Are You Hapa? (Pulling Out the Race Card)

I rarely, if ever, get racial on this blog.  It's a conscious choice, and one that actually hampers a lot of what I write since race, culture and identity play huge parts in my everyday conversations.  Nate (an Ethnic Studies major) and I (a major in "Identity Construction" for lack of a better description) discuss these issues all the time and, in fact, they were one of the things we bonded over when we began dating.  To our friends, these issues are central themes in our lives, in our world views, in our discussions with one another.  They're critical in my workplace, in my part of the country, in everything.

Added to all this, I grew up in a very multicultural part of the world where one of the first questions you'll probably be asked when meeting someone is, "What are you?"  To this, I would answer: Portuguese, Native Hawaiian, Filipino, Spanish and French.  And to top it all off, from ages 12-18, I attended (and boarded at) a private school that required all admitted students to prove our Native Hawaiian ancestry -- and please don't get me started on how this admissions policy is racially discriminatory, because this is what I focused on in law school and I will argue about it until I'm blue in the face.

So in summary: I take race, ethnicity and culture pretty friggin' seriously.

But I choose not to really write about them because I know these can be contentious, if not alienating, topics.  And the last thing I want to do is alienate people, or start arguments in the comments section of this blog.

However.  I've got a cold today, and this cold has put me in a frustrated and argumentative mood.  And I don't know exactly how this word came up in conversation today, but it did, and I want to address it.

So, let's talk about the word hapa.

Some of you may have heard of the word before, either in your travels to Hawaii (and/or your talks with people from Hawaii), or in your interactions with Asian-Americans -- particularly those on the West Coast.  In recent years, it's become fairly popular for mixed or half Asian people to identify themselves as hapa.

Hapa is a Native Hawaiian word that, by definition (Pukui/Elbert Hawaiian Dictionary), means: 1. Portion, fragment, part; to be a portion, less.  2. Of mixed blood; person of mixed blood.  Please note that hapa does not, and has not ever, meant: Half Asian Part Asian.

That's definition.  In practice -- in Hawaii, and in my experience -- the word is usually used to describe people who are half Native Hawaiian and, usually, half White.  To this end, you'll often hear the term hapa haole, which really does mean "half white."  In all my years in Hawaii, with all the conversations I've ever had, and given all the time I spent at a Native Hawaiian school, never have I ever heard the word used to describe someone who is Asian and something else that isn't Hawaiian.  It just isn't done.  I've also never heard the word used to describe someone who is simply mixed -- mainly because almost everyone in Hawaii is mixed, so having a specific term for that would be pretty pointless.

Now, I'm not saying I corner the market on defining Native Hawaiian words.  I'm also not saying that using the term to describe half or mixed peoples is incorrect by definition.  But I do think it's important not to separate a language from it's culture.  And in Hawaii's culture, the word hapa does not mean half Asian and half something else, especially to the exclusion of other races/ethnicities.

I recently read an article from a woman and scholar who uses the term to describe herself (she is half or part Asian).  In this piece, she defends her use of the word when some of her commenters from Hawaii take issue with it.  In particular, she first calls it an "adoption" of the word.  Now, a couple of things here: 1) "Adoption" implies that the word was orphaned.  It wasn't.  We still use it.  And, 2) don't call something an "adoption" when what it really is is an appropriation.  The Asian American community has taken a word from another culture -- a word that, generally, has not referred to Asian Americans -- and has redefined it for their purposes and to identify themselves, even to the exclusion of the Native Hawaiian community.  That's appropriation and, let me tell you, Indigenous peoples are pretty sick of it.

To this, however, the author states (somewhat disrespectfully, in my opinion): "Using a word that evolved because of a colonialist experience seems fitting, so perhaps it isn’t a misappropriation at all. Of course, the Hawaiians will disagree, and I wish them well in their quest to reclaim all that is theirs and theirs alone."  To this, I would say that she's right, I do disagree with her colonization of my language -- just like I disagree with the United States' colonization of Hawaii (and yeah, you better believe I'm putting her in the same category) -- and I will continue to try and reclaim a word that she has stolen from me.

I'm not trying to be divisive here, I'm really not.  I have nothing against the Asian American community at all.  But, at the same time, I feel that as a community that has been oppressed, they should know better.

After all, this is language.  And without language a culture dies.

