The Parallel Universe of the New York Times' "Style" Section

I think the New York Times' Style section is the thin connection between ours, and the parallel universe it describes to the rest of us. In this universe, people are intensely aware of the labels inside peoples' clothes. They carry $3,000 purses. They buy dresses that cost as much as their purses and wear t-shirts that cost thirty times what mine cost.

Many of the individuals in this other world appear to have small antennae that hone into nightclubs where they care excruciatingly about whether or not they gain entry. Once inside, they must locate the tables with the most prestigious people encircling them, and they will take note effortlessly of each costume in their vicinity, and they make sure their vicinity is with others with the same obsessions but who are more frequently mentioned in the newspaper.

Let's go through the rabbit hole and take a look at life in this parallel universe on one random Sunday. The universe allows visitors on Thursdays as well, but Sundays are the days when the universe parades itself most proudly.The parallel universe is comfortably homogeneous politically. It is understood that everyone is progressive. In this universe, there are no liberals, and no Republicans. But everyone believes in marriage; here, marriages are frequent, and love is exalted.

We peek now into this other world as it exists on June 10, 2007. A lead story announces that cocaine is "very visible on the social scene" and we are told that in the universe one often hears "Take a ride on the snow train," or "Skiing on the beach tomorrow?"

We see there's a man in Beverly Hills, an outpost of the parallel universe, who enjoys buying multi-million-dollar homes owned by movie stars, fixing them up, and turning a mega-million-dollar profit. Another story reveals that for some peculiar reason films are not portraying abortions in their plots. "Nearly two-thirds of unwanted pregnancies end in abortion, data from federal surveys shows." And yet several recent films, "Knocked Up," and "Waitress," use the protagonist's pregnancy as the central plot point. In this universe, where abortion is normal, the strange avoidance of it in film is worth pondering.

But the real reason the parallel universe is worth a visit is to behold its nuptials.

Many weddings are performed by Rabbis, male and female alike, though many others are performed by friends of the bride and groom who are ordained in the Universal Life Church just for the occasion. In this parallel universe, no bride is younger than 25, and no groom younger than 30. None completed their educations with high school, and most received their college degrees from elite universities. In fact, at least one partner of nearly all the couples has either authored a book, written music, is a doctor, or is descended from the inventor of something we use every day. Take the "cute meet" of Maya Alperowicz and Justin Florence, that occurred while both were pursuing their graduate degrees at Harvard. His father, by the way, is the author of nine books, including "Blood Libel" (University of Wisconsin, 2004).

Some weddings even have themes. Like the "retired" wedding: "Nancy McDonnel Maloney, a retired lawer, and Jacob Berry Underhill III, a retired insurance executive, were married on Tuesday. Beverly S. Cohen, a retired New York State Supreme Court justice, officiated at her office in New York. The bride, 57, will keep her name...The bridegroom, 80, retired as the President of New York Life Insurance Co....The bride's two previous marriages and the bridegroom's three previous marriages ended in divorce." (This is emes. Direct quote from p. 14 of the journal of the Parallel Universe, the New York Times' Style Section.)

Many couples share common professional interests. Deborah Swacker, a lobbyist, and Jeff Nussbaum, a political speechwriter, share the political bent, and the groom is co-author with James Carvel of "Had Enough?" and of "Intelligence Matters" with Bob Graham, "the Democrat who at the time was a senator from Florida." Film joined Mary Firestone, 30, a film actress ("Just My Luck," 2006, and "Little Black Book, 2004), and Napper Tandy (James Napper Tandy II), who "was a writer of 'Two Roads to Baja,' a promotional film for Toyota that played on Speed Channel cable network in January.'" By the way, "the bride is a great-granddughter of Harvey S. Firestone, the founder of Firestone Tire and Rubber Company."

Writing is the bond for Pilar Queen, who happens to work as an agent in the office of my own literary agent (emes again!), and Andrew Sorkin, who works for the New York Times, graduated from Cornell and runs an online Times web site. His mother is "a playwright and librettist, whose credits include '(mis)Understanding Mammy: The Hattie McDaniel Story,'...and an operatic version of 'Strange Fruit'" to premier this month in North Carolina.

Yes, couples often have much in common. William Hughes is an investment partner (his mother is a professor of medicine at Tufts) whose marriage to loan officer Gray Holmes shares the financial theme. But their announcement requires careful inspection because they provided no photo, and the bride, "Gray," (MBA from Harvard) has an ambiguous name. Photos have become very useful tools when reading Parallel Universe wedding announcements. Not only do many of the couples' faces look alike, but some pairs nowadays would even look uncomfortably similar were they to appear, literally, in the altogether.

