Woodinville Part Deux: Cabin Fever!

We pulled into Willows Lodge as the sun began to set. The grounds were delicately illuminated lending a quaint mood to the small village which caused a holiday glow to spark within me as we wove throughout the lot. I decided to pull up front while we checked in and a well-suited doorman greeted us with a grandiose gesture, guiding us toward the front desk.

The lobby was located beneath an expansive vaulted ceiling and featured large over-stuffed chairs and couches in front of a granite slab fireplace that rose heavenward. Flames licked the glass walls on either side of the fireplace, which acted as a divider between the back wine lounge and the lobby. Brett and I checked in in a matter of minutes and were pointed in the direction of a large wooden stairwell, which wound around the exterior of the space. We made our way up the flight of stairs and found our room located just past the end of the balcony.

When Brett pushed open the door, my eyes glistened with excitement and a luxuriant wave washed over me. We’ve had the good fortune of staying in some pretty luxe hotels in our time together, but this one rose rapidly to the top of the heap. The feel was quintessentially Northwest due to the outdoorsy (yet subtle) accoutrements and wood detailing, yet terribly chic and refined. Amenities included Bang & Olufsen sound systems, a 52” flat screen television implanted in the wall above a cozy fireplace, an enormous whirlpool, a martini bar in the foyer, and a heated towel rack to name a few. We oohed and aahed as we explored our home for the evening which happened to be at least twice the size of our condo in Ballard.

I wandered over to our living and dining area and ensconced myself on the sofa—kicking up my feet and enjoying the sheer refinement of our surroundings. Brett made himself a martini as opera music issued soothingly from our high-end sound system. The fire roared, offering sanctuary from the bitter wind whipping about outside and I wanted to stay there forever. I momentarily poked through the cabinets and found unique snack items which were far too costly to bother partaking in. After a short decompression period, we headed down to the lounge so that we might enjoy some fireside wine flights.


We plopped down in two leather chaises and wondered how enjoyable this experience would be given the fact that a gaggle of 40-something women were boisterously celebrating and cracked open their fifth bottle of bubbly shortly after we arrived. (The hand-painted bottles were lined up in front of the fire like little soldiers.) We smiled conspiratorially and left them to their devices—instead focusing on the potpourri of wine options with which we were faced. I decided upon a Cremant d’Alsace Rosé and Baer Ursa (both of which were divine.) Ruthie, the unofficial mascot of Willows Lodge, who looks like the Hush Puppy dog, sidled over to us for an approving sniff before ambling back to be lavished at her perch by the entryway.


I had reached that point in the evening where my dipsomania leveled off and my entire mind and body felt as though they had been coated in a warm, thick layer of syrup.

With that feeling in place, I decided it would behoove us to partake of something that was not comprised predominately of fermented grapes so I ordered garlic fries knowing that dinner would not be too far off in the horizon. The fries arrived in a miniature stainless steel fryer basket lined with parchment paper and we immediately dug in. Garlic overwhelmed my olfactories and I’m convinced these fries were marinated in at least 50 cloves of garlic. Needless to say, they were sublime.



It was time for us to head over to Barking Frog for dinner, so I scurried up to the room for a quick wardrobe change before we made our way across the parking lot passing through a fractured, dilapidated tree en route.

Upon entry, I announced our reservations and we were led to a table for two. The mood was prim, if that makes any sense, and the lighting was far too bright. Other patrons seemed the slightest bit stuffy and there seemed to be a high concentration of old money.

Our server was pretty, kind, and predominately attentive except for the fact that every surrounding guest received a bread basket but us. This is a common occurrence, however, and a misfortune that seems to haunt us wherever we go. I have yet to figure out why that is….In any case, we ordered a bottle of Pellegrino and the house recommended “value” wine: Haystack Needle’s The Eye. The wine was jammy with an herbal essence and a berry bouquet—by far my most favorite selection of everything we had that evening.


