Santa Cruz has a cousin.
Albeit a slightly older, chubbier cousin, but a relative nonetheless. A cousin more likely to be baking and getting baked on the beach than youthfully crashing through the waves. While a less shiny and fit model of its Californian counterpart, Bellingham, Washington is home to just as much peace, love and organic grocers.
Once an aegis of hippie sensibilities and the sock with Teva sandal, Bellingham is a city in flux. Change is washing slowly into the harbors. A tide of development creeps onto its shores in the early morning when no one’s around. On a recent trip home, I noticed newly plexiglassed and veneered buildings sprouting between the cracks of our well-loved sidewalks. In Fairhaven, a small neighborhood with park benches and used books, the once-decaying Waldron building had been revamped. It now housed a new bank and several expensive condominiums. Many said it was an effort to conserve the classic red brick architecture, to seal the Fairhaven charm in a mason jar of modernity. But I could taste the artificial preservatives.
The story has been told before: Small town loses small town charm when big developers and their big ideas build big buildings. But Bellingham is a unique case. Somewhere between the Saturday farmers’ market on Railroad Avenue and the newly opened Starbucks down the street mixes yuppie wealth with Hippie social consciousness. It’s this new breed, this newly formed “yippie” demographic, which threatens to consume my hometown like a fair-trade macchiato. They drive Subarus, sport body-conscious but eco-friendly yoga pants and can actually afford to shop at Whole Foods (while Bellingham has yet to welcome a Whole Foods, it can’t be far behind the Trader Joe’s that moved in recently). And with their gluten-casein-sodium-free, flax-fed children getting older, the movement is only growing. The yippies are becoming a true force.
But Bellingham is a town that can’t be lost to the black hole of Bed Bath and Beyond. It’s a colorful patchwork of people and personalities, not unlike the Mexican poncho my seventh-grade technology teacher wore on particularly windy days. Like the poncho’s nubby yarn and small tears, Bellingham’s authentic eccentricity is what makes it so comfortable and well worn. Home to the Pita Pit on the corner, where they often hot box the walk-in freezer, and will trade you a late-night sandwich for a spliff. Home to the man in a ski hat and backpack on the street corner, listening to a Walkman and spinning in circles. It’s a place of pacifists: my high school U.S. History teacher was a Vietnam leftover that didn’t make it quite as far as Canada when avoiding the draft. But when a Hummer drives down Railroad Avenue, be forewarned. Fingers in a peace sign also form the perfect cradle for a free-range egg—to be launched with a collection of choice expletives at the offending vehicle. Republican is a derogatory term. Right-wing voters were often hidden in the closet, not openly admitting their conservative orientation until they were in college and free from their oppressively liberal high school. Bush, Cheney, or “weapons of mass destruction” were my teachers’ favorite punch lines, sure to illicit appreciative laughs from an otherwise quiet classroom.
Most of this lies beneath the glossy surface. Visitors are more likely to hear of our stunning parks (it is the Pacific Northwest, after all), chalk-art festivals, Ski to Sea relays and vibrant dining scene. While such drug use, lunacy, and manic liberalism may not make the brochure, it’s integral to the true Bellingham. There’s a face of this town, beyond the child licking a Mallard’s ice cream cone on the cover. It’s the man in the ski hat, spinning with his arms wide open and his eyes tightly shut. Both welcomingly accepting and blissfully unaware.