A Journey to The Silk Road

Located on Government Street a 20 minute walk from the inner harbour, there stands a store called “Silk Road” on the cusp of Victoria’s China Town. Upon entry through the front door, one is greeted by a friendly employee cheerfully offering a small cup of tea to enjoy as you browse. Of all the shops I frequent whilst visiting Victoria, B.C, Silk Road ranks among my favorite. Not only does it offer a potpourri of teas and accoutrements, but tucked beneath the street level is a cozy cloistered spa.

After making a few perfunctory laps around the store and tossing deliciously scented bath salts, a random smattering of melamine plates, ceramic mugs, and tea into my mini shopper, Brett and I plunked down to enjoy an afternoon cup of tea before I would be whisked away for my spa treatments. Floor to ceiling windows accommodated the gentle sunshine filtering subtly onto our faces and we quietly sipped our “Sea Mist” tea, referred to also as Mermaid’s Potion—a heady blend of lemongrass, mint and seaweed that is at once calming and invigorating. Lining the dilapidated brick walls are a number of crisp white wooden shelves with a myriad of tins featuring every possible tea one might imagine from the traditional English Breakfast or Jasmine to the less common choices such as Pu-erh and Yerba Maté. The wall behind the tea bar where we sat is host to traditional tea ceremony appurtenances which are so treasured that no photography is allowed.

While partaking of our tea, we made small talk with the gentleman behind the counter who looked like Alan Cumming’s doppelganger. He told us about a new chocolate endeavor in which Silk Road partnered with Roger’s Chocolates to create tea infused organic chocolate bars in Matcha, Earl Grey and Chai flavors. Before he could even finish his sentence, I darted off to grab a handful of these bars and added them to my loot.

Shortly thereafter, Brett made his way back to our hotel and I ensconced myself on an overstuffed velvet couch at the periphery of the store, pretending to be profoundly captivated by a book on Mosques. I wasn’t waiting too long (time becomes irrelevant on holiday anyway…) before a lovely young girl approached me. With genuine warmth she smiled and said that once we passed through the door we should whisper so as not to disturb anyone enjoying a treatment and to promote an environment of relaxation. Behind the small antique-looking door, a narrow stairwell descended toward the inner sanctum of private rooms. Classical music quietly issued forth from the walls as Lindsay ushered me into my suite. I was taken at once by how quaint, rustic and simple the room was. A definitively French feel to the barren brick-walled chamber gave off the perception that I was privy to a very secret club.

As I prepared myself for the luxuriating that was to ensue, I noticed a pleasant lack of torture tools usually prominent in a spa (harsh lighting to inspect pores, extraction devices, whirring towel heaters etc.) Instead, I was guided through what I might expect during my facial and body wrap before Lindsay left me to get ready amidst nothing but my bed, a mirror, and a tiny little side table on which to place my jewelry. I had nearly drifted from consciousness by the time she returned to the room so I barely noticed that she had brought in bins of everything with her (oils, salts, hot towels etc).

Perhaps one of my favorite things about the experience was that Lindsay didn’t feel the need to inundate me with questions and chat me up while she administered my “treatments”. Too often I go to a spa only to have my esthetician make small talk while I’m supposed to meditating so it meant a lot that I was simply allowed to rest. As my body was buffed and moisturized, my face detoxified, and my pressure points massaged; I slowly drifted into a delicate oblivion wherein I most definitely lost track of time. My pampering lasted two hours before Lindsay agilely and quietly left the room.

Afterward I slowly readied myself in a bliss-induced haze before I was quietly guided upstairs to enjoy another cup of tea and offer my feedback on the experience. I emerged from the spa glistening and glowing as though I had been dipped into a bath of honey. I felt absolutely replenished and didn’t even mind the sheets of rain smattering against the sidewalk as I wandered back to the hotel.

For Retail?