[Girl♥Health]: Crickets

Things have seemed quiet over here in GirlHeartsHealth land lately, hasn't it?  Ever since the big back debacle of March and April, I haven't really given any indication of how things have been going for me health-wise, and maybe it's seemed that I've given up on the whole exercise thing.

Well, not so, my friends.  Not.  So.

Let's start with a brief update on my back.  Yes, I'm still deformed.  But my back and hip area aren't giving me pain any more, so that's a plus.  After my initial diagnosis, I started seeing a chiropractor regularly.  At first, adjustments were coming daily, then eventually only a few times a week, then only one day a week.  Eight weeks later, and I'm down to one maintenance adjustment a month, and regular self-care treatments like stretching every day.

All that's left of what went down a few months ago is the lingering fear that I'll twist or overextend or stretch or bend or move my body in such a way that I'll be on my back, staring at my bedroom ceiling with nothing but my own thoughts for company once again.

And that would suck.  Like, suuuuuck.

So I try not to think of it while simultaneously never forgetting it.  It works, for the most part.

As soon as my chiropractor gave the okay, I also began running again.  And I can't tell you how good it feels to do that -- which is something I didn't really ever think I would feel or say.  But there it is.  I love running.  Well, okay, maybe it's too soon for love.  Let's just say I'm really happy to be running, and to be running in a way that feels self-motivated, rather than guilt-motivated.  I'm currently training for an as yet to be determined race (I have a crazy friend who wants me to do this...and maybe I'm equally crazy because I'm not telling her no immediately), and probably another 5k in November.  For full disclosure's sake, I just started week 3 of this training regimen.

Side note: If anyone (and I mean YOU, little sister!) wants to run any of these upcoming races with me and said crazy friend, give me a shout and we'll make it happen!

I'm also swimming laps a few times a week, which is just the excuse I use to go to the university pool and sunbathe as often as impending skin cancer (a bad joke, but probably true) will allow.  The rule is no sunbathing without laps.  It works as well.

I'm trying to work pilates back into my routine, particularly for cross-trainings' sake on my non-running days, but that gives me and my weak ass back a bit of a pause when I think about some of the poses and the pressure it can create at the hip joint area.  I feel like a geriatric but, like, an inflexible one.  If pilates doesn't work out, then I may just cave and get myself a little (read: light) set of free weights -- the pretty, colored girl ones, obviously -- to use around the house.

But from here on out, barring any more insane injuries, it's full steam ahead!

The Things I Miss the Most...and a Happy Birthday Wish

These two:

One of my nephews and my niece.  Also known as Favorite Guy and Mini-Sis, because they're minors, because he is in fact my favorite guy (I tell this freely to all who will listen), and because she is the spitting image of what I imagine my older sister would have looked and probably acted like at this age.

It's both their birthday's this week, and once again I'm here, 2,000 miles away, when I wish I could be there eating chili and ramen (Mini-Sis's birthday dinner of choice) -- really, what is she thinking? -- or pinning the 'stache on the sensei at Favorite Guy's ninja themed party.

Kids really do have all the fun.

This has got to be the hardest part of being away -- missing the family dinners, the special occasions, the important moments.  My youngest nephew, we'll call him Little Warrior, is growing up so fast and I'm missing so much of it.  One second he's this round tub of baby, and the next he's babbling up a storm and all of a sudden mobile.  I get to be a part of it through iPhone pictures and voice memos, but it's not the same.

I miss them when I'm away.

So here is my birthday wishes for them:  I wish for you both everything in the world this year.  I wish you so much laughter your belly aches, so much love your heart seems to overflow, so much happiness you wonder why you were ever even sad.  I wish for you passionate battles of wills with your parents (because those are the most fun, and are the most likely to make you appreciate your aunts more!) over silly things like when it's time to quit playing Xbox, whether or not leaving your toys on the kitchen floor will really kill someone (remain unconvinced), how much candy is too much candy, and whether the dog should be able to sleep in bed with you.  I wish for you lots of time with Nana and Grandma, and even more time driving your other aunt up the walls.  I wish for you more soccer championships and hunting with dad, more singing LMFAO and pedicures with mom, more childhood, more wonder, more excitement and more adventures.

I wish for you both the knowledge that you are absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt in the universe, loved beyond all measure.

Happy Birthday, kiddos.

It's Friday, and Camping is Good for the Soul

True story, camping is good for the soul.

So this past weekend, Nate and I packed up our car and went with a bunch of friends on our first camping adventure of the summer.  We headed up into the mountains, just north of Tahoe, to an area called Plumas National Forest.