You see, in this parallel universe, connubially linking two of the same gender is, like abortion, normal. Joyful proclamations of single gender partnership, marriage and civil union mingle with more traditional combinings on the pages of the parallel universe's journal.

Andres Freyre and Morton Ballen smile from the photo above their announcement. Their commitment ceremony was led by "two friends" at Frankies Spuntino, a Brooklyn restaurant. But from the photo, we don't know if it is Mr. Freyre or Mr. Ballen with the bald pate and soul patch. Only when the body of the piece tells us "Mr Freyre (above, left)" do we get a clue.

Every issue of the parallel universe journal features one couple to celebrate in a half-page article detailing the history of their relationship, with two photos. This week, the 5-inch by 9-inch picture is dominated by Sarah Bune, leading the ceremony with arms outstretched. On either side of her stand the two partners of the wedding couple. Both in white sheath gowns.

Mary McBride, the "country-folk singer and songwriter," 37, became committed to public relations professional Leslie Klotz, 48, known for her "amazing art collection and about 27 layers of black lacquer" in her apartment entrance hall. After meeting at a Christmas party, the two proceeded through dates and emails until "Ms. McBride proposed to Ms. Klotz on Nantucket last summer. 'Without even blinking an eye, she said "Perfect,"' Ms. McBride recalled." And their ceremony does sound perfect: Mary and Leslie two-stepped before 180 guests in Montego Bay, Jamaica, "down a rose-petal aisle, each wearing a different Elizabeth Fillmore gown, to an altar made of bamboo poles and fluttering Tibetan flags." All is happy and gay in the parallel universe.

There's much more amusement to be clandestinely enjoyed when the universe displays its secrets on Sundays. But the lives described on Style's pages is not reality as nearly all Americans live it. Most everyone spends the wee hours of the night not clubbing but snoozing before a 7 am alarm awakens him for a day of activity far from Beverly Hills' multi-million dollar flipped into mega million-dollar homes. Where abortion isn't on the calendar and cocaine isn't even on the radar screen. And where most everyone gets along and has a nice wedding and doesn't feel the need to broadcast one's grandfather's inventions or mother's latest book title.

We, in the normal world, are voyeurs. We who would not buy "The Globe" or "People" at the supermarket checkout will indeed devour the Style section because while the celebs in "People" may be well-known, we don't particularly want to know when they became anorectic or who cheated on whom. Instead, we glean amusement from the sophisticated exploits of Harvard-educated brides and descriptions of three-thousand-dollar dresses and the wacky ways those so far--and yet not too far--removed from us get their kicks and then, by us, their knocks. It's a different world, and it's so nice to know that you can put it down when you've read to the end of the last page.

Ban Father's Day

It's Father's Day, which is not a Jewish Holiday. In fact, I wonder why it's a holiday at all, except that retailers needed another June occasion with which to fatten their profit margins. And of course, after Mother's Day was established, it couldn't be long in this just and equitable culture before Father got his due.

Despite the fact that Dads certainly deserve kudos, few WANT them. How many dads do you know who would miss it if Father's Day was just sort of forgotten one year? Sure, they enjoy appreciation, but for guys, such expressions of emotion are always a bit embarrassing. "Gee, I love you, Dad." "Thanks a lot, son." But such words work equally well in October as in June; isn't it a bit awkward when Dad also has to unwrap another pair of socks?

All right, I'll confess it--Both Mother's Day and Father's Day are inventions of and sustained by women. The only ones who truly care about these occasions are women. On their May holiday, Mothers want those oozing expressions of adoration. On their spouse's day, mothers offer oozing affection in the hope that doing so will bring a response in like kind. Guys shift uncomfortably when others get soppy. This emotional stuff is just not a guy thing.

But, given that I'm NOT a guy, today I presented my husband, father of my children, with a poem I wrote, printed out and decorated with photos of our little ones. When I approached him, saying, "Happy Father's Day, darling!" he said, "Oh no, not a card! I wish you wouldn't give me a card! You're just trying to guilt-trip me!"

I was floored. My sincere rhymes extolling what a great father he is was seen as a mean-spirited attempt to guilt him into...what? I'll tell you: he thought that my stanzas of praise were only meant to insure that on my birthday and Mother's Day, he would provide the same for me. My response: aarrrggghh!

