Author: Margo Brighton

On the east side of the canal, the other half of the old garment district sits on the side of a rusted over train yard, under the new Olympic Freeway. The buildings that have survived new factories and bridge construction are clearly from another era, with intricate tile work on old warehouse buildings and architectural interest added to the Vespucci Bridge. Before the train cars were left here to rust to the tracks, this used to be the lifeblood of the city, bringing goods down to the docks farther south. Now, the few buildings that are occupied are corporately owned,…

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Cities come back to life just as the sun sets, something about the hazy shades of gold and orange wake up what faded into the afternoon heat. This time of year, the air starts to get crisp, with the fading scent of mothballs and leaf rot. For a few weeks, everything seems sharper in the cold. Sure, with bundled coats and threadbare knit gloves, the people you pass seem colder too. There isn’t the assumed openness of summer, or the expected season’s greetings in the dead of winter. But somehow, walks become almost pleasant without the sunburn and the heat…

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