Our island is a small heaven located eight miles (14 km) from downtown Seattle. One arrives to it by a state ferry, a big white torpedo connecting Seattle with the extended population of 4,000,000+ to the downtown of our island numbering 20,000+. There are two traffic lights in the entire place and people usually don’t lock their houses. People still wave and say hello; children ride their bicycles to school. The adage pertaining to small towns of “never having to engage a turn signal on the car as everyone knows where you are going” is still true on our island. The whales and birds have been around long before the people; the ocean waves never get tired hitting our rocks. When it rains, the whole place becomes mysterious in the same way as in winter when the days are short. Our island is a gift from God.
All which is described above was true until a few years ago. Very true. And then, our idyllic lifestyle on a small ocean rock ended in the same way it began during a volcanic eruption.
This time it was an eruption of people whom we call tourists. They discovered what we have known for a long time and proceeded to ruin it for the rest of us. They also discovered our ferry and wanted to ride it; not to go home or to work but to ride something as they would in an amusement park. They come from everywhere: not really knowing where they are, or any history or anything, really. They walk around as if lost and in a daze; as if having received a life-threatening diagnosis. No context. Just walk around looking for a sandwich or an ice cream. Many of our visitors have been cruising who knows where and are having a port of call visit. They do not only not know where they are but, by the looks of them, I doubt they know what planet they are on.
They waddle down our main streets in droves, three or four abreast, not aware of their surroundings. Of course, they all want to move to our island while high on sugar and calories they have been consuming all day. Their reasoning is impacted by the beauty of our surroundings more than any logical thinking can overcome. Once they realize that there isn’t much for sale and that they couldn’t afford it anyway, they quell their pain and sadness by eating (again). More and more; comfort foods, mostly sweets and ice creams. I think the most successful business on our island is the ice cream store.
And, then, at the end of a day they vanish as the ferries gorge on them and quickly take them away. Our streets are then quiet for the evening and our tranquility is restored.
by Mike Djordjevich
Address :
321 High School Road #303
Bainbridge Island
WA 98110
USA
Telephone : +1 661 645 5572
Email : mike@mdj-cpa.com
Website : http://www.mdj-cpa.com