I say this because the food we ordered was extraordinarily sweet. We shared Grand Marnier shrimp to start, which were four small butterflied shrimp in a candied glaze that tasted similar to high quality Chinese food.

For our first course, I chose the Apple Chestnut soup, which seemed like an apt choice considering the rouge weather outside. I was presented with a tiny column of pureed chestnut in an empty bowl and the server proceeded to pour the soup with extreme deliberation, swirling as he went until the column all but disappeared—leaving a tiny garnish on top. It was apparent that extreme attention was paid to painstakingly pristine presentation. The soup was only slightly sweet with a bitter and tart body.


Brett chose the Caesar salad to start. Though not sweet, it was an unfortunate culinary failure nonetheless. The dressing was gloppy and mayonnaisey, making the overall effect rather bland. Rather than blend the anchovies into the dressing, a lone carcass lay atop a single crostini (which was a paltry substitute for croutons).

I don’t mean to sound too critical, dear reader; I’m simply noting that while these culinary creations may be suited to some palates—they were not terribly pleasing to mine. Again, this isn’t to say the whole endeavor was not enjoyable. My main course was comprised of everything that was right up my alley including ahi, jalapeño, and macadamia nuts. I was served a seared loin of ahi resting atop macadamia jasmine rice and bathed in a white chocolate jalapeño roux. The result was not subtle—I felt as though I was eating a tuna cake covered in white chocolate frosting. It was not unsavory per se, but unsettling considering I was expecting a simple dish with subtle flavor infusions and was instead hit over the head by a whopping dose of sucrose.


We opted out of dessert --already dizzy with astronomical glucose levels. After bidding adieu to our server, we headed back across the way to our suite where we would lavishly ride out the rest of our evening.


Having soaked long enough in the whirlpool to properly prune myself, I wrapped up in an oversized bathrobe and plopped myself sideways on the bed to watch SNL. Moments later, I was ensconced in a deep, restful sleep. I slept sideways and like a starfish until 9am the following morning and rolled happily out of bed to make my way to the spa for a facial.

The Spa at Willows was quaint and simple. I seemed to be the only person indulging in a service that morning, so I was immediately led back to my room and instructed to disrobe. After crawling into the heated bed, I almost drifted back to Sleepytown as my esthetician pampered my visage. One blissful hour later, I went to collect Brett and we headed back to the Barking Frog for brunch, which was a far cry better than dinner the night before—we lazily drank coffee and juice, having had our fill of alcohol the day prior.

Before heading back to Ballard, we took one final sweep of the grounds. Willows Lodge’s surrounding area was heavily wooded and laced with horse trails. Faintly peering through the trees was Redhook, one of Seattle area’s most famous micro-breweries.

Since the wind was coarse and chilly, we cut our tour short and scurried back to the front desk. While waiting to check out, Brett stood behind a woman who was uncharacteristically bronzed for being in Seattle. She was decked out with an Hermès Birkin Bag, Manolo Blahnik shoes, and a fur vest (I know not from which critter it came)—she was obviously a big deal. Her hair was piled voluminously atop her head and layers of makeup caked her countenance. She continued to ask whether or not she had the best room in the Lodge before finally teetering off to the yellow Hummer awaiting her out front. I smiled to myself because as far as I’m concerned, Brett and I came out on top.

wonders of woodinville part wine (1)

To properly celebrate Brett’s re-entry into the world of working stiffs, we decided upon an indulgent weekend in Woodinville wine country where we would visit multiple wineries and partake of the luxuriant wonders of Woodinville’s Willows Lodge.

There is nothing quite like having a mini-break on the horizon when it comes to changing up the quotidian doldrums of employment. In the past, I have had the opportunity to volunteer for a handful of my winemaker friends so the prospect of enjoying Woodinville as a relishing Bonne Vivante was exciting.

