Like the undead but with 40s

I’m back from Burning Man, and it was just as amazing as I had been led to believe. Seriously, best vacation in my entire life. Sorry, Grandma. I don’t have the time or energy right now to dedicate as much space as it deserves, so my breathless superlatives will have to wait until some later date.

In the meantime, please accept this account of harrowing urban danger.

I’m rarely scared in the city, even walking by myself through sketchy neighborhoods late at night. There are always moments to make the pulse quicken, like violent rat orgies erupting in the bushes next to the sidewalk, but generally I feel comfortable and at home on the streets of Seattle, a match for any foe.

At least, I felt this way until I decided to take a shortcut through Freeway Park at 12:30 am.

At the time, a few weeks ago now, I hadn’t yet read Topography of Terror, The Stranger’s chilling warning to stay out of the park. In fact, I hadn’t ever been in the park before, but had walked past on several occasions in the day time, always noting its quiet beauty, praising my liberal city for reclaiming an urban space in such a natural manner. When I lived in the U District I used to cut through Ravenna Park regardless of the time of day. How different could it be? I thought. Turns out, very different.

Freeway Park is a dank concrete labyrinth. At first I was enjoying myself, wandering through the winding passages, exploring the odd little rooms that sat at the end of them, wending slowly in the direction in which I thought the exit and home must lie. It wasn’t until ten minutes had passed that I realized I wasn’t alone. After climbing a short staircase that, like most of the paths in Freeway Park, didn’t go anywhere, I paused at the dead-end top to take note of the semi-enclosed space in which I found myself, and while surveying the little alcove curiously, I realized that there was a homeless man reclining on a bench who had been watching me all along, slowly sipping his malt beverage. I jumped, I’m sure quite visibly, then strode confidently away in the wrong direction — 100 meters later I fetched up against a tall concrete wall. Telling myself to stay calm, I backtracked to a place that looked familiar and struck out again, only to end up blocked by the freeway itself.

For the next half an hour, I tried in vain to find a way out of Freeway Park. Every route I tried came up a dead end, always walled in by concrete, the freeway, or some locked building. All the while, a growing number of homeless people, shuffling about like zombies in the half-light, observed my sorry progress. I was keenly aware that they must be able to tell that I was lost, and that if any one of them wanted a shiny new iPod or laptop they would have no trouble following me into an out-of-the-way corner and taking it from me. Those two possessions were actually the least of my concerns, if you can believe that. Every time I crossed back through the central plaza to attempt a new escape, their number (and my panic) seemed to increase.

Finally I saw two normal-looking people walking briskly through the park and fell in behind them. Two minutes later they took one of the fiendishly hidden exits they must have known about in advance and I silently sang their praises. I walked a jerky double-step all the way home.

Someone really needs to add Freeway Park to the list of things they tell new residents to our fair city. You know, like, “Dave Matthews lives in Wallingford, Madison is the gayest district, Fremont is where the hippies congregate, and STAY OUT OF FREEWAY PARK OR YOU MIGHT DIE.”