HOLIDAY NEAR ICE

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Back in April of 2006, to celebrate my 30 years of marriage to Sue, we booked an Alaskan cruise. Even back then, I was keeping and posting journal entries, mostly via email to a few select individuals. Since that time this website has come into existence, a development which many consider a sign of the endtimes, but which also affords the opportunity to add the Alaskan Cruise chronicles to the Journals section.

So keep in mind that the following entries are over four years old… but nothing much has really changed. 

DAY ONE:

As weathered, seasoned, shaken-but-not-stirred travelers, we knew that one of the worst parts of any trip is getting to and from the airport—especially if you’re planning on flying to your destination (if you’re not, the trip is not only taxing, but downright puzzling).It’s even more daunting if you’re leaving out of Los Angeles International Airport, more commonly referenced as LAX (named by the same Hollywood types who decided that the movie Independence Day should be called ID4). So, rather than have our obliging and available son Ben drop us off at the terminal, where traffic patterns can be accurately described as NASCAR without the courteous driving, we had him drop us off at FlyAway.

FlyAway is a bus terminal/parking lot where you can either park your car or be dropped off, and then take a bus into LAX. It’s an entire business that’s sprung up by recognizing that everyone who needs to go to LAX wants to be beamed there.

It’s recommended by 9 out of 10 diabolical travel experts that you should arrive at the airport 2 hours before your departure time… 3 hours if it’s an international flight, and 7 hours if you plan on forgetting that you’re carrying a pocket knife. So, for a 7:30 AM departing flight, we got up at 3:00, left at 3:30, arrived at FlyAway at 4:00, loaded our luggage and ourselves on the bus, left FlyAway at 4:30, and arrived at LAX at 5:00. We then used all the e-ticket and automatic check-in technology to save the extra time that the experts wanted us to allow. Of course, we still had to prove we had no intention of blowing up our jet. There was no racial profiling involved here, but I had to take off my shoes to get through security, so I’m guessing that terrorists must grow a 6^th toe, or engage in involuntary characteristic toe-clenching, or have some unique foot characteristic that makes the ATSB want to see my feet.

Bottom line: at 5:30 AM, we were sitting in the airport waiting to board a 7:30 flight.

No problem; there’s plenty of terminal entertainment. My favorite is sitting near the major burger-joint outlet and watching the interaction between the customers and the service personnel who, quite frankly, know that their position on the airport food chain allows them to grind their heels into the knuckles of any customer trying to climb up to their level.  Due to liability concerns I can’t identify this particular fast-food chain by name, but I can tell you that “Have it your way,” is asterisked with a footnote advising that “your way” is limited to the two options of “take it” or “leave it.”

The plane was right on schedule, and it was a 3 hour flight to Vancouver via Alaska Airlines. No real complaints with Alaska Air, but this was the only commercial flight I’ve been on that was longer than a couple of hours and didn’t have movies, or TV programming, or even music. I brought my own earphones, which I plugged into the laptop of the guy sitting across the aisle, but he was only playing solitaire, so it wasn't very entertaining, except for the people who kept tripping on the cord.

The coolest thing about this leg of the journey was that we had a transfer arrangement from the airport in Vancouver to the cruise ship that allowed us to bypass customs.  Any luggage that survived the flight was sealed in a container and taken straight to the ship, and the same is done with the passengers. They put us on a bus, sealed the door with a little sticker, and didn’t unseal it till we were at the port terminal. So technically, we never sullied Canadian soil because the contents of our bus were “sterile”. This is why most folks who take Alaskan cruises are past child-bearing age

By the way, the bus ride took us on a brief tour of Vancouver, which is a beautiful city if you take away the buildings, roads, and vehicles.

Once we had reached the pier, the only hoop left to jump through before cruising was the cruise-line check-in procedure. This process, in the spirit of the Alaskan theme, unfolded at about same pace as an advancing glacier. To make matters worse, once we finally got the green light to be piped aboard, we still had to run the gauntlet of photographers stationed every few inches between us and the gangplank.. These folks, of course, want to capture that precious first step of your trip, then sell it back to you later in various formats. Although I’m not accustomed to having people clamor for my picture, the novelty wore thin pretty quick, and soon I was charging through these paparazzi wannabes in a way that would make Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise proud.

We spent a while getting acquainted with the ship. Basically we were getting the answers to the only two FAQs on a cruise: Where do we eat? And Where do we sleep?

