Searching for a city that fits kind of feels like a warped version of the book Are You My Mother?, the lost, forlorn duckling asking incongruent animals whether she is of their ilk.
I am in much the same position, inquiring of inanimate objects and bureaucratic processes whether I am of them, if they are of me.
In the airport this translates into judgments passed on the efficiency of the baggage handling, ideosyncracy of the airport's layout; are they things with which I could become familiar, or is their exoticism destined to permanence?
Park of me feels that the Seattle I have conjured is the city of "Frasier," Singles and grunge. Some deeply rooted nostalgia for the early- to mid-nineties persists in my expectation of overly caffeinated and -educated, resolutely cosmopolitan flannel-clad bohemians.
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