Last weekend I attended the Emerald City Writer’s Conference (ECWC) put on by the Greater Seattle RWA. I loved every minute of it. (Not just the part when I got the trophy. Though, I have to say, that is one of the highlights of my life… ) I loved the great workshops, and wonderful writers. I’ll be talking about them in another post.
Today, because it’s my musing Monday post, I’m sharing the highlights of sightseeing in Seattle.
I didn’t kiss a fish, a traditional Pike’s Market ritual, but I did marvel at the amazing display of fresh fish available at the market.
We went on a busy Sunday afternoon, and wandered with crowds of people through one level of the market. I picked up a cute magnet for my fridge and Market Spice tea which we love. Established in 1907 the market has a rich history. I loved the plaque, which explains the history behind the sense of community at Pikes. (above)
I love fish, all fish, and especially shellfish. PJ knows this and wanted to take me to a restaurant where we could feast on crabs. Below the market, right on the waterfront is a restaurant called, The Crab Pot. I ordered King crab legs and he ordered snow crab. They brought our food to us in a big metal bowl and dropped it onto the table. Literally, dropped it.
They gave us each a wooden butcher block, mallet and thin fork. And of course, endless pots of melted butter. The crab tasted divine, and the experience was most memorable.
After the Pajama party, exhausted, and dressed in a floral nightgown, fuchsia pink fluffy bathrobe, shiny jewels and a tiara, I stepped into the elevator to return to my room. Alone in the cubicle, I pressed the number six for my floor. The doors closed and a voice began, “You have reached the elevator company. We will address your concerns. You have reached…” It repeated these two sentences over and over, but I ignored it, my mind stayed focused on the comfortable bed awaiting me.
The elevator climbed and passed my floor. I pushed six again and the button lit up again. But it kept climbing. I pushed other numbers but it kept moving. My throat constricted. This shouldn’t be happening. Standing alone, I thought, What the hell? I watched the screen above the doors as the elevator continued its journey undirected by me. My chest tightened.
Finally, it stopped at the twelfth floor. The doors opened. A young man stood in front of me. His eyes widened as he looked at me. I knew I looked ridiculous, so I shrugged and jumped out. “It’s broken,” I said.
His eyebrows rose. “I’ll take my chances.” He walked into the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
I took a different elevator to my floor.
Number two, the next day:
I’d had an encounter with the crazy elevator, so I decided to take the stairs from my sixth floor to the third floor where the conference took place. When I opened the stairwell door, I did a double take at the roughness of the passageway. No carpets or painted walls. It had grey unfinished cement and pipes running in all directions. I shrugged. Utilitarian.
I went down the stairs, but when I got to the third floor, I couldn’t open the door. Locked. I couldn’t believe it. I twisted and turned the handle, called it a few names, but it wouldn’t budge. Oh no, not another weird hotel thing. My heart, I hate to admit it, raced. I’m trapped.
Telling myself to breathe, which is always a good thing, I continued down the stairs and tried the next door…and then the next. The third door opened.
The moral of my stories: That’s a hard one. How about, elevators don’t like tiaras, and stairs don’t always lead to where you want to go.
To end with a good note, here is a picture of the goodies the hotel gave us when we arrived:
(all photos by PJ)