The answer to the first is easy, since any cruise ship staff member who’s not trying to take your picture is trying to feed you something. The answer to the second was addressed by the steward who directed us to follow the trail of Twinkies to our stateroom.

Our stateroom was great. Our luggage was there, and so was the balcony. The bathroom had no wasted space. You could take a shower while simultaneously clipping your toenails over the toilet, which when flushed, cranks out about 5 more decibels than the average jet turbine, and generates a comparable suction.

Our only disappointment: we were informed that the fancy sit-down napkin-in-your-lap nightly dinner is divided into two sittings in order to accommodate everyone on board. There’s an early sitting (5:00 PM) and a late sitting (8:15 PM). We requested the early sitting, but ended up being assigned to the late sitting, meaning I’d have to adjust my sleep pattern as well as my belt notches.

We checked out the live entertainment, which consisted of a “Vegas-style” show with these important improvements: the dancers are dressed; you get a good seat by showing up early rather than by slipping some money to an obnoxious headwaiter; and it’s impossible to be disappointed by the entertainers, since you have no expectations to begin with. In fact, there’s sort of an understanding between the entertainers and the passengers… the performers pretend this is a glamorous gig, and the audience pretends they actually picked this cruise for the chance to see these acts.  It’s a nice arrangement; after all, we’re all in the same boat.

Then it was time for dinner.  Besides the great food and excellent service provided at an indecent hour, we got the added advantage of dining for the next 7 nights with four complete strangers who labor under the huge misconception that I must have something interesting to say. Right now, with dinner over, they’re probably thinking that everyone has a slow night. It’s a shame to disappoint them, but it’s also a valuable lesson.

Nothing to do now but go to bed and request a wake-up call so we won’t miss breakfast,  which is the most important meal of the day, even if you’re planning 6 or 7 others.

 DAY TWO

 Thursday was a day at sea as the ship made its way up to our first port of call, Juneau (voted the city most likely to be used in an Abbott and Costello routine---“What’s the capitol of Alaska?” “Juneau.” “No, I don’t; that’s why I’m asking you.”) I slept like a log, probably because of the gentle swaying of the cruise ship… no, wait, that makes me throw up. At any rate, I slept well.

The day started with Sue immediately turning on the TV.  One of the TV channels continuously shows charts of our current position, and Sue promptly settled into a regimen of peering out our balcony, then looking at the TV to see where we were. I think she’s somehow disappointed that the actual topography out our window doesn’t have huge labels laid on the landscape.

We’re early risers, so we hung around the stateroom counting down the minutes until breakfast. There are two venue choices: 1) the formal dining room, where you’re seated, handed menus and your meal is brought to you by waiters.  2) the upper deck dining area, where the food is served “free-for-all” or “buffet” style, and you elbow and kick and scratch and claw your way through a sea of fellow passengers to get the best sausage link, the way nature intended. We picked the upper deck, of course, and after an invigorating breakfast and ceremonial victory dance, we decided to explore the ship.

One of the areas we checked out was the Internet Café. Like the poop deck, its name is a little misleading. It’s just a room set up for passengers to gain internet access.  There’s no coffee served here; in fact, there’s no food or beverage of any kind allowed, because the cruise folks know that guys like me will crazy-glue the keyboards into immobility with spilled soda pop. If you’re a passenger who wants to check email, or find out how your stock is doing, or buy another piece of cubic zirconium, you have to come down to this room and arrange access to the ship’s wireless network, which covers a radius of about 18 inches, as long as someone’s hearing aid isn’t turned on. You buy the access in time increments. The cost is minimal--- either an arm or a leg will get you enough time to log on, check your email, and realize you need to buy more time. The bandwith is at least as good as the telegraph wire that ran between Dodge City and Tombstone in 1870, so with a little patience and a lot of money, you can, from the comfort of your very own cruiseship, still get your time-sensitive email about enlarging or reducing various body parts.

We took in a couple of informative talks. One was by the ship’s very own naturalist, who hosted many throughout the day, and also made announcements over the PA system as we passed various points of interest. I found it interesting that the naturalist seemed to be a ubiquitous presence, but the on-board doctor’s hours were from 8 AM to 10 PM. So if you break something after some ill-advised participation in the limbo competition, you’re most likely out of luck unless you can slyly describe your condition in hypothetical terms as incurred by a humpback.

