ROMANTIC SEATTLE HOTEL - HOTEL HOLLYWOOD ROOSEVELT.
Romantic Seattle Hotel
- The Seattle Hotel (also known as Hotel Seattle) was the third of three hotels located in Pioneer Square in a triangular block bound by James Street to the north, Yesler Way to the south, and 2nd Avenue to the east, and just steps away from the Pioneer Building.
- belonging to or characteristic of Romanticism or the Romantic Movement in the arts; "romantic poetry"
- Of, characterized by, or suggestive of an idealized view of reality
- a soulful or amorous idealist
- amatory: expressive of or exciting sexual love or romance; "her amatory affairs"; "amorous glances"; "a romantic adventure"; "a romantic moonlight ride"
- Relating to love, esp. in a sentimental or idealized way
- Inclined toward or suggestive of the feeling of excitement and mystery associated with love
romantic seattle hotel - Seattle's Historic
Seattle's Historic Hotels (Images of America) (Images of America (Arcadia Publishing))
Mary Ann Conklin, also known as "Madame Damnable," ran Seattle's first hotel, the Felker House, which burned to the ground in the Great Seattle Fire of 1889. The Rainier Hotel was erected quickly following the Great Seattle Fire but razed around 1910. The Denny Hotel, an architectural masterpiece later known as the Washington Hotel, was built in 1890 but torn down in 1907 during the massive regrade that flattened Denny Hill. Upon opening in 1909, the Sorrento Hotel was declared a "credit to Seattle" by the Seattle Times. The Olympic Hotel was the place for Seattle's high society throughout the 1920s. The Hotel Kalmar was a workingman's hotel built in 1881 and was razed for the Seattle tollway. The Lincoln Hotel was destroyed by a tragic fire in 1920, along with its rooftop gardens. The famous and grand Seattle Hotel in Pioneer Square was replaced by a "sinking ship" parking garage, thus sparking preservationists to band together to establish Pioneer Square as a historic district.
I had this great idea. I stumbled upon it after plans fell through and I defaulted to Gasworks to take in the sun, Seattle, and Nick Hornby's "Songbook." Through the essays bound together in this book, the author explores 31 songs that he loves and/or are of sentimental importance, and I could write for days about why I should have read this years ago, or why it seems at times that it was written especially for me. I am a former musician raised by a former 1970s rock 'n roll drummer who filled my first 18 years with a constant stream of songs that have, in some way or another, impacted the way I remember pivotal and menial events. Certain melodies and tunes will transport me to the Poly Drive Elementary playground with my best friends, or to that Vancouver BC hotel where I cried my eyes out the first time that a boy dumped me, or back to Lake Washington Boulevard in November 2008 when I crossed the 8 mile mark 57 minutes into my second half-marathon. The songs that fill my iPod are just as much a presence in my life as the people who have helped me make the memories. Of course I'm going to be enthralled by a book devoted entirely to music. What has taken me by surprise is how this narrative has brought to light the other major way in which music has impacted me. I never would have placed it had I not read Hornby's chapter about Ani DiFranco's "You Had Time," which introduced me to a quote from Walter Pater: "All art constantly aspires toward the condition of music." Hornby laments that he would rather be a musician, but has settled to written word as his form of artistic expression because he simply cannot write music. If you asked me to describe myself in a number of words, "artist" would never make the list, but until I turned 22, "musician" would easily occupy one of the top five spots. I cannot justifiably claim to be such anymore, as my gnarled, arthritic pinky on my left hand is preventing me from making beautiful music on my instrument of choice. Upon pinpointing this realization, I began to think about my current outlets and activities. I am a scientist, and I am an athlete who rides bikes and runs distance and plays ultimate frisbee. None of my chosen diversions nor my career allow for much creative expression or emotion, and in noting this, it became apparent that any emptiness I feel in my life may relate to my lack of even one creative outlet. Sure, I occasionally perform drunken karaoke, and there is some improvisation to cooking and baking, and I even have a flickr account to catalog and share all the photos that, I suppose, represent how I see the world. But I'm not creating anything, I'm not making any sort of beautiful contribution to the world or engaging that part of my brain that used to be so devoted to music. I wanted to fill that void. If you've been paying attention and you know me well enough, you will have noted that I stopped claiming to be a musician at 22, and that 4 years have since passed. I probably have not expressed any lament or regret concerning my lack of a creative outlet, mostly because I'm only just acknowledging it. I can offer another explanation: between ages 22 and 25, I wrote. I maintained a seldom-read blog where I would ruminate and expound upon silly little things like relationships, living alone, working in my first adult job, my apprehensions and objections toward religion. I dissected and analyzed all of the nitty gritty details of my personal life in countless journals that currently reside in a moving box that I'll be forced to haul from apartment to apartment until I settle down or fulfill my threats to burn those volumes of the thoughtful but useless minutiae that kept me awake back then. I stopped writing for joy or emotional relief during my med school application process last summer, and got so wrapped up in bikes and ex-boyfriend drama that I kind of forgot to return to it. Until now. My great idea took form when I pulled out my camera to snap a photo of Clem, my new 10-year-old friend who I taught to throw a frisbee at Gasworks. Clem's questions and enthusiasm about ultimate stuck with me, inspiring me to examine my relationship with this sport that I used to love so ardently and what the future holds for its role in my life. I imagined posting Clem's picture here and writing everything that was flying through my head at that minute, and it suddenly became one of those things that I absolutely had to do before I could continue with my day. I rode home as quickly as I could, dragged my trusty papasan onto the porch that juts off of my bedroom, and decided that the best way to approach this would be to introduce the rest of you to what I'm doing and why. I cannot guarantee that any of this will be worth your time. I can guarantee that I will not post every day, and that when I do write, I will refrain from sharing really personal details about, say, my romantic li
The Upper Pond - Tree house Interior.
The Upper Pond Treehouse was designed with families in mind. It overlooks the serine upper pond and across to the Nest Treehouse, thus creating an arboreal world unto itself. The two treehouses seem to call to each other. The Upper Pond can sleep 4 individuals in two separate bunk beds, while the Nest might host mom and dad in a signature handmade queen size bed. There is room to spread out in the Upper Pond with a table that can seat six. There is a private toilet in the Upper Pond and a full bathroom is shared with the other treehouses and is a short distance away. An outside deck adds to the space during the summer months. The Nest has an ample outside deck as well that looks back to its sister treehouse. The Nest’s interior has just enough room for a love seat at the foot of the bed, and the full bathroom is about a hundred feet away through the woods. Each is nestled sweetly in grand cedar and spruce trees.
romantic seattle hotel
Celebrating The Olympic Hotel's 80th year of operation, this book traces the history of the hotel's site (the original campus of today's University of Washington), the public campaign to build a "community hotel," the numerous events and celebrities it has hosted, and The Olympic's rebirth in the 1980s to the present. "Life in The Olympic" reflected events beyond its doors: the Roaring Twenties, the dark days of the Great Depression, patriotic rallies and bond drives during World War II, the promise and exhilaration of the 1962 World's Fair, Seattle's urban renaissance of the 1970s and 1980s, and protests and debates from the Vietnam War to WTO.