We converse about the details of our respective days.  Some discussions simply describe the events of that day; we may outline with whom we met and the disposition of those conversations.  Furthermore, we may lament how full our days have become with meetings, leaving us with little time to accomplish our actual work.  The topics fluctuate between thinking through some issues and the classic vent.

At times, we celebrate breakthroughs.  This may entail that crucial conversation with a pivotal change or seeing a prototype project running cleanly for the first time.  We raise our glasses in unison to toast those moments, but we celebrate each other’s company as much as any other event.  Though it’d be easy to forget, every night is ‘date night’.

From this vantage point, we can watch the seasons change on Bellevue Way as we dine here regularly throughout the year.  On long and dry summer days, we watch the sun bake the pavement outside that window behind us, the sun setting long past our dinner time on those days so far from the Equator.  However, most days we see mild and often wet weather; the overcast sky lines the distant horizon in pale gray like a cardboard backdrop.

As we sit next to each other with our bodies turned to face each other, we can see people walking past in both directions on the sidewalk.  The collection of people includes families with kids in tow.  Young couples stroll by dressed to impress on their date nights.  We see an occasional professional carrying their briefcases, with their faces turned away from the cold wind as it blows.  Meanwhile, people stroll by with handled bags filled with merchandise from the local stores, in quiet anticipation of examining their loot.

A disproportionate number of these people will endure the rain without an umbrella, the unspoken assertion that it simply doesn’t rain hard enough in Seattle.  However, I suspect that, under normal circumstances, they would use one.  They want to avoid the amused stares from strangers or even the label of ‘noob’ among their friends.  However, we don’t subscribe to the absurd notion of getting drenched to fulfill a cryptic ‘when in Rome’ stature.  We’ll carry (and use) our umbrellas; thank you very much.

Between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, this little section of Bellevue transforms into a Winter Wonderland.  The name of the event is Snowflake Lane.  This artificial event spans four city blocks on Bellevue Way.  Moreover, they import the snow twistedly; they’ve installed machines that create and emit foam bubbles from the rooftops along the street.  The effect legitimately resembles snowing, though if you look at the flakes carefully, you may be able to tell the difference.  Naturally, it doesn’t collect on the ground like conventional snow.

They block off the four-block section from cars during the show.  Additionally, drummer boys (and girls) and ice princesses walk among the crowd along each side of the street.  Music bellows from unseen speakers onto the streets, spreading artificial holiday joy.  Meanwhile, colored lights along the rooftops flash in synchronicity to the beat of the music.  This elaborate show even includes a parade with Santa Claus, snowmen, and reindeer.  Additionally, they line the street with dancers, all performing to a choreographed routine to match the music.

All it all happens on every evening at 7pm and lasts for about 25 minutes.  If we should be so lucky (or plan well), we can watch the entire show from our seats at the bar in Wild Ginger.  The large window provides shelter from the weather and enough isolation from the noise of the commotion.

On one particular winter evening, as we sit at the bar and enjoy our dinner, we listen to the music played at the restaurant.  They play it at an appropriate volume, which is to say, loudly enough so that you may recognize it, but softly enough so that it doesn’t interfere with our conversation.  Tonight, they play a collection of songs from the 1960s.  Meanwhile, most songs I recognize as ‘oldies’, released before my time, but ones I recognize as part of culture.

She notices as I smile when I hear what I assume is the Marvelette’s rendition of ‘Please Mr. Postman’.  She smiles in response and asks about the sudden interest in this particular song.  I tell her the story that the very first time I heard this song, it was a cover by the Chinese artist Sam Hui.  In my mind, his accented rendition of this song remains as the original, and all other versions feel foreign.  He also covered Hotel California, though I have since heard the Eagles’ rendition enough times to supplant it as the original.

As I quietly reflect on this classic song from the 1960s and its message.  I do not reflect on the idea that modern advances have transformed the need for postal mail as a form of communication.  No need to harrass your postal employee for a message from the love of your life.  It’s only as of this writing that I realize that I have no need to harass anyone about words from the love of my life.

She sits next to me as we share a plate of tofu Pad Thai and chicken pot stickers.