We also learned about shore excursions from Shawn, our cruise director. Cruise Director is an impressive title, and I’m sure there’s a lot of responsibility attached to it, but to my untrained eye it seems like a cross between a cheerleader and a game show host. Shawn is sort of a Kirstie Alley type who made it very clear that we would have fun, darn it, or there would be hell to pay.  She gave us the run-down on all the off-shore excursions available at our ports of call of Juneau, Skagway, and Ketchikan. We had already arranged one online before we started the trip, and Shawn’s enthusiasm notwithstanding, we didn’t think we could muster up the energy for added dogsledding, lumberjacking, goldmining, glacier trekking, or other non-dining diversions.

The big event of the evening was the big formal cocktail party hosted by the captain and crew and featuring free drinks. We skipped it. The strongest thing we drink is Nyquil, and then only to be sociable. And I wasn’t comfortable attending a party where all the folks in charge of keeping the ship from kissing an iceberg had flipped on the cruise control and come down to hang out at the open bar. It would be like having a wild party in the back of a limousine and realizing that the guy next to you who refilled your drink was the limo driver.

Instead we waited for the formal dinner. “Formal” meant leaving my cowboy hat in the stateroom and wearing a shirt with buttons down the front. We sat down with the same four people we first met the night before. One of the couples was Linda and Don from Idaho. On the first night, we had discovered that Linda was an outgoing type. But tonight she informed us that she had tried a whiskey sour at the Captain’s cocktail party, and was so impressed that she had tried it four more times. So Linda’s Fun Dial was cranked up well into the red on this second night, and it’s safe to say she dominated the proceedings. She noticed a man in a tuxedo at another table that she thought was very distinguished looking, and kept polling our table as to whether we should let him know. (She finally settled for sending the waiter over with the message. Because the Captain was still nearby at the open bar, the distinguished looking gentleman was able to quickly secure a restraining order.) She expressed amusement or delight (which seemed to occur in five-second intervals) with high-pitched whoops that (we were informed the next day by the ship’s naturalist) caused the early migration of all the humpback whales in the area.

By the end of the second course, Linda had noticed the couple at an adjacent table who had no other dinner companions, and felt compelled out of sympathy to insist that they join us at our table.  Soon it was dinner for eight, and I could see Linda’s satisfaction at having rescued a couple from the unimaginable fate of an intimate dinner for two.

NOTE: I’m probably being a bit unfair here, but that’s because I’ve never really considered dinner a social experience. I come from the Special Forces school of dining: Get in, get the job done, and get out. I like people, really I do; I just don’t do well with the challenge of handling utensils, talking, and eating at the same time. Food usually ends up somewhere it doesn’t belong.

After Linda, we didn’t feel the need for more entertainment, so we skipped the show and decided to go back to our stateroom.  The bed was turned down, and on the bed were extra towels twisted and knotted into the form of a cute little pig. At least Sue thought it was cute; I thought it was a comment on the amount I’d eaten so far, so I made a note not to leave a tip the next morning.

 DAY THREE

 Juneau was the trip’s first opportunity for a shore excursion (defined as some tour or activity that you book and pay for separately from your cruise package), but we decided not to book anything. There were several available—whale-watching, glacier-watching, salmon-watching, mammoth watching—but none of them kindled our interest enough to consider skipping an already-paid-for meal onboard, so we planned only to take a quick walk around Juneau and maybe pick up some souvenirs for friends and family.

 (I never quite understood why one would get souvenirs for folks back home. What’s the purpose? “Here, this is a remembrance of the trip you didn’t go on.” I like giving gifts, so it’s nice to pick up something if you think someone back home will like it, but I get a little uncomfortable when the obligation factor kicks in. It’s like turning my vacation into Christmas.)

We toured a few shops.  Getting something for my sons was problematic, since I established the rule that whatever we got had to be something that they wouldn’t stick in a drawer or closet and forget about within 2 days of receipt. For Ben, this narrowed it down to an article of clothing, since there aren’t any Alaskan-themed video games (note to myself: contact Nintendo with idea for Grand Theft Bobsled). Ditto for Sam, although Sue had one other idea. Sam has started a modest sword collection (before you pull your children off the street, be aware that these are “non-edged” collector’s versions). So far there’s only three pieces: a Claymore (some sort of English or Scottish or Irish thing), a Japanese sword, and a Star Wars light saber. Sue was thinking that maybe we could find a uniquely Alaskan contribution to his collection.

When we walked into a knife shop, I saw what she had in mind: a blade used by the native Alaskan population called an ulu.  At first glance it looks sort of vicious; it’s a curved half-circle blade held in one hand by a handle attached to the flat part of the half-circle.  It looks like something a Klingon might hide in his pocket. Trouble is, it’s used for cooking. Apparently, when it came to weaponry, the native Alaskans’ creativity stopped with the club and harpoon, and the wicked-looking ulu was used to cut vegetables and blubber.

