Pike's Place Market

The search for rice milk for Paul's coffee led us past 8 Starbucks, two independent coffee houses, a Seattle's Best and landed us in Seattle Works. Hands down awesome. I even charged my cell phone that will be un-useful soon enough.

We fly all night and land in Miami tomorrow morning. One more use right before we board the plane to Costa Rica to check in with the kids before the phone working ceases for the duration of our trip.

We have an almost ten hour layover in Seattle, so Paul and I took the train (electric, btw) to Pike Place Market. A nine-acre conglomerate of historic buildings, indoor markets, outdoor markets, vendors, farmer's markets and artisans. And food.

And flower markets. (Gorgeous! I've never seen such brilliant and huge blooms.) And O.M.G.-How-Hilarious-There-Are-So-Many-Coffee-Shops. Seattle is definitely the birth of the coffee shop.

I've found AMAZING handmade journals that I really want to go back for, but we haven't even left the country!! Part of me wants to wait until Costa Rica before I buy handmade art, but another part demands I go back and support the local artists here! :) See how I'm trying to rationalize?

There was a burgundy buffalo hide, handmade cotton paper journal with black leather binding that I was particularly drawn to.

Sigh.


Here's me being responsible and not going back to buy it. If Paul asks me if I want to -- I don't think I'll be able to withstand it. I'll break under the power of suggestion.

We found Indian food at a food cart and walked down to the waterfront to eat lunch and listened to an Asian busker playing a string instrument I didn't know the name of.

Paul is holding my hand and rubbing his thumb across my knuckles while he reads his novel and I've finished my 2nd latte today (it is Seattle after all) and listening to Ingrid Michaelson over the cafe's sound system.

We've found ourselves browsing in an anarchist bookstore, Seattle's own Left Bank Collective, and watching (with tipping some) buskers that ranged from guitarists covering Monkees and Beatles favorites, an organ player, awesome gospel singers, a banjo player, and one guy that played guitar, sand, blew on a harmonica and kept a hoola-hoop up all at the same time.

We read in cafes, took photos, talked about the type of city architecture that Paul misses from New York and bought applesauce bread and oatmeal raison cookies from a gluten-free bakery called Cinnamon Works.

A walk to the other side of downtown revealed the Science Fiction Museum Hall of Fame, and the Experience Music Project entrance fee to be $15 a piece, and closure in a half an hour. We opted not.

"I've been to Seattle a few times now and never been to the Space Needle," Paul said.
"Well, let's go then."

We get so far as taking pictures of ourselves outside of it, but don't actually ride up it. I don't actually mind this as it seems uber-touristy (which I don't want to be) and I'm slightly nervous of high places, which is code for:

"Shrek! I'm lookin' down!"

But I was trying to gird myself up for the canopy tour/zip line that we'll undoubtedly do at Osa Mountain Village.

I'm resting now in Seattle Center's Food Court that looks and feels (and therefore is) a depressing facsimile of a mall, but without the shops. And in a few minutes we will go in search of a real Chinese food restaurant and then to the airport for another round of security and waiting for our flight.