Woodinville, a small town located 30 miles to the Northeast of Seattle, is host to over 50 wineries and for laymen’s purpouses is kind of like WesternWashington’s Napa Valley. The drive from Ballard is easy enough to do as a day trip, but to properly enjoy everything the area has to offer, it’s nice to stroll over with the intention of spending the night. That way, one might indulge in wine until their heart’s content without having to worry about weaving back across the bridge.

After ensuring our condo was spic and span, I hopped in the shower and began gussying up for our getaway. I packed my Orla Kiely wheeled carry-on with a change of clothing, a Vera Wang shift for dinner and practically my entire bathroom vanity. Ironically, I consider myself to be low maintenance but given the time and opportunity I love lavishing myself with powders, creams and other such fineries.

We topped off the girl’s dishes, left them plenty of fresh ice water (yes, our cats are terribly persnickety), gave them big kisses and we were off. The weather gave off an ominous portent: rough winds billowed and shrieked while angry clouds shuddered. The sun was nowhere to be seen and we wondered what type of precipitation would be over our shoulders for the duration of the weekend. While initially discouraged by the possibility of rain hampering our fun, Brett pointed out that we would be inside most of the time anyway. I also thought to myself that wine does have a way of casting an enchanting glow over what might otherwise be perceived as anything less than perfection.

It was shortly before 3pm when we rolled in to Woodinville. Considering most tasting rooms close right around 5, we made no haste and instead got right down to business. Our first stop was Mark Ryan’s Dead Horse Winery located a mere stone’s throw away from the widely known Chateau St. Michelle. Though his winery is still comparatively small, Mark Ryan is a force to be reckoned with among vintners worldwide. He began wine-making as a hobby ten years ago and has since godfathered a number of burgeoning wine makers in the area and increased his presence well beyond Washington’s borders. Mark Ryan’s popularity has generated an almost cult-like following and you can guarantee that on any given weekend his tasting room will be filled to the brim with wine loving folk—which is exactly what we encountered upon our arrival there. Previously located in an industrial park in Woodinville’s North end (more on that later), Mark’s tasting room now occupies a pleasant and brightly lit space right in the thick of the action. Upon entering, we were greeted by Joan, a lovely and enchanting pixie-like woman. I’ve had the honor of volunteering with her before so we began chatting as she poured us the Viognier. Historically, I have never been a proponent of white wines but that philosophy was turned on its ear the moment I was introduced to some of the whites of Woodinville. Mark Ryan’s Viognier is delicious: smooth, crisp and fragrant with a clean finish. I’m hesitant to bloviate too much on the descriptions of any given wine simply because I find that everyone’s palate is so different. Wine tasting, to me, is a very personal experience but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t terribly amused by the pomposity with which many people speak about a wine’s character.


The atmosphere at Mark Ryan’s was laid back and groovy: framed Ween and Pearl Jam posters adorn the walls, a picture of John Waters’ mustachioed mouth hangs behind the cash register, antique cupboards house some of the wines, a Hillman long board leans against the wall and a vintage bike rests in front of an expansive floor length mirror.

Mark Ryan, despite his intimidating stature is extremely warm, friendly and down to earth. We chatted briefly with another reveler about Converse sneakers before he let Brett snap a photo of the two of us.


After lingering by a barrel and tasting the six different wines being offered, Brett and I procured a bottle of the aforementioned Viognier and a bottle of the Dissident (Mark’s predominantly Merlot red table wine.) I declined a bag and instead boasted “Your wines are like a Gucci label- they should be worn with pride and for the world to see!” Even though this was only our first stop, I could still feel the warmth of wine beginning to swill around my mind and thus spoke with little reservation and a dash of the nonsensical.

Our next visit was the aforementioned industrial park which is host to a slew of “Garagiste” winemakers amidst dance studios and auto body shops. The “Garagiste” movement in winemaking includes procuring grapes predominantly from Eastern Washington AVAs, the Red Mountain AVA being a particularly favorite appellation amongst the winemakers because it yields high quality, robust grapes. Once the grapes are harvested and trucked back across the state, they are crushed and aged in the wineries which are akin to large, spartan concrete cubicles. Each winery features a barrel room in the back, and a tasting room in the front. Darby Winery was our first stop in the complex.