Being the devout donner of a certain brand of clothing that I am, I figured it would only make sense for me to partake of a part-time job with the company. Time is definitely of the essence as it stands, but if nothing else, I was hoping to defray some of my shopping costs by funneling the pay from this new position into my wardrobe and saving some of my regular income for things like…oh, I don’t know…say, food and sundries?

During my high school years I worked as a barista at Gloria Jean’s Coffee Bean, but never in the retail realm. Well, that’s not entirely true. I had a two week stint at the Gap—but my enamour rapidly fizzled after an experience I had spending four hours reorganizing the sale rack by size and colour only to discover it was in absolute shambles the following day. It seemed like far too Sisyphean a task for my tastes so under the arrogance of youth I simply stopped going. (In Gap’s defense they had about 50 employees and scarcely noticed my absence.)

My former retail experience was wrapped in the foggy gauze of delusion because all I could see were dollar signs and the positive impact an employee discount would have on my closet. This will be insanely fun, I thought to myself. Being such a proponent of the product, I’ll be able to sell wads of this stuff with my eyes closed! - My delusion continued on in this manner until my first shift last night.

A navy white Gingham-checked oxford arrived that very day from, let's call this store "Modern Chic," so I quickly ironed it, put on my capri pants, decked myself in bejeweled bracelets and necklaces, coiffed my hair, slipped on my Toms and went on my way to “work”. I looked the part, I think. At least, I hoped I did. Upon arriving I encountered a disaffected gentleman I will refer to as Thomas who, with his Sperry Topsiders, skinny corduroys and well-manicured mustache, looked like he walked off the set of a Wes Anderson movie. He explained how I should clock in and began leading me around speaking in a tone which indicated he could not have been more bored.

I don’t want to say that I was oblivious on my first day, but I was definitely confused (being completely new to the environment.) No one seemed to have any clear idea of what to do with me and I was shuffled off to three different people to shadow during the two hours the store was open. I padded along behind them closely like a lost puppy keeping a pleasant countenance and an open mind.

Finally, I landed on a girl we shall call Poppy and was to learn the cash register with her. The register was a foreign beast of which I was completely horrified because it meant that I was responsible for charging people for their goods. Poppy eyed me cautiously and I tried beaming at her, apologizing for the interminable length of time it was taking me to do things but she seemed disinterested and slightly annoyed. I like to think my wit can keep me afloat in new and uncomfortable situations—but her wall was impenetrable. It began with the slightest nuances of elitism: I told her that I worked in Issaquah in the Costco corporate offices and lived in Ballard and she couldn’t possibly fathom why on earth I would drive so much. But then things became increasingly, from my perception, more hostile. She would take control of the register because I was too slow; feign deafness when I complimented a skirt she was trying on; and she felt the need to share with everyone within earshot that she had to swoop up items quickly because her size (a size ZERO) was the first to go. I was hurt and slightly befuddled and began to wonder what I had done wrong to garner such dislike from this woman who was effectively a complete stranger. I felt marginal and sad. Realizing that my attempts at friendliness were rather fruitless, I turned inward and simply began reorganizing the sale rack of t-shirts.

Once the store closed, I began to fold, refold, straighten and straighten again every single item in sight. After sizing and straightening one rack, Poppy came over and lambasted my shoddy job of organizing. “It has to look NICE, like THIS…okay?” she oozed with such an air of superiority that I was smarting as though I had been smacked on the face. I smiled and said "Got it!" and then scampered away.

From that point on no one made any effort to chat with me. The college girls bounced around and made small talk. At one point I tried to insert myself into a conversation about yoga that failed so quickly it was as though I had farted on everyone’s face. I’ve never been so socially inept so I couldn’t help but wonder….was I being hazed?

My folding skills which I had thought were so immaculate were apparently not so much because everyone re-did what I had already done. The place was to be pristine-- almost as though a deft army of robots swept in to do the work. At quarter after ten, it seemed to be satisfactory. I quietly followed the group to the back room and collected my belongings.

