My battered but faithful body, my new employee badge, my daughter's lunch pail, my boot-cut blue jeans - I might as well have been a bride walking down the aisle with my old and new, my borrowed and blue. Though, instead of an altar at my destination, I arrived at an empty classroom with a large packet of worksheets close to my chest like a bouquet of flowers.

I had purposely chosen a short, 90-minute assignment with a small class of 2nd graders for this, my first day as a substitute teacher. I hadn’t had much time to prepare myself mentally for this new career move since returning from my trip to Seattle last month. In fact, the email notification that my 30-day emergency teaching credential had been approved actually landed in my inbox the morning I was preparing to return home to the bay area. It came at a perfect time: a reminder of the importance to honor both the old and the new in my life. 

The previous two days in Seattle had gone by so quickly. Although decades had passed since I'd been in that city, I was still haunted by things that I’d done there, decisions I’d made and things that had happened to me. What exactly had I hoped to accomplish on this journey? What was I expecting to find?  

Getting my daughter, Martina, settled into her apartment on our first day was my primary task. That involved a lot of driving and shopping and getting to know her new roommates. The following morning there was an orientation for new grad students, so I had some time to myself. 

Seattle is a beautiful city, one made even more stunning by the demolition of the Alaskan Way viaduct in 2019.  I recalled the waterfront area as dark and dilapidated, a place to be avoided. Now it is a booming tourist destination with spectacular views, a boardwalk with rides, restaurants and other attractions including a world class aquarium.

I had made a long mental list of places I wanted to see on this visit, but figured, since it would all pass by so quickly, I would likely have to take inventory of my emotions later. I started the day early and drove across Lake Washington to the LDS temple in Bellevue. It was still dark when I entered the temple, but the sun was shining by the time I emerged. The air was crisp and clean and the drive back across the bridge revealed a vast wonderland of lush green vegetation and sparkling clear waters. 

Upon arriving downtown, I dropped off my rental car in a parking lot and set out on foot heading first to Nordstrom’s. I recognized my old spot by the entrance under the awning right away. I placed the palm of my hand on the wall of the building as if touching it would somehow transport me through time and connect me with my past self. I turned around with my back to the wall and looked out at the street, a view that would have been very familiar to me since I used to play my violin there every day. The sidewalk was not as wide as I remembered it and the one-way traffic on the street in front of me used to go uphill to the right, not down. 

I allowed myself a moment to try and recreate the scene from many years ago when my parents, after finding out where I was from a cousin who saw me on a random news clip, surprised me by flying up to Seattle. They reserved a hotel room downtown and showed up in that exact spot where I was now standing. When I saw my mother approach from a distance, it took me a few seconds to comprehend what I was seeing. My father was there too, not far behind her. I stopped playing and we all embraced. It was a joyous reunion but short-lived because, in spite of their wishes, I wasn’t ready to return home with them.

Back in the present, I took a few quick pictures with my phone and headed over to Pike Place Market. I’d forgotten how steep some of the streets were in the downtown area so I was glad to be wearing comfortable shoes. I was a bit winded by the time I got to the market, but I was immediately taken in by its vibrancy and life. It was a happening place: tourists mulling about, checking out the displays, merchants in their stalls selling fish (lots and lots of fish), others selling clothing, jewelry, and all sorts of memorabilia. I was enchanted by the alluring array of colors and delighted by the most welcome scent of freshly cut flowers. 

Amidst the din of people talking and shouting there was also music, live music. I followed the sound and came across two elderly men playing bluegrass on a banjo and a guitar at a busy corner entrance. I listened for a while, then made my way to the lower level of the market where I heard a young guitarist singing folk songs. I arrived at what used to be a gelateria but which is now a coffee shop. Situated in the middle of a set of long staircases called the Pike Place Hillclimb, this was the first place I ever played in Seattle. 

What a strange time that was. To think that just days after disappearing from my home in Berkeley, I was playing music in the lobby of an ice cream shop 800 miles away. I was alive but my parents didn’t know it. I was playing music, but they couldn’t hear me. I was often cold and hungry and scared, but they couldn’t help me. One day, as I stood on a sidewalk near Pike Place, looking up at a pedestrian overpass, I thought to myself, “Someday I’ll tell my story. Some day. Someday I’ll know what to say.” 

I only had time for a brief stroll along the new waterfront area before heading back to my car. I was amazed at how much more light there was with the viaduct gone. How grateful I am that my story didn’t end in Seattle and that I did eventually turn my life around. How grateful I am that I was able to do it on my own terms even though it took years. And boy am I glad I was later able to share so many of my life’s milestones with both of my parents, that my dad was able to walk me down the aisle with my old and new, my borrowed and blue, and that in some small way I was able to repay them for all they did for me.  

I returned to my car and drove around looking for where the Denny’s restaurant might have been in the downtown area. I knew from Google maps that it was no longer there, but perhaps because I had spent so many cold, sleepless nights in that area, it called to me. I had also wanted to go up to the top of the Space Needle because that is where I once met with Jack Palladino, the detective who had been hired by my parents to find me, but I couldn’t find parking and I was running out of time, so I just drove by. 

Later that day, with my daughter, we had lunch at Dick’s hamburgers on Capitol Hill. Familiar sights were hard to come by in that district too because so much new construction had made the landscape unrecognizable. Honestly, aside from Dick’s, the only feature I recognized in that district was the hill. I told my daughter about the time my travel companion and I were parked on Broadway looking longingly at Dick’s. We were starving and the weather was bad so neither of us could play for tips. I recalled scrounging around in our car looking for loose change and being so happy when we pulled together enough coins to buy a hamburger that we could split. 

I have often wondered how different my life would be today if I had agreed to return home with my parents when they showed up that day in front of Nordstrom’s. I remember talking with my dad in the lobby of their hotel later that day. Sensing my unease and hesitancy to return with them, he took another approach. “You know, Cybele,” he said, “there are some really great schools up here in Seattle if this is where you want to be. We can help make that happen.” 

Dad, if you’re listening, I just want to let you know that while it might not have happened for me, we did make it happen for our daughter. She’s going to school in Seattle. Please watch over her. And dad, Happy Birthday. I love you.