Darby’s space is very rustic and offers a completely different vibe from the crisp and clean environs of Mark Ryan’s. I can only describe the place as being pastoral and folksy. A large chandelier hangs in the center of the ceiling and is surrounded by antique-y glass fixtures that have succumbed to the wrath of Darby’s wine-making tools which only adds character to the place, in my opinion.


My friend Renee was volunteering alongside Darby English (owner and winemaker) with whom I have been loosely acquainted before. Since I was on the inside, Brett and I were able to dash the five dollar tasting fee to enjoy Mr. English’s four wines. I have a few of his wines cellared (read: nestled among 50 or so other wines in our storage unit) so I decided to get a bottle of his ’07 Purple Haze for immediate consumption. Purple Haze is a predominantly Cabernet Sauvignon blend with Cab Franc and Malbec to round it out. Since I drank this wine the day after we returned from our trip, I actually did take notes for recounting purpouses. Yes, I know it would have behooved me to whip out a pen and pad whilst wine tasting, but that would have felt far too pretentious. Instead, I just tossed back each wine, enjoying the bouquets and flavors as I went. Purple Haze had a sharp, acidic and floral nose and a silky full-fruit mouth with a clean alkaline finish. It was definitely easy to drink, considering I consumed nearly the whole bottle myself.


The day was late and we made haste to stop at a few more wineries before heading into the lodge. Adjacent to Darby is Guardian Cellars, Jerry Riener and Jennifer Sullivan’s winery. Jerry is an officer of the law, hence the name of his winery, and got his start helping Mark Ryan. In 2003, Jerry introduced two barrels of Cabernet Sauvignon with Mark Ryan and in 2004 broke out on his own. The names of each wine are cleverly associated with his day job: Angel (Guardian Angel…get it? It took me about a month of having a bottle of this wine in my fridge before I finally connected the dots with an “ahah!” moment), Gun Metal and Chalk Line.

Guardian’s spot is barren chic: featuring clean lines, a long stainless table and eggplant coloured fleur de lis wallpaper. The crowd was dwindling as 5pm approached so I chatted up Jennifer and reminisced about the folks I had seen tasting around the area thus far. Woodinville wine tasters include all walks of life ranging from the tacky hoi polloi (a dowdy woman wearing a ribbon made out of fake pearls in her hair) to the faux Aristocrat (a snooty looking gal donning a terribly haute Burberry Porsum coat.) Jennifer nodded and sagely quipped that there is a lot of variety (so to speak) in the area.

Neither Brett nor I wanted to be those annoying people that linger obliviously after a place of business is hoping to close, so we requested a photo with the couple, bought a bottle each of the ’06 Gun Metal (flagship blend of Cabernet, Merlot, Cab Franc and Malbec with a full plummy body and savory bouquet) and ’07 Chalk Line (a kitchen sink blend of grapes from all over the state considered to be Guardian's declassified table wine), and went on about our merry way.


Since it was still open, we popped into Sparkman Cellars right down the way. They seemed to be welcoming onlookers as today was the release of their latest Syrah, Merlot and Chardonnay. Sparkman is a family winery through and through (husband, wife, their two little girls and both sets of grandparents), and also one that got its start with help from the gracious Mark Ryan back in 2004. By this point in the evening, having predominantly consumed fermented grapes throughout the course of the day, I was thrilled to spot crostini with a shrimp ceviche on display. I swiftly grabbed a few and munched on them whilst trying the various wines. I felt like I was in a Fitzgeraldian vignette such was the dark, moody and swank ambience. Bistro tables lined the walls, and the lights were off in the back—a great Speakeasy-esque barrel room.

After fumbling around and chatting with the employees for a bit, it was time to set off for Willows Lodge and commence our night of indulgence...

