Pike Place Market, Seattle

This is where I'm from. To be precise, I was born in Ballard, a community north of the ship canal with a strong Nordic heritage, though I think the fact that my maternal grandfather is Norweigan is a coincidence. I grew up across the water on Bainbridge Island, a city of some 23,000 people, a thriving arts and theatre scene, pastoral landscapes, and a dwindling sense of identity. I suppose that if I could act on my fantasies I'd buy the whole thing and redistribute it to everyone who already lived there, then close the gates unless you could pass a rigorous battery of civic pride tests. These days I live in New York City. Actually, in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy, to be exact. Stuyvesant Heights, if you want complete honesty. It's what might be described as the "nice" bit of Bed-Stuy, a neighborhood that is home to as much history as any, yet still remains almost totally dull, particularly if you're from someplace outside of the Five Boroughs.

Which isn't to say that Seattle and the surrounding environs are dull. Far from it - I feel a little electric thrill whenever I touch down on the runway at Sea-Tac, and tumble out of the 174 express at Coleman Dock and breathe for the first time a luxurious breath of sea air tinged with creosote and pine needles. I look eastward to the glittering (or if it's any later than about 11PM, darkened) surfaces of downtown, considering the grade of the hill, the familiar corners, the order of the streets - ColumbiaCherryMarionMadisonSpringSenecaUnionUniversityPikePine - and the character of the avenues - seedy, glorious 1st, pedestrian 2nd, cosmo 3rd, slick, glossy 4th, cultured 5th, eager 6th, and beyond them the great sliding worm of I-5 and the view south down its gullet towards Mt. Ranier, which on fine days appears to float above the ground, suspended on a ponderous, expectant rain cloud. And turning west I peer over the Sound to the green bulk of Bainbridge Island, its lumpen form seeming to struggle, like children beneath a blanket, while the twin ranges - Olympic and Cascade - look on like admiring parents. Soon enough I'll coast down the gangway from the ferry and step onto my Island again. But for the moment I am at the Market, in search of salmon.

Pike Place Market is a locus, a focal point for the city. Situated just off the "up" end of 1st Avenue, it serves as a center of Seattle culture, summing up in its hive-like collection of shops, stalls, stands, stairways and sidewalk sellers much of what appeals about this city. Left Bank Books, and, around the corner, Metzger Maps, expand the worldview, while Mee Sum Pastry, down cobbled Pike Place, on the right, squares it firmly in urban Shanghai. From all sides come the aromas of Chinese kitchens, Russian bakehouses, Mexican taco stands, Taxi Dog franks, the little tea shop up in Post Alley, the minature bar and bookstore combination just next to the tea shop, the Irish pub down the alley, tsatziki sauce slathered over gyros in a hidden courtyard. Venturing inside, you find yourself jockeying for floor space with crowds gathered to watch the cocky fishmongers fling large trout from one end of their shop to the other, complete with theatrical cat-calls and jokes to the onlookers, especially when one of them, who has been quiet until now, shyly suggests that an out-of-towner peer more closely at the monstrous monkfish that sits off the side in bed of crushed ice, glaring indignantly at passers-by. They do, sometimes offering their learned opinion on the merits of such a fish to the industry and a few knowledgeable tidbits about its feeding habits, and then leaning in to stare into the dead gray eyes, marveling, perhaps, the resemblance to Mussolini, and at that moment, when their attention is total, the shy young fishmonger yanks on a length of cord and SNAP! The rigged fish appears to snap at their face, eliciting screams of shock and delight, and on occasion curses from the embarrassed expert, who chortles merrily with his family behind him, rolling their eyes. Nearby, a giant bronze pig looks on impassively, as it has done for several decades. Perhaps, if it is lucky, some kind-hearted person will rub its snout and drop a few coins through the slot just behind its ears.

Downstairs the sent of the candy shops and incense, permanently baked into the hardwood walls and floors, threaten to overwhelm the casual stroller. Shops are stuffed into every available corner, and the whole affair is a masterpiece of economy of space. Most of these shops have been there for many years, and some even still sell the fish and farm goods for which the Market was originally established in 1907, when the small producers reasoned that they'd had enough of middlemen cutting them out of profits, and elected to establish a convenient spot at which they might do business directly with the customers. Seventy years later, Starbucks founded its first store near the north end of the market, moved once, as they found their economic sea legs, and finally put down roots. To its great credit, the Starbucks company has not seen fit to retool their original decor to match the soothing sand and pine scheme of every one of their other 16,000 stores. So from the outside, at least, one can be reminded that one of the world's most recognizable franchises began life as a small, independent shop run by locals, catering to the (then) unique tastes of Seattle. It's a feel that permeates many corners of the Market, from Golden Age Collectibles on the second floor down to the Lark In the Morning Musique Shoppe, at the tip of the southernmost wing, to the open stalls of fruit, vegetables, flowers, crafts, and other things that make up the northern spread. Buskers have been given regular spots on the property that they must audition to earn the right to play in. The pan pipe and guitar combo from South America is camped on the outer landing; the wild-haired man with a piano and seemingly unending catalog of directionless New Age-y tinkling has chosen the corner of Pine and Pike Place; the fishmongers compete with the warbling blues guitarist who leans against an iron pillar just under the overhanging roof.

When I'm at home the Market is my first stop for smoked salmon and olive oil and achiote seeds, muckraking literature and antique maps, strings for instruments only six people in the world actually know how to play, Moroccan beads, Bhutan's national newspaper, handmade leather goods, Italian cookware, the latest issue of Uncle Scrooge. There is a couple who live on the Island (as locals tend to refer to Bainbridge) who run a well-known toy store downtown. Every evening after locking up their shop, the duo, who are as inseparable as they are uniquely kitted out - he in dark suits and small spectacles practically lost in his great shag of graying black hair and beard, she in meticulous, excited outfits of bright hues replete with expansive hats and hangy-down bits - make their way dutifully up the hill to the Market and leave for the ferry loaded down with bags of fresh vegetables, breads, and other items for the evening's dinner. There are two perfectly good supermarkets on the Island, a Thriftway and a Safeway. At either one is to be found practically any ingredient one could be after (with the notable exception of the achiote seeds). Why, then, would this couple add to their daily commute, which when one factors in a half-hour boat ride and the requisite waiting, crowding, and waiting, and crowding again is already considerable, by adding this seemingly needless detour? It may have something to do with what it feels like to take an apple in one's hand and negotiate a price with someone who actually works for the farm that grew it. To look them in the eye and see a local looking back at you, with your nourishment and the growth of the community in mind. That's what Pike Place has been about for the last hundred years, and despite occasional attempts, as in 1963, to pull it down and put up something a little more practical, a little more modern (read: the usual developers template of condos and commercial space), Seattle clings to its meeting spot rather dearly. Well they should.