Ew.
I’ve just descended into the vaguely medieval confluence of shadows and gray cobblestone in Post Alley when a voice nearby articulates why I’ve avoided this stretch of Pike Place Market for so long. Gum is everywhere—a polychromatic pox dots the ground and canvases brick facades. Slimy stalactites hang from pipes. Like any Seattle resident, I know what I’m stepping into. But apparently the tourist to my right isn’t prepared for this much tackiness. Upon discovering it, she expels some Alexis Rose–like disgust, then kicks a heel back to see if her shoe has acquired an intractable passenger.
Most visitors don’t fixate on their footwear in this particular passageway.
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