Seattle Came Home

Some things travel farther than we realise.

My wife and I have just arrived in Boston to spend some time with our kids.

We had been looking forward to this trip for a while. There are plans to visit several places, see some sights, eat some food and generally make the most of our time in the US.

There is, however, one place that is definitely not on our itinerary.

Seattle.

Which is rather ironic, considering that Seattle had already arrived at our house in Kochi before we left.

In the form of a cup.

And a box of chocolates.

My kids had visited Seattle and sent these little souvenirs to us.

The cup is from Starbucks at Pike Place, and the chocolates are from the same area.

I saw them before we left Kochi.

By then, the chocolates had already done their duty and disappeared.

The box, however, was still there.

Because I have a slightly strange habit of saving empty boxes.

I know.

It is not exactly a habit one normally advertises.

Some people collect stamps, coins or refrigerator magnets.

I apparently collect boxes that I have convinced myself might be useful someday.

This particular box, however, had a very good reason for being spared.

Someone had written on it:

“TO: APPA — FROM PIKE PLACE, SEATTLE.”

Now, what am I supposed to do with that?

Throw it away?

Absolutely not.

The chocolates may have disappeared, but the box had acquired diplomatic immunity.

My wife may see an empty chocolate box.

I see a souvenir from Seattle, a message from my kids, and a little piece of a moment I don’t want to forget.

At this rate, my collection of “empty but emotionally important” boxes may eventually require its own storage facility.

Seattle has always had a little place in our family memories anyway.

We loved watching Sleepless in Seattle many years ago, so the name itself has always felt familiar.

And then there is the rain.

Seattle is famous for rain.

Coming from Kerala, I find this mildly amusing.

We don’t merely have rain in Kerala.

We have rain with commitment.

There are days during the monsoon when the sky seems to have decided that it has been holding everything in for far too long and is now determined to empty the entire reservoir.

So if Seattle wants to compete with Kerala in the rain department, I wish it well.

But the cup had something else that caught my attention.

PIKE PLACE.

And that took me back many years.

Long before my daughter got married, I had spoken to her about a book called FISH!

It was about the famous Pike Place Fish Market in Seattle and the way the people there had turned an ordinary workplace into something memorable through their attitude towards work and life.

I remember talking to her about it.

I have absolutely no idea how much of that conversation she remembered.

Parents are very good at talking.

Children are very good at appearing to listen.

We say, “One day you’ll understand.”

They nod.

We say, “You should read this book.”

They nod.

We say, “Don’t forget what I told you.”

They nod again.

And we assume everything has gone into that enormous mental filing cabinet labelled:

THINGS MY PARENTS SAID.

Apparently, some things don’t disappear.

Years passed.

My daughter got married.

Life moved on.

And then she and her husband happened to visit Seattle.

They went to Pike Place.

And somewhere along the way, that old discussion between a father and his daughter had quietly travelled several thousand miles.

Not as a book.

Not as a lecture.

But as a little souvenir that eventually found its way back to me.

I hadn’t been to Seattle.

I wasn’t going to Seattle.

And yet, before leaving Kochi for Boston, I was standing there looking at a cup and an empty chocolate box from Pike Place.

Seattle had somehow come to me.

And perhaps being in Boston with our kids makes me think about this a little differently.

Today happens to be Onam.

For those of us from Kerala, Onam has always been a time when families come together, food somehow multiplies overnight, and the house becomes a little noisier and happier than usual.

And then there is poor Maveli.

According to the familiar story, he is allowed to visit Kerala only once a year, on Onam.

Which, when you think about it, makes our situation look rather lucky.

We may sometimes feel that we get to see our children only once a year.

But at least we aren’t Maveli.

His travel schedule is strictly non-negotiable.

One day.

Once a year.

No extensions.

No long weekend.

No “I’ll stay another couple of days.”

And certainly no video call when he is missing everyone.

We, on the other hand, can stay a little longer when circumstances permit.

We can call.

We can video call.

We can send photographs.

We can even send each other messages saying, “Miss you!” while simultaneously checking what everyone is having for dinner.

Maveli gets one annual visit.

We at least have options.

So perhaps we shouldn’t complain too much.

And that is probably what makes being here with our kids feel so special.

We have come a long way from Kochi to spend some precious time with them.

There are plans to visit places we haven’t seen before.

There will be photographs.

There will be food we can’t pronounce properly.

There will be plenty of driving too, although on that front we are in safe hands. Our kids have been living here long enough to know the roads, routes and shortcuts far better than we ever could. We can simply sit back, look out of the window and occasionally offer completely unnecessary advice.

But the most precious part of the trip may simply be being together.

The conversations are longer.

The meals seem to taste better.

Even doing absolutely nothing together feels like something worth doing.

When you don’t get unlimited time with the people you love, ordinary moments stop being ordinary.

A cup of coffee together.

A conversation that wanders nowhere.

A laugh over something completely silly.

Sitting around after dinner without anybody being in a hurry to leave.

These are the things that don’t make it into travel brochures.

But they are often the things we remember.

And perhaps that is what souvenirs really are.

We usually think of them as things we bring back from places.

A cup.

A magnet.

A keychain.

A T-shirt announcing that we have successfully survived a particular city.

But perhaps the most precious souvenirs aren’t the ones we buy.

They are the memories we collect without realising it.

A chitchat with a child.

A family joke.

A meal shared around a table.

A story someone told us years ago.

A moment when everybody happened to be together.

We may not recognise their value at the time.

And then, years later, something as ordinary as a cup can bring the whole memory back.

Thinking about it now, I find myself wondering about the strange journey of a simple thought.

Years ago, I was in Dubai talking to my daughter about a book.

Years later, she was standing at Pike Place in Seattle.

And now I’m in Boston with my wife, visiting our children, thinking about the souvenir she brought back.

The distance between those moments is enormous.

But somehow the conversation travelled all the way through it.

Perhaps that’s what we don’t realise when we talk to our children.

We think we are giving them information.

Sometimes we are giving them memories.

We never know which words will stay.

Which stories will return.

Which seemingly ordinary chat will suddenly become meaningful many years later.

And perhaps that’s one of the quiet privileges of being a parent.

You plant little thoughts without knowing where they will grow.

So no, Seattle isn’t on our itinerary this time.

We have plenty of other places to see.

And who knows? Perhaps one day we will actually make it to Seattle and find out whether its rain deserves all that publicity.

For now, I’m quite happy to be in Boston.

And somewhere back home is that little blue box from Pike Place, safely waiting for me.

The chocolates are gone, but the box has now been promoted from “empty box” to “family keepsake.”

The words “To Appa” have apparently given it a lifetime exemption from the dustbin.

Maybe that’s what souvenirs really are.

Not pieces of places we bring home, but little pieces of people and moments that remind us how fortunate we are to have had the time together.