Goodbye Ferry, Goodbye Seattle

I believe I've ridden the ferry from Bainbridge Island over 1,000 times. Day in and day out, I embark and disembark 10 times per week, 10 hours of commute time. This gentle steel beast has glided through choppy, white-capped water, through a Sound as smooth as steel. It's been jostled by gales, bumped over waves. It's the place where I rediscovered my love for writing, and a place where I've devoured books and beer. Instead of viewing the ferry as part of an annoying commute, I viewed it as a place where I could relax both before and after work.

I will only ride the ferry another 10 times. This week will be my last few trips on the Wenatchee, or the Puyallup. It's been so long that I recognize people now - families with kids, a woman who wears the same boots and coat every day, men in neon biking gear. My fellow ferry commuters are like family, and I'll miss them. I'll miss the mirrored grays and blues of sky and sea.

But the time has come to move on. I'm going back to my hometown of Portland, Oregon, ready to rediscover its quirky neighborhoods, restaurants and bars. It's where my family lives, and many friends from high school and college. My boyfriend David got a great job there, and I'll take my time looking for employment. I'm going to focus on writing, cooking, relaxing. I've been working for 7 years straight, and I've got the itch to take a break. I'm looking forward to having space to think and exercise, to plan out meals and buy veggies from the organic produce stand. I'll miss newsradio and it's excitement, but I'll also enjoy the time off.

It's been an amazing run in Seattle and on KOMO Newsradio. I've worked as an editor, a desk journalist, an anchor and a reporter. I've interviewed celebrities, politicians, dignitaries, people doing good things in our community. I was in Key Arena when the roar for the campaigning Obama was so loud I could barely hear. I was in downtown Seattle when he won the election, when people closed Pine street with their glee and celebration. I've covered heartbreaking crime, acts of violence so devastating it took my breath away. I've meet some amazing friends and worked with talented people in Seattle who I'll never forget.

I'm changing the focus of my writing now. Instead of writing news every day, I'll write a blog about everything Portland. I grew up in Beaverton, and hardly ever explored the eccentric neighborhoods of the Rose City. Now I'll be living near Hawthorne street, and there will be plenty of fodder for blogging. I hope you'll join me on my new blog, called Portland 360.

http://www.khanes.wordpress.com/

Goodbye ferry, and goodbye Seattle. I know I'll be back! And if you're ever in town, please contact me for a drink or a walk or a bike ride. I'm very happy to be going home.

The Busy Bee

The fog is.
The fog is....

That's all I seem to be able to write. Similes and metaphors dance just beyond reach of my groggy mind, like there's a wedge stuck between my working brain and my conciousness. The words are there, moving, twirling, but I can't seem to recognize them. It's a frustrating way to wake up, especially when I set the alarm at 5:45am just to get a little fiction writing done. The gears of my brain were slow and rusted, and I watched the fog's wispy fingers wrap the tops of evergreen trees as I sat at my desk drinking coffee. I found myself staring out the window more than I looked at the blank page in front of me. The scene is there, the words or not, so I must sit and wait for them. There's no use rushing when all that comes out of my fingers is crap.

I know I have to be patient, that my body and mind will adjust to writing at such an ungodly hour. If I had my choice, I'd sit down to write at 730 or 830am, not 545am, but this is how my life is organized right now. Fiction on the ferry is tough, after work I play tennis, then eat dinner and visit with David. The early morning hours are the only time I have, so I must learn to make good use of them.

I also want to get back with blogging again, but the last two weeks have been a whirlwind of visitors. I love having visitors and welcoming them into my home, and I just accepted the fact that I wouldn't be writing during that time. Friends and family are so important to me, that everything else goes by the wayside when they are here, and that's fine.

But now I feel the seasons are changing. The air is getting cooler, the trees are rustling with impatience, ready to sleep. Fog is blurring the space between the ferry and Seattle, like tiredness blurs creativity. However, I know the paradigm will shift, until once again magic spreads itself on the blank pages in front of me.

Sunny, Sunny Summertime

I am sitting on the upper deck of the ferry boat on my commute this morning; an oddity in Seattle. I'm relishing the fact that its 70 degrees at 9am, and will be warm when I get off work at 7pm. The sky is blue, the water still. Sometimes I think I'm the only person in Seattle who is

a) not surprised by hot temperatures in the SUMMER b) actually likes hot temperatures.

