One of the few places to have escaped the tragic effects of tourism, Pike Place Market remains the treasure of the locals as well as the world. There it lies, with it's cobblestone roads, overflowing fruit stands, tastebud-arousing aromas and well-loved street performers. It waits for all who want to delight.

Both Sean and I awoke today with the desire to explore our city's market. He for it's pipe-tobacco, used books and antiques...and I for it's fresh flowers, bright colors, moroccan lanterns and afghan skirts.

One might expect Pike Place to be most enjoyable on a warm and sunny day, but I prefer it in the rain. Perhaps it is the way the rain glosses over the cobblestone roads, darkening the brick red. Or maybe it is how the grey dampness gives the purple, blue, orange and fuschia bouquets their well-deserved spotlight. I like to think that Pike Place belongs to Seattle; and Seattle belongs to the rain.

We walk up the steep wooden steps, turning tight corners until we reach the market entrance which overlooks Seattle's waterfront. We quickly pass the tables that obviously prey on tourists. One sells bright colored paintings of Seattle's main attractions; bold acrylic slabs of paint portray the EMP, Space Needle, and Market. A dramatically dressed girl, who looks like she might own an apothecary or a cauldron, with crow-black hair and ghostly skin, mans a table displaying aromatherapy oils, herbal soap, and organic lotions. We wonder how much money Pike Place vendors make.

Down the left end of the hallway, Sean fondles a cream, woolen, bobble-knotted sweater and I fantasize of wearing one of the white-flowered dresses dangling above my head. On our way to the shops downstairs, in search of Lamplight Books, we pass moccasin slippers, honey straws in all flavors (strawberry, coconut, amaretto, and peach catch my eye), and an aisle of paper-wrapped bouquets! We stop to wonder at nature's pallete. I teach sean about peonies. We pass crabs, scallops, salmon, cod and other assorted seafood on ice, we think we will have salmon for dinner. Downstairs I convince Sean to stop in a store I like that sells lampshades made of dangling beads, lapis earrings, indian purses, water-lilly tealight holders and hemp backpacks. We realize we must also visit the Vintage Print Shop. Sean finds a fantastical card I would like painted in the deepest of blues, as well as a poster from Sevilla he wouldn't mind having. I thumb through the natural curiosity prints, wanting many, but knowing that I could easily find a multitude of the same prints for 1/20 of the price in a used book. This knowledge keeps me from buying 3 for 30 dollars. Another hole-in-the-wall shop, selling Afghani clothing, lures us in; but our time there is short-lived as our desire to linger is maimed by two loud women and a lurking shopkeeper. Today I realize I have difficulty shopping when strangers are watching.

The downstairs of Pike Place Market is divided in nature: a few bizarre shops, for example the one's specializing in miniature animal figurines and sequined tuxedo vests, contrast the classic coin, antique, and import shops. Divided gives a nice balance.

By the time we reach the Downstairs Exit, it occurs to us that Lamplight Books is up and across the street.

Up we go, at the top of the stairs a lady hands me a handful of dried apples, yum, i realize i should share with sean. I remember a Punky Brewster episode in which Punky pretended to be a triplet in order to get third helpings from a grocery store sample table. She really was a great role model. We pass a man playing an asian instrument that we have never seen of or dreamed of. I suppose you might compare it to a cello, well a cello without the cello, more like cross-bowing two cello bows, eh, i'm stumped. It was interesting to say the least.
(Note to self: must learn of cross-cowbing-cello-esque-asian-instrument. )

We are now across the street, neglecting to wonder at the shiny tangerings, stalks of rhubarb, dwarf peaches, and chains of red, green, and yellow peppers. We turn off the street, pass the piroshkie shop bursting with the warm, buttery smells of Eastern Europe, and zig-zag our way to Lamplight Books. The store itself, is no bigger than a master bedroom. Well-worn Oriental Rugs line the aisles, a rocking chair is wedged in the corner of Mythology and Fiction, another deep chair invites patrons to sit and read before they purchase. The shop is a reflection of what a used book should be: dusty, dark, cluttered, comfortable, and worn...it is one of my favorites. We don't buy anything. I sit cross-legged on a grey and navy oriental rug skimming the nature section for cheap books containing magnificent pictures, I do not find any under 10 dollars. Sean realizes there are no Howard Pyle books. We decide to venture to the Pipe tobacco shop.

This is sean's favorite pipe-tobacco shop, and were i a lover of pipes and such as he, it would be mine too. The entire shop appears to be made of waxed wood and glass. In the very center of the room, we circle a table of glass jars with corked lids, undoubtedly to keep the tobacco fresh. I never knew so many types of tobacco existed: mango, rose cavendish (what does cavendish mean?), peach, turkish, oriental, english...sean decides on an english blend: Silver Oakum, it smells like an Campfire one might want to eat. We peek into the glass cabinets displaying pipes in all sizes, styles, woods and lengths. The man rings us in and gives us the largest smile I've ever seen a man who sells tobacco give.

A few last stops before we head out include: DeLaurenti's for Kinder Buenos, the best candy I had in the UK, Market News for foreign magazine's articles on the World Cup for Sean and a copy of The Scots heritage magazine for me, and finally to Sur La Table for cupcake die and sprinkles and a wedding gift for Saturday.

The sun has not set, but the backdrop of grey and blue swirls adds a dark coziness to the end of our day. Some vendors begin to pack-up, seattlites rush from work to get their fresh fish, vegetables and cheeses before everything closes up. Tourists with umbrellas walk around wild eyed and try to figure out how one city has so many hills. And I turn my head for one last look at the rain-washed cobblestone.