Instead today will be filled with strolling across town to drink coffee and sample the local eats.  Everything here is "sustainably sourced" "locally grown" and "organic." These terms are not regulated.  My chewing gum could be sustainable. The marijuana (which is legal here) is locally grown. You get my point.

Later today, we'll head over to experience the underground parts of the city.  This tour allows visitors to see what the city looked like before the great fire that devastated this city in 1889.  Rudyard Kipling happened to pass through Seattle right around the time of the fire and described it as, "a horrible black smudge, as though a Hand had come down and wiped the place smooth." Touring the Seattle underground will be the one historic thing we have on our very loose agenda.  There will also be a visit to the aquarium for sure and I've found a little supper club for dinner and local music for tomorrow night.

This visit is admittedly too short, and our time as tourists is limited to just the weekend.  8am Monday morning we'll be heading to the location where M is directing his 4 commercial spots.  I'm going with him for the pre-production meeting and wardrobe fittings. He says I could spend Monday doing my own thing, but there is a certain reluctance in his voice that makes it impossible for me to entertain the thought of doing something alone.  He wants me to see what he does; I support that.

Since I'm still on east coast time, we have already ventured out early this morning. Like the majority of downtowns, weekends are not so busy for early Saturday breakfast.  Most places are either closed for the weekend or just not ready for us east coasters.  I grabbed a coconut milk latte and M had his signature chai tea. He hates coffee with a passion.

There's something about places I've visited before that motivates me to recall the last time I'd been there.  Seattle is no different.  While we sat in a quiet cafe eating our breakfast, I tried to retell a story to M about my last visit to this city, and I realized that I had lost so many of the details.

"It's sad how much life we lose when we don't have photos or journals to reference" I admitted.
"There is a richness to putting a place down in your own words that helps make that moment come back alive."

While he finished his Bloody Mary,  we traded stories about living in Tampa.  I struggled to impart a story of when I worked there; I realized I couldn't even construct a timeline of the events that strung together to land me my most favorite writing job. All of that time was nearly lost.

This is why I write. My writing isn't just talking about myself or commenting about the state of the world. I write to remember that moment.  Maybe not every last detail, but something to hold onto, to look back upon. Memories can be lost in a great fire and wipe our lives smooth. That may be palatable for some, but I want to remember.