Every summer, we get a few days in the 90's, which I soak in like a lizard lying on a hot rock. The rest of the year, it's dreary and drizzly, and we complain. In winter, there is ice and snow, and we complain. In spring, it's foggy and gray, and we complain. In summer, it's hot, and we complain. I think that here in Seattle we are spoiled, because sometimes we do get those picture perfect days in the 70's. Once you taste heaven, it's hard to get used to anything else.

I love the hot summer days, because right now, I am picturing the snowstorms and ice last December. I remember my gingerbread house blanketed with snow, driving my newscar 5 miles per hour on city streets, reporting about cars sliding down Seattle hills at 5am while I coughed up a lung and snorted snot. I remember fat snowflakes finding their way between my scarf and my neck. I remember my hands turning to ice inside my gloves. Those are not my ideas of a good time, people.

I love that it's summer, and that I get to use a fan in my house. I love that it still gets cool at night, unlike Texas that is sweltering and muggy. I love the baby robins stashed in thick brush outside my window. No, I don't want to hear stories about how everyone is staying cool, how AC units are flying off store shelves, how people are suffering. It's just a few hot days of summer, and it will all be over soon.

I'd be more impressed if it was over 105.

Scoot Scoot Scootin' Around

David and I have found the holy grail of riding the ferry: a motorcycle (scooter). We are renting a Honda Silverwing from his sister in Bellingham so he can easily get to work at Boeing. Not only does a motorcycle cost less than half of taking a car on the boat, you also get to the front of the line. This morning was frantic, like normal.

"Which helmet should I wear?" I said, putting on a black helmet that looked like half of a ping pong ball. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. We are used to driving like a bat out of hell to get on the ferry with the car, since the lot fills up so quickly.

"This doesn't fit!!" I shook my head around as the hellmet wobbled loosely.

"Then put on the full face one."

I slammed it over my hair and makeup, stuffing my glasses and greasy breakfast sandwich in my purse. We were off!

The wind buffeted David and I as we sped down the rural highways, me gripping him tightly. I love the way the motorcycle (scooter) leans to the side around the curves. It's exhilirating. I imagined us racing down the coastal highways of the San Juan Islands, which is exactly what we're planning on doing this weekend.

The ferry lot was full, as usual, but we were able to bypass all the cars, "merge" into the traffic, and immediately got on the boat. No waiting involved. This was like a dream come true. We're used to missing the ferry if we get there at the last minute, with the motorcycle, you are always first. It feels like the first class of ferry riding.

David owned a motorcycle for 10 years, so is very good at riding. This motorcycle (scooter) is an automatic, and a piece of cake. David has said many times that it's not for the overly masculine man. It's no Harley, or crotchrocket, but it fits us just fine. I want to learn how to ride it someday.

I hope this morning is not predictive of the day to come

My schedule has changed so much in the last couple of weeks at work I don't know who I am anymore, or what I'm supposed to be doing. I've gone from AM reporter, to midday reporter, to PM reporter, to PM editor, to midday reporter, to PM reporter, then next Monday AM reporter again. In that order. My body clock is confused. Heck, I'm confused, and it all culminated in a frantic morning.

When I sleep in for 3 days straight and get home after 8pm, my body starts assimilating to that schedule. So, last night when I really needed to go to bed early, there was no way I was falling asleep. So I laid there. And laid there. And this morning, when my alarm was supposed to go off at 645am, it didn't. The light woke me up. At 7:20. I had to be out the door at 7:35. David and I looked like two big balls of arms and legs as we ran frantically around the house. I took a 2 minute shower, brushed my teeth with Olympic speed, threw my clothes around, threw my hair dryer and makup in a bag. David made me coffee to go and put all my things in the car.

We were out the door, in the car, when I said:

"I forgot my glasses!" So up David ran into the house, up the stairs, and I remembered I forgot something else. I slammed the door right into him as he was coming out of the house, grabbed my bag, and off we went!

I managed to make my ferry with a few minutes to spare, which could be considered early. I joined the masses in the bathroom, where women stand in a row at a face-level mirror and put on makeup and blow dry their hair. I did that, quickly, with enough time to write this poorly-written blog.

Frantic, I am. What am I supposed to be doing today? Can I please just go home.

I hear voices sometimes.

