Seattle, timberin’ town? Big pear? Little parachute off a big stick? What exactly is Seattle other than the coffee cradle of the Northwestern World? I returned to my local coffee shop, and the first thing they asked me was, “Did you go into the original Seattle’s Best?” This wouldn’t seem that odd if I didn’t get my coffee at Maxwell’s House.
I went there, it snowed (Seattle, not Maxwell’s House. Sorry coffee jitters cause harsh noun pronoun shifts. It’s like Disney’s Small World on acid.). No wonder they drink a lot of coffee (once again, Seattle, not small world or—nevermind.).
“It normally doesn’t snow.” That’s what Grunge Pixie tells me.
“So you’re saying I brought this icy disposition with me?”
“Uhm…So you wanna see the music museum?”
Yeah, to get even with her snow-binger of gloom accusations: I gave her my cold. Yup, she unwrapped it the morning after Christmas, and boy was she surprised.
“I hawt yu.”
“Merry Christmas to you too!” Yup, thereafter, it got awfully cold inside too.
That’s why when we drove to the airport; I counted my California blessings when she stopped the car before hitting the ejector seat button. Her car has lots of buttons. It was designed by James Bond’s Q. I bet it would drive under water if you tried. It drives in the rain, why not?
It also drives fast. I was at the airport plenty early.
“You kwow, Wop, wiff pwans fwy-wink awt naw, awiffink a day erwy iff goo.”
I started to protest, but the buckshot look in her bloodshot eye suggested Seattle had seen enough of Rob the snow lord; it was time to go.
An interesting landmark to point out: My plane out was piloted by Captain Chocula. That was his name. Ok, maybe not, but he sounded just like the brown count. A sort of a Baltic caricature, promising a flight chock full of chocolaty goodness. Somewhere around the promise of cinnamon shaded milk and marshmallows I zoned out and started reading the barf bag for theme and plot.
“…open bag…”
I was thinking of my trip. I was a little grumpy. Not because of the trip, but more because I was leaving. Ever notice, no matter what, when you fly out for a vacation you’re always in a great mood. The kid in front of you can turn around and spray you with his squirt gun and your laughing right along with the little tike—maybe ruffle a little hair for fun. Cute kid.
But when you’re returning, you’re tired and grumpy and all he has to do is make a scrunchy face and you’re giving him the Darth Vader dark side strangle hold.
“Mommy Mommy! The creepy wheezy man just peed on me!” Oh wait, that’s not what Darth did, is it? Luckily for the annoying little brat, neither did I.
Cap’n Chocula turned on the “no meandering” light. When he discovered I wasn’t listening to him talk about what we’d expect from our flight, he shut up. Then he turned on the Christmas music. Yup, here it is three days after Christmas, the world outside my portal is piles of sooty-brown road refuse and Willy Nelson is dreaming of a white Christmas.
Welcome to Seattle! Now go home California heathens!
There’s a young girl in the chair next to me. The guy in chair on the other side of her sees my book and strikes up a conversation. I guess Thomas Pynchon is one of his favorite authors. I don’t have the heart to tell him I just brought the book along so that I could have something big to hit the kid in the seat in front of me with the next time he whack-a-moles up over the top of the chair.
I crack the spine on the book and delve into a place that looks good. I have no idea what’s I’m reading about, but the action will save me from talking about what’s not going on outside the book. The girl between us is reading fitness tips in Oxygen magazine. I don’t think the other guy is going to latch onto her.
Luckily cap’n comes back on telling us it’s ok to turn on our electronic devices. My iPhone is ready with some electronic ear wash to drown everything out. Not before I notice that the cappy telling us about our bathroom options to the front and aft, and has a different voice. He’s no longer the count of chocolate. He’s our pilot Wilford Brimley drawling directions out slowly, and reminding me that the oatmeal cart will be up the aisle soon.
I find the voice change odd, but no more odd than my location shift. I spent a week in Seattle. How anti-SoCal is that? The girl next to me is now watching The OC on her laptop. She’s obviously returning home. Is that what I’m doing? I mean, despite my best efforts, I enjoyed myself. Grunge Pixie is like the Anti-Rob and that was refreshing. We shared a lot of interesting traits like being over accommodating (“no what do you want to do” should be our new mantra), and that mixed with a love to try new things created an interesting combo plate. I like wasabi; she hates cilantro. It’s cool, I never mix the two on the same plate anyway.
On Christmas, she gave me practical gifts that I would never buy myself, but could really use. I gave her whimsical trinkets that she would never buy in her life, but would be bright, distracting, and fun.
We’ve read the same books and come away with different perspectives. I drink coffee, she doesn’t. That fascinates me, just like everything else that’s different about her. I like the differences as much as I like the similarities. For her…well I don’t know. It’s another area where we’re different.
I got the grand tour of Seattle. She showed me the floating bridges, the Microsoft factory, and the always-cool bridge troll. I say any town that has a troll lurking under a bridge is totally cool. And why does he live under the bridge? Cuz it’s too rainy to come out. Yeah, don’t worry, if you stand in the rain, he’s not gonna get your goat.
I might though. My plane is landing. It’s 75 degrees outside. This is the land where advertisers tell me happy cows live. Yeah, dairy cows maybe, but I’m thinking there’s a different tale grinding out at the slaughterhouse.
I wonder what’s happening at Rob’s house. It’s been almost a week since I’ve been there. Sybil the airplane pilot is now the Lucky Charms Leprechaun. I swear I’m beginning to wonder at my own sanity. Is he a voice talent wannabe or do I just need a bowl of cereal? I have some: at home.
The air outside is brown, warm and tastes like exhaust. I’m exhausted. The sun high, and it’s sapping my strength to the constant whir of traffic.
I’m glad to be home. This home is far from perfect, but it’s mine—at least for now. I mean lets face it. I can go anywhere and do anything. I’m on my own. It’s not exactly how I want to be, but it does have its benefits. One of them is testing new things and discovering cultured people.
Seattle is a great place, and Grunge Pixie is a phenomenal hostess, but here, today, I don’t know what the future holds. Maybe it’ll tie me here. Maybe it’ll fly me back to Seattle. Maybe fate’s winds will toss this minnow on an uncharted desert isle. That’s for the future to decide. Right now, I’m here. I’m home. I’m happy. My life is far from perfect but it’s mine. I thunder. I flood, but I am breathtaking. I am for some tastes, but not for all. I share openly and honestly with those who are curious for a taste of Rob culture.
Wherever I call home and whomever I share it with, I’ll always have that with me. Book your tour to Rob now while the sunny disposition holds and before he turns into a tourist trap.
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