It's breathtaking country up there.

Yes, there were mosquitoes this early in the season (we're newbs), but there was also beautiful sunsets, warm springs under a blanket of stars, the milky way, late night fireside chats, off-roading and trout fishing, lake swimming and hiking, visiting cute little tucked away mountain towns like Downieville, and just getting out and breathing the fresh air that you don't even realize you miss when you're in the city.

The Sierra Nevada's are one of my favorite things about California.  I can't wait to go camping again.

Wanna come with us next time?

A Place To Be

Ten years ago, I graduated from high school.

Ten.  Years.

It probably seems like a long time to some people, and no time at all for others.  It seems like both to me.

I've been thinking a lot about the space, the distance (both literal and figurative), between who I was at 18 and who I am now, mostly because last week was my high school reunion and I missed it.  I didn't want to go for a number of reasons: I already see most of the people I really want to see from high school; a plane ticket back to Hawaii ain't cheap and, if I'm gonna spend the cash, I'd rather spend the time with my family; I honestly felt like I had better things to do last week (turns out I was right). 

Does that sound harsh?  I don't mean it to.  It really would have been amazing to get back on campus, that place that I literally lived for 7 years (I boarded there since the seventh grade...it did not take me that long to graduate from high school!  What am I, dumb?).  And it would have probably been equally great to see some of those people that I don't actively think about, but who were such a part of the canvas of my life when I was a teenager.  I'd like to know how they're doing, what they're up to, how they're making their mark on the world.

But I'm also a place in my life where I'm trying to figure out who I am right now, who I want to be, and putting myself into a situation where I'm surrounded not only by people who know me as a certain person, but also a place where I was a certain person, well, it just didn't seem like the thing to do. 

I think Emil Blunt said it best in The Jane Austen Book Club: High school is never over.

Don't get me wrong, I love Hawaii.  I love my family and my friends, my culture and heritage, my hometown, my history.  I love that I know the rhythms of that place, the sing-song of the voices, the trajectory of most stories and jokes.  I know Hawaii, you know?  That's comforting.

But I also know that it's not where I belong right now.  Maybe not ever.  It's not where I'm going to be the best version of me I can be.  I can't go there and surround myself with the kind of people I want to surround myself with (other than my family).  And I'm able to do that where I am now.  I'm able to be around friends who constantly push me to go for whatever it is I want, who inspire me to take that next step, who enjoy talking about that next step. I'm able to say, "Hey, next week I want to go on a road trip...how about Yellowstone?" and actually do that.  I have a freedom here I don't think I would have back home.  I'm able to be ambitious, to have that be realistic, and to know that I have the support I need to be successful too.

I know this all makes me sound a little selfish.  It does.  I'm aware.

But I'm okay with that.  Isn't it the time in my life when I should be selfish?

My Head and My Heart Explode and I Smile

Old friends.  New friends.  The Fillmore.  Strong drinks in solo cups.  Dancing.  Dancing.  Dancing.  Lost voices.  Drunken giggles.  The Head and The Heart.  Text messages with best friends.  Singing.  Laughing.  Jump, jump, jump.  Racing along San Francisco streets.  The Moondoggies.  Flashing lights and swirling rooms.  Grilled cheese sandwiches.  Wine.  "What's the best show you've ever been to?"  Cold air and warm bodies.  History lessons and impressive conversations.  Apples and show posters.  Sidewalk singers.  Energy drinks.  2 a.m.  Loving my life.

In case you haven't heard The Head and The Heart yet:

A Girlfriend's Guide to Urban Farming

Step #1: Decide on a whim that you have GOT to plant some veggies in your backyard.  Because life will be incomplete if you don't.  Because all of your friends are reading "Farm City" and planting gardens and getting chickens and beehives these days.  Because you live near Berkeley, CA and as such, if you don't have a garden, you are obviously giving in to The Man and God forbid you pay even a penny more to Big Ag until those assholes stop getting subsidized for feeding us rubbish. 

In my little happy home, we've decided to plant some corn (oh, the irony), zucchini, cilantro, eggplant, basil, onion, and artichoke.  And after we planted the artichoke, we realized that those suckers grow to be about 6 feet tall, so we anticipate having to kill this thing sooner rather than later before it overpowers everything else.  I've also been informed that my zucchini will take over what little space I've already given it and screw the rest of my veggies.  Let this be a lesson to you all: do your research before hitting the store, because the excitement and shoppers high will have you thinking you can fit acres of crops into your one tiny garden plot.  Sadly, that is not the case. 

Step #2: Insult your boyfriends manhood (a delicate euphemism) to such an extreme that he finally decides he's Bob Vila and builds you "that damn garden box" just to shut you up.  This is best done when you're already in Home Depot, and can subtly rag on him for looking so completely out of place in the Maniverse that is the lumber aisle.

To my credit, I started doing this unintentionally.  I grew up with a dad and uncles who could do or fix or build anything.  A porch, a house, a car, dog kennels, and yes, even a garden box.  There were always tools, oil rags, paint cans, shovels, you name it, we had it on hand.  This is what I know.  I'm comfortable in that world -- so much more comfortable there than I am around guys in three piece suits.

But Nate generally doesn't fit this profile, at least not to the eye.  He doesn't have tools, I've never seen him build something (other than a computer), and he's more academic than he is construction worker.  I love that about him, obviously, but it gave me some doubts when it came to this project.

Well, he showed me and now I doubt no more.  See?  I'm growing.  Our relationship is evolving.  We're mature adults now.

A tip from your friendly neighborhood garden box builder: Use redwood.  It is apparently the only wood in the known universe that will never, ever, ever decay. 

Step #3: Build the box, dig the earth, get the compost, and plant the food.  Fence those suckers in so your dog doesn't poop on them or dig them up, too.  Give your boyfriend a thank-you kiss, then tell him you were wrong about his carpentry skillz and that you're now thinking of hiring his manliness out for a little extra cash.  Give him another kiss when he tells you you're crazy and threatens to leave you.

Then take pictures of all your hard work so that you can brag to your friends and anyone else who will listen.

Step #4: Begin calling yourself an Urban Farmer.  Because calling yourself a gardener reminds you too much of that elderly woman from your childhood who killed your rabbit when she fed him more of her fresh cabbage than his little body could stand.  (Whyyyyy, Mrs. Kawasaki?)

Oh, was that just me?

Twiddle your thumbs for weeks while you wait to harvest.  Then invite all your friends over for a garden farm party and eat the fruits of your labor.

Bon appetit!

'Fifty Shades' of Holy $#!& (Not a Book for Prudes)

I'm trying to think of something intelligent to say about E.L. James' "Fifty Shades" trilogy.

But the simple truth is that it really just makes you think of sex ALL THE TIME.  Like, seriously.  All the time.  I think my IQ dropped for the 2 days I spent reading these books.

Some people are calling these books "mommy porn," (which is a dumb name in and of itself because, I mean, are mommies not allowed to watch regular porn?) and I get that -- it's pretty graphic stuff wrapped up in romance and dominance and submission and a hot male lead character and unconditional love and all the other stuff women generally crave in romance novels.  But there are also some funny moments in the books (I smile whenever the heroine's subconscious or inner goddess pops up, and the emails exchanged between our lovebirds kind of make your toes curl), some heartbreaking moments, and yes, some moments where I'm hiding the pages I'm reading from everyone around me because God I'd die if they knew what it said.

There are things in these books that just make you blush.  You won't be able to help it.

They're saying these books are akin to Twilight and I agree and disagree.  I agree because Fifty Shades started out as an alternate universe Twilight fanfic -- and those of us who grew up writing fanfic realize that this is the dream: to get published.  There are similarities, of course: both series are PNW-based, with a rich as sin, troubled guy and young, innocent girl.  Both are written in the first person (and the writing will not score either of these series a place in the halls of great, classic literature).  Both actually feature classic literature as a theme -- though this dies off in Fifty Shades.  And both are pretty addicting.  Like crack, according to a friend of mine who, incidentally, is a mommy.  But these books are also so much more adult than Twilight (mainly because I would seriously question anyone who let someone under 18 read them -- they are definitely rated NC-17).

I also don't want to smack our Fifty Shades heroine (ha.  hahahaha.) the way I wanted to smack Bella half the time.  So that's an improvement.

But with that all said, will I recommend these books to my mother or sisters? No.  Emphatically, no.  I'd rather poke my eyeballs out or have the ground swallow me up in embarrassment.

Would I recommend these books to someone who's looking for something deep, something well-written, something...well, quality?  Probably not. The first 20 pages or so are pretty challenging to get through, even for someone like me, who could care less about writing quality so long as I'm highly entertained.