There is one negative consequence of being in radio: my ears are super tuned in to voices. I just had to move to another part of the ferry to get away from a loud, obnoxious voice spouting words in a pitch that made my skin crawl. It sounded like here voice box was in her nose, and she was a combination of a munchkin, and Shrek. I'm sure the woman is very nice, and I feel like a bad person saying this, but her voice was like needles on a chalkboard. I tried to sit there and ignore it, and read my David Baldacci novel, but every word coming from that ferry bench was like a stab wound in my ears. So now, I'm in the galley. Thank goodness the ferry flirt is not sitting by me this time.

The one perk about working in a newsroom is that everyone has a wonderful voice. People understand inflection, tonality, the rise and fall of sentences. They understand how to tell a story or convey an idea fluidly. Listening to radio people speak is beautiful, and I admit, I get spoiled by this, and notice when voices grind and screech, or when people speak haltingly, or end a sentence in a question mark.

I also am very sensitive to accents, and lisps. I can detect a hint of a Spanish accent in David's parents 'words, even though no one else can. I become spellbound by a good voice,..aka Patrick Stewart, or even some actors we have in studio. The voice is a conduit of so much meaning, so much emotion, which must be why I love radio so much.

I'm really thankful that all of the people close to me have nice voices. All my friends, family, etc. It is so vital for my warped eardrums.

The Ferry Flirt...aka....I would rather have jumped off the boat than have a drink with you

Tonight was the first time I've ever been "hit on" while riding the ferry. I chose to sit in the galley area, where people tend to congregate over beer and chat about their day. I sat there reading my Kindle, and eating McDonalds french fries. One time, in the galley, a man asked about my Kindle, and I didn't mind one bit. He seemed genuinly curious.....and happily married, unlike the tool who talked to me tonight, who couldn't stop staring at me and slurring his words. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little just thinking about it. I often wonder why it's so difficult for some men to read signals that blare as bright as neon signs.

I noticed a tall, skinny man move two seats down from me and thought, "Oh, he must have felt sick riding backward." But,....NO. An awkward, annoying conversation was about to disrupt my peaceful ferry ride hom.

"What are you reading?" His eyes seemed to roll back in his scrawny head as he struggled to see straight through the boozy haze. He was dirty blond, skinny, with a protruding Adam's apple. It looked like he hadn't shaved in days.

"Baldacci." I muttered, and continued to read. I knew he didn't give a rip about my book, he just wanted to know if I would get a drink after the ferry ride. I made brief eye contact as I answered, cause I didn't want to be completely rude. Big mistake. The man probably saw my eyes and grabbed on like they were a passing lifeboat, bobbing in Puget Sound.

Silence passed. I saw him shift. I concentrated hard on the electronic ink in front of me.

"Is that a Kimble?"

"No, it's a Kindle." Tried desperately to ignore the man. More silence. I suddently felt jealous of the overweight woman in front of me, in I-pod bliss.

"What do you do?"

"Well, ohhhh..... uh....I'm a writer." Sometimes I hate admitting I'm a news reporter, because it opens up the conversation to a series of questions. What's that like? That must be fun? Are you actually ON AIR? Like, on the RADIO? Wow! So I could actually HEAR YOU if I tuned in? This time, an uncomfortable silence grew between us. This is the time you get up, and walk away, " I thought. I was sending all the appropriate signals, sending out ultra "go away" vibrations, while being as polite as I possibly could.

Nope.

"So...uh....what do you write for."

"A news station." His woozy eyes implored me. "KOMO, that is," I told him reluctantly.

"Do you write commercials?"

I rolled my eyes.

"No. News. Local." (now please, please go. away. now.)

"When I want to listen to news, I turn to KOMO!" It almost sounded like an ad, except for his slurred, drowsy speech. He downed his microbrew, and leaned over to stare some more. I imagined other commuters sitting near us, feeling my pain.

I had a hard time reading because he was there, brewing up his next question. My eyes scanned the same sentences over and over again, willing him to just leave. I'm hardly ever hit on anymore, and that's how I like it. I'm usually pretty good sending out the "I have a boyfriend vibe", but I guess this dude didn't pick up on it cause of the beer richocheting through his skinny veins, turning them brown and hoppy.

Finally, he rose on lanky stork legs and strode purposely away from me. For an instant, I thought I saw him sway.

I kept my eyes peeled for the man as I walked off the ferry and back to my car. I pictured him following me home, or saying how rude I was, or asking what I was doing later. I'm so glad I escaped, and I hope I never see him, or get hit on, ever again.