More sapphire than emerald

Howzis? Beautiful clear sunny day, warm, calm: fabulous weather, Seattle!

So, Pike Place Market for flying fish and giant shoes; up two towers (no steps); Gizmo the giant octopus being fed; Klondike Gold at the museum; and all sorts of street entertainment from buskers up to and including a pianist. Now there's dedication (his). Oh, and the Underground Tour with Richard - "You came here all the way from New Zealand - to go Downunder?"

And now I'm in the very first Starbucks, dutiful tourist that I am, with a pumpkin spice venti. Have I done all right for the first day?

Tomorrow it's biking and kayaking, so fingers crossed for more sunshine.

There to here in 26 hours

Well, that was a long way to come - but I'm sure it's going to be worth it. The 8pm Air NZ flight from Auckland was very civilised, and Premium Economy, though nowhere as sybaritic as the irritatingly empty Business Class, was much roomier than Economy and is clearly the way of the future when I'm having to *choke* pay my own way.

Vancouver was sunny and warm, and so clean and green and blue and lovely that I felt a little guilty about NZ having snaffled the '100% Pure' slogan, which would apply just as accurately there.

We only had a few hours in Vancouver before fronting up for the interrogation of the immigration man at Pacific Central railway station. That was a sweaty business because I had assumed that my visa from the Disneyland famil a couple of years ago, which is still valid, would do. Big mistake - especially as it had the dread words 'The Press' on it. Humble travel writer mistaken for investigative journo, refused entry to Land of the Free, left to wander the streets of Vancouver, homeless, while husband disports self alone in series of luxurious hotels - I could see it all. But then the grim official made me fill in a form of another colour, and all was well again.

And now, after a mostly dark but otherwise pleasant Amtrak experience, here we are in Seattle. And guess what? It's raining!

The answer to life, the universe and everything - in binary*

How cool is this? What a shame the Lotto ticket I bought this morning isn't for $10 million. I'll just have to take the extra $17m and suck it up, sigh.

*42

Have duster, will travel

Going away on a trip would be so much pleasanter if all I felt the need to do was to throw some clothes into a suitcase - especially when, as for this outing, we're going from spring to autumn so there's no daunting leap of imagination required climate-wise, Auckland and Seattle being pretty much on a par right now. No, what makes it all infinitely more stressful is the unreasoning urge I have to a) settle my affairs and b) leave the house clean and tidy.

The filing, the paying of bills, and laborious translation of overdue greetings letters to the Guatemalan foster child? Well, even though I crept into journalism through the back door, I can recognise the Damoclean dangle of a deadline as well as the most grizzled old hack - and that's a good thing.
 
But b)? It's so illogical: if I have co-existed quite happily for the best part of a year with a windowsill in the laundry that's furry with dryer lint and mysteriously translocated washing powder, why is it suddenly urgent that I set to it with cloths and spray? Why hang the picture that's been leaning against the wall for months? Why mop the bathroom ceiling?

Catching up with the washing and ironing, yes: there'll be enough to do when I come back without that pile on the bedroom chair as well. And changing all the sheets: staying in lovely hotels, I'll be spoiled with fresh linen every day and won't want to come home to my normal foetid pit. But all that dusting and tidying and vacuuming of cobwebs from the downlights? It's a lot bother to go to, just so as not to offend the burglar.

(Note to whom: there will be someone at home while we're gone, whose specialty as it happens is leaving rooms looking professionally ransacked, so there's really no need to call in, thanks.)

Greener grass in the Emerald City

Two of the hens made a break for it today - three times, laughing in the face of my feeble barriers. Never underestimate the determination of a Brown Shaver. They're so keen to get to the grass on the garden side of the fence, having seen off every blade in their run, that they will launch themselves, madly flapping, at the most unlikely gaps, and through sheer brute force will blunder through. So it's the scissors for them tomorrow morning: flight feathers cut short on one wing so they're unbalanced. Tch. I wouldn't mind so much, but I've just sprayed all the weeds in the garden, and that's a condiment they can do without.

