City of ghosts
Returning to be seen
Welcome to ghost town. Tags saved in maps of businesses and places long closed.
Six years ago, I had recently moved to Seattle. Nearly friendless and in a long distance relationship, I wrote bad poems about being self conscious and lonely.
Would you rather be seen or perceived? It’s a question asked by introspective friends in an attempt to distinguish from each other. My answer changes based on my confidence and mood.
The thing about ghosts is they are neither seen nor perceived. They slip into a room and stand unnoticed except as a passing shiver.
There was a coffee shop one block from my Seattle apartment where all the cool kids went. I would stand in line and observe everyone ahead of me making small talk with the queer-coded baristas. The patrons had dogs and tattoos and hats perched atop their ears just so.
When I got to the counter there was no small talk. A plaster fake smile as need seeped from my pores. I was a regular without a name.
What is a ghost but an unacknowledged shadow? Past lives trapped in the agony of not being perceived.
The maps in my phone are littered with stars on places that no longer exist. Permanently Closed, the caption reads. But the star remains.
What to do with these artifacts? The constellation of rooms we humans once filled? I go back to such places to find what I’d hoped was there.
The Hotel Sorrento is supposed to be one of the most haunted places in Seattle. I learned this only after booking a room using credit card points for an impromptu solo trip. I didn’t tell anyone I was traveling.1
It was cold and gloomy when I arrived. The train was under construction, so I had to take a cab from several stations away. The street was closed off because, per my cab driver’s telling, people had burned down a nearby vacant building on New Years.
Two porters stood outside the doors. The lobby was large and attractive. A remnant of the early 1900s west coast boom. I took the creaky elevator to the fifth floor.
I stepped into the room and noticed its loveliness. Marbled tiles in the bathroom and large windows looking west.
But as I lay down to take a nap, uneasiness returned. The sound of construction echoed from the street below. My chest tightened and my thoughts would not calm.
Seattle is weird, I texted someone I probably shouldn’t. His response was unsatisfying. I grabbed my camera and stepped outside.
A friend called and told me she had sprained her ankle. I confessed my secret trip and she approved. We chatted about travel and life and the beauty of staying alone in hotels. I walked up a hill and felt my body start to regulate. My friend’s voice and the exercise softened the tightness in my chest.
The sun came out and brightened the handsome brick buildings. My friend ended our call and I exhaled. A view of old stone next to shingled wood with trees in partial bloom and the mountains behind them.
Tho I do love the architecture, I texted again. I forgot to take photos as I walked through streets and admired the buildings and textures. Everything glowed in the afternoon light.
I stopped at a wine bar I’d discovered on my last layover. I opened a book of poems and sat quietly on the far side of the curved counter. A good ghost knows how to hide.
I eavesdropped until I felt myself relaxing. Maybe it was the half glass of wine on a post-flight empty stomach, but I decided to speak up.
I remember you, the bartender said, when I mentioned I lived in Alaska. I had remembered him, too. We chatted with the other patrons and they planned my dinner for me. I mentioned my writing, handed out postcards, and received compliments without a flinch.
Thus went the night. I became human and met other humans in the world. I was perceived, if not known.
*
I woke the next morning to sunshine hitting the building across the street. The construction site seemed closed for the day. The bed was large, comfortable, and soft.
What was I looking for on this brief secret trip? Returning somewhere to find I am no longer a ghost.
It seems the hotel was not haunted. I slept in peace.
The coffee shop near my old apartment still exists. I’m sitting there now by the window. I watch as a corgi meets a shiba inu beneath a sun-dappled brick building across the street.
I order a second coffee and make small talk with one of the baristas. As I turn from the counter and walk to my seat, I see a young woman in line. Her eyes are searching and she holds her arms close to her chest.
How is it that I am seen only after no longer needing recognition? I smile at the girl. I hope that she, too, will make it to the other side.
Seattle in January feels different now. Warm sun on my face and smiles for strangers.
The men still sit on corners with needles hanging from their arms. I see them. I no longer care if they see me.
I walk tree lined streets, alone and not lonely, as the moon rises in blue sky behind wood shingles and stone. A woman stops to adjust her hat.
I don’t want to send that person a text. But if I did, it would go something along the lines of,
Hey. I like it here now. I’m happy
Ghost links
It turns out I write a lot about ghosts, whatever that means. First it was ambitious ghosts, then ghosts of the grocery aisle. At this point you should probably just call me Phoebe Bridgers.
Ambitious ghosts
Ghosts of the grocery aisle
Thanks for reading.
xx
Sorry, Seattle friends. I will catch you next time.
Seattle IS weird! There's an energy in the pacific northwest that was hard to put my finger on for this New Yorker in the years I lived there. Maybe because I'm so familiar (or once was until very recently) with the city, I could totally visualize and feel your words. It was cinematic.