For years I've been driving past the bridge, the one that bares a striking resemblance to the stadiums downtown, wondering where it leads to. At first, I thought it was the walkway for workers going to the plants along the waterfront. Then I wondered if it was just another piece of random art placed lackadaisically around the city. I had no idea there was a public park on the other side.
About a year ago I learned that Myrtle Edwards park rested at the other end of my bridge. My musings began to take on a life of their own. I've been to Golden Gardens. I've ventured along Alki. I've wandered whimsically along Lincoln Park. In my mind's eye I saw beautiful green lawns, a beach filled with people frolicking in the waves, picnic areas hosting birthday parties and sunset bar-b-ques.
As the summer months approached I began looking for where to park my car so I could visit this park. I found no visible lot from Elliot. I saw no signs as I drove the stretch toward Ballard, and then home again each day. As the promise of sun and warm weather began to develop sincerity, my need to find the entrance to this public dwelling became an obsession.
Yesterday, a record breaking day of warmth and glorious sunshine, my obsession peaked. I yelped. I googled. I even went to the Seattle Parks and Rec website. And finally I found it. The elusive entrance was evading only me - city dweller, non-tourist, non-sculpture-park-visitor. The secret entrance is through the Sculpture Park! Ah Ha!
Lathering my pasty-white skin, proof of year-round Seattle residence, in 50+ plus suncreen and uploading my favorite new tunes onto my mp3 player, I walked out of my Queen Anne apartment, extra large water bottle in hand, and went adventuring.
In a full Bill Nye speed-walk I aimed myself downhill. Through traffic, past coffee shop patrons spilled across the sidewalk, past doorways that reek of urine, I went. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.
I arrived at the sculpture park. I paused from my heart-rate accelerating walking speed and took in the view. As I stood there I realized that my water-bottle was empty, and my bladder was equally full. Heel-toe only made things worse. No problem. This is a Seattle park. I went walking down the path into narrow green lawns, certain I would find the bathouse. The one like they have at Green Lake, Golden Gardens, and Lincoln Park. The one that has indoor plumbing and offers soap as an illusion of sanitation. The one that probably isn't very clean, but it'll do, for a park.
I kept walking. Swish, swish.
As I walked, I noticed small patches of rocky beach access - not the expanse I'd experienced at other parks. I kept walking, looking for relief in the shape of a building. I noticed that there are two paths at this park, one for pedestrians, one for wheels. That's nice, I thought. I continued along, observing the lack of charcoal smells, the absence of laughing families and picnic tables. The view is still breath taking.
And then I saw it. The brick building that would save me. Wait. Something wasn't right. Was that a wire fence? Why is the bathroom surrounded by fence? I walked closer. Desperate. Hopeful. Noticing, but intentionally ignoring the solitary Honeybucket at the end of the sidewalk near my salvation. No bathroom. No indoor plumbing. Only the Honeybucket, with a broken door, an empty Pabst can, and empty hand sanitizer, was available for my use.
Depression set in like my ass on a waterbed.
Emerging from the Honeybucket, I gathered my gumption and set onward. At least I can find a water fountain, refill my bottle, and make it to my bridge, satisfying the mystery that sent me on this quest. Of course, it turned out that the water fountain didn't work.
Now, when I drive by my bridge I will know what lies beyond it. A beautiful view. A rocky shore. And a broken Honeybucket. Some mysteries are best left unsolved. read more