Trunk Space
Memories of my five night stay at The Panama Hotel are a bit like the trunks gathering dust in its basement: Dusty, but not easily forgotten.
In the early 1940’s The Panama in downtown Seattle was a bustling refuge for the Japanese community in the Pacific North West.
Then came the interment camps.
The hotel’s lower level displays a moving commemoration of the those who were deported on the grounds of potential enemy espionage.
Some of the shipped-off families stored their personal belongings in the Panama. Many items are still there, including their trunks.
Over the years, hotel managers have tried to make contact with the owners, to no avail.
No wonder the families never came back for them. Perhaps they were a trigger to memories of one of America’s saddest policies?
By appointment, guests can see the “living museum,” but I wasn’t all that interested.
I had my fill of history in Room 217.
But They Call It China Town
Built in 1910 by Sabro Ozasa, the first Japanese-American architect, the hotel has been owned by Jan Johnson since 1985. In her youth, she pounced on an unlikely loan and has kept the ship plowing the seas of history tourism ever since.
A Wikipedia quote echoes the sentiments you’ll find on the Airbnb listing:
(Jan) has restored the building to emulate its previous condition before the internment of Japanese Americans from Seattle.
Joan Jett of Main Street
Jan comes off as an aging yet spry rock-and-roller: Tall, trim, everything black from her jacket and jeans to her long frizzy hair.
She’s very present at The Panama, eager to open the front door if doorman Eric1 isn’t on duty or otherwise occupied.
One one occasion, coming back from my conference around 9:00 PM, I made my way from the public bus up the hill that’s called Main Street.
Jan was clumsily walking down the steep sidewalk with one of those dangerous rental scooters in her hands.
I pick these up every night so drunk people won’t trip on them.
This proprietor is not only concerned for her guests’ safety, she’s also earnest in telling her story of stewardship.
Three days into my stay, a lengthy article on her contributions appeared in The North American Post, a 121 year old Japanese community newspaper.
I showed interest in reading the physical article in her cluttered office. An older gentleman named Mike was standing by.
Mike, do you have that article? Tom here wants to see it.
Mike said he shared it with someone else, to which she made it clear that he should bring it back ASAP. There it was on the table the day before I checked out!
Room 217, Thanks For The Memories?
I’m happy to remember my nights at the Panama each time I see it listed in my Airbnb app as a Past Trip.
I’m not so sure I’d make it a future one. The price was right, but the Airbnb listing was slightly “staged,” IMHO.
Imagine an old hotel in a city center. You probably can’t. Who stays in those kind of dinosaurs anymore?
So, imagine a 100 year old retreat center.
Everything squeaks, especially the floors, and all that you see, from floor to ceiling, is original. “The real OG,” as the hipsters say.
The bathrooms are straight out of some Christian retreat centers I’ve known, and I made peace with them through the toilette version of “speed-networking.”
On the glowing side, the woodwork and brass railings are very impressive, and every inch is as clean as it can be. The pillows and towels were fresh too.
I figured I could survive in a small room with a corner sink, a step up from a youth hostel. And I did.
Jan’s personal care added to my sense of security in a downtown that I wouldn’t recommend to anyone without a bit of punk rock in their teeth.
We Put The Grunge In Grungy
Several locals I spoke with informed me that Seattle’s downtown is still reeling from the pandemic, race riots, and general anarchy that took over for a time.
I saw numerous pathetic souls languishing on the streets, in encampments, under bridges, or out in the open.
On a Sunday I walked 2 miles north into one of Seattle’s many comfortable neighborhoods. The human tragedies thinned-out, as I expected.
A young dad I spent the afternoon with finds himself in a dilemma.2
His family’s situation is privileged and safe for his kids. He’s thankful, but the horrors of the center-city district are far removed.
How will he teach his boys something about compassion to “the least of these?”
Well-meaning and faith-driven people of many stripes are asking the same question, especially in larger metro areas where the scale of everything from prosperity to adversity is overwhelming.
Another parent I stayed with after leaving the Panama said she passed 71 Teslas on the way to her kids’ school.
That’s Redmond for you, home of Microsoft, a northern suburb.
Past The Future
All around the Panama Hotel, mid-century apartment houses cling to the hills. I saw several pensioners of Asian descent strolling the steep sidewalks, hands clasped behind their backs.
Ersatz community gardens in cordoned-off lots awaited spring cleaning, even as glitzy “market rate” apartments and condos poked up like new weeds.
Gentrification happens.
Urban improvement is always needed, but where do our older and poorer residents go? Do they simply move on? Yes.
Will their memory matter to anyone?
Getting A Word In Edge-Wise
That’s the Panama’s dilemma. She’s a relic going toe-to-toe with scads of hotels and app-based rooms offering all of our current necessities.
You know, web-capable plasma TV’s, pristine HVAC, Keurigs®, and acres of laminate flooring.
You smell, hear, feel, and see her leaning into the digital future like a great-grandma trying to contribute a story into a circle of loud-mouthed relatives laughing and juggling their iPhones.
One day, when Jan can no longer maintain the hotel and its snug tea room dedicated to telling the Japanese-American story, will her building fall to the wrecking ball, only to be replaced by soulless ticky-tacky on the hill?
Or will someone come up with the needed $10,000,000 for The Panama’s well-deserved renovation?
I’m hoping for the latter outcome, and I’ll happily pay a little more to stay there again if they keep the trunks on display.
I’m still not sure how he figures into the story. I tried to ask. All I got out of him was, “I stay here.”
I had met Matt ten years ago at a Harrisburg church and found him at a warm church that was recommended to me by a Covenant Seminary friend: Grace Seattle. After a wonderful worship service filled with liturgy, song, and Supper, I ate lunch with a spirited group of young adults. Then I was invited back to Matt’s REAL HOUSE for down time and supper with his young boys. An oasis.