Confessions of a Seattle Newcomer
The Unofficial Guide to Blending In (Gore-Tex Required)
Note: I wrestled with whether to publish today's piece as scheduled. In moments of significant national change, writing about local coffee orders and Gore-Tex preferences felt trivial. But then I thought about how learning to belong somewhere—whether it's figuring out Seattle's rain philosophy, navigating Kansas City’s sprawling suburbs, or mastering New York's subway dance—has always been my way of making sense of this vast, complex country. Today especially, I'm grateful for the small ways we build community across America's cities, how we learn each place's quirks and rhythms, join its daily rituals, and find our own ways of belonging. I hope it brings a moment of gentle reminder that we're all just trying to figure out how to belong, together.
Every morning begins the same way: I reach for the small white remote on my bedside table—a simple circle that's become my daily portal to Seattle's moods. One click, and the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling windows reveal themselves, their electric blinds rolling up to transform my third-floor sanctuary into what feels like a floating observatory. From here, in this Fremont rowhouse where the low-rise landscape of the neighborhood spreads out below, I get a front-row seat to whatever atmospheric performance Seattle's decided to stage.
It took me about three years to notice certain things about Seattle—like the way everyone claims to hate autumn's early sunsets but still crowds onto rooftop bars to catch them, or how you can track the progression of fall by which coffee shops switch their specials from pumpkin spice (amateur hour) to maple cardamom (peak Seattle), or how the true locals never remark on the rain unless it's doing something truly unusual, like last week's performance of "Southeast Asian Monsoon: The Seattle Remix."
From my perch each morning, watching people navigate the weather below, I've developed something of a field guide to Your Common Seattleite in the Wild. Consider this your classified intel—though like any good Seattle secret, it's best discussed over craft beers or during a rainy day trail walk.
On the Art of Adventure-Ready Attire
That first Seattle epiphany hit me on a random Tuesday, realizing I was the only person not dressed for an impromptu trek through the Cascades. Tech bros in performance fleece, baristas in waterproof boots, professors in moisture-wicking everything. The grandparents at the farmers market? Ready for backpacking. That kid headed to UW in their purple hoodie? Probably has a collapsible trekking pole in that North Face backpack.
The Weather Philosophers
Let's debunk some myths: Seattle isn't even close to being America's rainiest city (that honor belongs to places like Mobile, Alabama and Pensacola, Florida). What we have instead is a profound philosophical approach to weather: "There's no such thing as bad weather, only bad gear." Once you crack this code—once you stop trying to fight the elements and instead invest in the right equipment—you unlock the city's true secret: Seattleites don't endure nature, they play in it. And yes, this probably explains why everyone looks like they're about to hit a trail at any moment—though let's be honest, we just really like REI and these outfits.
Speaking Seattle
First, master the geography: it's "I-5," never "The 5" (unless you want to immediately out yourself as a Californian). SLU is South Lake Union, not "The South Lake," and yes, we're all still bitter about the South Lake Union Trolley's unfortunate acronym. And while we're at it, that stretch of University Way that runs through the U District? Everyone calls it "The Ave"—don't ask why, just roll with it. And please, for the love of all things coffee, it's Pike Place Market, not Pike's—named for the street, not some guy named Pike who owned the place (though watching tourists puzzle over this is admittedly one of our simple pleasures).
The Bridge Calculus
We measure distance in minutes (always assuming light traffic, always wrong), and our collective trauma is measured in bridge events. Any given ETA must account for our drawbridges rising for boat traffic (add 15 minutes if you're crossing the Ballard Bridge during salmon season), unexpected closures (ask any local about the West Seattle Bridge saga or this year's I-5 concrete fiasco), and the strategic calculus of toll bridges. Here's a true insider secret: while everyone loves to complain about the 520 tolls, the longtime locals quietly appreciate them. Sure, it costs money to cross, but remember the gridlock before? Now everyone who's trying to save a few dollars takes I-90 through Mercer Island instead, leaving 520 for those of us willing to pay for a quicker commute. It's the kind of traffic solution that works precisely because most people think it doesn't.
The Seasonal Awakening
Summer doesn't really start until after July 4th (a fact that still breaks my former Californian heart), and September brings the most reliably beautiful weather, right when everyone else is pulling out their fleece jackets and ordering pumpkin spice lattes. You haven't truly arrived until you find yourself explaining this to confused visitors with a mixture of pride and apology.
Let me be clear: I'm still not technically a local. Real Seattleites can tell you stories about seeing Nirvana at house parties or when the Gorge was just a local secret for summer concerts. They still mourn the Sonics with a bitterness that makes Boston's sports fans look tame, and no amount of Kraken hockey can fill that particular void. They remember when Juanita was Seattle's weekend escape, complete with ferries crossing Lake Washington. These are the kinds of stories that mark the difference between living in Seattle and being of Seattle—though I'm starting to collect a few tales of my own.
As I gear up for my morning dog walk, zipping into my weatherproof jacket and lacing up those expensive boots I once swore I'd never buy, I can't help but smile at how completely I've surrendered to Seattle's dress code. Down on street level now, my dog and I join the parade of Gore-Tex and performance fleece, just two almost-locals embracing the morning drizzle. It's not just Seattle anymore; it's home. At least until my five-year itch kicks in.
Next week: The Geography of Belonging: On Leaving Home(s)
Reply to this email: What's your city's unwritten dress code? I'd love to hear about the subtle signals that mark you as a local (or give you away as a newcomer).
Finding home in Seattle’s Autumn rain,
Susie