Seattle

I was in Seattle for two days staying with an aunt, and it is a shockingly friendly city.  The adage is “People are friendly, but don’t want to be your friend,” and while its disappointing to hear I will have difficulty socializing should I move there, it beats New York, where “Everyone hates you.”

I took the train from Portland to Seattle on Wednesday, and at the end of the journey, I was having trouble getting my overstuffed luggage out of the Amtrak overhead.  As I was warning the woman still seated that I needed to climb on the seat next to her to get the appropriate leverage, a man’s voice behind me said, “Let me help you with that.”  I have heard of this, of people helping, but I really haven’t seen it.  I am much more accustomed to being yelled at for getting in someone’s way.

The next day, I got coffee with a fellow east coast transplant, and while placing my order, the cashier asked, “So, what are you doing today?”  I first just shrugged and mumbled, “nothing,” but inspired by friendliness (and afraid of being verbally abused for east-coast coldness—my friend has on a number of occasions been yelled at for not smiling), I quickly changed my answer and told the happy cashier that I was going to my sister’s in California later that day. 

“That sounds fun!” 

I assured him it would be.

Finally, at the Seattle-Tacoma airport, a third person was friendly to me.  Three friendly encounters over the course of two days, assuming my face is less than welcoming, is astounding.  The man in front of me on line at security, with whom I had not yet interacted, noticed that our line was out of plastic bins to use in the X-ray.  “I’ll go get us some more bins,” he told me. 

“Us?” I wondered, “We are an us?  You feel responsible for my well-being?”  Apparently, people in Seattle do.  And Portland is even more concerned.   Everyone talks to you in Portland.