So Sarah and I couldn’t help ourselves. We had to try and top our Caribbean cruise from hell in 2008 with something even bigger and better in 2009. And what could be bigger than Alaska? Or harder to get to…. It seemed to me after spending 24 hours on airplanes or waiting in airports, I should have at least been as far away as Norway. But no, it really did take an entire day to fly from Washington, D.C. to the capital city of Alaska, which by the way is accessible in only three ways–by boat, air, or birth. There are no roads into Juneau. In fact, the small city is nothing more than a precarious spit of land backed up against vertical mountains and clinging to the edge of the sea.
Arriving in Juneau at 11 p.m. is something of an adventure, especially when you get picked up from the airport by a hotel shuttle driver who can only be described as, at minimum, mildly tipsy. But we tried not to let it bother us as we went careening down the highway in a dusty van with a bag of day-old sandwiches crammed in between the seats in front of us (not sure what that was about either). After all, we were scheduled to be spending the night in what we had been advised was the “best hotel in town.”
Be careful of the advice of people who live in Seattle.
A City Between the Mountains and the Sea
Juneau’s Goldbelt Hotel does a booming business serving the guests of the small cruise lines that ply the Inside Passage. Unfortunately, the lodging makes no attempt to actually earn any repeat business. Our room was comparable to what one might find in a Motel 6 with beds resembling upside-down sagging cardboard boxes. It probably wouldn’t have bothered us so much had we not paid $180 for the privilege of sleeping there.
Nevermind. We were exhausted. Morning would shine a new light on everything.
Or so we thought. I knew it was going to be rough when I awoke to Sarah chuckling as she looked out the window at our “mountain view.”
“Debbie, there’s a smashed up toilet outside our window,” she called.
Something made me want to cover my head with a pillow and go back to sleep, if only the bed would cooperate with my desire for comfort. It was happening again…I could feel it. This was going to be another vacation from hell. Even for me who had been dreaming of Alaska all my life.
Well, there was plenty of incentive to get out of bed this morning. Things would have to be better once we checked out.
If the bear pants fit, wear 'em!
Of course, checking out before the rest of the town was barely awake in our great rush to escape the Juneau equivalent of a Motel 6 led us into relatively deserted streets on a typically cool and wet southeast Alaska day. Fortunately, I was not expecting great things of Juneau, not in the sense of discovering high civilization on the edge of wilderness that is. I wanted my Alaska rough and wild, and Juneau satisfies in many ways. And that’s as it should be. Juneau sprang to life overnight with the Klondike Gold Rush, and it still has that look of a haphazard thrown-up-in-a-rush frontier town.
With most of the stores closed, we set about looking for breakfast and found one good enough to allay all our misgivings of the previous night and early morning. The Capital Cafe on Franklin Street, directly adjacent to the Baranof Hotel, a decidedly nicer option our acquaintances in Seattle had failed to mention when proffering advice on southeast Alaska lodgings, gave us our first taste of southeast Alaska fare. For Sarah, it was a salmon and asparagus omelet, for me, slightly spicy gravy over biscuits with some strangely neon yellow eggs.
After breakfast, with a full day to kill before boarding the yacht that would take us on our first tour of the Inside Passage, we headed down into what at first seemed a pleasantly deserted town. But then, out of nowhere, three mega cruise ships came plowing into port, unloading an incredible array of blue-haired passengers who, it seemed to me, were ill-equipped to brave the Alaska wilds.
But they were brave enough to descend on Juneau’s rather prosperous waterfront with its shops selling everything from Russian imports to sealskin hats. And as we plied the stores in search of some souvenir that wouldn’t make our carry-on luggage overweight and over-stuffed for our trip home the following week, we noticed something else curious about Juneau. There are more bars here than restaurants. And most of the bars don’t serve food…with the exception of the highly touristy Red Dog Saloon (the one place above all others you should avoid like the plague if ever you’re in Juneau).
But perhaps, given the city’s persistently wet climate and minimal days of sunshine, bars are all the rage. Juneau does receive over 50 inches of rainfall annually, plus another 90 or so of snow. Most of southeast Alaska is, in fact, a temperate rain forest, and a day without rain (or at least mist) is an anomaly.
