My preference would have been to discover Seattle on foot, staying in a cozy B&B in Frasier’s old neighbourhood and soaking up a rare urban experience on this mostly rural and small-town trip. Pragmatism prevailed, and the hour of our arrival in Port Angeles plus the late-night drive to a second ferry which would take us across to the city meant that booking a hotel on Bainbridge Island was the more sensible option.
With sincere apologies to my American friends ,I admit to a certain wariness about being the States, as Canadians call the country that our only charismatic Prime Minister, Pierre Eliot Trudeau, once likened to ‘sleeping with an elephant’. The slightest move made south of the border has its repercussions for Canada and despite our proclamations of apart-ness, we are inextricably linked to American economics, politics and culture. That is not to say there isn’t a difference, but to the uninformed point of view, North Americans (minus Mexico) could be considered a single unit.
Sure enough, in Port Angeles a sign announces that ‘Guns and Ammo’ are for sale at a pawn shop cum hardware store. The right to bear arms is, rather simplistically, the single biggest criticism we have of American culture. (I don’t make the mistake of assuming that all Americans are comfortable with this, either). But the relative ease of gun ownership puts visions of pistol-packing Starbucks patrons into my head and I intend to be excessively polite here in my dealings with strangers.
Next morning it’s cool and overcast. The Olympic Mountains are sheathed in low cloud and I’m relieved we didn’t pay a fortune to stay in any of the Seattle B&Bs I had initially earmarked for their fabulous views. We hop the ferry from Bainbridge Island over to the big city and by the time we walk two blocks from the docks, it is raining. The Pike Place Market is on our list of places to see, and it doesn’t disappoint. Colourful and filled to the brim with fish, flowers and fruit, it is also jam-packed with browsers. A big cruise ship is in port and it’s also Father’s Day, but maybe every Sunday is this busy. (I find out later in the day that another blogger who regularly comments on my other (collaborative) blog Fridge Soup, is at the market at the same time!!)
I never met a busker I didn’t like. Somebody tell what the name of the third instrument is…?
I love browsing and am always alert for handicrafts with some originality. My FB, on the other hand, does not do shopping. He does not think about Christmas presents in June nor consider it necessary to have souvenirs to remember things by. His philosophy of shopping excludes the possibility of buying anything he hasn’t already decided he needs, whereas I am open to the delights of happenstance. This clash of personal habits is one of our few, map-reading at the wheel being another.
We walk to the Space Needle but decide that a ride up on such a grey day would be a waste of time and money. Instead, we head for the Experience Music Project, a hands-on museum of rock and roll history and paraphenalia that features an interactive area of recording studios, where I briefly contemplate cutting a CD of the Belgian and I jamming on guitar and drums. Only trouble is, neither of us is sufficiently unself-conscious to brave the public display of our ineptitude – a TV screen placed outside the studio gives everybody a chance to watch the session and snicker. I care too much about making a fool of myself and walk away with mild regret that we weren’t just able to be silly and have a permanent record of it. 
The Guitar Sculpture at the Experimental Music Project (about 40 feet tall!)
I wish Youngest Son was there to see the extensive display of electric guitars. His basement room holds an expanding collection of them, with accompanying massive amplifiers that do double duty as sled substitutes for his Malamute-in-training.
We walk and walk and walk and I’m grateful that I have broken my Golden Rule of Sneakers, which is to say that they are never my default footwear of choice. Especially in cities, where running shoes should only be worn if training for a marathon on your lunch hour.
Although I generally shun Starbucks coffee for reasons of taste and corporate bigness, in its birthplace of Seattle, I will put my principles aside. The staff are extraordinarily friendly and nobody seems to have any hardware stuffed into their belt. The coffee, a blend exclusive to this location (if the board is to be believed) is very decent and we retire to a window table to decide what to do for dinner. I’m skeptical that Bainbridge Island will have a restaurant with anything other than standard American fare, but neither of us feel like finding a way to occupy ourselves in the city on a Sunday in the rain between 5 and 7:30 PM before we’re ready to eat. We opt for the ferry, and on the other side discover that my dim view of Bainbridge Island gastronomy was completely incorrect. Dinner is very good, without a French fry in sight.
The US is second only to the UK for its profusion of churches,according to me. The Scientologists seem to have NW WA all wrapped up.
The next morning we set off for a mall near the airport, specifically for the Abercrombie & Fitch kids’ store, at the request of my FB’s daughter, whose young sons are taken by the brand. It astonishes me that anyone is willing to pay money to put someone else’s advertising on their back. On principle I will not buy anything that visibly proclaims its corporate origins, with the exception of automobiles, and there I am a snob. Did I mention that I bought an Audi recently? Did I also mention that I’m a cheapskate and made sure somebody else took a serious depreciation hit on it first?
The freeway to the mall is a scene of high anxiety. FB is driving and I am navigating, a reversal of our usual roles when in a strange place that requires intensive map-reading. I nearly come undone when he decides spontaneously to take an earlier exit than planned and crosses five lanes of traffic in an exceedingly short time. He is, I add in all fairness, an excellent driver in whom I am normally very confident, but we’re in my new-to-me Audi and I’m not in control.
Half an hour later. Purchases made, harmony restored. We leave the city behind and head north-east, past the well-kept farms and tidy towns of Washington state, towards the distant mountains, still obscured by clouds. Even the imposing and stunningly beautiful Mt. Baker, normally visible from a hundred miles away, remains discreetly under cover. It’s a disappointment, but there will be, we hope, other compensations along the way.
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