Seattle. Land of coffeeshops, Frasier and lovesick doctors in fictitious hospitals. Like Chicago, a U.S. destination I conquered last summer, I had my preconceived notions of the City That Birthed Starbucks. I imagined a consistently cloudy metropolis trapped in 1993, shaggy-haired songwriters sipping on mochas, donning their Doc Martens and strumming away on guitars purchased in smelly secondhand stores owned by aging Woodstock alumni who are now subscribing to AARP and slowly losing their grip on anti-establishment philosophies that once dictated their lives. But now? If I were to describe Seattle to someone who's never been, I would say it's a Canadian-friendly, Boston-sized San Francisco: Hilly, chilly and graced with just enough character that's based on a history unlike any other city on the West Coast. I had flown in on a Friday night. My hostess and weekend tour guide, the marvelous Molly, picked me up at the airport, and from there we hit a couple of bars. H
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