Nun does cross-town travel wrong.

My former co-worker E T* invited me to their birthday. The trouble is, their place is in the south end of Seattle and I live in the north end. So I:

• get my umbrella and wait a while for the 44 in the rain,
• get to U District station and wait what seems like forever for a crowded train,
• transfer at Capitol Hill station to the 60, whose route winds past the trauma hospital and through Little Saigon to eventually
• get where I'm going nearly two hours after I left home.

While I was on the 60 I discovered that it stops at Beacon Hill station, much closer to my destination. I should have just stayed on the train.

Punch line: there were two other co-workers who had carpooled from not too far from my place. I got a ride home with them, praised be their minivan.

So how was the actual party? Not bad. The main activity was cupcake decoration, and I nommed a couple of beautiful and delicious cupcakes. I got to catch up with former cow-orkers whom I hadn't seen since pre-pandemic days. They talked about not getting out much. As you may have noticed, I can't live like that.

By the way, I'll never go to Beacon Hill station without feeling sad about Dozer's Warehouse. It was a leaking, dilapidated pit, but it was a leaking, dilapidated pit full of super cool art. I wonder, as ever, where the artists went.



*Did I trans them accidentally as I have so many? We may never know.