I drove home in silence, wiping my mind of any thoughts. I felt numb and wasn't sure what to make of this new experience. But then again, I reconciled, I wasn't after making new friends...this is all about the discount, isn't it?

To All My Lovely Readers...

I wanted to take a moment to thank all of you for your individual emails inquiring as to what I’ve been up to lately. I heartily wish that I were able to devote more time to ruminating on my life as a Bonne Vivante but wanted to let you know that life in Seattle has been robust these past few weeks.

Most recently, I have been partaking of activities that Brett jokes are better left to senior citizens. A few weekends ago brought the immense pleasure of attending Garrison Keillor’s Prairie Home Companion at the Paramount Theatre. It was simple…a bit folksy… and it harkened to a much different and much simpler time. This past Sunday we went to see the Glenn Miller Orchestra perform at Benaroya Hall—a performance to which I was tapping my toes and bopping up and down the entire time.

In the coming weeks I will be volunteering at Baer Winery during Passport weekend in Woodinville, hosting my beloved dad-o for a long weekend, visiting as many restaurants as possible during Seattle’s Restaurant Week, and taking a much needed mini-break to Victoria, BC.

Please know that as soon as I find a way to squeeze a couple extra hours into the day, I will be back to blogging about my escapades. In the mean time, stay tuned and stay in touch!

Clicking my heels....

The enchanting barns and silos drift further and further away as I bid farewell to that all too familiar terrain of Wisconsin. The older I become, the more endeared I feel toward the state in which I grew up. For many years I forsook Appleton for what it was: a burgeoning Midwestern city that’s only mildly hokey but certainly not continental. I was extremely fortunate to have had the opportunity to travel copiously in my youth as there was a considerable amount of horizon broadening that occurred as a result. Unfortunately though, it made me long for something bigger—a city of the world. I guess it boils down to never really appreciating what we have when we have it. Now that I’m ever so slightly more mature I relish the cultural idiosyncrasies of my hometown and am grateful that it had a hand in developing me into the person I’ve become.

I love traveling and especially loved my journey home over Easter weekend. There’s something so magical about boarding a plane in the middle of the night and waking up in the morning in a different part of the country. Time becomes irrelevant. I rocked back and forth like a metronome in my middle seat for the duration of my flight from Seattle to Minneapolis. Since I was wedged into place like a sardine in a tin, sleep eluded me. My neck was cramped, my back sore, my knees continually knocking the seat in front of me. Bleary eyed and happy that the larger portion of the journey was done, I transversed the entire airport to reach the satellite gates and stopped at Caribou Coffee along the way. With my earl gray caramel soy latte in hand, I perched myself next to two couples speaking with their thickly affected Midwestern accent on subjects such as Shopko. It felt good to be home…

Upon arriving “back at the ranch” as my dado always says, I crashed for a bit before mom and I headed out for lunch followed by a trip to the mall (as is customary.) The rest of the weekend was extraordinarily relaxing and fun. A large portion of my time was spent simply visiting. Visiting with family…visiting with friends. It felt so incredibly good to be back in my old familiar territory surrounded by people who love and miss having me around—people who I miss with every ounce of my being. Having moved away, I suppose that means too that I’ve “grown up” and branched out on my own but I still struggle with that concept—it’s a process of evolution, expansion, uncertainty and learning. Even now at 29, I wonder if I have grown up. I miss my mom. I miss my home. I miss being taken care of. But I suppose that’s a part of growth and life as well. The older I become, the more I appreciate things that I never thought were a very big deal.

Don’t get me wrong- I love the hustle and bustle of my life in Seattle: filling my schedule with after work drink dates, Bikram yoga classes, dinner parties, Opera, concerts and wine tasting. But no matter how far away I am…or how old I become…there’s simply no place like home.

Please note the above image is not representative of Appleton, Wisconsin but is simply an artistic rendering of the pastoral Wisconsin countryside. Appleton is a thriving mini-metropolis replete with many cultural and fine dining opportunities.