things move around

At the airport at 5:00 this morning, I and the huddled masses, to seek our golden destiny in the far fair land of Amurikey. The snoutfaced border guard squinted derisively at my visa application, complete with laughably hyperbolic testimonial from my employer, but stamped it regardless.

The Gulf Islands, dull blobs in the dawn, skidded from under us like scree, and Portland, where I changed planes, was helplessly cloudbound: held in the grip of another colourless March day.

On to Spokane, "heart of the inland Northwest" (everywhere is at the heart of something), and sometime home of legendary Tool bassist Paul d'Amour, goldrush starlet Klondike Kate Rockwell, and little-known crooner Bing Crosby. Strangely, all moved on at an early age. But I fancied I made out the ghost of Klondike Kate, keening a lovelorn lament, on the wind which buffeted me across the tarmac into the echoey arrivals hall.