Today I receive my first lesson in consumerism American style. Costco makes supermarkets look like corner 7-11s. In order to enter you must be a card carrying member. Even the trolleys are maxi-sized. Nothing is sold in mid-sized packaging. Great for shopping for a family or a commune, but a little impractical for singles or dinks. The maxi pack of Captain Crunch Berries (breakfast cereal) would keep an impoverished third world family on a sugar high for a month.
For $1.50 at their lunch counter you get a hot dog and refillable soda. The hot dog includes all the sauerkraut, mustard and ketchup you can possibly cram in there. I'm most impressed by the hot dogs in this country; even the sausage is tasty. An Aussie dog consists of a sad overboiled frankfurter in a stale bun that requires copious quantities of tomato sauce to render edible.
This evening we are invited to a barbeque with Carmen and Bob; Carmen is another co-worker of Tamara's. Soon after arriving we are all standing in and around the kitchen when one of the guests mentions an earthquake from a few days previous. What we don't realise is he's saying there's another one happening right now. As I watch the fridge swaying four or five inches I think one of the girls is pushing it as a joke. It soon becomes apparent with the low rumbling in the background that the earth is actually shaking. 5.4 on the Richter Scale to be precise.
While there is a fault line along the coast earthquakes are not commonplace like in San Francisco, so I guess I am lucky to experience this one. We have a pleasant and otherwise uneventful evening solving the world's problems. I'm still amazed that Seattle has a 1% unemployment rate. This area must be booming. There are "Help Wanted" sign everywhere we go. The word is strip joints in Seattle are not worth visiting as with such a low unemployment rate the ladies are somewhat, erm, past their prime. But I am unable to confirm or deny this rumour as my mother taught me to avoid places where I might meet bad girls. This will probably be a curse I'll carry to my grave.
We head off early for Portland, Oregon to the south. Andy has booked us in for the last day of the Smith & Wesson Collectors' Association's annual conference. It's about a three hour drive, a little longer as we need to find out exactly where it is taking place. We ring the Marriott Hotel on the outskirts to get directions and head into the CBD.
Being Saturday afternoon by this time we decide to park in the street. We walk back to the hotel and into another world. Seemingly into the Land of Oz, and I 'm talking Somewhere Over the Rainbow here. There are hundreds of little people scattered all through the lobby, down the stairs and throughout the function rooms below. A poster explains this, the Little People of America are having their annual conference. This is reassuring, I momentarily had a suspicion that my grip on reality was slipping.
We arrive with the S&W collectors as they are running a club fundraising auction. We have enough time to circulate and take a look at the displays that are left. I learn something of what makes an old Smith collectible and Andy swings a deal with one of the high rollers.
Unfortunately it may be Saturday afternoon but the parking inspectors are savagely efficient in Portland. We have a ticket when I go to check the meter. Luckily not as bad as a Brisbane fine, but a damper nonetheless. In an attempt to combat unemployment Oregon has passed a law making it illegal for drivers to fill their own tanks at gas stations. A quaint custom from a state that apparently has little in productive industry.
I get my first real junk food on the road home - Maccas. As expected, no different from anywhere else in the world. I am treated as something of a guinea pig by my hosts when it comes to food. We have a lot of fun with this. Anything that is new to me is a must - I'm plied with the item and watched carefully for a reaction. In this way I decide that pumpkin pie is a really great idea (with the obligatory whipped cream of course!), ranch dressing is wonderful (but Customs will later disagree and confiscate it on arrival back in Australia - Nazis!) and root beer floats are the best. Root beer is all but unknown in Australia and I see it as one of the cullinary highlights of my trip so far. I have no success in convincing them that pumpkin soup and roast pumpkin are any good, but I guess I'll have to give a practical demonstration on my next trip.
Of course, the big day for Americans to celebrate kicking the Pommies' fat butts out of the country.