I will, however, recommend this to my lady friends who are just looking for a lip-biting good time.

Read at your own risk.  Not for the faint of heart of prudes.


[Photo source: http://www.katybooks.com/fifty-shades-grey-series]

Remember That Time I Was on That Popular TV Show?

When we arrive at Cow Palace at 6:30am on audition day, there are already hundreds of people in line.  We're an hour earlier today than we were two days prior when we came to register, and still, there are already hundreds of people in line.  Old people who look tired as they sit on folding chairs they brought with them and listen to their children/grandchildren warm up.  Young people -- who, by the way, are missing their second day of school this week to be a part of this process -- wearing clothes that are a bit too mature for them and talking excitedly with other young school-missers.  People you wouldn't expect to be there, like the nice man in the business suit holding the briefcase (I think maybe he'll sing an opera or something) or the gentle giant, massive enough to be a linebacker for the 49ers with a voice that belongs somewhere in my memories of growing up in Polynesia.  And of course there are people who obviously belong there, if not for their "talent," than definitely for the fact that they look like something out of Alien vs. Predator.  Or a Vegas strip club.  There was one woman who wore a white feather headdress double the size of two beach balls.  We couldn't decide between calling her Chicken Girl or Effie Trinket.  Someone else, a tall, skinny gentleman with dreads, wore a bridal veil, body suit, fishnet stockings and platforms.

We were in amazing company, for sure.

I'm there, not to audition -- the thought of doing so still makes my stomach clench with nerves a little -- but to be company and support for a friend as she takes those first courageous steps towards realizing a dream.  I'm here because this is such a unique experience, a once in a lifetime opportunity.  It really is, because barring even more friends who want to audition (seems unlikely) I'm not actually sure I'll ever do this again. 

This is not for the faint of heart.

We're waiting in line for about 3 hours when a woman (I call her Adele because she has that kind of British accent) finally climbs a ladder, gets on a megaphone, and tells us we'll get inside the arena "in just a second," but first there are some things the camera crew has to film us doing because, after all, "you've got to work for that 5 million dollars, we're not just going to give it to you!"  The first thing we do is cheer and make hand motions (you know the one), then we do some silent screaming (I really can't make this craziness up), then they put on some pop music and make us get in circles and dance.  More silent screaming, more dance circles, then the producers walk through the crowd and have a few people sing for the camera, you know, What's your name, Where are you from, Sing us a little something.  Finally, they drive four black SUVs in front of the crowd, and we're told to "Pretend your favorite judges are in these cars and just GO WILD!  That's right, pretend they're in there!  Scream!  Let them know how much you love them!"

Four hours after Adele begins talking, and we're still in the hot sun, waiting to be let in the arena for auditions.  I think to myself that this is what it must be like to be a glamorous star.  Or maybe not.

When we finally do make it inside, it's a madhouse the likes of which I've only seen a few times before (once was at an NSYNC New Years Eve concert back when I was at the tender age of 17).  There are something like 5,000 people here now, and though there are roughly 30 audition booths through which potential contestants can be ushered, they've only got 8 of them (EIGHT OF THEM) open.  The judges are supposedly a mix of music industry "experts" and producers from the show.  Secretly, I suspect they answered Craigslist ads and just showed up.

It'll be another 4 and a half hours before my friend actually auditions.  We kill the time by figuring out which song she'll sing for her judge, making friends with the people sitting around us (one drove down from Washington state, another was from Florida), and staring at a girl who looked like she just climbed off the set of The X-Men.  Some jerk gets on the megaphone a few times and says jerky things I file away in my brain as the shallow crap industry people in L.A. spew on us lesser beings when they're forced to interact with us.  When she finally does audition, she's put in the line for normal people (as opposed to the line they created for the weirdos), given about 20 seconds to speak and sing, and is then moved along.

What has maybe struck me the most about this entire process (I can't seem to call it anything but a process now), is that it really is a not-so-clever creation of a false narrative that we, as TV watchers and crap consumers, will be spoon-fed once this film is edited and cut and manipulated into the newest season of this show.  What struck me next was that these people could care less about you.  You want to be a singer?  How great for you.  But will you make good TV?  This is not new, it's not surprising.  But it is a little disheartening and, for some, maybe even a little disenchanting. This is not real, this is not even remotely real. 

