What’s it called again? Not Vashon. Vancouver, no, I know it’s not that! Brisbane? No, it’s…
Bainbridge?
Yes! Let’s take the ferry to Bainbridge Island!
My wife and I were in Seattle doing Seattle things. After enough big city shopping, Pike Place Market touring, and clam chowder munching, we sought a new adventure. She had been to Bainbridge Island once as a child and recalled its beauty and charm. I had never been, but she knew I adored travel by boat and the trip involved a ferry ride. Neither one of us really understood what one did upon arriving on Bainbridge Island, but we figured opportunities would present themselves. We procured two tickets and sans automobile strolled aboard the ferry docked downtown.
It was an early autumn afternoon. Partly sunny and chilly, but not cold or especially wet by Seattle standards. The ferry ride was delightful. We watched downtown fade from view as the boat glided across Puget Sound. Nothing compares to a brisk wind whipping your hair about while misty sea spray kisses your temples. A reminder, a keepsake for existence itself; this is what being alive feels like. It feels like the exhilaration of all-encompassing motion—the vessel charging ahead, the swirling crisp air, the churning foamed sea, the rolling wake aft.
The ferry ride was brief, a mere half hour. But by the time we docked at Bainbridge Island and began striding ashore the weather had changed. It was now raining lightly, the sun hidden by one big vague gray cloud. We inquired with fellow travelers on the length of the hike from dock to town. “Oh, not too far, maybe a 10-minute walk.”
While not outfit for a rainy sojourn, lacking slickers and rainboots, we figured it wasn’t raining too heavily and we would set a spirited pace. Naturally, a couple of minutes in the real rain started. Hard, fast, big ploppy droplets that went splat-splat-splat as they smashed into the pavement. Petrichor flooded the senses.
It is one thing to venture out your front door into a rainstorm with your Gore-Tex coat and waterproof boots; with your umbrella in hand (if you live somewhere outside the Pacific Northwest where people use umbrellas); or with your keys clutched in your hand as you dash to the car door. But we were now doing the scrunched forehead, hunched shoulder walk-jog people fall into when caught by surprise in a downpour. There was no real way to avoid it; we were getting soaked.
At first it was simply unexpected. Then kind of funny. Then downright unpleasant. And then finally funny again in its absurdity. Seeking to cease our saturated trek—no longer a jolly 10-minute saunter—we spotted respite. On the left side of the street there was a café of some sort ahead.
“Let’s check that place out and go inside if it looks decent!”
We peered inside the windows upon our approach. Tables, silverware, mugs with rising steam, a roof that appeared to be functioning. Without deliberation we ducked inside.
The Streamliner Diner: vintage Americana replete with a diner counter, mismatched table cloths, an open kitchen, and ketchup bottles resting alongside sugar packets and salt shakers. The place was mostly empty. We smiled at the waiter, took two seats at the counter, and plopped down. Warm, dry, homey. We adjusted our hair and surveyed our sodden apparel. Menus were presented and water cups were delivered. A local came through the door, took a seat at the opposite end of the counter, and began a friendly banter with the staff.
We placed our orders and soon received yummy pints of some form of Northwest IPA. Our traipse through the rain was discussed in turns both humorous and horrific. A harrowing experience, a howling lark, an oddity. Finally, our entrees were set before us. I had ordered a comfort food classic, spaghetti and meatballs. My wife had made a similar choice with the salmon fettucine.
When does a meal taste the best? At the holidays surrounded by family? After a day’s arduous hike while seated around a crackling campfire with friends? Following a sweaty workout when refueling seems less like a silly cliched phrase and more like a necessity?
I am not sure, but I do know this: that was the best fucking plate of spaghetti and meatballs I have ever eaten.
Enormous vaporous portions of pasta, cooked just right, seasoned just so. Made with love. Prepared with passion. Someone definitely put their foot in it.
A fuzzy warm hug of chewy, starchy goodness with every bite. Mountains of the stuff, each forkful failing to make a meaningful dent in the glutenous heap. Mmmmm. Yum! Oh my god—this is so good! This is like heaven! Another IPA please.
What rain storm? What wet jeans? What soggy socks?
We finished up with that “I accomplished something” type of easing back in your chair at the end of an especially rewarding meal.
We finished our second pints just as the rain was settling into an occasional drizzle, paid our bill, thanked the waiter, and headed out onto the island’s main drag. Many shops were closed, but we browsed through the few that were open, explored the marina, listened in briefly on some sort of raucous corporate party or wedding-type event, and took a cursory peek around Bainbridge Island.
The last ferry to Seattle was boarding soon. We made our way back to the dock and stood in line with the others. With full bellies and still slightly damp hoodies, we boarded the boat for the trip back. The second ride was just as amiable as the first, but we were returning gratified, fulfilled. We had savored the well-earned meal and experienced the complementary satisfaction it yielded, but even more so we were afforded an umami-rich memory that clung to our ribs and lingered long on the tongue.