Are men and women the same? Should the government provide the same financing for men's and womens' sports? Should men and women be treated as equals in all things? Is John Grey a millionaire?

I say we ban Father's Day. Give Dad a tie when one's on sale. He'll feel a lot better about it. And by the way--I still love my guy, even if he can't accept my appreciation graciously. But next time I'm tempted to write him a poem--kick me.

Gossip: And your point is...?

So occasionally I find a part of the newspaper in the, uh, throne room, and a headline catches my eye, like this one from the Wall street Journal (June 4, 2007) did: "Gossip: So Much Fun People Once Tried to Make it Illegal."

The author, Cynthia Crossen, writes about quaint people in the distant past (early parts of the 20th Century) who actually thought that gossip was negative and should be curtailed. She mentions Mary Hoppe, of New York City, who in 1816 founded "Don't Gossip" clubs with chapters "in every town in the US. Its motto: 'The tongue is an unruly evil full of deadly poison.'"

Well yes, the concept of controlling one's speech does seem rather antiquated when your slogan conjures images of people's mouths popping and rolling with an "unruly" venomous snake! A Tennessee lawmaker in 1927 proposed that gossip be a misdemeanor, but it fell under the arguments that the law would be unenforcible, and the start of a slippery slope: "After a while we'll have laws making it illegal to eat peas with a knife."

Wisconsin and Kentucky were less sophisticated, passing "statues" against gossip that brought the Kentucky conviction of Maude Basham, who muttered that the local constabulary were "50-50 with the bootleggers." Concludes writer Crossen, "But as the rest of the 20th century demonstrates, no force of man or nature can stop people from tittle-tattling about others. It's just too much fun."

OK, so I read this pointless piece in the latrine and carried it out in incredulity not because of what it said, but because of what it didn't. It didn't mention that lushon ha ra, passing along gossip that is true (as opposed to motzi sheym ra, gossip that isn't) is one of the foremost personal battles Jews who take the Torah seriously face--every day. It didn't mention that the life's work, and books by the Chofetz Chaim (Rabbi Israel Meir HaCohen Kagan, 1838-1933), like the little two-volume A Lesson a Day adaptation on my shelf, are studied by Jews in an effort to improve their observance of the crucial commandment to guard one's tongue--and that success with this task can hasten the coming of the Messiah. It surely didn't mention that words are SO elemental and powerful that God created the world using words, and the instructions for living adopted by countless millions--the Ten Commandments--are better translated as "The Ten Statements." Words are not just sounds in the Hebrew language, words are things, as the same Hebrew word means both.

OK, enough basic Judaism--everybody knows all this, except, it seems, Cynthia Crossen, who suggests we throw up our hands and open our unruly mouths because it's just so much fun! That's like saying we should, pardon me, give up on monogamy, since everybody ignores it, and promiscuity is just so much fun!

On a personal level, great. But as I tell my 14-year-old son, one of the things that allowed the Jews to last so long (contrary to nations in this week's parsha--like the Jebusites, the Hittites, the Amorites) was and is our ability to defer gratification. What feels good now, might be "poison" to you later, as well as to the larger community and society. Once you've got people airing negative opinions, you've soon got suspicion and competition and jealousy. Which lead to dishonesty, sabotage, and conflict. Too quickly, you've got New York before Mayor Giuliani. Some might say Sodom before the brimstone.

I found Teen People magazine in my daughter's room. I wasn't snooping; it was left right out there. Reminded me that before that rag existed, Hollywood stars felt it important to project a wholesome image. They hid their flaws, and even more, their misdeeds. Now, the brightest badge of accomplishment is to enter rehab. That tells the world you're not ashamed of your addiction, and, by the way, you're not responsible for your actions, because a medical condition--like cancer or the flu--made you do whatever horrid thing made Teen People last week.

So, with Teen People in my house, a spouse steeped in media, and the Wall Street Journal insisting "no force of man or nature" can combat this inbred inclination, why not at least go with the flow? Well, as my media-soaked spouse often says, the only religions that are gaining adherents are the ones who demand a lot of their members.

