It is often said that state capitols do not make for great cities. This is undoubtedly true along the West Coast. Sacramento is exceedingly lame compared to its much cooler cousins San Francisco and Los Angeles. Salem is fairly forgettable and not so interesting when lined up against Bend, Ashland, or Portland. And then there’s Olympia, Washington. As Jerry Seinfeld might ask: What is the deal with Olympia?
In 2014, myself, my wife, and my mom decided to visit my Aunt Isabel, who lived in a Seattle suburb. Aunt Isabel was in her late 80s and it seemed that time was of the essence if we wished to visit with her. Thus, we planned a date to travel up from Oregon to Washington and have dinner with her at her daughter’s home where she lived. We made reservations at an AirBnB in Olympia where we would spend the night the day before our visit. But more on that in a moment…
Aunt Isabel was my maternal grandmother’s sister—my great aunt. As my mom would say, Aunt Isabel was a tough old broad. A pragmatic, no-frills German woman to her core, Aunt Isabel was famous for being a tireless worker, very resilient, and harboring a no nonsense approach to life. She had divorced an abusive husband, raised her children on her own, worked some non-glamorous jobs, and navigated life with grace and determination. There were many Aunt Isabel stories, but two stand out in my mind.
First, she lived with my grandparents in Southern California for a few years while she was in her 70s. Never one to sit idly or spend her day watching soap operas, when she lived with my grandparents, she made sure to keep busy. One day, she announced to my grandfather that the home’s windows were filthy and that he was going to help her clean them. Apparently grumbling throughout the duration of the enterprise, my grandfather proceeded to caddy paper towels and Windex around the abode’s exterior as Aunt Isabel cleaned every window to spotless perfection. The house had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a bonus room around the back. Surely the effort took up the better part of an afternoon and would have sufficiently worn out my wrists and elbows by the end. But that was just a normal Tuesday for Aunt Isabel and is an adept encapsulation of her temperament—don’t sit there like a lazy ass, get up and help me clean these windows!
Second, up into her 70s, Aunt Isabel worked at a liquor store in Southern California. Naturally, she had stories about underage kids trying to buy cigarettes and beer, criticisms about the junk food customers purchased, and gripes about the cleanliness of the floors and shelves. But one evening, a man entered the liquor store, flashed a pistol, and demanded the money in the register. Aunt Isabel’s response? There was a handgun mounted on a small shelf just below the cash register behind a thin piece of plywood. So, without thinking twice, she reached under the register, gripped the gun, and started firing off shots. It is not clear from family lore if the robber was struck by a bullet or not, but he quickly abandoned his stick-up plan and high tailed it out of the liquor store as a grizzled granny lit up the place with flying lead. Like I said, no nonsense.
Back to Olympia. We packed up the car and headed north on I-5 from Eugene. In the late afternoon we reached Washington’s state capitol and decided to explore the city a bit before retreating to our AirBnB. From my perspective, Olympia was a bit disheveled, a bit musty, a little run down. It looked old and lacked some sparkle. For me, a dusty town is not necessarily a negative.
For example, Astoria hardly looks new, can be a crumbly at points, and has a smidge of a crusty vibe. But Astoria’s oldness also enhances its charm, giving it the feel of an ancient fishing village constructed in another century that has held its own, polished itself up, and retained its architecture and atmosphere without turning into a Disney-fied version of itself. Now, maybe it was just me, but Olympia had not accomplished this same feat. It felt tired. It felt a tad melancholy. It felt like something was not quite right.
As we drove through downtown, we came upon a town square situation with a park at its center. There appeared to be some sort of event that was just wrapping up. Either that or people in Olympia enjoy hanging out downtown while drinking tall boys in paper sacks and wandering about the park in large groups. Folks ambled into traffic, some obviously drunk. At a stop sign, just as I was about to step on the accelerator, a scruffy dude with a silver can in hand suddenly stumbled into the street and found himself in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes to halt my soft roll and avoid slamming into this wild-haired gentleman. For my efforts I was met with a middle finger, unintelligible yelling in my direction, and an agonizingly slow walk in front of my car designed to punish me for not foretelling this man’s journey across the street.
The scene did not improve much. Yeah, not a downtown I would want to walk home from at 2am. Not a spot I would meet a colleague for a business power lunch. Had Olympia always been like this or had it seen better days? My wife wanted to check out a fabric store known for selling hard-to-find prints for quilt making. We wandered through the store, which was underwhelming if at least well-stocked. My wife might have bought some fabric, I cannot recall.
Afterward we made our way to our AirBnB. The scene improved when we found our accommodations. An older house perched on the south end of Puget Sound, we had a delightful water view out of the windows and off the small deck at the back end of our cottage, which was sited in a lightly wooded area. The houses we spied up the waterline were large, stately, and had impeccable views. The homes did not look contemporary, but they conjured visions of a summer colony from the days of yore. It was quaint. It was cozy. I liked it.
The next morning, we awoke to news that Aunt Isabel was not feeling well. She wasn’t up for a visit. She was sorry to disappoint us, but she needed to rest. A bit crestfallen, we of course understood and told her we would plan to visit another time. Well, we now had a day to spend in Olympia. Oh, goody.
To be fair, our Saturday was a great improvement over the prior day. We toured the impressive and bountiful farmer’s market. The market was alluring with a long wooden structure that provided respite from the rain and plenty of picnic-style benches where you could enjoy your treats procured from the market’s various stalls. There were attractive pastries, delectable smoked salmon, a panoply of fruits and veggies, and a cornucopia of other tasty items. We explored the market, enjoyed our breakfast, and stayed out of the drizzle. After we finished eating, we had a quick discussion about how to spend the remainder of our day. In short order we resolved to hop in the car and drive back to Eugene—we had seen enough of Olympia.
So, what’s the deal with Olympia? I don’t know. We did drive through some pretty neighborhoods with neon green lawns. We did admire the very Northwest environment brimming with evergreens and crystalline waters. We did savor the farmer’s market. But still, there were weird vibes, bad energy, odd auras, awkward ambiance, and similar new age descriptors. Maybe we caught Olympia on a lousy day. Maybe my own state of mind was off. Maybe we missed all the good stuff. Or, maybe, we saw Olympia as it was—kind of a dump. I feel bad to disparage the place, but I have to be honest. Following our short trip, I crossed Olympia off my list of potential places to live.
Shortly after our aborted visit, Aunt Isabel passed away. It was her time. I wish we would have had the chance for one last visit, but so it goes. I’m sure she appreciated the gesture, but I also laud her for being frank with us and clearly stating that she was not feeling so hot and did not want to visit. Perhaps with older age it becomes easier to be upfront with folks rather than going along just to be polite. Or, perhaps, it was just classic Aunt Isabel telling it like it was: I don’t feel good; I love you guys, but please come back some other time. Fair enough. If it’s a Tuesday in heaven, I’m sure she has a grumbling St. Peter at her side, working up a sweat, shining those filthy pearly gates.