Sue thought the ulu still looked pretty nifty on its little stand, but I convinced her that, in a collection of weapons used to slice and dice invading Visigoths, hostile Ninjas, and Imperial Storm Troopers, an Eskimo Veg-O-Matic wouldn’t fit in.

So we found Sam a letter opener with an Alaskan motif. I doubt if Sam will add it to his non-edged weapon collection, but since he’s always complained that he can’t open an envelope with his hands without destroying the contents, we’re hoping it will get some use.  If someday he uses it to threaten someone, well, all the better.

Getting back onto the ship from Juneau was a bit of a challenge. I knew we’d have to show our photo ID and passenger ID; but I didn’t anticipate having all our packages x-rayed, and frankly I didn’t see the point. Once on board, I had access to steak knives and other sharp instruments. Heck, I could carry my five-pound Swiss Army pocket knife in my checked baggage and, once on board the ship, take it out and carry it around. So why was the cruise ship personnel scrutinizing what I bring back from an American city?

I still don’t know, but they were. I put everything on the x-ray machine conveyor belt that I could think of, then went through the metal detector gateway and, of course, set it off. I was about to point out my fillings and make up a story about my hip replacement, but I was told simply to step back through again, but this time don’t brush either side of the gateway, which had a space of about 18 inches between sides. It was sort of like playing “Operation”  with my body as the tweezers, but I somehow managed to suck in my buffet-enhanced gut and get through the metal detector the second time without setting of any alarms.

That couldn’t be said of my packages. After threading myself through the eye of the needle, I was immediately pulled aside and asked if I had purchased a knife in Juneau. I told them about the letter opener, which had to be scrutinized thoroughly. Eventually (and without taking off my shoes) I managed to convince this crack security team that I wasn’t planning on taking the letter opener up to the bridge and threatening to open all the Captain’s mail if he didn’t change the ship’s heading to Cuba.

That night at dinner, at the late seating, Sue and I were the first ones to be seated at our assigned table. We knew the other two couples had arranged offshore excursions, and folks didn’t have to be back on board for departure until later that night, so we entertained the possibility of dining alone this evening.  But the waiter (who’s the same every night) felt sorry for us, and insisted that the same couple that Linda had invited the night before sit at our table tonight for the whole meal.  The awkwardness potential reached critical level when, ten minutes later, after we’d started our dinner, both of the other couples assigned to our table showed up. So Linda and Don volunteered to sit at the other table alone, which made the first couple feel bad, and resulted in getting them back over to our table by dessert and then the lights turned off, a shot rang out….

Just kidding about that last part, but it was more complicated than any dinner (which, really, is just putting food into your mouth, for goodness’ sake) should be.

After dinner we saw the show (a juggler who was quickly flown aboard when it was discovered that the entertainment budget was a little lean this week). Then we went back to the stateroom. Tonight the little towel animal was… well, I’m not sure what it was. Possibly a dog, or maybe a horse.  Because of the ambiguity, I decided not to leave a tip tomorrow morning for the housekeeping staff.

 DAY FOUR

Not much to say about this day, which consisted of sailing around Glacier Bay. The scenery was great, the glaciers were impressive, and it was the highlight of the trip so far. But sitting on the balcony enjoying God’s handiwork all day doesn’t generate any interesting anecdotes (neither does the rest of my life, come to think about it). Suffice it to say, it was beautiful.

By the end of the day, we were too tired to do the formal dinner thing, so we went to the upper deck and had the buffet for dinner. No telling what this did to the seating arrangements at our assigned table, but the ship truant officer didn’t show up to escort me down to the main dining area, so I assume things were okay.

Back at the stateroom, the towel animal was an elephant. Obviously a crack about my weight; no tip tomorrow.

 DAY FIVE

Today was an early arrival at our next port of call, Skagway (spelled Skaguay by the natives—w’s are in short supply up here, and have to be cut in half and rationed). Skagway means “place where the north wind blows”, which, while accurate, doesn’t seem like a name designed to promote tourism.  At least the brochures didn’t highlight the fact that a runny nose produces snotsicles, so I suppose it could have been worse.

