On a recent Wednesday night, while the rest of the family was upstairs reading bedtime stories, I snuck out of the house and met my friend parked car on the corner. We drove to Ballard, where a meet-up of over a hundred motorcycle riders restored some of the neighborhood’s old, salty character. Drifting uncertainly through a sea of leather-clad riders and parked bikes, we found the warehouse with the letter H painted on the side.
“I think that’s it. Doesn’t the name of the bar start with H?”
“Yes, this is it. See, there’s a sign.”
Next to the door of the warehouse was a white homemade sandwich board. Stenciled in black block letters was the word, “Opera.”
We were in the right place.
