Everett, WA

Everett Wa. 
There are more smoke shops and tattoo parlors than people on the sidewalks who have a full grin of teeth. However, with the new mystique of vapor and e-cigarettes, with all their titanium, rhinestones, and "mount do" flavors, this new pass-time -- with its shops that make you feel like you are buying viles of illegal "pumpkin spice cheesecake", blacked-out windows, oscillating fans in the corner, terrible trance music -- is taking over Everett's real estate. In the midst of this we fell into the "Dijon Cafe" a quaint Grandma soup and sandwich diner. We were the only ones eating our sandwich that came the trio of sliced fruit (one honey dew, one cantaloupe and one pineapple) and piece of brownie, aside from two older ladies from Iowa who knew exactly what they wanted before they read the menu or sat down. Down the street across from a Burger King (whose drive-thru line up was about 8 cars long) was a half-priced record store run by two long white-haired classic rockers who were screaming at each other over Boz Scaggs. These two gentlemen double the value of each record, tape and CD and claim that everything in the store is half-priced, forever. The handmade, colored construction paper "half-price sale on now" sign was fading away in the sun's light, driving out all the color and showing the length of this amazing sale. Spent the next few hours trying to find a central downtown amongst the 6 lane streets, and realized sitting in Everett Bone & Joint wing of the hospital, that one doesn't exist. We headed towards the water and found Laura Palmer's house 708 33rd Street. The neighbor who was sitting with his dog who saw us approach him warned us: "its all up hill from here." A sign from Bob? I bought a Bud Lite Lime Strawwwberrrita and we took it to "Forgotten Creek" a pleasant swamp/ravine behind the convenience store. Took about three gulps, and as the sun was setting we dumped the rest into the gurgling rusty mud that surrounded us. Looking to find a quick drink before we boarded the bus home we stumbled into a bar that doubles as a venue thinking it could be a touch alternative. No soap, no paper towels in the bathroom, two pre-made pink burgers sitting on an empty grill that a the bartender was attempting to light with a handful of matches, we scrammed. A block down was "The Vintage Cafe" full of, well white-haired couples and paintings of cosmopolitan martinis and clowns. It's an old brick building - the oldest in the city- four or so floors with a cat who had a smushed-in face and tongue hanging out sitting on a ledge of the second floor window guarding the entrance like a gnarled gargoyle. We took a seat in the back and saw they offer half-priced bottles of wine every Tuesday (Stacey, our server, informed us that they were trying to get rid of their wine). Needless to say we had a bottle of wine and an order of poutine within thirty minutes because they were closing. During this time, however we learned through eavesdropping, a touch of the server's life and an upcoming vacation to colorado to attend a fellow server's wedding...so on and so forth. Even though neither of us has even been, we remarked that this city feels like what we imagine Dallas Texas to feel like.

I was corrected while ordering cold brew the other day by the barista. I guess black, although its a descriptive colour referring to a shade of coffee when there is nothing added, is not politically correct. Then, I will have a dark cold brew.