Back in Seattle, by Jonathan Hong

As I write this post the city pulses outside my small third story bedroom. A parade of colorfully dressed revellers walks down the street, led by a girl guiding the group with directions provided by her phone; cars lined up on the street wait to zoom through the intersection; a police alarm resounds in the distance; a helicopters blades chop the air as it passes overhead. I have several tabs open on the internet–portals to social media, my email, and a Youtube page streaming a Dave Brubeck album. Every thirty seconds a fire alarm in the room next to mine chirps–the landlord hasn’t yet come by to replace the battery. My phone buzzes and beeps regularly with notices and alarms. All this happens as I continue to sit in my chair, typing away at my computer.

The frenetic pace of stimulus and activity that surrounds me even as I sit still would not be noticeable or distinguishable from any other state of affairs that I’d ever known if not for the fact that I’ve only recently returned from nine days in the backcountry. Nine days among the leaves and stones, the mountains, rivers, and wind. Nine days of climbing, contemplating, and living in a world devoid of modern contrivance. The journey that I took with my fellow naturalists this July has been one of the most profoundly affecting and centering experiences in my adult life–perhaps my whole life. I witnessed an ecosystem completely different from the world in which I’d lived normally, and discovered to my great surprise that it felt more natural and familiar to me than I could have guessed.

What was the nature of the nature that I experienced? Why did I find it so profoundly affecting? And how would it influence and shape me as I returned to my belongings and my modern career? Would it simply be a vacation, a sequitur reprieve from the chaos and struggle of life in Seattle? Or would it have some deeper implication?

Returning to civilization…the city approaches in the background, and just like that we are thrust back into an urban environment, each going our separate anonymous ways–sort of–the bonds made in the back country can’t be broken, however, and reunions are already in the works.

When our group returned to Seattle by the ferry we were travelworn and marked by our experience; the passengers of the ferry all seemed to be looking each of us up and down, noting our sunburnt faces, our mudstreaked boots, the faraway look in our eyes. I was in a state of sensory overload. People, more people than I had seen in all of the days of the trip combined walked by and around all over the ship. I hadn’t seen anyone but the other members of my group, and it was strange to stand so close to strangers again, as if it was normal. It was strange to hold a working phone, being bombarded with messages from my friends and family. The rich smell of fried food emanated from the ferry’s cafeteria and set my olfactory system on overdrive. As we stood on the ships prow watching the city of Seattle come closer and closer, there was, I could sense, a relief at being surrounded by material comforts. Many of us had boasted about the length and the thoroughness of showers we would take once we had reentered civilization. I was eager to read my books and listen to music. But at the same time I had a feeling of anticipation and reservation about what it would mean to return to the city.

After we unpacked our equipment at Wallace Hall, Zhewen, Amy, Zachariah, and I headed up towards the ave. It was late in the evening and there weren’t many people walking up and down the street, but it was a feeling of deja vu crossed with sudden unfamiliarity that struck me as I waited for the lights to change, wending around the people heading up and down the avenue. We headed into a teriyaki restaurant and there was almost complete silence as we wolfed down our meals, with the occasional pause to take a drink and to exclaim how delicious it was. It’s difficult for me to remember a time I was so grateful to eat a meal at a restaurant.

After we went our separate ways I unlocked the door to my house and went up to my room. I stripped out of my crusty garments and turned on a roaring torrent of the hottest water I could get to come out of my shower faucet. I took one of the longest showers of my life, scrubbing, soaping, and soaking myself over and over until I felt as clean as the day I was born. When I emerged from the steam I felt as though I had been born anew. After I brushed my teeth and laid down in my bed, the mattress felt almost obscenely comfortable and soft. I fell asleep nearly instantaneously.

When I woke up the next morning it took me a moment to remember where I was and what had happened. The room’s ceiling and walls seemed to press in towards me and trigger a kind of mild claustrophobia. Quickly I put on my clothes and headed out the door, without any certain objective.

I had arranged to meet with Nick, Zhewen, Amy, and Zachariah in Capitol Hill later in the day for dinner. I didn’t have work scheduled until later in the week, so I  walked down the street. Numerous times I stopped and looked around me, taking it all in. The cars and the buses seemed so small, and the noises their exhaust made, their squeaky wheels and the way they rushed so quickly and frantically up and down the street chased directly behind by another car and bus, seemed comical to me, in a way that it hadn’t before. Everyone that I saw now seemed garishly dressed, the words of slogans and brands jumping off their chests and swirling around my head as I walked down the street.

I looked up and the familiar sky was criss crossed by powerlines and lights. Around me, pedestrians looked left and right, picked things up off the ground, and smoked. I boarded a bus headed for Capitol Hill and glanced at the driver as I went to my seat. He was staring straight ahead, swiveling his head quickly every few seconds to acknowledge a rider that got on. I sat in the back and watched everyone else board. Then the bus took off, and it was exhilarating, I have to admit, watching the buildings and people vanish in a blur as we went from the Ave onto I-5.

 

Walking around Broadway on Capitol Hill, I did several “normal things” that I would do while living in the city that I would never otherwise think about but now presented them to me as extremely odd and novel. I waited in line to buy a burger at Dick’s, I went into a bookstore, and I read a wikipedia article on my phone about Seattle’s history. I realized in a significant way that this is what life in the city is like, and I realized that the time that I spent in Olympia was the exception rather than the norm. Why then, did I feel my thoughts drifting off as I stood in line at Dick’s towards those snowcapped mountains and dense douglas-fir stands? I wasn’t sure, but I felt resolved the more the day went on not to forget what I’d seen in the national park, and to carry it with me, to remind myself again and again that the life I’m living is not the only way that life can be lived. There is still progress to make in society, and now that I’ve had a glimpse of a world where everything was simple and seemed to make sense, it’s impossible now for me to simply accept a state of affairs because I see them as necessary or unchangeable.

We meet at Kizuki’s, and then had ice cream at Salt and Straw. It was good seeing others that had been on the trip; it was as though I had some kind of common ground and context that I was speaking from. We went over the things that we’d seen on the trip, and I felt deeply in my heart that I knew people that I could trust the future to. We all saw the same things on our trip, and I know that so long as everyone else in this class tries to embody and endorse the spirit of naturalism, I will do the same.

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *