Monday, March 31, 2008


I was really looking forward to reading Diane Ackerman's The Zookeeper's Wife. I had read favorable reviews and the book jacket blurbs were by authors whose work I respect—Dava Sobel (Longitude) and Jonathan Safran Foer (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close). I was intrigued by the story—a Polish couple saves the animals of the Warsaw Zoo as well as three hundred Jews during the German occupation of World War II.

But, halfway through the fourth chapter, I have completely abandoned the book, with no plans on returning to it. I am glad that I checked it out from the library.


The book appears to be meticulously researched. Ackerman has obviously done her homework. However, she tries too hard to get into the minds of the people and animals that she is portraying. In her attempts to draw the reader into the narrative, she has instead alienated this one. I think it would work well as a piece of dada writing that was intended to frustrate, but it does nothing for me as an historical work or a biography.


The first chapter was too frenetic, too scattershot, too disjointed. Paragraphs didn't follow one another. It was as though stream-of-consciousness was used to "set the scene." The atmosphere and tone never materialized because it wasn't apparent how we were moving between images. It was as though someone was throwing Polaroid pictures in front of me but not explaining the relevance of one to the others. Instead, I was supposed to guess. And, I don't mind working to figure out what is going on in a book. I like stories that challenge. This one just didn't make sense.

Ackerman attempts to establish some of the flavor of nineteen-thirties Warsaw. She describes particular Polish foods and floral arrangements. She conveys the smells and sights and sounds of a particular open-air market. Her attempts feel forced and pretentious at times. When explaining the movements of klipspringer antelopes, which seems extraneous to begin with, she writes
Startle them and they will bounce around the enclosure and possibly leap the fence, and, like all antelopes, they pronk. Legend has it that, in 1919, a Burmese man invented the closest human equivalent to pronking—a hopping stick for his daughter, Pogo, to use crossing puddles on her way to school. [30-31]
The merely extraneous becomes exponentially tangential.


She also writes in metaphors to which I cannot relate. I read what she wrote and found it difficult to imagine the connection between her words and the images they are supposed to describe.

Example one:
Not their breathing, though, and at night the sleepy tempo of breaths and snufflings created a zoological cantata hard to score. [24]
This just feels like someone trying too hard to impress, or someone trying to be overly precious. The analogy of the breathing of animals and classical music?

Example two:
The older boys believed, as Antonina did, that war belonged to the world of adults, not children. She sensed Rys yearned to grill them with questions, though he didn't want to look stupid or, worse, like a little kid, so he kept quiet about the invisible hand grenade lying at his feet that everyone feared might explode. [42]
First, he is a little kid. Second, what is the invisible hand grenade? His worries about the war? The possibility he may have to give his life in conflict or service to war? Antonina being overly dramatic? Ackerman being overly dramatic on Antonina's behalf? I sense the latter.

Example three:
Just before dawn, Antonina woke to the distant sound of gravel pouring down a metal chute, which her brain soon deciphered as airplane engines. [45]
I have heard gravel pouring down a metal chute and I have heard airplane engines. I don't see the similarity. I cannot "hear" the similarity.

Example four:
As they approached Zbawiciel Square, the engine noise ground louder and then planes floated overhead, appearing in the gap between the rooftops like stereopticon slides. [47]
Stereopticon slides? That was when I realized that I was done. I was finished not only because of the images that were just too divorced from the way that I see the world, but also due to the fact that I still had nothing that intrigued me. No character had been developed in any way. The attempts at establishing tone or setting or narrative thread were non-existent. I had nothing to grasp. I closed the book and then closed my eyes.


A couple of minutes later, I opened my eyes again and thought I would peek at a few pages farther along to see if things improved. I came upon a Nietzsche quote from Twilight of the Idols ("That which doesn't kill you, makes you stronger.") that was pulled out of context and that Ackerman tries to have me believe that Antonina related to her young son, who wasn't even present at the German aerial bombing of Zbawiciel Square, or in Warsaw, for that matter.

I was, and am, done with this book. It gets returned to the library tomorrow.

Saturday, March 29, 2008


Friday night was birthday dinner night with the friend D. I had to drive around for some time before finding a parking space. It happened to be across the street from Pike St. Beer and Wine. There was a small sandwich board on the sidewalk in front of their storefront informing me of tastings every Friday from five to seven. Since I had half an hour before meeting D., I wandered in.

I had the opportunity to taste four beers from Klosterbrauerei Weltenburg, all styles I am somewhat unfamiliar with.

First was Weltenburger Kloster Anno 1050, a Vienna. I found it to be sweet and floral, with a hint of spices.

Second was Welternburger Urtyp Hell, a Dortmunder/Helles. It was light in color and body. In flavor it was somewhat buttery and light.

Third was Weltenburger Kloster Barock Dunkel, a Dunkel. Primary flavors were nutty, chocolate, and tortilla chip. My favorite of the four.

Fourth was Weltenburger Kloster Asam Bock, a Doppelbock. This one was nutty and had a strong alcohol flavor, although it was not overpowering. The alcohol flavor seemed to belong there.

I felt inspired to purchase a bottle each of Urtyp Hell and Asam Bock for further exploration in the comfort of my dining room. I also grabbed a bottle of Hair of the Dog Doggie Claws Barley Wine for the beer cellar.

Then, it was off to meet D. and head off to dinner. We ended up at the Madison Park ¡Cactus! We were told that the wait to be seated would be thirty to forty minutes. So we picked up a pager and headed to nearby Red Onion Tavern for drinks. I ordered a Mac & Jack's African Amber Ale. Our pager buzzed us after only twenty minutes, so I had to "chug" the last half of my ale.

At ¡Cactus! I ordered the Chimayo Enchilada—"blue corn tortillas, house-made chorizo, chicken, spicy green chile sauce, and jack cheese," which was accompanied by rice and black beans topped with cotijo cheese. I figured my best bet was to choose a "native" beer to accompany my meal, so I went with Negra Modelo, a Vienna by Grupo Modelo. It was a good beer to accompany the enchilada, but I kept thinking that the Weltenburger Kloster Anno 1050 from earlier in the evening would have been an even better match.

After dinner, the rest of the evening was spent in conversation with D. about life and literature and losses of various sorts. There I drank ice cold water. It was refreshing, like the discussion.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008


Tonight, two members of Team Troy's Work Table (TWT1—Troy's Work Table and TWT3—the child) headed out to the public outdoor displays of Tacoma's Museum of Glass for a little geocaching. We put our new tabula rasa minds to work and found what others have said is a fairly difficult cache after about five minutes of searching. (Thanks again to the mentoring of wasian and DuHawks.)

The rest of the time was spent running, hiding, and playing on the ramps and stairways that surround the museum. We walked in the rain with our umbrellas. We also spent some time viewing the Chihuly glass art.

Once our hands turned red from the wet and cold, and the camera began to malfunction due to the same, we headed indoors for hot chocolate at a nearby Starbucks. We would have headed elsewhere, but most of the other businesses were closed. The child was especially enamored with the kid's cocoa. ("I got my own hot chocolate!")

With warm bellies, thawed hands, and a rejuvenated camera, we headed home for books and beds.

Monday, March 24, 2008


The child and I went out searching for a local geocache (zntargvp series #3). We have looked for this cache previously and have been unable to find it.

Today, after searching high and low for about half an hour, and after running over hands over every piece of metal we could find (because this is a magnetic cache), we were approached by a couple. We had been passed by quite a few people on Puyallup's Riverwalk Trail because the weather was mild—partly cloudy with sunbreaks and not too cold—so we didn't think too much about it until they spoke to us. "Are you searching for the geocache?" We had been doing our best to make it look like we were just goofing around, and not draw attention to ourselves. But then I thought to myself, why would someone who didn't know about the cache ask us if we were looking for it? So, I replied, "Yes."

They introduced themselves as DuHawks, a geocache team whose hidden caches we have been hunting and discovering around Sumner. They informed us that they had spent five hours, off and on, attempting to locate this particular cache. So, we all hunted around for a few minutes and ran through what we thought we were looking for, and where we had looked, and what we had tried. DuHawks informed me that another cacher, wasian, would arrive in a few minutes and show them where it was. When he arrived, he gave me the same hint that he gave to DuHawks. Once I had the clue, I located it within a minute or so. Shortly afterward, so did DuHawks. I don't think I would have ever found this particular cache without help. Once I did, some of my preconceived notions of what I am looking for at each and every future cache were shattered. I need to enter each hunt with a tabula rasa mind.


When I went home, I looked up the handles for DuHawks and wasian on the geocaching site. DuHawks have found over 850 caches throughout the United States over the period of five years. wasian have found over 1075 caches throughout the United States, Canada, and Spain in a period of less than two years! Troy's Work Table has discovered a measly six in less than three months. I guess I have some wandering to do and some caches to find.

The humble apprentice will now try to clear his mind and head out into the woods and onto the trails...

Sunday, March 23, 2008


After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’
—MATTHEW 28:1-10

Friday, March 21, 2008


"My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?
Why so far from my delivery
So empty in the anguish of my words?
I call to you in the daytime but you don't answer
And all night long I plead restlessly, uselessly"
—"Psalm 22" from Opening to You: Zen-Inspired Translations of the Psalms by Norman Fischer


The seven last words:

"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

"Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise."

"Woman, behold your son. Son, behold your mother."

"My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"

"I thirst."

"It is finished."

"Father, into your hands I commend my spirit."


"Judgment in those hours in which Jesus Christ, our Lord, hung on the cross..."
—from "Good Friday," Meditations on the Cross by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Wednesday, March 19, 2008


Brass Monk, an Abbey Tripel by Powerhouse Restaurant and Brewery

On tap. The Brass Monk enlightens. Discipline is about control. Only a half pint is allowed.

He passes by. His robes are a blur of apricot, hazy, indistinct. His skull cap is white. The air in his wake is lightly effervescent, pleasant. Lacing is left behind, visual traces of where he has been. Illusion? No.

He emits the smell of caramel and buttery bread, freshly picked wildflowers and licorice. His presence is caramel, nutty, floral, spicy, licorice, coriander, candied pear, of alcohol without being overpowering. He has a honey sweetness. His voice is thick and oily. He is complex and well-balanced and kick ass!

He goes well with the Overload.

Monday, March 17, 2008


I have been reading gluttonously. Most of it is within the pages of magazines or journals. A couple of books have captured my attention, though...

The Believer, Fifty-first Issue: Lagniappe, February 2008
Favorite pieces: "A Cloud in Pants" by Michael Almereryda, a brief examination of the life and work of Russian Futurist poet Vladimir Mayakovsky; Ryan McGinley interviewed by Dana Spiotta, on the art of his photography; and Mary Midgley interviewed by Sheila Heti, on the moral philosophy of evolutionary Darwinism that is treated as a religion in its own right, something absent from Darwin's own thought.

The Believer, Fifty-second Issue: The Film Issue, March/April 2008
Favorite pieces: "The Hollywood Happy Meal" by Erik Lundegaard, which compares the "nutritious value" of the top ten best-selling U.S. films in mid-March of 1958 and 2008; Todd Haynes interviewed by Robert Polito, on the two main types of films that he directs; and Vladimir interviewed by Ross Simonini, on her independent films made for the View-Master.

T: The New York Times Style Magazine, Design Spring 2008
Favorite pieces: "Machines for Living" by Nicolai Ouroussoff, on the work of Spanish architect Enric Ruiz-Geli; "The New Order" by Pilar Viladas, on the paradox of maximalist modernism; and "Whirl of Interiors" by Maura Egan, on female painters and their colorful paintings of architectural interiors.

The New York Times Magazine, Sunday 16 March 2008
Favorite pieces: "When Girls Will Be Boys" by Alissa Quart, a look at "gender nonconformists" at private women's colleges; "Photo Finish" by Rob Walker (his "Consumed" column), about the death of Polaroid instant film due to digital photography; and "Return of Glavin" by Bryan Patrick Miller, this week's "Lives" piece, which is consistently one of my favorite parts of the magazine.

ARCADE, volume 26.02, Winter 2007
Favorite pieces: "From Footwear to FoodBALL: How Camper Designed an Iconic Eatery" by Sarah Rich, a glimpse at social elements of FoodBALL's design aesthetic; "Table Making: Steps 1–8" by Michael Hebberoy, an autobiographical examination of twelve years of living architecture and design in relation to meals and tables; and "Taste and Memory" by Peter Lewis, on truth and beauty in food and wine.

City Arts, March/April 2008
Favorite pieces: "Artful Lodging" by Virginia Bunker, with photography by Aaron Locke, on the remodeled Hotel Murano, the article that inspired the urban spelunking of the child and I; "Eyewitness" portfolio by Walter Gaya, with text by Lisa Kinoshita, a first-hand photographic essay on the war in Iraq from a soldier's perspective; and "Good Vibrations" by Oliver Doriss, on the work of painter Zachary Marvick.

Poetry, December 2007
Favorite pieces: "The Fabric: A Poet's Vesalius" by Heather McHugh, wherein she focuses on a few of the anatomical studies of Vesalius and Titian with a poet's eye; the poems "Victory," "Daniel," "The Train," and "The Sight" by David Orr; and the poem "Little Ache" by Li-Young Lee.

Poetry, February 2008
Favorite pieces: the portfolio of poems by George Szirtes, written to accompany photographs included in the exhibition "In the Face of History: European Photographers in the Twentieth Century; "Leaving Prague: A Notebook" by Alexei Tsvetkov, a poetic essay on the importance of place; and "Full Fathom" by Jorie Graham, a poem printed on a fold-out.

Bowl of Cherries by Millard Kaufman
This is a tale about the life and love of a sixteen-year-old prodigy, who is also somewhat of a slacker. It is sarcastic and funny, à la Vonnegut, laced with plenty of scatological humor, à la a toned-down Burroughs, and filled with a wonderful vocabulary. It also vaguely echoes Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close for me, in a way that I cannot exactly explain. And, at this point, I am really pulling for Judd Breslau. I hope he doesn't end up executed by his former friend, Abby (Abdul) al Sadr, crown prince of Assama, Iraq.

McSweeney's Enchanted Chamber of Astonishing Stories, edited by Michael Chabon
I had to return to this collection to reread the short story "Zeroville" by Steve Erickson. I hope to get my hands on a copy of Erickson's novel Zeroville soon, which was written from the initial ideas presented in its eponymous forbear. The short story is everything I hope the novel is—surreal, insular, apocalyptic, referential to the other novels and works of Erickson, and steeped in cinematic history, even while it plays loosely with that history.

Friday, March 14, 2008


"We thank you for your servant [name], whose baptism is now complete in death."
—Reverend Sue Watkins

I don't even know what that means! I would reverse the terms: "whose death is now complete in baptism." (And, I would have said it at her baptism, not her funeral.) I believe baptism to be an act that brings about new life. Baptism kills the sinfulness within us, drowns our old self, even though the sin still exists, because Christ has not returned. We still have to die. The event just doesn't have the sting that it once did, because we have the promise of new life.


"The cross , therefore, is not a punishment but an exercise and preparation for renewal. For when present sin is put to death and when in the midst of temptations we learn to seek the aid of God and experience God's presence, we acknowledge more and more the lack of trust in our own hearts and we encourage ourselves by faith. In this way, newness of spirit grows, as Paul says, "Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day" (2 Cor. 4:16)."
—page 214:151, Apology of the Augsburg Confession, "Article XII: Repentance," The Book of Concord: The Confessions of the Evangelical Lutheran Church


I am tired of death. I am tired of being so close to it. Its immediacy. Its rawness. It is fraying my nerves. I am tense and on edge. I am not alone. I can sense the same in the wife and the child.

In October 2007, it was mourning the loss of a second pregnancy, and the death of the maternal grandmother. In February 2008, it was the death of the paternal grandfather. Today, it was the memorial service of a neighbor, a ninety-three-year-old woman, whom we have lived next to for the past six years.


The wife discovered the neighbor lying in her driveway a week prior to her death. She was fiercely independent and had been raking leaves out of her driveway. Now, she couldn't walk. The wife carried her to her house and they pushed the button on her "emergency necklace." The wife waited with her until paramedics arrived and they transported the neighbor to the hospital.

A call from the neighbor's children, later in the day, informed us that the neighbor had suffered a stroke and broken her hip in the fall. Another call a few days later let us know that she was probably not going to recover. A visit from the neighbor's grandson on the day that she died gave us the news that the bleeding in her brain had continued for three days. The hemorrhage was deep in the brain, so the flow could not be staunched. Her death was eerily reminiscent of the maternal grandmother. The neighbor's death exposed old wounds that I thought were healed.


The wife, the child, and I attended the neighbor's memorial service this morning. It didn't feel very hopeful, even though it was held in a church and presided over by a pastor. The wife described the service as "shallow, lacking any true depth." I would have to agree.

It just adds to and aggravates the rawness, the tension, the anger.

Death, where is thy sting? Right here. Right now.


Our neighbor was a wonderful woman. She was also a wonderful neighbor. She lived in the same home for sixty-four years. She was the neighborhood's memory. She would tell the wife and I stories about the various families that had lived in our house and the other homes on the street.

She would keep an eye on our house when we were on vacation. She would call us or question us if she saw strange vehicles in our driveway, to make sure that everything was okay. We did the same for her. A couple of times, I went and knocked on her door just to ensure that she was fine.

She never pronounced either the wife's or the child's names correctly.

On occasion, I would walk her empty garbage can from the road to her back yard after the waste had been collected. She would inevitably call me to ask if I had brought it in. I would inform her that I had. She would thank me for being such a good neighbor.

She and I accidentally pushed her "emergency necklace" once when I was visiting her. I had to assure the dispatcher who called that she was in no imminent danger.

She would wander out to get her mail and wave at me as I mowed the lawn or worked in the garden. We would wave at her as she weeded her flower beds or took laundry out to her washing machine in her garage.

She told us about the lives of her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and them about ours.


We could see her in her dining room window at night as she ate dinner, and she could see us eating in our dining room. Tonight, her window is dark and the blinds are shut. Her house is still and quiet and without activity.

There is no life there.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008


Trevor was an alter ego that quickly developed a life of his own. When I used to work in a bookstore, I was amazed at the number of people who mistook my name for Trevor when I answered the phone . I thought I was enunciating clearly. Even so, at least once per week, and usually more often, a customer on the other end of the line heard "Trevor." I even had a few customers in the store refer to me as Trevor.

Soon, "Trevor" was being used by me and a few other employees to deal with problem customers. Trevor was usually the one who was blamed when a customer didn't pick up their held book within the three days they were allowed and the book was returned to the shelf, but now they desperately had to have it—where was it? Trevor shelved it! Trevor was blamed when a special order could not be found. And, if a customer was being rude or obnoxious on the telephone? Yes, Trevor was the name used to "cover" for myself or another employee. Conveniently, Trevor had a lot of days off and was frequently sick. No, I'm sorry, Trevor is unavailable today. No, I'm sorry, Trevor is on vacation this week.


When it came time for me to move into a different line of work, and leave the world of book retail behind, I was asked what I was going to do on my last day in the bookstore. I hadn't thought about it. I needed a quick response. I threatened my coworkers that I was going to come to work in combat boots, a pink Speedo, and a tie. On my final day, I arrived to a farewell cake and my very own Trevor doll—wearing "my" outfit. He had actually come to life.

After a few weeks, Trevor "got lost" at home amongst stacks of books and magazines. I recently discovered Trevor again. He has said that he wants to go outside wandering. We shall see...

Tuesday, March 11, 2008


Clockwise from upper left: (1) "Welcome to Sumner" sign; (2) first geocache find of the day; (3) "welcome mat" at Sumner train station; and (4) second geocache find of the day.

The wife, the child, and I wandered about the city of Sumner on Sunday afternoon. The weather was overcast and mild—perfect walking weather.

