Despite my best efforts to get myelf onto some sort of regular sleep schedule, my body is all askew. So, being wide awake at 6 a.m., I decided to embark on the adventure I had intended to take later in the day (provided I’d been able to wake up in time, which, as the morning dragged on and I was not yet asleep, looked decreasingly likely).

The ‘dawnzer lee light’–a reference to Beverly Cleary’s Ramona books that kept running through my head

Thanks to Kate, I knew it was Friday the 13th–I don’t think I would have realized otherwise.

Here I am at the bus stop at 6:37 a.m., a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed adventurer:

I rode the bus to the Ash Way park and ride, where I stood in line for the express to Seattle. The sky looked like this:

I got to see a slightly different part of downtown than I usually pass through. The Rainier Club was on the way to the next bus stop. I know there are old East Coast club traditions, but it feels un-American to me anyway and especially un-Left Coast. Like a bunch of colonial upstarts pretending to be lords or something. I admit there may be a slight amount of envy tinging my scorn: The building is gorgeous outside and looks appealingly cozy and monied inside as well.

Kitty-corner across the street is the YMCA building.

Then I took another bus to the west side of town, where we passed St. Joseph’s Orthodox Church, which I fully intend to visit one day when I’ve worked up enough nerve. (I went to an Eastern Orthodox service in Colorado Springs once. One old man was extremely friendly and helpful, explaining to me throughout the service what was going on. Everyone else clustered in the foyer afterwards and pointed to me and talked in Greek. It felt kind of like high school, with a Children of the Corn–“Outlander!”–subtext. So although St. Joseph’s website says the church welcomes visitors and they even offer an English-language service, I’m still a bit apprehensive.) 

At least now I know where it is and how to get there. A Russian community center is across the street. I don’t think I can parlay my drop of Polish blood into a Russian pedigree, however.

I rode the bus to the end of the route. As I was exiting, I asked the driver which way Volunteer Park–my destination–was. He told me to go four blocks west and added, “Ever been to the Volunteer Park Cafe?”

No, I told him. I’d only been to the park itself once, with my friend Brandon last year, and we’d approached from the opposite direction. “Oh, you have to go,” he said. “Get the pumpkin muffin. Ask for it by name.”

I was sold. I love pumpkin anything, and I was starting to get hungry, and besides, a tenet of these sorts of adventures is that when the bus driver makes a recommendation, you take his (or her) advice.

So I did. The cafe turned out to be adorable. The woman at the counter was friendly and got excited when I told her about the bus driver’s recommendation. And the pumpkin muffin? TO DIE FOR. I wished I’d gotten two. So, Seattle people: Volunteer Park Cafe. West Galer and 17th, northwest corner. Pumpkin muffin. AMAZING.

And then I arrived at Volunteer Park. The next posts will be full of photos from the park, but if I add them all in one entry, it will take a century to load.