People here are surprisingly more friendly than in New York. Well. Not really surprising, actually. They're just surprisingly friendly in general. I've had a lot of little interactions with humans here.
Today two girls in a car honked at me from the road as I was walking to the grocery store and I turned around and they pulled along side me (the light was red) and they said something like, "Hey! I love your glasses!" And I said, "Hey, thanks!" And they said, "Where did you get them?" And I said, "Well, I'm from New York." Easy explanation. They asked where I got them specifically, and I couldn't tell them, but suggested they look online.
People have just generally been very talkative here.
What I was planning on writing about, though was my interaction with Russell (remembered his name!), a poet I met on some wooden slats.
My friend Coltan, who I'm visiting at Western Washington University, plays the bassoon. A lot. Very diligently. The other night, he was practicing for a very long time in a small room at the bottom of the Performing Arts Center. I filtered in and out, waiting for him to be done and exploring the area around the PAC. I went to the Underground Coffeehouse, a university run café that has a nice view of the Puget Sound and comfy chairs. There's a stage, and bands play. I was reading Dubliners in one of the comfy chairs when a band came onstage. They were loud, and it's hard enough to concentrate on James Joyce already, without there being a rock band playing nearby. So I watched. They were alright. After their set, I left and went back to see if Coltan was done practicing. I sat there for a while, but then left to go sit in a place he had suggested I check out.
So, I wandered down to these wooden platforms overlooking the Puget Sound, where a reddish sun is nestled in between green toothbrush firs and ripples across the slice of ocean that is the Bellingham Harbor. It's very nice. So I'm lying on the slats, listening to floaty, dreamy Desolation Wilderness, and enjoying the sunset. Suddenly, I felt weight at the other end of the platform. I turn my head backward to see who it is. It's the drummer from the band I have just seen. He's smoking a cigarette, and notices me looking at him. He gets up and starts saying something, walking toward me. I take my headphones off, surprised.
"Sorry! Sorry," He begins. What? "I didn't realize I was downwind from you!" Oh yeah, cigarette smoke bothers other people.
"Oh, oh no, it's cool. No, don't worry, I -" Wow, this is articulate. "No, it's fine. Cigarette smoke doesn't bother me.
Regardless, he sits down on the other side of me.
"Oh," he says, "Okay." I nod my head. "I'm Russell, by the way." He extends his hand.
"I'm Colleen." I shake it.
He asks me if I go to Western, which is an odd question to ask someone right away, I suppose and I explain that no, I go to Sarah Lawrence and I'm visiting my friend Coltan.
"Coltan?" He asks.
"Yeah, Coltan Foster?"
"Does he work at Red Robin?"
"I don't think so..."
"Oh, okay. I don't know him then."
I laugh. He asks me what I'm studying. I vaguely tell him creative writing. His jaw literally drops! His mouth hangs open for a moment in an expression of mock or real surprise, I'm not entirely sure.
"Me too!" He spits out. "You don't meet many people who are doing creative writing!"
I agree. He asks what I'm doing in creative writing.
"Like, poetry? Or fiction..? Or something?"
"Fiction," I reply. Obviously he hasn't seen my tattoo yet!
He explains that he's a poet and that, as a senior in college, is focusing mainly on getting published.
"That's cool. And scary," I comment. "I just never know exactly how to submit, you know? I wish someone would just sit me down sometime and be like, 'Colleen. This is how you submit something. Here's what you do.'" He nodded.
"Actually," he said, "Do you have an e-mail address?"
"Yeah," I chuckle.
He smiles. "Okay, well I have this thing that's basically what you were talking about. I can e-mail it to you if you want."
"Okay!" I say, "That'd be great!"
He types my e-mail address onto his iPhone and explains that he has to leave. I wave goodbye.
What a friendly interaction! Too bad this was like two days ago and he still hasn't e-mailed me.
I'm not sure how this qualifies as a weird or particularly interesting encounter, but it's my blog and I can do what I want, I suppose. I just felt like this should be documented somewhere, since you don't meet a lot of poets in real life, I guess.
Oh! Also, I recently ran across this great website: Overlooked New York.
Right up my alley.
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