We took coordinates for three geocaches with us, and decided to seek out two of them. We found them both. We left a small plastic green and yellow top in the first cache and took a travel bug with us. We deposited the travel bug in the second cache and left "behind" a small Chinese porcelain figurine. (Pun courtesy of the wife!) The child took a quarter for the child's piggy bank.

We also wandered around the Sumner train station and along the Confluence Trail (at the confluence of the Puyallup and White Rivers) near Sumner's Wastewater Treatment Plant. It was family fun for free!

Clockwise from upper left: (5) the Sumner train station; (6) Big Brother's official announcement; (7) Sumner's Wastewater Treatment Plant; and (8) BNSF locomotive hauling its cars and cargo.

Sunday, March 09, 2008


Clockwise from upper left:
*Floor 4—Miriandi Fiore
*Floor 5—Martin Blank
*Floor 6—Tobias Møhl
*Floor 7—Jessica Townsend

Clockwise from upper left:
*Floor 8—Seth Randal
*Floor 9—Janusz Walentynowicz
*Floor 10—Steve Klein
*Floor 11—Richard Whiteley

Clockwise from upper left:
*Floor 12—Cobi Cockburn
*Floor 15—Susan Taylor Glasgow
*Floor 16—Flo Perkins
*Floor 17—Toots Zynsky

[More Hotel Murano.]

Saturday, March 08, 2008


Clockwise from upper left: (1) across the street from the Broadway entrance to Hotel Murano (47°15.039 N, 122° 26.366 W); (2) the exterior of the upper floors; (3) west stairway; and (4) east stairway at floor 10.

The view from Altezzo Ristorante on floor 26.

"The time to physically wander, to let our minds wander, to daydream, has become much undervalued. Our minds often do their best thinking without our conscious interference."

—glass artist Toots Zynsky, quote from her installation, floor 17, Hotel Murano


True, urban spelunking is a term usually used by those who explore utility tunnels and other "liminal zones" of college campuses and cities. But, I think it is an appropriate phrase for what the child and I did on Friday. Plain and simple, spelunking is the exploration of caves. What we did was explore the "caves" and "tunnels" of a particular Tacoma hotel—the former Tacoma Sheraton, now Hotel Murano. So, I think it is a valid appropriation of the term.


I initially heard from the uncle that the Tacoma Sheraton was under new ownership and being renovated. He told me that they were acquiring contemporary glass art from renown glass artists. I tucked it away in my brain, and told myself to look into it later. I tucked it away too well, because I forgot about it.

Last week, I was perusing the March/April 2008 issue of City Arts magazine, and one of the feature articles was on Hotel Murano's collection of glass art. My memory was triggered, and soon we were exploring the hotel and viewing glass art installations.


Hotel Murano is in the final phase of renovation. It is placing the finishing touches on areas of the lobby and some of the common areas, such as meeting rooms. The child and I bypassed the lobby art and took the elevator straight to the top. The Altezzo Ristorante has a moderate lunch crowd, and there was no host person at their front desk so we wandered into the unoccupied half of the restaurant and enjoyed some great views of downtown Tacoma.

We hopped back onto the elevator. Our plan was to drop down one floor and look at its art, and then repeat this until we arrived in the lobby. Other people were trying to get to their room on floor twenty-four, and it appeared that you need a room key in order for the elevator to allow you onto the upper floors. Those people didn't get their key card swiped in time and we found ourselves on floor four. That is the first floor of rooms, so we exited the elevator.

Each floor is dedicated to the work of a particular glass artist. The space immediately in front of the elevators in the hallway has a piece of installed glass art and information about the artist who created it. To either side of the installation, throughout the hallway, are pictures of that particular artist at work on that particular piece, in addition to other pieces of his or her work. We decided that we would look at the work and pictures on a particular floor and then proceed via the stairways to the floor above to repeat the entire process. We visited floors four through seventeen (minus the nonexistent thirteenth floor). We are saving floors eighteen through twenty-five for another day.

We took the elevator down to the lobby, since you can access the elevator from the floor you are on, even though the reverse in not necessarily true. We spent another half hour looking at the lobby art and trying out the various designer couches and chairs, before wandering back outside onto Broadway to take the Tacoma Link back to the Dome District.