H1Noodle1

A wave of nausea washed over me at 5am on Thursday and I was instantly concerned. Had I been struck with H1N1? Or could my fabulous dinner last night possibly have turned against me? Despite lacking sick leave, which is parsimoniously combined with my holiday leave, I knew that hopping on the work train would be out of the question so I crawled back into bed and tried to shove my queasiness aside.

I seem to have a proclivity for becoming ill after ramen consumption, which is devastating considering the fact that it’s one of my favorite winter meals. Having lived in Japan for a year, delicious and authentic ramen is difficult to come by so I was terribly anxious to head to Boom Noodle in Bellevue on Thursday after work. Little did I know my indulgences would later be regrets…

Instead of forcing Brett to take the bus home due to a meeting that ran late that day, I decided that we should make an affair out of the occasion. I would shop whilst he was otherwise occupied since my work whistle blows at 4. After that, the two of us could head to Boom in Bellevue, which is conveniently en route back to Ballard. For those less savvy on Japanese culture, a boom is something of which one is incredibly fond. Noodles are naturally this restaurant’s particular boom.

We arrived at 5:30pm to a sparsely occupied space. The aesthetic of Boom Noodle is intrinsically Japanese, though the space is considerably larger. Images from FRUiTS, a Tokyo magazine focused on Japanese street style adorn the walls.

What I enjoy most is that even though the ventilation and piping systems are exposed on the ceilings, all seating is nested underneath cozy wooden lofts offering an inviting feeling despite the vast interior. Since it was thus far unoccupied, our host allowed me to select a regal half moon booth large enough to accommodate ten guests. Brett and I perched ourselves on our throne and perused the drink menu. I requested their kiddie drink “Yuzu Lemonade” with vodka and Brett ordered his gold standard. Yuzu Lemonade is a delicious combination of the Japanese citrus fruit yuzu (tart and comparable to grapefruit), lemonade, Calpico (a Japanese soft drink which is milky in colour and very sweet) and an umeboshi float (sour plum). I found the addition of vodka to be just what the doctor ordered to cut the overly sweet finish of Calpico.


Since the drink ordering was settled, I decided to poke through the upstairs izakaya in order to make my way to the loo (hidden in the bowels of the Bellevue Square mall.) The first time Brett and I frequented Boom, when it opened back in March, I became disoriented and subsequently lost in the veritable crazy straw of hallways. This time I eschewed the crazy straw and bounded up a stairwell that separates Boom Noodle from Blue C Sushi and leads to the izakaya above, which is a small bungalow-style bar offering small plates from the adjoining restaurants and cocktails aplenty. En route, I happened upon a hidden back room complete with Guitar Hero and various other X-Box 360 and Wii games. As a server slinked past me, I inquired about the particulars of this room and she sagely informed me that for a minimum order of one thousand dollars worth of grub, the room could be mine. I lingered and gazed longingly at the elite quarters, intensely wishing that someone would throw my birthday there.


Heading back downstairs, it was time for the hedonism to commence. We began with salt and pepper tofu that were waiting on the table upon my return. The chewy tofu was encapsulated in a crispy deep-fried shell and served with a side of sautéed green onion and jalapeño, with an accompanying mound of grilled seasoning in which to dip the tasty cubes. Having an affinity for tsukemono (Japanese pickles), I asked our affable server if the restaurant had any available. Fortunately for me they did, though it was not listed on the menu. He presented me with a geometric display of pickled green beans, radishes, and carrots surrounding a tiny mound of white rice. Because one starter is obviously not enough, I also chose the miso rice cakes for us to enjoy. These starters were pan-seared, which resulted in chewy little pillars of mixed grain rice topped with a caramelized miso glaze and Asian-style slaw peppered with black sesame seeds. Everything thus far was delicious and we began to bloat contentedly after the hors d’oeuvres—our noodle feast still on the horizon.


