Over the last couple years, Seattle’s Ballard neighborhood has became the new Williamsburg. We had brunch there yesterday with TC and Sarah, the the neighborhood (formerly known for aging Scandanavians and baby strollers equipped with latte holders) was filled to the brim with bottle-black haired hipsters, sculking about in their black hooded sweatshirts, vintage Ts, and carefully studied hangover scowls. Andreas, who lived in Ballard when I met him in late 1997, was stunned.

“Maybe I was a member of the shock troops of Ballard gentrification,” he mused. Perhaps. Or maybe everybody just couldn’t deal with Capitol Hill’s street kids and notoriously bloated rents.

Now I know why a woman at work said to me, “Ariel, you live in Ballard, don’t you.” in this way that implied it wasn’t a question because she already knew the answer. I was totally confused. Did I smell like lutefisk? Was the new haircut really that bad? When I said, “No, I live on Capitol Hill…?” the response was a little disappointed and I couldn’t figure out why.

I understand now that it was because I had proved that I really wasn’t a hipster, which is really fine with me. Hoopster yes. Hipster? Eh, not so much.