What better way to spend the early afternoon than plinking at the range. The Kenmore Pistol Club is the first sign that real target shooters exist here. There is even a UIT range, but visitors are sent on to a 25 and 50 yard setup, presumably to stop us yobs from damaging the turning target frames. I get some badly needed practice, the lack of physical exercise and continual holiday munching will make me useless by the time I get to Perry if I'm not careful.
Late in the afternoon we commute to Liz's place. Liz is a good friend of Tamara's who has the good fortune to have an apartment overlooking Lake Union, where a major fireworks display is scheduled for tonight. We can even see the fireworks barge through the trees. I am told that the floating house as seen in Sleepless in Seattle is somewhere below. The weather is still quite dull, but has at least cleared from the almost constant drizzle of the past few days.
A fair number of guests arrive, Andy and I take up position on the verandah drinking blackberry flavoured beer. It is pleasantly decadent. Various things are cooked on the twin barbeques sharing our vantage point; we cook our steaks and forage while waiting for darkness. Finally the big bangs arrive, a lot of oohs and aahs as the sky is lit up with multicoloured lights. Baby Ginger is distraught by the noise so I hide her in my jacket where she sits all aquiver for the next two hours while we wait for the traffic to clear.
A beautiful and sunny day. We do the tourist thing through the centre of Seattle. Because it's a public holiday we are unable to take in the views from the Smith Tower. We wander through the tourist traps on the waterfront and drive over to the Chilenden Locks where boats are raised and lowered to the differing heights of Lake Union or Puget Sound. Mount Ranier is clearly visible to the south east as are the snow capped Olympic Mountains to the west.
Late afternoon we visit a couple of gun shops. WSI offers a mighty impressive array of guns and accessories, as well as a modern indoor range. Fairly eye-popping compared with what we have at home. Dinner is at Denny's. The worst table service I have experienced in America, it's almost down to Australian standards. I have had to learn tipping since arriving here. Being non-existent in Australia I am at first concerned at making a fool of myself by either leaving too much or too little, or even how to handle a tip when paying by credit card. But overall the system works well; there is incentive for the waiter to provide good service. Poor service results in a reduced tip or nothing.
Another beautiful day. It's hard to believe on days like this Seattle has the highest suicide rate in the USA - commonly associated with the crappy weather. We head north to Kesselrings Gun Shop, about an hour and a half north of the city. This is the most impressive shop I have ever seen. Not just from the huge array of guns, ammo and accessories in the shop itself, but from the fact that there are a couple of warehouses attached where the bulk of the stock is kept. All in a quiet spot miles from any town.
Late afternoon we are picked up to be taken back to Lake Union for a yacht race. For the benefit of boaties we are invited aboard an ageing 40 foot Petersen designed sloop called Shoot the Moon. Kind of apt I feel. Lake Union is a very small body of water to be housing a twilight race of forty plus boats in a very fresh breeze of 15 knots or more. While heading for the start line we collide with a Hobie catamaran who fails to give way. Being bigger and uglier than the hapless cat we remain upright, while the two Hobie crew go swimming. Most importantly nobody is hurt, but there is a chip in the bow of our boat.
I have not mentioned our crew as yet. Probably seven or eight experienced sailors do their best to sail the thing around the bodies of thirty odd beer drinking passengers, who equally try to keep out of their way. I am among the latter; I am absolutely enjoying the ride. We average seven knots around most of the course. There is too much of a breeze for the skipper to risk the spinnaker on the downwind leg, which I am disappointed about but with so many people on deck I can understand his concern.
At the end of the race we have come in fourth (one of those ahead is a trimaran, so it shouldn't count). Not bad for a mobile booze barge. We head into the wind to drop the sails, but the genoa (headsail) refuses to budge. After some frenzied attempts to pull it down it is decided to send up the skipper's fourteen year old son in the bosun's chair to cut it loose. Being hoisted fifty feet in the air on a flimsy seat in strong winds is not my idea of a fun evening. I must say he handles it very well. I'd have been wrapped around the mast a gibbering wreck before I was halfway up. He manages to free the frayed halyard so the genoa can be safely stowed, and we can finally head downwind and back to our mooring.