Everything arrived to our table at a very steady pace, barely affording us time to properly relish one thing before we were forced to move along to the next. Our piping hot noodles were ferried over in asymmetrical bowls and harkened a Tampopo-esque perfection in their presentation. Tampopo is an iconic Japanese “Noodle Western” and also happens to be one of my favorite movies of all time. The movie explores the relevance of food in Japanese culture as a means to not only provide life, but also happiness, desire, and self-expression. The scene I was reminded of in particular was one in which an older gentleman waxes philosophical on the importance of perfect ramen: a clear, gently cloudy broth (mine was Shio- a soy/chicken/pork mixture- check), three tenderly fatty soft pieces of pork that melt in your mouth (check), two floral kamaboko (spongy fish cake- check), green onion (check), a piece of nori (seaweed-check), and bamboo shoots (check). All these elements combine with firm yet soft ramen noodles to create a perfectly balanced, harmonious meal. The aforementioned ideal is exactly what we received for our dinner. Conversation ceased and we both properly slurped (blowing whilst sucking to cool them down) our noodles, every so often setting down our chopsticks to embrace the bowl with both hands and drink the deliciously salty and robust broth.


We barely came up for air, such was the quality of our food. Either that or we were both starving. In any case, the evening continued to darken and I couldn’t help but feel über-chic being one of the very few couples dining. So dark was the night that I pretended we were guests of a private event at a Japanese noodle bar in Tokyo around midnight.

That enchanting feeling slowly dissipated into what I can only describe as a sodium coma. Brett drove us home and I reclined my seat to alleviate the discomfort of over-indulgence. Having been rendered useless for the remainder of the evening, I padded my way to the bedroom and acquiesced to the overwhelming feeling of gluttony. When I awoke the next morning, I felt even more dire. Despite the deliciousness and enjoyment our noodles were able to provide on Wednesday night, they left me askew on Thursday morning which only confirms that one can, in fact, enjoy too much of a good thing. Regardless of this fact, I’m most certain we’ll return in the near future.

Halloween Festivities

I tried to convince myself that it would be best to dig into the archives of my closet to find a frock for the Opera on Halloween evening, but knew when I awoke on Saturday morning that that simply would not do. Having previously admitted that I have notions about myself which are obviously not based in reality, it should be no surprise that I subscribe to the school of thought that one should never be seen out and about in the same outfit twice.

The first Opera of the season landed on Halloween evening, and while dressing up in a costume did not seem appropriate, I thought it might be fun to channel a flapper sort of vibe for the occasion. With that vision in place, I scurried to my car for an impromptu shopping trip at Pacific Place on Saturday afternoon.

I had envisioned finding the perfect drop-waist dress immediately upon entering the mall, which of course was not to be the case. After taking brief laps through the usual suspects (Ann Taylor, Barney’s, Club Monaco), I was rapidly becoming discouraged and fearful that I may be forced to go spelunking in my own closet. However, J. Crew, always and forever my wardrobe savior, had the closest thing to perfection: a black chiffon tiered camisole with three black rhinestone buttons on the left shoulder strap. The top was at once elegant and chic and its silhouette harkened early 20th century glamour. Having procured the top and a pair of rose gold hoop earrings, it was now my mission to find the perfect pairing to bring my ensemble together. Brett and I have been season ticket holders to the Opera for the past three years, and we historically treat the entire day as an event in and of itself. With the top portion of my outfit determined, I made a pit-stop at Whole Foods to pick up some canapés and wine to enjoy pre-Opera.