I think we're hardwired to require a project, something to do, something to strive toward. We want to work on something that can produce a desirable outcome. We take jobs to bring in money, yes, but many of us go beyond that, eschewing big bucks to earn a more meaningful reward. In that vein, working to refine our speech, to focus on the ethereal rather than the earthly, is a project with an intellectual and grander payoff. And it's invigoratingly challenging, in this billboard-crammed culture where you can't buy a bell pepper without the Enquirer feeding the "minds who want to know." It gives us something to do, with the kicker of a historical and traditional context. And it's a battle, with its accompanying potential for the reward of success, that's staring us in the face, every time we answer the phone or purchase our parsley.

If we just give up and legitimize the use of words for "too much fun," we drop a rung on the long ladder between earth and heaven.

Come to think of it, it's time to clear the old newspaper out of the bathroom.

Seattle's Pike Place Market Celebrates its Centennial

Moving right along in the festival calendar, we come upon a rather momentous one...the 100th Anniversary celebration for Seattle's famed Pike Place Market. This was and continues to be a farmer's market where local produce, flowers and handmade crafts are sold, in an old, rambling building full of weird little shops. The first Starbucks coffee EVER still occupies its storied niche, always with some unique street performer attracting crowds at its ever-queue'd door.

This weekend, the Market, a tourist destination that struggles to attract sufficient nearby residents, offered a street's length of those ubiquitous white cubicle-tents, three pavilions where bands performed, and an array of startlingly weirdly decorated eight-foot-long pigs. Because a symbol of the Market is a brass pig that greets visitors at the crotch of the market buildings, supporters farmed out pig replicas to artists to decorate and later sell as a fund-raiser. The "parade of pigs" occurred on Shabbat, but its participants were stationed throughout the festival area, often accompanied by barkers urging passersby to contribute a dollar, in exchange for a snout sticker.

A week of uncharacteristically warm weather meant a jumble of people in tatoo-revealing outfits filled the narrow aisles inside the "sanitary market" and along the nearby streets. Post Alley, a snaking lane parallel to the Market's blocked-off drive, bustled with its outdoor cafes and browsers in the nook shops. The vendors of brilliantly-colored chili peppers strung into foot-long edible pendants hawked their wares. Baskets offering clothes for a dollar, five and ten, lured ladies rifling through for a deal. Where Post Alley descended in its cobblestone path beneath part of the Market, patrons waiting for performances at the comedy club tucked in the brick passageway created the fabled "gum wall" of chicle wads.

And behind it all, sparkling Elliot Bay, Puget Sound, the curve of the Alki neighborhood, and the ubiquitous ferry boats shuttling patrons to the islands. What a wonderful way to welcome June, another reminder of the exuberance of summer.

Unfettered Performing at Seattle's Folklife Festival

As I mentioned in an earlier post, street fair season is upon us. But famous in my region are two bookends to the summer--Northwest Folklife Festival, every Memorial Day Weekend, and Bumbershoot, every Labor Day. Folklife is my favorite--a free (donations suggested) and crazy display of every type of music. Aging hippies are much in evidence, with their folk groups of banjo, guitars and--choose one from each column--washboard, fiddle, bass, tambourine, mandolin, autoharp. But equally present are ethnically-inclined groups--Polish, African, Peruvian (same guys as pictured in earlier post), Celtic, Hawaiian. Then there are the solo players--the ones with a violin and its open case. Or weirder instruments made often of gourds. The Hurdy Gurdy men, who, when I casually threw out the first line of the Donovan hit, replied, "but we don't come singing songs of love." If you get that reference, you're a boomer.

Folklife is fabulously ad hoc. Anyone can come with an instrument, or a group, and just plunk himself down anywhere and start playing to an appreciative audience. This invites a lunatic panoply of participants. Many have matted hair. Lots sport Goth black leather and spikes. Tie-dye is de rigeur. National costumes from Norway and Nigeria are equally in evidence.

In the middle of the huge complex called Seattle Center is the International Fountain, a two-story tall silver ball in the vortex of a shallow concrete bowl several hundred yards wide. The wonderful trick of the International Fountain is that it sprays water from many holes in the silver orb, at unpredictable intervals. The arcs of water make designs in the sky, and create an exciting game for all who venture it. You run toward the sphere to touch it, trying to avoid being drenched by a strong stream of water. Most people get completely soaked, but they're all laughing. Two-year-olds and senior citizens both sprint toward the center. It used to be that the fountain's squirt was calibrated by computer to music from various parts of the world--thus the International Fountain. Lately, however, the miss-the-stream-of-water game has had only giggles for accompaniment.

