Archives for posts with tag: pike place

Pike Place post number 3! Slowly morphing this here blog into a blog solely about tacos and markets. Not such a bad thing, I’d say. Anyway, Pike Place. It’s a nice place. It is chock-a-freaking-block full of turistas, but I still love it. I wondered if it’s indeed 100% gawkers, taking photos of Washington apples and buying smoked salmon and novelty umbrellas, but Daddy-o said he used to actually shop at the market (like, you know, for food) when he was a Seattlite. I know if I’d lived nearby I’d be Pike Place-ing it like mad. Even if only for the witty banter and overpriced sugared cashews…

I sort of can’t remember what this is of exactly, but I know it’s somewhere in Pike Place (…because I only took pictures there…didn’t do such a good job documenting this trip.)

Produce! Wahoo!

Brisk (aka mean) Queen of sugary nuts. (But they were darn good. Except the “Banana Walnuts,” ew, totally gross. Cinnamony, coated in big chunks of sugar hazelnuts though? Yes plz.)

Markets are inarguably my favorite places on earth. They always revive my love for humanity. The best pictures I’ve ever taken have been at markets. My most dear possessions are from markets. I cannot resist a market, nor can I resist buying things at markets. Which left me walking around Seattle in the rain with a pound of cherries, two pears, a navel orange, and an irrationally large bag of cinnamon. I like talking to people, to strangers really, and what better way to start chatting than to take a slice of the offered pear, professed to be the best in the land, or ask to take a picture of the harried men setting out shrimp cocktails for the mobs?

I chatted with a fishmonger, he leaning over his cold glass case, me reaching up on my tiptoes to show him my camera. He had the same Nikomat in high school, lugged around the same seven pound camera as my grandpa, my dad, and I. He asked if I developed my own film, and when  admitted that I preferred color, he nodded in agreement and handed me a bite of crab, winking and returning his attention to the masses of tourists clamoring for a bite of fish. Twenty meters down the market, a properly bearded young produce-selling hipster held a pear and a knife, ready to dole out a sample.

Two slices of pear later, I was being fed a chunk of heirloom navel orange and half a fig, commiserating about the annoying, pushy, photo-snapping tourists (one of which  I of course was, but somehow pretended not to be.) A momentary friendship later, I had a bag of oranges and pears and a few pictures. Twenty more meters later, I was drawn in by the plastic lizard menacingly devouring brussel sprouts in the display. Two minutes later, I was trying olive oils and buying cherries. I love markets. I get to buy things and banter with strangers and take pictures, for the price of a couple pieces of perfect fruit.