Am I surprised by what we experienced that day?  Not really.  It makes for a good story, right (funny how the actual truth can make for a good story)?  But it does make me a little sad.  Sad to know that we give in to this sort of thing, that we buy it, consume it, and maybe even sometimes believe them when they call it "reality TV."

As we were leaving the arena, we saw a little girl walking to the parking lot with her mother.  She couldn't have been more than 13 years old.  And she's crying.  Her mother is hugging her, trying to comfort her, and this tiny little girl is just sobbing.  She didn't get through and it just about broke my heart.  I hope someone tells her that this wasn't real, it wasn't the truth, and that there are far better ways to pursue your dreams.

A Love Affair with the PNW

My love affair with the Pacific Northwest, and Seattle in particular, is pretty easy to explain.  Seattle was the first place I moved to after leaving Hawaii.  It's where I went to college (go huskies!).  It's where I found my independence and, in a very real sense, myself.  It's where I was able to be selfish for the first time -- with my time, my dreams, my future -- and have that be perfectly okay.  It's where I fell in love.  And it's where, when I look back, I remember being really deep-down in-the-gut happy.

Sure, Seattle has its pitfalls: it really does rain for 10 straight months of the year.  I never realized how many different shades of gray there are until I lived under the clouds of this city for an extended amount of time.  There isn't as much diversity in the northwest as there is, say, in the San Francisco Bay Area -- but really, that's to be expected, isn't it?  It's cold there in the winter.  A biting, stinging cold that, coming from Hawaii, was hard to bear sometimes.  I remember thinking by the time December came around that I was just about 100% over the cold.  

But none of that really matters to me when it comes down to it.  I love this city, with its mountains and bays and bridges.  And I love who I am in this city.

So in case any of you are planning a trip up north in the near future, here are some things to do and check out:

Take a ferry to the Olympic Peninsula.  Even if you have no idea what to do once you arrive in Bremerton or Bainbridge Island (hint: drive until you get to Port Townsend or the Olympic National Forest or the coast near La Push and Cape Flattery -- all are incredibly beautiful and wild places).  The bonus here is that the ferry leaving from or arriving back to Seattle offers you the best possible views of the city you'll ever get (see the second to the last picture above).  On a clear day, you'll even be able to see the Cascades and the Olympic mountain ranges.  It's breathtaking.  If you want a longer ferry ride, head to the San Juans and Orcas Island.

Visit Kerry Park. That's where I took the first picture featured above.  It's another great view of the city (and yet another can be seen from the free observation deck of the Columbia Tower downtown or Gasworks Park near Wallingford) and the Space Needle in particular.

Go on a tasting at Theo Chocolates in Fremont.  It's chocolate.  It's delicious.  And it's in quirky Fremont.  While you're there wandering through antique malls, used bookstores, and clothing boutiques, check out the statue of Lenin (yes, that Lenin) or the famous Fremont Troll that lives under the bridge (pictured above).

Walk around the University of Washington.  Because, really, why not?  If you're there in the spring, you may even catch the cherry blossoms in full bloom.  There are some good, cheap eats along The Ave which borders campus too.

Go to Pike's Place Market because you have to.  It's a great photo opportunity, but don't buy anything there since things are way overpriced.  Make sure you ask someone to point you towards the gum wall.  I know it sounds awful, but do it anyway.  And if you're in the mood for coffee, steer clear of the first ever Starbucks -- why go there when there are Starbucks on every corner these days? -- and instead head to La Panier and order sables.  Trust me. 

Play whirlyball.  Think basketball, lacrosse and bumper cars.  Now add beer.  Oh, yeah.  When you're done, head to Dick's and get a burger.

Take a tour at Red Hook Brewery if you're into beer and laughs.  It's only a dollar and the tour guides are hilarious.  They also let you sample enough beer to make you feel just fine.  If you need to soak up some of that alcohol before getting behind the wheel, there's an restaurant on-site too.

Check out the nightlife in Ballard.  Sure, there's Belltown, Capital Hill and Pioneer Square, but since we went to Ballard on this visit, that's what I'm going to suggest.  The Matador has a pretty good happy hour.  And speaking of happy hour...if that's your thing, download The Strangers Happy Hour iPhone app before going out.  It's amazing.  Ivar's Salmon House also has a good happy hour and outdoor seating right on Lake Union.

There are obviously other typical spots to check out (the Experience Music Project, the Space Needle, Kurt Cobain's house...), but these are just a few ideas to get you started.

Seattle, I love you.