This is where we had booked our one off-shore excursion: a train ride up to a summit on the White Pass and Yukon Railway, following the route that miners took to reach the Yukon from Skagway. Again, a lot of fantastic scenery that, of course, my wordsmithery could do justice to, but it’s too much work for a guy whose fingers can barely reach the laptop keyboard. The train ride was sort of interesting. You take one track all the way up to the summit. The train rides on a shelf up the mountain face, so basically all the folks on the left hand side of the train can look out their window and see gorgeous waterfalls, majestic mountain peaks, and impressive canyons. The people on the right hand side of the train can see a wall of rock.  These people paid the same price for their ticket, so most of the time they’re politely asking the folks across the aisle if they can sit in their laps.

But the railway folks have got it all figured out. When you get to the end of the line, there’s no loop to head the train back down the mountain. So the train stops, the engine disconnects and, via a siding, moves around and connects to the rear of the train. So the rear of the train becomes the front of the train as you head back down the mountain. But that’s not all. Because people don’t want to ride backwards on a mountain train, the backs of the train seats pivot so you can swing them to what used to be the front of your seat, and now the seat faces the other way! It’s ingenious.  So all the people on the right hand side of the car who had to look at a close-up of mountainside the whole trip are now on the left side of the car and heading a different direction, so they now look at their window and see…. the same thing they saw on the trip up the mountain. No wait, that can’t be right.  Oh yeah, I forgot the most important part. The train operators make all the passengers switch seats with their across-the-aisle counterparts, so everyone gets the opportunity to see the same sights and sit on everybody’s lap. When you think about it, it’s quite a lot of work to avoid a U-turn, which is illegal in Alaska.

After the train ride, we strolled through the Skagway, which has kept its turn-of- the-century look and consists of a population of about 800 folks who basically make a living during the summer tourist months so they can get out or hole up the other nine months of the year.  It was fun to stroll through, but before too long Sue and I headed back to the ship. No hassles with ship security this time… I had thrown the souvenir Smith & Wesson I had purchased onto the balcony of my stateroom from the dock.

We watched a special afternoon show with “Mr. Skagway”, a colorful local who sings songs and tells stories from the mining and whaling days. He was pretty good, but he opened with “North To Alaska”, a song recorded by Johnny Horton for the John Wayne movie of the same name, produced in the early sixties. With such loose criteria for relevant musical numbers, I expected him to launch into “There’s Got To Be A Morning After” from The Poseidon Adventure next. Instead he sang some songs that he had composed and some songs from the era, and told some stories, and was indeed colorful enough to make the show worthwhile.  I left the show humming “North To Alaska”; but, of course, I’d been humming it when I arrived, and pretty much during the whole cruise up to this point anyway.

We skipped the evening show again. It dawned on me that American Idol (and before that, Star Search) pretty much exists to keep the cruise industry supplied with vocalists.

We had dinner in the dining room. Things worked out okay; Don and Linda didn’t show up, so the couple from the other table moved over and filled in, thus averting another “empty seat” catastrophe.

The stateroom towel animal for the evening was a lobster. I don’t like shellfish. They give me gout. I won’t leave a tip tomorrow.

 DAY SIX

Another stop today at Ketchikan, known to the locals at “Totem Town” because… oh, who knows? I mean, yeah, there are a bunch of totem poles around town, but that’s still not a good enough reason to call the place you live “Totem Town.” There is no good reason to call the place you live “Totem Town”.  I’m convinced it’s just something told to the tourists.  Address a letter to “Totem Town, Alaska” and I’ll bet you that it ends up in the mailbox of Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.

We again had no booked excursion planned for Ketchikan, but we got off the ship and looked around the town for a little while. This was the biggest of the three towns we visited and the first one where we actually saw a supermarket and a Wal-Mart. This was good news for me because I was able to procure a couple of bottles of Diet Dr. Pepper, otherwise known as the Elixir of Life.

Quick aside: the cruise ship doesn’t serve Dr. Pepper, in any variety. In fact, it’s really not easy to get any soda pop on board.  Nowhere is there the fountain set-up that you find at any Seven-Eleven or fast food chain. At the buffets, they only have non-carbonated beverages like juices, punch and iced tea.  I’m sure that, if asked, the official cruise industry position is that, if they carried enough of the tanks needed to put the fizz in fountain drinks to cover the demand on your average cruise, there wouldn’t be enough room for necessities like booze or jugglers.

