The term “urbanist” and “urbanism” have been weighed down with more significance than they deserve, then trivialized and emptied of meaning by overuse. I think “urbanist” is one who talks about cities, and buildings, and policies, and articles, and statistics. But living in a city is how we can experience and know why they work and why they are better. This story is all about quarters.

My day usually starts with a visit to the coffee shop, Joe Bar, to start the caffeinating process. But today I needed to do some basic laundry, which is no small thing in my building. It means walking down numerous flights of stairs, exiting one gate, opening another, and then keying into another door to get to the washing machines. It’s a hassle. One never knows whether two washing machines are busy or not. It’s a risk. But I did it anyway. Today I was lucky and I found an open machine, and now I was caffeinating, washing, and walking all at once.

I needed to stop at the bank. Two banks, actually. My transactions were not high finance but more of a chore, so after getting coffee I stopped at the first bank on Broadway and walked to the next bank about four blocks away. Bank number two was as obtuse as Bernie Sanders would have you believe all banks are; it took far too long to complete my transaction, but I got it done.

“Now can I buy some quarters?” I asked.

“I can’t sell you quarters because you don’t have an account here,” the teller said.

I set about to lecture the teller and his manager who was standing behind him. Customer feedback it’s called.

I heard a voice behind me.

It was the voice of one of my favorite neighborhood activists, as nettlesome and annoying as I am—but for the other side. I was glad to see him. I often find myself more compatible and trusting of my enemies than my “friends,” a feature, perhaps, of living in a city filled with “nice people.” He took my spot at the window and similarly hassled the teller. We joked about the bank and the teller and ourselves hassling the teller.

“I should get paid to train you tellers,” he said. “I’ve had an account here longer than you’ve been alive,” he said.

We both laughed. The teller looked pale.

“You’re a customer,” I said. “Maybe you can get me some quarters.”

Sure enough they offered, I gave him a twenty, he pushed it through the window and I bought $20 in quarters. I took one roll and handed the other roll to my favorite activist.

“That’s your fee,” I said.

We strolled down the block and spent the time vigorously agreeing on many different things about how poorly City staff respond to requests for information, the zombie like nature of what used to be called “DPD,” the corruption of the way affordable housing is funded, and the Kennedy assassination (the one in Dallas). We also talked about Seattle’s Cry Baby Caucus, people in the city who’s fragile egos can’t handle rigorous debate or criticism.

“You can’t light a match without burning a bridge in this town,” he said.

Very true.

As we talked, I noticed one of my fellow residents going in and out of the gate and the door where the washing machines are. My stuff was still in the washer. I was over time. What would he do? I felt bad. I hate it when people leave laundry in the washer. Do you move it to the dryer? Do you wait? It’s annoying. I was that guy.

I asked my activist friend to wait a minute so I could move my stuff to the dryer. We were talking about the Grand Bargain and how it was a confusing mess. But I couldn’t stand the idea of my wet laundry holding somebody up (remember all the stairs, the gate, the door, the keys).

So I went back into the gate. I had quarters after all. There was a woman from my side of the building obviously on her way to the same machines. I opened the gate and door for her. She introduced herself. She was the resident manager. We chatted for a minute.

I noticed that my stuff was in the dryer.

“Weird,” I said. “My stuff is in the dryer.”

We talked about it for a minute. The guy must have paid to dry my stuff. But where’s my detergent, I wondered. It had been stolen before. We searched around. Could the guy have paid for my drying but stolen my detergent? No. There it was, underneath the sink.

So I took $2 worth of quarters and stacked them there so the guy could pay for his drying. I’m guessing it worked. I went and got my second Americano. I got back, grabbed my dry laundry, went upstairs and moved on with the rest of my day.

What’s the lesson of this boring story? We can do this. We can live together and take of each other and learn from each other and be friends. Yes, we can. Yes, we’re going to argue. Yes, we’re going to let each other down. Yes, we’re going to make mistakes. But there is something that happens with people when they get to know each other. And there is something that happens when people can be anonymous and know each other. It’s called spontaneity, and it isn’t something that can be enforced or willed into existence. It can’t be mandated by policies and legislation. And it’s as hard to measure as lightening. Talking about it doesn’t make it happen. And it happens in cities every day.

These are the small, random incidents that renew my confidence in what we’re trying to do with Smart Growth Seattle. It reminds me that in spite of the fragility of the Seattle ego, the shallowness of our policy making process, the paucity of principled consideration of our future, and our ability to talk ourselves into believing that we’re doing something, that our effort is worth the hassle.