Third places

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"Everybody knows everybody"

Early on a Friday evening, Sunny the bartender props open the door at Angie's Tavern on Seattle's Rainier Avenue, letting out the smoke and letting in the views of Columbia City's gentrification.

But the regulars at Angie's do not appear to be newcomers as Tears for Fear's "Shout!" blasts from the jukebox, and the bar phone rings every few minutes with somebody looking for someone who's probably at Angie's.

The daytime bartender, Reggie, lingers after work on the drinking side of the bar, where he keeps an enthusiastic eye on televised baseball and basketball and adds to the warmth by knowing almost everybody's name.

With a touch to the elbow, a rub of the back, the patrons acknowledge one another, check in.

"How's that baby of yours?"

On another day, many of the same faces are here, but now when the door opens sun shines through pint glasses of amber.

"Everybody knows everybody," says a dominoes player who identifies himself as Al. "We all live around here."

The barbs go back and forth with his opponent, Drew. One domino is missing but they both know which one it is.

"You're so nice to me, I don't know what I should do!"
 
"I've got to respect my elders."

The Bremerton Ferry

Peals of laughter rise off the back deck of the Bremerton ferry as the lights of Seattle drift away. A half-dozen women, from 25 to 62, settle in for what is essentially their weekday social life, since their 12- to 14-hour door-to-door days leave them no energy for socializing at home.

"It's a long trip, it's a long day," says Jackie Powell. "Some of us also ride the bus together. After a while, you start gravitating toward each other."

"I feel I could ask any of them to do anything for me," adds Gladys Storm. "And we don't even see each other outside of here."

Regulars stick up for each other and admonish their own. When a rushing commuter nearly knocked down two women with mobility problems, other regulars got together on the bus and decided to speak to him, says Peggy Richards. "It was just nicely handled."

Chip Henkel and Lyle Burgett are "going home buddies" who lounge on either side of a table at mid ship. The two men are chastising the "undecideds" in the election, knowing they share the same political views.

Says Henkel, "It's almost like a cafeteria at school, where you have this little bit of time and you sit with the same people everyday."

Or the old front porch before life got so busy, Burgett adds.

"It used to be that was where most conversation took place."

Marymoor dog park

While Allie, Maggie and Eli share a single idea — "let's run!" — at Marymoor Park's spacious off-leash area in Redmond, their owners are onto more complex topics, including osteoporosis and presidential debates.

At Marymoor, as at Golden Gardens, Blue Dog Pond and other dog parks, people who know each other only as Spot's Mom or Rover's Dad end up exchanging keys for dog sitting or sharing emotions they know won't get back to home or work.

"The dogs introduce us," says Mike Piper, walking with a group that includes his wife, Shannon, who adds that the canines' shared love of play cements the human relationships when the dogs made it clear "we're not leaving each other."

If one of the humans breaks a bone — thus the conversation on osteoporosis — other dog-walkers will exercise their dogs. If someone shows up for months and then doesn't show up for a week, fellow humans sound the alarm, leading to questions.

"What's Sammy's mother's last name? Does anyone have a phone number or e-mail for her?"

And what happens if a Doberman loves a poodle, but one owner is staunch Democrat and the other devoted Republican?

"Then if we start biting each other," Mike Piper says, "people come and break it up."

Green Lake sauna

When Nick Jenkins slips into the sauna after lap-swimming at Green Lake's Evans Pool, he knows he's in for a hot time.

As the lone Republican in "McDermott Country," Jenkins manages to hold up his half of the nation in discussions that range all over the place — children, dating, jobs — and, lately, politics.

"It's just such a good conversation place," says Jenkins. "Sitting around half naked in our Speedos getting into it, it's such fun."

The sauna stands like an oversized tool shed at the south end of the pool. At 6:30 most weekday nights, exhilarated regulars finish their swims and sit on the warm wooden tiers, connecting with words as they toast.

As Jenkins has no doubt heard from other regulars, there was less need to talk politics until "George Bush started this war." And, just as often, people come here to forget the churning world.

"It's so important to have a place to reach out to one another, especially at this time," said Arden Hellmann, a stay-at-home mom who uses the pool and sauna to remind herself that she still fits with adults.

"People come from all different backgrounds here," said Rene DeVine, a decadelong regular. "We're minimally clothed, very vulnerable, and it breaks down the barriers."