Holly Ringland

My dearest,

Wide-eyed, with my suitcase full of disbelief and bewilderment, I stole the witch’s slippers and took it upon myself to begin my trek to The Emerald City; lions, tigers, bears and all. Twenty-three gruelling hours after leaving the warm clutches of Australia’s love behind, I stumbled into the marble art deco stone lobby of the Moore hotel in Seattle… and found myself smack bang in the centre of Oz.

So began a week of dreamy green days in the emerald gem of America’s Pacific northwest.

If there was a place behind the rainbow, Seattle could very well be it… or at least a damn fine stop over: every corner and edge of this city bubbles in a melting pot of colour, culture, energy, people and art. The vibrancy of this laid-back understated American metropolis is still somehow manic and overwhelming. An afternoon spent coveting the stalls and treasure troves of the Pike Place Market leaves you exhausted with enchantment, colour and bruises from too many collisions with cameras hanging from tourists like Christmas tree ornaments. A walk to the waterfront through the myriad of downtown’s street vendors, buskers, charity workers, homeless and idle leaves you a little breathless, a little grateful for whatever fortune it is you have and desperately seeking the solace that the silvery slate waters of Elliot Bay and the mossy Puget Sound islands gently deliver and placate you with.

For all its city barbs though and despite the unignorable locust-swarms of Starbucks (Seattle, a city that operates on coffee, is the birthplace of the bean-burning-charcoal-flavoured mega-cafe chain: there are 70+ in the downtown area and 300 outlets in the greater area), this is a city built on music, art, technology, a hybyrid of indigenous and colonial heritage, organic fresh produce, ferry boats and seaside mountain scenery that honestly reaches into your lungs and runs away giggling with a loot bag full of your breath and heartbeat.

As I revisited this city, this place that has bloomed green in my blood since the first time I visited it as a nine year old girl, I madly jotted and scribbled sights and wonders in my little red notebook: a collection of threads and buttons and feathers and shells and souvenirs of moments I pressed between the pages to one day make a kaleidoscope of and turn in the light round and round. Allow me to glue them to this postcard along with a few grains of black sand from these northern shores for good luck…

Falling asleep listening to the sounds of the city toss and turn outside my window… intermittently interrupted by the hysterical squawks of the bay’s seagulls… and laughing for a good five minutes solid on my own in the dark. Strolling along the Elliot Bay boardwalk and smarting at the sharp unexpected warmth of the Seattle sunshine on my skin. Discovering basement vintage shops filled to the brim with everything from snakeskin kitten heels to strawberry polka-dot apron dresses. Stumbling upon the independent Elliot Bay book store… Borders and Barnes and Noble eat your heart out over their creaking floorboards, floor-to-ceiling cedar bookshelves, bustling cafe selling $1 organic Fair Trade coffee and a corner space for local musicians instead of in-store CD of the week. Wondering how to overcome the bamboozle of countless fast food outlets and literally accidentally walking into a little Mexican flag beside a bright red hole-in-the-wall window that opened to the haven of a Mexican kitchen offering mouth-watering lime-infused chilli-and-guacamole feasts for $2 a plate. Thinking to myself that I was feeling as though I had fallen into one of Mary Poppins’ chalk drawings… only to round a corner and come across a beautiful girl with a nightingale voice singing ‘Chim Chiminey’ on an accordian. Sitting at a kitsch cafe overlooking Puget Sound at twilight and savouring mouthful after mouthful of fresh crab and parmesan risotto washed down with a violet martini. Taking a trot up Capitol Hill to find Molly Moon’s, an organic ice creamery that sells their mouth-watering fares by the pint and features such flavours as salted caramel, red currant and honey lavender cream. Walking to the Seattle Centre, the hub around the Space Needle, and sitting on the rim of the fountain where when Kurt Cobain killed himself, Courtney Love read out his suicide note to the thousands gathered there. I smiled to myself at the young fans in flannel with peroxide and eyeliner who keep vigil there with candles, flowers and out-of-tune guitar still. Reuniting with Cinnamon Works, my favourite over-the-counter cafe in the world that homemakes gluten free treats the likes of which my taste buds have never encountered anywhere else: fronting up every morning to greet the girls with my uber excitement and on my fifth morning visit, being given my breakfast and coffee on the house for managing to be the most ‘joyous’ customer they’d ever served. Hankering down with a still-warm-out-of-the-oven homemade gluten free oatmeal and raisin cookie the size of my head and a double-shot Americano to take in the Pike Place Market: flying fish, dried flowers, dried fruit, dried cow (beef jerky obsession here)... a patchwork of vibrant mouthwatering colour, music, vendor personalities (the dairy creamery is run by Nancy Nipples and the Salmon Saviour guarantees all seafood is sold with fishy love) and second-hand treasures (a stuffed meerkat, the entire works of Colette and a bottle of ‘guaranteed’ hair replacement tonic were all on one $5 stand). The fresh produce here is genuinely mind-boggling: for one day I ate nothing but the organic fruit I found at the market: bananas with the colour and taste of the sunlight that ripened them, perfect globes of peaches that made my cheeks ache with their juicy sweetness, so-red-they-were-almost purple pomegranantes, bright yellow cherries (!) grown in orchards at the base of nearby Mt Rainier that almost warranted eating pips-and-all just to pop more into my mouth they were so flavoursome… and red star krimson pears that were so ornate, I felt like I was eating a decoration every time I sunk my teeth into their tangy sweet flesh. Taking some time out on a ferry boat ride across Puget Sound to Bainbridge Island where I had a lunch of smoked gouda with rye washed down with a pomegranate margarita, while I watched the tiny township pass me by. The island people like their days slow and the living vintage; as I sat in the park under an elm, a retired cowboy drove past me in his mouthwatering Chevrolet, his equally salt-and-peppered dog in the tray with his tongue hanging out of his mouth, and strains of Don Henley singing ‘take it easy’ coming from the cab. Needing some open-eye meditation away from the bustle of the cityscape: going for a run along the shoreline and bellowing out towards the gem-coloured islands of Puget Sound, wondering if my Australian doppelganger could hear me… and if she in fact was bellowing right back at me from the East.

My time here draws to an end and I can hear the chimes of Big Ben and the whispers of time calling me.

So I leave this green glass place, this first stop on my yellow brick road. replete with northwest sunshine, stories and inspiration tucked into my Mary Poppins bag for a rainy day.

More postcards to come as soon as I find my feet and ink.

And, of course…

Wish you were here.

Love,
Holly x