Even I have to admit that it's sometimes nice to have people around who will, if you ask nicely, do things for you. Yesterday, Chris worked from my house so he could accept delivery of a couple of packages for me that needed to be signed for.

I got home, we went out for dinner, and then came home and crashed. I haven't put together the new stuff yet (it's a TV cabinet) because I'm waiting for Sterling and her husband to come pick up the old one, which they've indicated that they want. That might happen this weekend, I'm thinking.

Overall, it was a lovely, quiet night. Low-key, which was just what I needed.

I work just north of one of the biggest tourist attractions in Seattle, Pike Place Market. I go there when it's sunny to sniff the flowers and buy fish and produce for dinner on my way home. I walk through it on my way to work, while the flower sellers are setting up and the fish market people are stocking the ice bins in front of their stalls with whatever's just come in. I walk by Le Panier and smell the croissants baking, a small whiff of heaven wafting from their open door. The craft stall people are meeting at the end of the covered area, getting their spots for the day.

I am long gone before all the tourists arrive. When I walk home, I am wading through crowds of them strolling through the sidewalk. They're wandering and chilling like there is all the time in the world and I am cutting through them, stepping into the spaces they leave and sliding through the crowds. I recognize the regulars, like The Saddest Clown In The World, who is an old man who sits on an overturned bucket and makes balloon animals for children. He seems to hate everyone, except Obnoxious Real Change Guy, who I see him hanging with after work on occasion. I've heard him making bitter fun of kids' parents, and they seem to take it. Is there an unwritten law that clowns are always funny, even when they're mean?

There's Unmelodious Guitar Man, who plucks at his guitar somewhat aimlessly, and Blind Lap Harp Lady, who has a thin but sweet voice that I occasionally stop and listen to. Occasionally, Cole comes down to busk at the market--a girl with a guitar and a strong voice and original music. I only know her name because it's on a sign on her guitar case.

In the afternoon, you can hear the voices of every nation and whatever music makes its way down the streets, the yells of the fish and vegetable merchants, the mumble and press of people who are there just to look.

But before everyone arrives, before the voices and the dance of the crowd, there is a hush made of the way the Sound changes color with its moods, the way the bakeries smell, the quiet unloading of trucks and buckets and handcarts. That's my favorite time at the Market, when I can move without tripping over people, when I can close my eyes and appreciate the city I live in.

I love best the things that are inconvenient for others to love, the overlooked, the early mornings and the late nights, the times when there is nobody around. I like having what I love all to myself.

The rest of the week looks like it's going to be quiet--Teatro ZinZanni tonight, then nothing much till Saturday, when I'm shopping with Chris and Sunday when I'm scrapbooking with Laura. I'm looking forward to it. The more time I get to myself, the more quickly I'll be back to my old self again. I hope. Oh, how I hope.

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