Seattle, Thanksgiving and Squirrel Rendition

So we traveled north to spend Thanksgiving at Jeanne's new house in Edmonds, just a short distance from Seattle. Given the exercise in logistics entailed by a shopping expedition to Safeway these days, I was more than a little apprehensive about the whole deal, but, as is so often the case when one has unreasonably low expectations of any event, had a wonderful time. The whole family was there, including Ben recently returned from Afghanistan, and the minor chaos inevitable following a recent move made everything seem more relaxed and homely somehow. Also Jeanne and Johnny generously relinquished the most comfortable bed on account of Rachel's back; and Linda watched Ethan at night. So not only was I technically on holiday, but, for the first time in several months, I actually felt like I was on holiday.

Wandering around Seattle on "Black Friday" (the day after Thanksgiving) was a thoroughly pleasant experience. It was twelve years since my last trip, when it was the Mecca of the grunge scene and I sauntered moodily across town with supercool fin de siècle post adolescent melancholy. On that occasion I saw the Spoonman play live though I singularly failed to find the Soundgarden. Now a respectable member of society, I contented myself by touring the downtown, observing fisherfolk throw oversized salmon at one another at Pike Place Market, taking photos, eating crepes, buying a new onesie for baby fluffy, drinking coffee etc, without any trace of the ennui and general alienation that once bedeviled me.


Fishes a plenty at Pike Place Market. Starbucks started here in 1971. Really.


Skyscrapers and other architectural features uncommon to Portland. With a furry kitten on the left for scale.


This is a library, believe it or not.


Night falls over disease-covered Puget Sound (Nirvana fans).


For all of you who read this blog primarily on sufferance in the hope of seeing pictures of baby fluffy (yes, I'm talking about you, Sharon).

Back at the ranch, the war on squirrels progresses by process of slow attrition. I first procured a trap from the local hardware store (an event in itself given that the English pronunciation of the word "squirrel" is completely incomprehensible to Americans and I was forced to fall back on physical description: small, furry rodents, fluffy tail, live in trees, eat nuts etc). This device, primed with trail mix, now resides in our attic, or 'fashionable loft apartment' as the squirrels prefer to think of it. So far two of the part-time residents have been forcibly relocated to a more fashionable west-side zip code, following Linda's reasoning that these highly territorial varmints don't quite have what it takes to cross the river in order to return to their previous address. Time will tell.

Gotcha! Beneath that furry exterior lurks a soul of unparalleled iniquity.