The cruise ship only has soda pop at the bars, only in cans, and, coincidentally, only in the varieties that are mixed with alcohol, and they charge you for it just like they charge you for the alcoholic drinks. So, in keeping with the family-friendly mandate that keeps the Vegas-style dancers well-contained in their costumes, they offer a “fountain fun card” that you purchase once, and then use for the duration of the cruise to procure soft drinks at no additional charge. There are a couple of drawbacks: 

1. You still have to go to the bar and flash your card to get the soda pop. I would imagine most of the targeted demographic who purchase the card aren’t exactly comfortable with bellying up to the bar next to the guy who’s primarily taking the cruise so he won’t have to worry about a designated driver.
2. Most of us soft-drink aficionados are used to the convenience-store-sized serving which usually consists of your favorite soft drink poured into a plastic container that you strap to your back and access with an extra-long straw. Cruise ships have chosen the Dark Side: take a 12 oz. glass, fill it with ice, then pour part of the contents of a 12 oz. can into it. Not exactly a satisfying serving for someone who’s so hooked on carbonation that they’re willing to pay extra. Instead of the Big Gulp we’ve become accustomed to, the cruise line’s handing us something that’s consumed by the first sharp intake of breath.

So, as I was saying, I managed to score a couple of bottles of Diet Dr. Pepper at a convenience store in Ketchikan that I took back to our stateroom. Word got out on board, and if I’d had extra empty bottles, I probably could have cut my stash with some coffee and made a nice profit on the street. But I’m just a user, not a dealer.

After we returned to the ship, we took it easy for the rest of the day. All of our regular dining room group was present, and we managed to socialize respectably, although it was clear that the last few days of strenuous relaxing was beginning to take its toll on all of us. Some of the slack was taken up having our waiters share their history. Both were from the Philippines and… well, that’s about as much as I understood, because both of them were from the Philippines. They were great waiters and I really felt sorry for them, because it seems clear that, whatever they’re getting paid, it’s not enough.  They don’t seem to get days off, and I think the only breaks they get are when passengers stop eating, and that only happens before the apocalypse.

After dinner we went to the show, a music-and-dance salute to Broadway entitled “The Show Must Go On.” Unfortunately, there were electrical difficulties with the stage, and the show had to be cancelled. So we went back to the stateroom. The towel animal for this evening seemed to be a pudgy human form hung by a noose from the fire sprinkler. Maybe it’s time to leave a tip for housekeeping.

 DAY SEVEN

 The last real day of the cruise is just a day at sea on the way back to Vancouver. Arrival time is tomorrow (Wednesday) morning, and we’ll be off the ship around 8 am to be sterilized and transported straight to the airport, where my expertly-crafted itinerary allows us five hours to make sure we get on the right plane.

This last day, especially when there’s no port of call, really tests the mettle of a cruise director. Shawn on our cruise did her best to generate excitement among passengers who by now need defibrillators to be kick-started into any forward motion. There are plenty of activities scheduled, such as bingo games, ship tours, trivia challenges, and the trophy presentation to the passenger with the greatest body-mass index increase. We’ve just heard an announcement that the stage show that was cancelled last night will have a special showing this evening, presumably to stop the flood of pro-rated refund requests pouring into the purser’s office.

So there’s plenty to keep us busy, but we haven’t planned much except the show and dinner. (Sue’s just returned from a class on how to make all those towel animals and has proudly shown me a monkey that looks like a flying squirrel, just before asking me for a tip.) The last night of the cruise is always tricky, because you have to pack up and leave your luggage outside your door before 10 PM.  So basically, the only thing you can leave out of your suitcase before you go to bed is whatever you’re willing to carry on to the airplane the next day, and it’s pretty embarrassing to have your teddy bear’s head sticking up out of your briefcase.

One last journal entry is planned after we make it home (he said optimistically). Once home, I’m sure I’ll have regained the emotional distance necessary for some final reflection on the trip.

 THE TRIP HOME AND REFLECTIONS

The morning debarkation was a piece of cake, which, coincidentally, was also my breakfast. Thanks to the arrangements made for those of us trying to furtively reach the 48 adjacent states without making direct eye-contact with a Canadian, we went directly from the ship to a bus to the Vancouver airport with no Canadian customs involved. Our luggage was also taken directly from the ship to our plane. So at about 9:30 AM, all we had to do was sit back and relax for five hours at Vancouver International until our plane departed.

This wasn’t as hard as it probably sounds to you Type-A personalities that actually think of your destination as your goal.  Sue and I are great at waiting. We sit, we read, we watch daily dramas unfold around us. After the past seven days, it was sort of refreshing to be sitting in an environment where no one was trying to force you to have fun.  And let’s face it; airports excel at providing a no-fun environment.

