Alas, I found no tattoo shops. Perhaps I didn't look in the right places oweing to my pedestrian status. What I did find, however, was a great little brew pub and a plethora of pig statues. Beer and pigs. Two things that always make me smile.
I happen to have a great affection for inanimate pigs since my grandma Hoppe sent me Porkchop, the lifesized pink resin pig that now greets all visitors to Casa Hoppe.
And it struck me that, like Porkchop greets visitors to my humble abode, perhaps Seattle was serving up some sort of porcine offering of hospitality to me. After all, it's not every city where you can watch an Estelle Getty look-alike heave herself atop a bronze porker, wave her hand in the air and yell "Yee-haw".
I am no longer a city person. The hairs on the back of my neck stand a little straighter amid the cement postpiles and dirty streets of the urban arena. And yet, here were these pigs saying, "See, it's not so bad."
So although I didn't come back with the tattoo I wanted, as I drove along the banks of Lake Crescent, I realized I had come back with a few valuable things: an appreciation for Seattle, four stolen deckels from the brew pub to use on my coffee table, and a renewed appreciation for the remoteness, solitude, and quiet of my own home.
And Porkchop was there waiting to welcome me...
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