One Hundred Sixty vendors' booths share the cacophany. Most are hippie independent crafts people peddling their pottery, leather goods, tie-dye masterpieces and photography, but a large number offer imported goods. I love the Guatemalan textiles, the artist of dogs in tu-tus, and the rainbow-hued boiled wool shoes. This year, I bought some squiggly-cut wooden utensils for my kitchen.

If you don't require kosher food, you have a world of tastes to sample. For some reason, everything mango was popular this year. This is not the usual carnival food--no, here you find crepes next to African dishes next to northwest salmon. Most everything was vegetarian, though. This is Seattle.

My favorite activities at Folklife can be done simultaneously. Just noticing the people there fills me with delight. They gather in clusters around the musicians positioned every ten feet or so. As the viewers smile, tap their feet, or grope for a few coins to throw in a hard-shell instrument case, they become part of the show. Nearby, a young woman who made herself into a wings-to-toe white-clad fairy stands motionless on a pedestal until someone drops coins in her box--at which time she startles all with a series of jiggles.

From jiggles to juggles, as an astounding foursome combines acrobatics with flinging pins, swords and flaming batons, bringing oohs and ahhs from an impressed crowd. Face painters, henna-appliers, and balloon-animal creators all captivate children and their delighted parents. The International Fountain is ringed by hundreds of people, each one an observable and fascinating sight. So I combine my fun--watching people, listening to performers and--photographing it all, very subtly.

Life is always a show, but here at the Folklife festival, everyone feels freer and more joyful about making his or her own two feet of space on this earth into a stage.

Dad in the Army, Mom at Douglas Aircraft, and us on Memorial Day

It's Memorial Day, and like most Americans, we've got our flag flying in front of our house. I recall as a child in LA on this holiday seeing the veteran's cemetery on Veteran Avenue, usually like a stiff porcupine of white crosses, changed into moving, lively and even festive acres, with small flags waving from each of the graves.

I am fortunate, perhaps, that I know of none of my relatives who made the ultimate sacrifice for this country. But my father, a member of what has been termed "the greatest generation" did give several years of his life to our nation's service during World War II, rising from a private in the army to the rank of Major. He volunteered when he realized that he would soon be drafted, seeking to take the exam to enter Officer's Candidate School, which he did. The photo above has the following written by him on the reverse: "Honey--this picture is not very good--I'll send you a better one later. Taken on the Virginia V--July 4, 1941."

He was stationed at posts in California (San Diego, Watsonville), Washington state (Fort Flagler, Fort Lewis), and finally was assigned with others to run a prisoner of war camp in Anchorage, Alaska. As part of his duty there, he traveled to some of the coldest, most desolate regions of our nation, where temperatures of 50-below-zero prevailed. He told us a few tales...of being unable to go outside without every inch of skin covered, lest he receive instant frostbite. Of chowing down on vegetables from a magical valley where the extended sunlight yielded cabbages bigger than basketballs. Of the Italian prisoners under his charge making pasta and stringing it from the rafters to dry. The photo at left is one I found in his things after he passed away in 2004.

My father was lucky that the army chose for him assignments that kept him out of harm's way. But he inculcated us, his children, that it is a normal, expected duty to serve one's country.

My mother also served in World War II, working as a secretary at the Douglas Aircraft plant in Santa Monica, California. She wasn't a Rosy the Riveter, exactly, but she furthered the construction of the planes used in the war. The post card at right was also found in my parents' things. On the back is printed, "Douglas SBD 'Dauntless.' Fastest and most powerful dive bomber in large scale service by any air force is the Douglas 'Dauntless.' Since Pearl Harbor this is the winged weapon that has borne the brunt of our Navy's air operations in the Pacific."

We live in a privileged land, and it is our willingness to protect and preserve it that allows us to thrive. We seldom think about the many freedoms we enjoy, and the hardships endured by those who enter the military, and too often, give everything--so we can now engage in lively debate, choose where we live, receive advanced educations, enter a supermarket and be dazzled by too many cereal options. If someone wants to start a business, he can. If he wishes to publish a book, all he needs is a computer, and some cash. If someone wants to invent a new church, there's no suppression. No censorship.

I think of the refugees in Africa. The killing fields in Cambodia. The starvation imposed on my husband's relatives in Russia. God has blessed our nation, and the men and women who come forward and postpone their personal goals for the good of us all know this in a most intimate way. Their families deserve equal thanks, for each day without a dad, a daughter, a friend, is more stressful, more difficult. And the rest of us...need some humility. I am grateful to have had the father I did, and I am grateful for the message he taught me, that freedom and democracy comes with a price. Thank you to all who have contributed.

