In order to
help you understand my first 2 years in Seattle, I must tell you about the Boxcar (otherwise known as the
Box). The Boxcar is a bar at the base of
the first hill in Magnolia, right next to the train tracks and very close to
Fisherman’s Terminal. It is inhabited by
the residents of the apartment cities that populate the face of the first
hill. There are also the occasional
dirty fishermen who come off the fishing boats and in for a few drinks.
The Boxcar is not like any other
bar in Seattle. It is an entity in and
of itself, mainly because of its location.
As I mentioned in my Snowmaggedon post, Magnolia is a secluded
neighborhood. There are only 3 ways in
and out of the large peninsula, and most of Seattle has never been there
before. People only come to Magnolia if
they know someone who lives there, and even then it’s hard to convince visitors
to make the “trek.” Living in Magnolia
was like being in college, living on campus, rarely venturing out, just
partying with the people you live with.
Except instead of going to school, most of us had jobs.
The Boxcar is a bar that survives
on its neighborhood regulars. No one who
lives in Ballard or Queen Anne or any of the other surrounding Seattle
neighborhoods would just randomly suggest to their friends, “hey, let’s go to
the Boxcar tonight!” like they would with bars in other neighborhoods. It is, pardon my French, a shithole of a
bar. Until recently, it had old carpet
stained with bars stains as old as the bar.
It has a fully stocked bar and a small kitchen that produces decent
enough food. There are plenty of TV’s
for sports watching, an outdoor patio with a ping pong table covered by a tarp
for rainy nights, and a pool table.
There are 2 karaoke nights a week which draw pretty large crowds, a
trivia night, and lesser known bands will grace the stage on Friday
nights. The bartenders are friendly,
know everyone in the bar, and make their drinks consistently strong.
But the best part of the Boxcar is
its patrons. The Boxcar is full of a
crazy cast of characters that is almost impossible to describe in words, and
would simply take too much time to describe here. Then there are the apartment dwellers, 20 and
30 somethings who have been going to the Boxcar for years—an interesting sort
of incestuous family of the sort that you would find in a college dorm. A bit like the cast of Friends, Seinfeld, and How I Met Your Mother combined into one. And
this is the family that I joined.
 |
| A small portion of the Boxcar family |
I was like a deer caught in
headlights when I started to become a regular at the Boxcar. I never had a real college experience. Going to college in New York is extremely
different from your typical college experience.
I lived in the dorms for just a year before moving into my own apartment
in Brooklyn. From then on, I went to
school for class, and spent the rest of my time out experiencing New York City. When I got to Seattle and started
experiencing this life in Magnolia, it was like I was making up for the college
experience I never had. No matter the
time of day or day of the week, I knew I could always walk down the hill to the
bar and find someone to hang out with.
For at least the first year of my
life in Seattle, I lived in this bar, with these friends. There was a lot of drinking, a lot of late
nights at different people’s apartments, and a lot of laughing. I don’t think we ever stopped laughing. And I absolutely loved it. I hadn’t had a solid group of friends like
that since high school. And it was the
first group of friends I’d made as myself. A funny thing had happened in the last couple
years I was in New York. Despite the
fact that I struggled with my job, disliked the city I was living in, and was
generally discontented with life, I had developed a quiet comfort in
myself. I didn’t consider this confidence
at the time, but suddenly I was a person who didn’t feel as though I needed to
pretend to be anything else but me. And
these friends—these friends who were constantly surrounded by drama, but hated
dramatic people—appreciated me for this.
In discussions in later years, after a few drinks when late night talks
turned serious, several friends confided in me that what they found great about
who I was, was that I was who I
was. I didn’t present any sort of façade
when I met them. I was simply me—you get
what you see (in the metaphorical sort of way).
I hadn’t realized that this had
happened until someone told me so. The first person who ever pointed it
out to me was a guy I dated for a few months after first arriving in
Seattle. I say this lightly, as if
dating guys at the time was no biggie for me—but it was. I’d dated off and on in New York, but this
was more of the Sex and the City type
dating. See a guy a couple times until
it fizzles out. Nothing serious. Nothing deeper than scratching at the
surface. But all of a sudden I found
myself in a new city, with new friends that I adored, and in a fairly serious,
albeit brief, relationship. It was this
relationship, however brief, that convinced me I was a confident person. I developed most of my new friendships with
this guy at my side, this guy whore adored me enough at the time to allow
others—and, to be honest, allowed myself—to
see that I was worth getting to know. In
fact, he was the first person to ever mention a half marathon to me. He was the one who planted the first seed.
This new group of friends was
amazing and wonderful, and I am still friends with them to this day even if I
see them a bit less often. The only problem
was that they were certainly not runners.
Running had integrated itself into my personality, and all of a sudden the
people I knew would describe me as a runner.
I’d never heard that before. But
I believed it. I woke up after full
nights of drinking and went for a run. I
ran up and down the Magnolia hills. I
ran in the rain, in the wind, in the cold.
They looked at me like I was crazy.
And it was at this time that I started to realize that running had
become a hugely important part of my life, whether my friends were with me or
not. And it was just at the point when I
was really feeling great, running farther, running faster, running despite the
fact that Lucy was my only running partner, when I tripped over a curb and
sprained my ankle. It was an 8 week
setback that spring-boarded me forward into my marathon career.
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