I arrived to our gloriously clean condo (having spent the better portion of the morning on my hands and knees thoroughly scrubbing every nook and cranny) shortly after 4:30pm and set about preparing our hors d’oeuvres—promptly pouring myself a glass of wine as well. Brett was busy decompressing with his PS3, so I turned on my beloved 40’s music as I cut up some Patisse de Beaujeolais (blue goat’s cheese), three-year aged Gouda, apricot Wensleydale and some Grand Pont L’eveque (a ridiculously awful smelling but wonderfully delicious cow’s milk cheese from the Normandy region of France.) To pair with the cheeses I sliced a Sour Ficelle baguette and put the slices in a bowl with sesame tarragon crackers. The mood was set perfectly for Halloween since a blue fog covered the sun as it began to set and our abode was delicately illuminated with a potpourri of candles. We sat for a moment and enjoyed “A Clockwork Orange” before beginning to prepare for the events of the evening.

As is standard, I dilly dallied while coiffing my hair and daintily applying my eyeliner with Geisha-like precision. With my visage complete, all that was left to determine was the lower half of my ensemble. I was gripped with fear as the first four skirts I had considered while at J. Crew did not pair well with my top at all. Finally, I decided upon a brilliant fuchsia wool skirt that landed just above the knee and finished the look with opera length pearls, rose gold hoops, embroidered Wolford tights and five inch rose gold heels. Brett opted for a casual chic look which included a dashing pair of dark denim jeans, a newly procured lavender Ted Baker oxford, and his trusty black pinstripe suit jacket.

McCaw Hall

All gussied up, we made haste to arrive at McCaw Hall early enough to enjoy some pre-performance libations. Aside from milling about with cocktails at theatre level (God forbid we be seen in the First Tier where our seats actually are), my favorite part of the evening is critiquing Opera-goers’ ensembles. As I suspected, there were indeed people who opted to dress up for the event. The most common theme seemed to be men wearing horns, which could potentially have been an endeavor in subtlety, but due to the high volume of people wearing them it only seemed trite. Masquerade masks were popular as well—and I also had the good fortune of spotting a gentleman dressed in a red velour smoking jacket, a mermaid donning a blue paillette dress (which was actually very striking) and, of course, a phantom of the opera.

Since tonight’s performance was Verdi’s La Traviata, the bar was serving appropriately themed cocktails. Brett had a Tanquerey-based libation entitled the Parisian, and I chose a Citron Vodka concoction called the Courtesan, which was served in a champagne flute.

We traipsed through the hall and slinked up the grand stairs toward our seats. With moments to spare, we sipped on our cocktails right outside the entrance until the last bells rang before slipping inside the theatre. Our seats were in an empty row, which I attributed to the fact that it was Halloween, but Brett seemed to think the less than full house was a result of the recession.

A hush washed over the audience as the conductor assumed his position in the orchestra pit and we were soon enveloped in a glorious symphony. Brett’s main gripe about the Opera is what I love the most: that a five minute story is drawn out over the course of three hours. La Traviata is centered on an ailing Parisian Courtesan named Violetta who has never felt true love until she is introduced to a gentleman named Alfredo at her dinner party. The two fall hopelessly and desperately in love and the first scene concludes with the two of them held in a tender embrace on her terrace.

In the second act, Violetta’s health is much improved and the happy couple now live together in the French countryside. Unbeknownst to Alfredo, Violetta is selling off all of her possessions in Paris in order to accommodate their lifestyle in the country. Alfredo is appalled when he makes this discovery by way of Violetta’s servant Annina and decides he must go to Paris and fix the situation. Whilst he is away, Alfredo’s father comes to visit and begs Violetta to leave his son. He claims that her reputation is jeopardizing his younger daughter’s promising engagement to a royal family. After much arguing, Violetta finally acquiesces but insists that Giorgio (Alfredo’s father) tell his daughter of this sacrifice.

Violetta leaves a note for Alfredo and heads off, disconsolate, to a friend’s party in Paris. Alfredo is convinced that his father was behind her departure and intends to confront Violetta at the gathering. The two meet, fight, and Alfredo flees the fete after he is reprimanded by his father for his brute display of challenging Violetta’s date and throwing money at Violetta’s feet.