There were some challenges, mostly of the soft-drink variety. Diet Dr. Pepper was again in short supply. I spotted a bank of vending machines, and they all took US currency, but for some reason, the soda machines were the only ones that didn’t take paper money, which was all I had. So I had to go to one of the fast-food concessions to buy a soft drink. Aside from my reluctance to fraternize with the locals, I was afraid that these places would accept only Canadian currency. After all, at LAX I sure didn’t see any separate cash registers filled with bills that look like store coupons and coins with holes in the middle. LAX is an American airport and American cash seems to be the method of exchange, so I expected a corresponding rationale at Vancouver International.

I shouldn’t have worried. The lady at the counter was glad to take my hard-earned Yankee dollars for a Diet Coke (which, in Canada, has a French label. I can’t remember what it was called, exactly, but like all French words, they managed to spell it with two e’s and an accent mark). The catch is that my change was in Canadian currency, so I got stuck with these strange little coins that a three-year-old can bend between his thumb and index finger. Later, when we decided to have some authentic Canadian Fish & Chips (national motto: “You come for the fish; you stay for the chips, eh?”) the same thing happened: American money in; Canadian money out. I felt a lot like I was at Chuck E. Cheese’s, getting tokens. Luckily, in both cases, I had less than a dollar coming in change, so I didn’t end up with any paper money that looked like it should have Art Linkletter’s picture on it, but still… I knew what the folks behind the counter were thinking as they handed me my change: “Try to spend that back in the states, you hoser.”

The plane was ready for boarding right on time, and only one gate away from what was indicated on our boarding pass, and the flight was smooth. We arrived in LA at about 5:30 PM and went down to see if our luggage had made the same trip.

I find the human dynamic of the luggage carousel interesting.  It’s amazing that we can spend so much time picking out just the right piece of luggage to suit our needs, yet have such a hard time recognizing it in a crowd. The method of fetching luggage at the airport is sort of like fishing from the bank of a swift stream. Except in the case of your own luggage (which usually makes about as many revolutions as an average drive by Richard Petty), the rule is “catch and release”.  You snag something that might be yours, examine it, then throw it back, rinse, and repeat until you finally find the right one. Usually you can make the final determination by examining the luggage tag with your name on it.  If you’ve forgotten to tag your luggage in an identifiable manner, then you have to resort to opening it up and rifling through the underwear looking for a recognizable pattern. The saddest thing is listening to some rookie tell his wife, “Ours is the Samsonite.”

Our luggage was there, so we went out to the front curb, at the designated FlyAway stop to wait for the bus that would take us back to the terminal, where Ben would pick us up. The FlyAway buses are scheduled to run every 15 minutes at that time of day, but we had to wait close to an hour for ours to show up, possibly because it’s hard to keep a viable schedule when every piece of machinery manufactured by Japan and Detroit is sharing your route.

Still, as we rode from LAX back to the FlyAway terminal in the San Fernando Valley, and I saw the traffic that the ordinary non-chauffeured humans were fighting, I was still happy with the arrangement. I would never ask my family or friends to fight that kind of traffic just to pick me up at the airport; someday I might want a real favor and then realize I used it up on something as mundane as a trip back from the airport. Looking at the traffic on the freeway near LAX, it made me appreciate even more the natural beauty of Alaska, where glaciers moving at 7 feet per day were out-performing anything on the road down here.

We called Ben while we were still in route, and he picked us up at the FlyAway curbside and got us home safely. The house was in pretty good shape with Ben in charge. There was no spoiled food lying around; in fact, there was no food at all. Even the spice-rack containers were empty, and maybe it was just my imagination, but it seemed like there were more posters for missing pets around the neighborhood.

So all that’s left now is for Sue to unpack, restock the kitchen, and clean the house while I roll up my sleeves and make a few random reflections about the trip, in no particular order.