Street Fair in the Rain

The rain is battering on the metal roof, liquid so thick you can see it fall in gray sheets and bounce off the ground. This is springtime in the Northwest, and to the syncopation of the drops spattering like a snare drum, one is supposed to be able to work in earnest.

But it's Sunday, not just any Sunday but the first real Street Fair Sunday of the season. And not just any street fair, but The University District Street Fair, where aging hippies and young hippies and toddlers dressed as hippies and downright decrepit hippies and Asian entrepreneurs all converge to ignore the weather in the interest of reviving a slice of thirty or forty years ago. We are all nineteen; we all wear tie-dye, and, with umbrellas (usually eschewed but not in today's pelting) or simply dripping head-to-squishy toes, we again peruse the thick-walled pottery, the hand-tooled leather, the bead earrings and mock-Chihuly wavy funnels, chatting hello to the same craftspeople, sharing updates since last fall's Salmon Days festival, and searching for an original concept that will inspire the wallet to open.

Though the call of the fair is strong enough for me to wander its wonders alone, my ever-trusty twin-ego-friend deigned to accompany me today. The fair is a woman's delight; any husband's presence there is a gift. Mine was engaged honorably at a Mariner's game with our daughter, spared from this appearance in the land of prancing and piercings.

Twin-ego is less cheap than me, so paid $5 to a charity for the developmentally disabled in order to park in a structure just a soggy block from the fair. Soon, the shhhhh of the rain was overtaken by the cacophony of a tutu-garbed violinist, a hard-metal rock band, several sodden buskers and the din of parents' admonitions to overly enthusiastic children. The neon-yellow vested traffic cops were poker-faced despite the distractions, directing us across the major thoroughfare dividing two snaking lines of identical white plastic cubicle-tents, each several blocks long.

The rain increased. And increased, as we noodled into the white cubbies lined up along the streets, viewing the usual merchandise and the same vendors. When I could no longer refrain I popped up my Burberry plaid one-dollar umbrella, inadvertently pricking patrons in the crowded enclosures. Every couple minutes, you could hear--and see--a vendor poking a broomstick up into the roof tarp so a stream of collected rain pattered onto the concrete. My tennis shoes became sponges, and the chill damp air barely let me inhale between the drops.

But we continued, as Northwesterners do, ignoring the rain, smiling at the booth inhabitants, occasionally seeing a clever piece of jewelry (one made of brilliant buttons!) or a particularly odd cause ("Ask an Atheist!") or an amusement ("Get your ice cold lemonade--rainy day discount!"). The Peruvian men with their flutes and red ponchos serenaded us; further down groaned the drone of a digeridoo accompanied by bongos and finger cymbals.

I parted with some cash in the parking lot sub-fair, where vendors from Nepal and Africa offer cheap baskets and recycled tin earrings, buying from the long-bearded, long-haired elderly hippie. A tie-dyed wrap skirt, with its black edged flounce was $15; I paid him and then heard the next customer bargain him down effortlessly; I could have paid $10! My other purchase was a gift for my dear friend in Los Angeles--one time I bought her a necklace she loved at the U District Fair and since then always think of her. A glass blower's marbled pendants were so unusual and delicate that I bought two--one for my friend, and one for me.

Did something wild or significant happen at the U District Fair today? Did I see an artist drawing the face of a famous Rabbi? Did I inhale the fragrance of springtime, or watch a perfect flower explode with color? Well, yes. And no.

Wild and significant is that I am part of a generation whose past remains the present. Tie-dye, independent crafts-people, crazy anti-establishment types all still revel in their uniqueness. But at the same time, they want to make money; they buy their place in a little white plastic booth, and sit there all day hoping to make a modest sale. Maybe I didn't exactly see the face of a famous Rabbi, but I saw the faces of seekers, of people spurning the commuter world for something more personalized, more expressive. And I did inhale the fragrance of springtime, though here it was greasy falafel, kettle corn, home-made soaps and the damp freshness of falling rain. The perfect flower? Several. One made of glass blown in a swirly mandala. Another the burst of blue, green and gold on my new tie-dyed skirt. A third of pink silk clipped to a mane of red hair. It's springtime in the Northwest, and the youth in all of us is set free in the rain.