The last act is laden with sadness as Violetta lies dying in her bed of the consumption. She is horrifically pale and woebegone until Alfredo finally arrives to her bedside. The two reconcile and embrace while her doctor and Annina look on. In the final moments, Giorgio arrives to bless their union but alas, Violetta has died in her lover’s arms.

As per usual, I was a basketcase throughout the performance. I found it to be touching and evocative. But let’s face it; I’m also just a sap. The set design was impeccable and the costumes were flawless (I was thrilled that my skirt matched the burgundies, purples, reds and pinks of other courtesan’s attire.) Our two intermissions were spent in the Bravo Lounge partaking of gratis red wine. I enjoyed that we had our own private room in which to pass the time and delighted to see the Space Needle looming over us just outside the windows. I received a message from my friend DeAnn letting me know that our presence was requested on Capital Hill and at that moment it was decided that Brett and I would not head home post-Opera for a quiet evening wind-down but rather we would face the insanity of Capital Hill on Halloween with the full moon on our tails.

Typically, I am one of those people that stands and applauds the cast until every single person has taken their bow, but since Brett and I had newly laid plans to paint the town red, I grabbed my binoculars and made a mad dash in my five inchers to our parked car. I was overcome with a fit of giggles as I noticed many others were making that same mad dash and what ensued was akin to something you might see in a video game. We barreled down the parking garage, swerving to avoid cars squealing out of their spaces and braking to avoid disoriented senior pedestrians. Finally, we escaped and were able to turn left right before a traffic guard closed the street down to siphon post-Opera traffic.

***
I had no idea what we were about to get ourselves into as we approached the Pike and Pine interchange on Capital Hill. Traffic was at a standstill as drunken hoards of costumed young adults wandered hither and thither. I pulled up along a blinged out Escalade and was greeted by a gentleman who called himself Luscious Lucifer. On that night, for all I knew, he very well could have been who he claimed. Discouraged that we likely wouldn’t find parking within a reasonable radius of Barca Lounge, I headed west down Madison when I happened upon a perfect spot that was within five blocks of our destination.

I felt horribly incongruous mingling amongst all these revelers in my prim Opera attire. I was instantly cheered up, however, when I asked Brett what we could say we were dressed up as and he deadpanned “Adults.” The chill of the evening was making its way through my bones and I was disheartened by the length of the queue to get into the bar. It was then that I noticed Vermillion, a tiny art gallery/ bar located right next to our destination. Having to go to the bathroom more than anything I figured it would behoove us to slip inside and order drinks. Besides which, the warmth was a welcome change to the craziness outside. Vermillion’s atmosphere inside the brick walled bungalow was sleepy and chill. Delighted with our find, I insisted that DeAnn and her husband Paul join us. Eventually, they found their way over and we all enjoyed a few glasses of wine and some hearty homemade mac and cheese. Since the night was still young-ish (1am?) and the intensity of Barca’s line was a bit more subdued, we headed in the direction of where we were to close out the evening.

Upon entering, I immediately wrangled my way to the front of the bar and ordered drinks for the group. The bar was a mess of drunken revelers dressed up as PeeWee Herman, Roger Federer, Hamburger Helper, Balloon Boy, and Saudi oil Sheiks. As I was standing and reveling with my wine in hand, a chap draped in a paper bag tumbled into me and my glass. Mustering my best attitude, I asked that he kindly go to the bar and procure me some club soda. Much to my dismay, he came scampering back with the soda moments later. (“I even got you a lime,” he whimpered.)

on the perch

Somehow, we managed to wrangle our way up to the second floor which was apparently where a private party was taking place. I was accosted by a bouncer on the stairwell who demanded I tell him the password. Shaking my head, I waited for the person behind me to state “Law” before I passed along the knowledge to my group. We pranced up the stairs and perched at a corner table overlooking the whole bar.

An hour or so passed while we commentated on everyone’s getup below. The lights began to flicker and we were booted from the second floor around 2am. Slowly making our way through the crowds, the four of us were washed out onto the streets where we said our heavy-lidded and giddy goodbyes.