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How do you tell you’re in Seattle for Thanksgiving? Is it when…

The passenger across the aisle on flight to Iceland is wearing tie-dye crocs. His partner wears Birkenstocks, no socks. Everything their child has on is tie-dyed. I’m pretty sure they have a pet goat named Karma.

The line just to get to the line to queue for passport control is interminable. When I admire the scarf on the person beside me, he confides he made it from yarn spun from his dog’s fur, and offers to give me the URL for the pet yarn company. As I start to edge away, he says not to worry—it only smells when it gets wet.

It’s the evening before the busiest travel week of the year in the US, and the rental car I’ve reserved is mysteriously not available. The agent shows me a vast, empty lot with three cars. (The big one is his.) MY choices are between the little car and the even littler car.

My favorite french bakery is still there (but prices are doubled).

The usual sites are still there but I don’t recognize the streets leading up to them.

We order the entire pre-cooked Thanksgiving dinner from Whole Paycheck Foods (and it tastes better than what I would have taken all day to make and then been too crabby and exhausted to eat.)


No, it’s actually when (as they say in Seattle)…

The mountain is out.

But the best part of going to Seattle for Thanksgiving?

Coming home to Scotland of course!