In which our roving traveller discovers that the Los Angeles has more atmosphere than most other places and the skies are not always the bluest blue in Seattle.
An early start to the day as I fly from Brisbane to Sydney on the first part of an epic journey at 7am. Or so I thought. A fogbound Sydney airport means delays of more than two hours before we take off. Not that I am left with nothing to do of course. After many years of travelling with firearms on commercial flights I know the procedure well. A quick trip to Customs to have my three guns checked out, making sure details on the export permit coincide exactly with the contents of my gun case. Followed by checkin, where I declare the guns and advise I have ammunition packed in my luggage as per regulations. All goes well.
Fifteen minutes later I hear my name on the paging system to report to the Ansett counter. Am I aware that there are firearms in my luggage? Really? Must have something to do with this export permit. I'm asked for my firearms licence (at this point it occurs to me to ask what gives him the authority to approve of my licence, but what would it achieve?). Smiles all round, he lets me go back to my Discworld novel.
Five minutes later and I'm called back. The brow is furrowed anew as he asks where I have stowed my ammunition. I repeat my litany parrot-style, that I have several packets of factory ammunition in their original packaging, with no rounds missing, all complete packets, in my suitcase. Not with the guns in the gun box, which is locked. Fine.
Two minutes later and they have located my suitcase, only to find, horror of horrors, it is unlocked. Evil ammunition practically on the loose! Do I have a padlock they can lock it with? No. There follows a period of wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth. I suggest that I have travelled the world and never had to worry about locking more than my gun box. A muttered conversation with a collar radio ensues, the result of which I discover when I finally reach Seattle. They tied my zips together with brown string! A double granny so fiendishly tight I have to cut the twine to open my case. How clever. It's a good thing bad people don't carry knives or scissors.
My pre-flight entertainment over we finally board and make the short flight to Sydney. Luckily the plane destined to take us to Los Angeles was also held up by the fog, so it has not left without me. A quick walk to the departure gate and I'm concerned that my luggage may not be so lucky. The attendant at the departure gate fills me with confidence when he assures me that they will do their best to get my luggage on the plane before takeoff.
Taking off at noon we take around thirteen hours to make LA. We arrive at roughly the same time of the same day that we took off (travel when crossing the International Date Line can be very confusing). Luckily I find my bags and clear my guns through Customs. My connecting flight to Seattle leaves a couple of hours later. For most of the trip up the west coast we have a clear view of the landscape below. Until we get near Seattle. Heavy cloud covers the ground, although we are treated to a fine view of Mt Ranier and Mt Hood rising majestically above the sea of cotton wool.
Nearing 4pm we land at Seattle/Tacoma Airport. I'm to meet Tamara at the baggage claim area, which will be interesting because we have never met in person. I've corresponded with her and her husband Andy for eighteen months by email, and as a result they were kind enough to invite me to visit. Lucky for her I'm the only 6'4" bespectacled Aussie who's zombified from lack of sleep in the terminal. Well, lucky for me really.
Soon we're packed into her cute little silver Honda heading back towards the city of Seattle. We stop at their apartment so I can freshen up before heading into the centre of town to meet up with Melinda, another e-pal and co-worker of Tamara. We have dinner at Mama's where the speciality is Mexican. Australia is bereft of genuine Mexican food so the girls had agreed to indulge my curiosity. Unfortunately the Elvis Room is not available when we arrive, although we are able to inspect this temple to The King as we leave. The entire room is adorned with memorabilia of He of the Rubber Pelvis and has become a local landmark.
Since daylight saving is in place we still have plenty of time to take in the panoramic sights of the city from various vantage points to the north and west. A Statue of Liberty for Pygmies overlooks a beach on Puget Sound. Looking just like the real thing except it stands less than six feet in height. Just the thing to fool the folks back home.
On returning home I get acquainted with the other members of the family, Sauer and Ginger. Sauer is a hyper-affectionate tabby who gives true meaning to the term "love hurts" (sharp claws). Ginger is a real sweetheart of a miniature dachsund, who will wake me every morning by bounding on top of me and going straight for the face with a manic licking.
It occurs to me that some things are very different in the USA. Light switches, for one. They are upside down. And many of the bathroom taps and fittings are entirely alien; luckily I am able to grasp the basics and don't have to ask anything dumb. "How does the shower work?" doesn't exactly sound like an intelligent question. Not that I have anything to worry about, my hosts make me feel right at home from the moment I arrive.
Near midnight Andy arrives home. We manage to get in a couple of hours of natter before more than forty hours awake take their toll.
Not an early start. Andy and Tamara are disappointed that I don't normally eat Australian Toaster Biscuits for breakfast. Actually I've never heard of them. This is just the start of an ongoing cultural exchange in eating habits, and the smashing of many preconceived notions we had about each other's diets.
The weather is still grey and damp. Andy says they had a stretch of over one hundred days of wet weather. This does nothing to deter us from visiting several gun shops (of course). We head out of town up the western side of Puget Sound, crossing the Hood Canal to meet up with Tamara's parents for lunch. Andy has brought several guns to play with; a local gun store owner directs us to a gravel pit about a half a mile behind the county sheriff's yard where we can let loose some ammo.
So we wander in and plink at various tin cans and targets with an SKS, 12 gauge pump action and a 40 Sig. My first shots fired in America using firearms banned in my country, barely a stone's throw from the local police station and nobody bats an eyelid. Welcome to the Land of the Free!
Back at Tamara's folks' place there is an impressive view of the Hood Canal. Not, as the name suggests, a man-made channel, but an arm of Puget Sound. A naval base home to nuclear subs is further up the canal. Tamara's dad has restored an amazing vintage car; a Franklin, complete with full wooden chassis and aluminium paneling.
To get back to Seattle we take a car ferry from Suquamish . The trip takes about half an hour. I force my hosts to brave the elements on the bow of the ferry for this photo. I could only stand a few seconds in the cold wind without serious fear of exposure. Winter here would have me a gibbering wreck.
I notice many places advertising fireworks. Apparently they can only be sold on Indian Reservation land as normal state laws do not apply there. Likewise casinos are located on reservations. I guess with the 4th of July celebrations just a few days away fireworks would be pretty popular.
For dinner we descend on the Outback Steak House. The waitress treats the news that she has a "real Aussie" customer with studied disdain. I guess this is something she has had to endure many times before, so I spare her the glaring whoppers on the menu. Unfortunate that the one Aussie beer, Fosters, is actually brewed in Canada and hardly anybody in Australia drinks it any more anyway. In short the entire menu is American style food given an Australiana name. For all that the food we ordered was excellent, as was the service.
As a Kiwi the one grating part was the fact that the Blooming Onion is supposedly a favourite at Marina Bay, Russell. My home town is about forty miles from there and I for one have never seen anything like it. Neither would many Australians have heard of the place.
To complete the evening we meet up with Matt, a friend of Andy's, at a local tavern for some social darts. I sample something of the local ale, which is quite to my taste. Although I'm not a big beer drinker I guess I'm used to stronger brews in Ausralia so I don't get too badly affected by it. This is just as well as my skill at darts is at best poor; getting drunk would have embarrassed me further.
We eventually head out to the carpark and pile into the Honda. Something is wrong. The radio is wrong and we did not leave a McDonalds drink container in the holder. Getting out of somebody else's Honda, we find the right one and head off home. I guess it's a coincidence that firstly there is a similar model of the same colour parked a few spaces from Tamara's car. But the real coincidence is that her key unlocked the door. Somebody will be mystified to find their passenger seat in the forward position when they come out of the pub to drive home.