Back in Seattle: The Escalator Battle

Let me start by saying that I love Seattle. I love this city like you love a childhood friend who’s grown a little too set in their ways with age. A friend who’s socially awkward and too loud in a crowd, but doesn’t know it and so you just roll with it. A friend who’s still a ton of fun to hang out with decades later, despite having interests that diverged from yours years ago. We have several lifetimes of history together, a complementary aesthetic, and a shared distrust of aggressive cheerfulness – we’ll be friends until the end.

So imagine my delight when I was welcomed back to this lovable grump of a city by a quintessential Seattle archetype, a trope for the ages.

I’d just deboarded the plane, walked the meandering path to the light rail terminal, and started making my way up the escalator. It was a peaceful scene, only one other person ahead of me – a middle-aged woman in fashionable sneakers and a brand new fleece jacket. No luggage, and judging by her pace, absolutely nowhere on God's green earth to be.

Now, after a couple years in DC, I know the score – walk on the left, stand to the right, and heaven help you if you get between me and my train. It’s not the law, but it’s common commuter etiquette, the kind of camaraderie that gets folks to where they need to be without hassle and keeps a city moving.

Wait – what was my point?

(Photo: Omar Prestwich / Unsplash)

Oh, right. This woman!

She’s only a few steps ahead of me getting on the escalator, so I wait a beat and give her a couple seconds to get settled – I don’t want to scare her – before walking up to pass her on the left.

“Excuse me,” I say politely as I move to pass her.

She catches me out of the corner of her eye, shifts to the center of the escalator and starts walking – just fast enough that I’d have to push by to pass her, just slow enough to make a point.

I slow down and accept the pace, plodding up slowly behind her – and then, without warning, she stops.

“Excuse me,” I say again, a little louder as I skooch to the left. Maybe she can’t hear me over an internal dialogue about the decline of western civilization, or where to stop for organic treats for her golden-doodle on the way home.

When she starts walking again, it's slower this time. She glances back from the corner of her eye to see if she's still being tailed. Mustering that old team spirit, I resolutely match her speed and take each step slow and steady behind her.

Moments later, she stops.

“Excuse me –” I start to say, and then let it go with a quiet breath of resignation. Only a few steps from the top, I realize I can’t pass her without being a dick, so I step to the right and ride it out. She’s won this round.

At the top of the escalator, she steps off and plants her feet – forcing me to squeeze against the handrail while it squeals in protest so I don’t topple her instead.

She surveys the platform ahead, her posture triumphant, planning her next move and savoring this defiant stand – a bold refusal to be rushed. The moment feels intentional, specific, spiteful. Very Northwest.

Having escaped the handrail, I pause to adjust my skirt and carry-on bag. She turns and glares at me – right in the eye – before finally, quickly, downright briskly walking over to wait for her train.

When I discover moments later that the light rail is delayed 30 minutes because of a Kraken game, I head back down the escalator to catch a taxi. I can't face those hoppy beer farts tonight - that's a Seattle-staple for another day.

Red tail lights and neon signs flash past my cab in the misty dark, and my whole body finally relaxes.

Cities, like old friends, have their little habits. That awkwardly passive-aggressive welcome told me everything I needed to know: I’m home!

(Photo: Anthony A / Unsplash)