nearlyhere

The Victoria Clipper offers a ferry service between Victoria and Seattle, a 2.5 hour trip at about $100 return – it’s pretty much a door to door service. Our sailing was about as calm as it can get; the short stretch of chop the vessel slopped over took its passengers by surprise moving us to “ooo and ahhh” like a boat-load of smurfs. Turning from the glassy Straight of Juan De Fuca into Puget sound, house lights on the coastline started to twinkle and we pulled into the terminal at downtown Seattle in the dark.

We managed to extract a smile from the U.S. customs officer, and scuttled from the waterfront along quiet back streets, lined with recent condo developments, to our lodgings. Even for 9.00 on a Sunday night the city seemed deserted – surprising for a metropolis of 2 million – but we felt safe. After checking in we walked a few blocks to find someplace nice to eat, without a lot of luck; so we turned for home and wearily wallowed in the wavelength of the golden arches on the way. Back in our room, the infomercials formed the digestive backdrop for our meal – Shaun T. delivered a most convincing sales proposal for his “Hip Hop Abs” fitness program, but he committed the fatal and common error of over-selling the product. You had us in the palm of you hand, Shaun. What were you thinking? Captivation grew into vexation and Laura’s hovering finger flipped from the phone, to the remote. It was time for lights out.

The 6th Avenue Inn wasn’t much to write home about. The occupant of the room above us returned at midnight and thumped backwards and forwards over a squeaky section of floorboards for a couple of hours before they settled in. We passed the time by trying to get some sleep, and woke late the next morning. After suggesting, to the unhelpful clerk that they may like to move us to a quieter room, we headed out into the sunshine and to the Pike Place Market, a touristy heritage landmark, where a throng had converged around a team of rowdy fish-throwers. We took refuge in a Crumpet shop; I breakfasted on a bowl of honeyed Groats followed by a good coffee, and Laura on one of their egg, ham and cheese treats. Fueled and ready for adventure we struck out for Fremont, a trendy suburb north of the Lake Union Canal, for lunch and to visit the Fremont troll who lurks under the Aurora Ave. Bridge.

The reason we were in Seattle was to see The Arcade Fire perform that Monday night, supported by The LCD Soundsystem. To get there we rode the 43 bus which took us up through Capitol Hill and out to the University of Washington district, where we walked the last couple of blocks to the Pavillion. An unexperienced concert-goer, i brought my SLR along to find cameras with removable lenses were prohibited at the event; no lockers were available, and there was no-where i could leave it safely to collect after the concert. The staff at the door were sympathetic to our dilemma and allowed me to stash the battery under a nearby shrub in the shadows, and take the crippled camera inside.

(image by: Adrian Covert)

James Murphy, a very normal looking but wry sort of chap with a surprisingly good voice, and his band did their analog studio sound justice, mainly performing tracks from the Sound of Silver album. The shaggy daggy-looking drummer Pat Mahoney clad in a T-shirt and a pair of stubbies was super solid. They finished with “Yeah”, in which Murphy says “yeah” over and over to a crescendo of over-driven instruments. I wonder if it’s a bit of a piss-take? The crowd was subdued, and seemed strangely conservative – more so than a New Zealand Audience – hardly a soul in pointy shoes, or asymmetrical hairdos. I guess folks in this neck of the woods aren’t so concerned about expressing their individualism at that level. Maybe the dull influence of homogeneous chain store fashions is to blame? The absence of alcohol sales? Maybe it was because we weren’t allowed to take our water bottle lids (potential missiles) into the gig, and for fear of spilling our drinks, remained still? For a bunch of closet wild, free-spirited liberals, barely anybody tapped a toe.

When Arcade Fire came on, the crowd made loud noises and many began to step from one foot to the other, or nod their heads in an approximate rhythm. The band members regularly swapped instruments and positions on the stage and there was a great deal of high energy cymbol crashing, stage stomping antics; the inexhaustable brother of the lead singer scampered up the lighting rig and thumped single-handedly on a drum and the two horn players could occasionally be seen wrestling each other into the air. Violins, the xylophone, mandolin and hurdy-gurdy were sweatily thrashed as if to compensate for centuries of well-mannered behaviour. Arcade Fire lifted their performance at several points in the show; ultimately they had everybody in the audience screaming to “Wake up” and those in the seated areas precariously swaying on their feet. Every group i have seen, with some kind of backstage cranny to disappear into, has generally bounced back out for one last tune, often despite fairly half-hearted foot-stomping effort from the onlookers. Encores seem almost mandatory these days. This night, the crowds cries for more were genuine, and respectfully obliged. The group re-appeared to a roar and we jumped about as best as we could in the melee of flailing arms and vocal cords.

After pouring from the venue, i retrieved my battery, and waited to catch the 43 with the hundred or so other concert-goers who already taken their positions in the queue. In a cosmic stroke of luck the articulated coach pulled to a halt and it’s door hissed open directly in front of us, not so much an invitation, but a request to jump the massive line and take our pick of the prime seating opportunities available within. We returned to our modest lodgings and listened to an animated conversation through the wall until we drifted off to sleep.

We woke late again, picked the mouldy bits off the bottom of some over-priced vegan muffins, guzzled back some water and walked down-town to catch a BC Ferry across Puget sound. I bought a coffee and got talking with the barrista, who recommended we check out Capitol Hill that night; especially “Smiths” on 15th ave, with devils-on-horseback to die for. Along the way we stopped in at a couple of stores, stirring the sleepy little shopping gland in our abdomens into life. On Bainbridge Island we walked to the village where Laura found and over-abundance of boutique stores to her liking. The garments within were about a third of the price of similar items back home, and 20% cheaper than in Victoria, and so the splurge began. Recharged with some hot-soup we dashed for the 4.15 return ferry and rested as the giant boat slid quietly back to the mainland, like an apartment building on submerged rails.

The 43, again, carried us up Pike street through the early evening traffic to Broadway where we alighted to discover some gems, including an amazing second-hand store called Red Light. An hour passed quickly before the store began to close up for the day, so we beat a track to Smiths for a pint or two and meal, making sure we sampled a couple of rounds of their crispy bacon swaddled, blue cheese-filled date, grilled beasties. That night we slept unusually soundly, despite knowing we had to rise early

I still have the business card of the fellow we sat next to on the ferry. His name was Jim, an investment advisor and Bengals fan returning from a overnight NFL bar-hop bender. He smelled accordingly, but was entertaining company on the slow journey home; Puget sound was fogged in, so the catamaran reduced it’s speed and regularly sounded its horn to warn other craft. The clipper had radar i guess, but i was still surprised to see a small runabout appear out of the murk not far from my window, lines over the side, obviously unconcerned about poor visibility in the busy shipping lane.

We will definitely be making another trip to Seattle, there is a lot more to this deceptively vibrant city than we first thought, but next time via Vancouver by car, if we can scrape up the funds for a Jalopy anytime soon.