We're lighting out for the Territory ourselves on Sunday: to Seattle, with a side-order of Washington state. It's going to be a busy trip, the itinerary sorted by helpful Tammy at the Washington State Tourism Office; but it will be fun and I'll enjoy seeing a new bit of America - and an especially scenic one at that.

On my walk this morning, though, I passed a bright green bird hanging off a stalk of purple flowers, sipping the nectar, and never broke my stride. I glanced at tuis rustling overhead with a flash of blue-black feathers, and looked away again. There was a great fat wood pigeon parked in a tree, its enormous breast a beautifully subtle teal colour; the yellow boat moored off Herald Island was bright in the sun; the new leaves were fresh green against the sky; and the irises are out in my garden at the same time as the wisteria with its heady perfume. It's a lovely time of year in a beautiful country that I take for granted and rarely think to photograph on an ordinary day. More fool me.

Tuesday afternoon post

Ssssh. Even Google doesn't know about this: that there's a pharmacy in Manukau Road with a ripped-off Norman Rockwell mural on the side of it. Oh! Me and my big mouth!

As is evident from the picturesquely - and fortuitously selective - peeling paint, it's been there for years and years, through several changes of ownership though it's always been a chemist's as far as I know (I'm not an Aucklander). So seemingly they've got away with this infringement of copyright; because I'd bet my bottom dollar the original bright spark who thought, rightly, how appropriate this painting would be for his business, never approached Norman himself to ask permission (or his estate - he died in 1978).

I only ever see it on the way to the airport, so I associate it with exciting things - but a couple of years ago it was a teaser for what was to come, because on our Massachusetts trip we went to the Norman Rockwell Museum at Stockbridge. It's a beautiful old heritage building set in parklike grounds where Norman's studio has been moved as well; it all looked fabulous in October with the fall foliage bright in the sunshine.

I know very little about art, but I know not to be a snob, so I thoroughly enjoyed cruising round the galleries studying some of the 570 paintings and drawings on display there, as well as the full set of 323 Saturday Evening Post covers down in the basement. My parents sometimes bought that magazine and I remember studying the covers with the sort of avid interest that only a bored child living in the pre-TV era could summon up; so some of them felt like old friends.

Sure they're sentimental and idealised, but also sweet and sincere and loving; and no-one could fault his skill with the brush. My current favourite, though I have many, is Breaking Home Ties, of the rough old farmer waiting with his scrubbed and eager son for the train that's to take him away to college. SO sappy, but beautifully done, with lovely detail.

And an amazing back-story too: the original was bought in 1960 for $900 by a cartoonist, who copied it before secretly hiding it away in case his ex-wife got her mitts on it. When he died, his sons discovered it behind a false wall in his house and Sotheby's sold it in 2006 for $15.4 million. The museum sold me this one for $2.50. Ssssh. Don't tell Google it's here.

Help! Police!

The President of Ecuador got a bit of rough treatment the other day from his own police force, who were angry about losing their bonuses (not this sort of bonus, obviously). There was pushing and shoving, actual blows and tear gas, and that's not to mention the three people shot dead during the subsequent rioting in Quito and Guayaquil.

Guayaquil I could understand: it's a big port and has a reputation for being dangerous, but the Quito I saw was pretty civilised. I did jump when this man rushed out of a bank waving his gun

 

but it turned out he was just a courier guard with a flair for drama. The matronly lady who was accompanying us, Silvia, was very unimpressed: "Don't point that thing at me," she said, shoving past him and leaving him looking a bit chastened.

Who do you call when the police are the baddies? The army - and they weren't far away either when we were there, practising some sort of ceremony in the square outside our elegant old hotel, just across the road from the Presidential Palace where Correo delivered a defiant speech after he escaped from the police. It's to be hoped that the soldiers had something more threatening to use than these dummy-looking blades on the ends of bamboo canes.

 

I'm not too sure about this guy's sword, either - I wouldn't be surprised if it had been bought at the pinata shop round the corner where the bored-looking clown in the orange fright wig was hanging out all day. But that's a very genuine frowny face he's got.