RANDOM REFLECTIONS ABOUT THE TRIP IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER

• Sue and I had a great time on this trip, but not really because of the cruising experience. It was because of the chance to see this part of Alaska. If there had been a way to do it without staying in a giant floating recreation center, we probably would have chosen the alternative. But there really isn’t a better way to satisfactorily see the scenery we saw (by George, I think he’s got it!) than from the balcony of your stateroom, floating past it.
  Not that I’ve got any particular gripe with the cruising experience, but it’s just not really our cup of tea (or glass of Diet Dr. Pepper).  Because I’m married to Sue, being waited on hand and foot isn’t an uncommon experience for me. And although it makes a great vacation for Sue, she’s not entirely comfortable with the concept of eating and sleeping on the tour bus, so to speak. She prefers good service on a solid foundation, and she’s not prepared to trade off one for the other. So bottom line is a firm recommendation for the trip, but the boat ride isn’t the attraction (this is the same review I gave to the “Pirates of the Caribbean” ride at Disneyland).
• What is it about cruises and jewelry? They seemed to be pushing it like crazy on our cruise, hawking watches and earrings and necklaces and bracelets and rings for all occasions and appendages. They even set up a “silver and gold chain-by-the-foot” table in the main lobby. And they placed special emphasis on the location of the jewelry stores at our ports of call.  It seems that the average cruise ship passenger is really into accessorizing, and it only took a day of sailing before we found ourselves on a boatload of bling.  I find it puzzling… it doesn’t seem like you’d want to load up on jewelry on a cruise ship. These kinds of adornments aren’t exactly flotation devices. But I have to admit, maybe it’s just sour grapes on my part, since I felt a little out of place strolling on deck with the inflatable horsie around my middle.
• Is an Alaskan cruise geared more toward… how do I put this delicately?... geezers? Sue and I are in our awkward low fifties (too old to be called middle-aged, too young for any discounts), and it sure seemed like most of our fellow passengers were older than us.  We were the youngest couple at our dining table, and the only ones who didn’t have salt shakers of Metamucil by our plates. Both times I visited the onboard video arcade, it was empty (granted, there could have been a lookout posted to warn of my approach).  The bars sure didn’t have to card anybody, although patrons were still whipping out their wallets to show pictures of their grandkids. I’ve heard rumors that there are cruises that are aimed at younger people who want to “get down.”  As I recall, The Love Boat had a pretty balanced passenger list of young attractive couples and washed-up TV stars. So is it safe to say that destinations like Alaska tend to attract people who don’t want to be pressured into a bathing suit and would rather see than do things?
• The weather was great (at least compared to Sue’s expectation). It got chilly in places, but never the kind of conditions that would lead to the steward finding your perfectly-preserved corpse sitting on the balcony with a glass of Dr. Pepper half-raised to your lips. It got pretty cold in Skagway and on the bow of the ship as it made its way through Glacier Bay, but this was attributable to the wind more than the ambient temperature. I don’t pretend to understand the wind-chill factor, but I know it alters reality in some way that fools thermometers. Sue, who anticipated that we were going to face Donner-Party-like conditions on this trip, insisted that we each order heavy coats from the appropriately-named Lands End Company. These coats weigh about 450 lbs. each; as you lumber along in them, you knock over anything or anyone within a five foot radius; and in Southern California they’re of no use, unless you prop one upright in the front passenger seat of your car so you can use the carpool lane. I can tell you that, standing on the bow of the cruise ship as the wind whistled through glaciers before caressing every inch of my body, those coats were worth every penny. Neither cold, nor wind, nor rain, nor sleet, nor light artillery fire could penetrate the linings of those babies.
• This trip, ostensibly taken to celebrate 30 years of marriage to my amazing wife, prompted me to reflect on my marriage.  Thankfully, it probably didn’t have that effect on Sue, or she’d have kept her bags packed and kept cruising on her own.

I catch myself sometimes thinking that, as a couple that’s stayed together for 30 years, married only to each other, we’re something special. But then I realize that, although long-term marriages might be a bit rarer today than they used to be, I still come across lots of couples that have been married as long as or longer than we have. Yeah, I’ll then say to myself defensively, but we’ve known each other since high school. I married the first girl I ever went out with, and it’s worked out for thirty years. That’s something, I think proudly. But then, like before, I’ll realize that there’s also lots of married couples out there that started as high school sweethearts. We might be a minority, but that doesn’t make us rare or special.

And the fact is that we’re not a perfect couple. Anybody who’s exposed to us for any length of time knows that I don’t treat Sue anywhere near as well as she deserves, and I probably never will, maybe because I’m of the male persuasion, and more likely because I’m human, or at least genetically close enough to share one of the human race’s most predominant traits: I often forget to count my blessings.

I’m sure my description of this trip probably gives the impression that we were always busy, but there were opportunities for me to relax and surreptitiously watch my wife, usually while she was gazing out our balcony at the passing scenery. I’d look at her and think about our 30 years together and realize that, if I’m going to be perfectly honest with myself, I have to admit that, as a couple, we’re not that special.

But she sure is.

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