It took me no more than a day to understand why an Alaska native we encountered on our flight claimed, despite her smooth skin, to be 90 years old. “We don’t get wrinkles in Alaska,” she claimed. “We rust.”
The first night of our journey on the “Fun” Ship we met our tablemates in the Main Dining Room. I’ll call them Mutt and Jeff. (Actually, I think one of them really was named “Mutt.” ) Anyway, Mutt and Jeff hailed from western Kentucky and were on this cruise as an anniversary present from their children. On the surface, they seemed like an ordinary couple in their mid-60s, both feeling, as they admitted, a bit out of place amidst all this “luxury.”
We did our best to be sociable, even after they told us about the “coloreds” in their neck of the woods, and wondered later how seating arrangements on these cruise ships were arranged. It obviously wasn’t by age and interest. But Mutt and Jeff were equally concerned about us. When I mentioned “my husband and daughter,” you could almost hear their sighs of relief. Thank God, we weren’t a lesbian couple after all!
Of course, Mutt then had to ask about Sarah’s marital arrangements, and Sarah replied she was not married. “Well, how old are you?” asked Mutt.
To which Sarah honestly replied she was 33. “Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll find someone one day, dear,” Mutt added with great sympathy.
I think that was the point at which my very happily unwed friend decided she no longer wished to engage Mutt and Jeff in conversation.
It was just as well. We had our waiter to amuse us with tales of all the muggings and murders that occur in Nassau, Bahamas, our next port of call. We were sufficiently warned that winning a lot of money at the casino at Atlantis would make us particularly susceptible to being knifed in the back.
No matter. Sarah had already been to Atlantis on a previous trip, and I was more interested in seeing the local color of Nassau.
Hey, where's the manor?
We bypassed the cruise ship’s overpriced excursions and planned a day of touring the city on our own, by bus and on foot. And if you take no other advice from me with regard to touring the Caribbean, take this–bypass the taxis that are lined up right outside the cruise ship terminals. Aside from being overpriced, they will isolate you from the culture you hopefully want to experience. Yes, the islands of the Caribbean, in reality, are not the paradises the travel brochures make them out to be. Aside from the resort areas (like Atlantis), they are, for the most part, hopelessly dirty, weather- beaten, rundown, and rife with poverty.
But if you’re reading this blog, you’re probably not the Atlantis type anyway. Sarah and I hitched a ride on a local bus with the aim of first visiting Ardastra Gardens and its flock of reputedly trained pink flamingoes. Riding a bus around Nassau is an experience in itself. This is not your usual city bus. Nope, for the small fee of $1, you have the privilege of riding around in an oversized van with fold-up seats that require you to stand up, fold up your seat, and practically sit in another passenger’s lap in order to let others on and off. The buses are popular with the locals and always full. It’s an experience that won’t disappoint, especially when a local missing a couple of front teeth asks in lilting Bahamian English, “So you girls want to get drunk?”
There’s not actually a bus stop at Ardastra Gardens, so we got off the bus (Bus 10A is the one you want to take) as close as we could to the place and walked along broken-up sidewalks strewn with garbage to this sad little tropical garden a few blocks from Arawak Cay. While the books I’ve read make Ardastra sound like a delightful place, it really isn’t. But then delight is not the attraction here–the flamingoes are.
Lory parrot in for a landing
Garden paths will take you through unkempt tropical undergrowth and alongside the cages and habitats of mournful little monkeys, meerkats, endangered Bahamian parrots, and giant tortoises. None of the animals look particularly happy to be here, though they are perhaps better off here than outside the gates. The one exception are the Lory parrots who enjoy daily feedings by zoo visitors. Be careful if you engage in this activity, however, as the parrots will get into feathered fights on your hand, arm, or head over a succulent piece of fruit.
Sarah and I had read about the flock of marching pink flamingoes and were anxious to see what this was all about. We gathered with other curious visitors at the appointed hour and were treated to what we have since declared the highlight of our trip. There’s nothing particularly organized about this group of “marching” flamingoes, but there is something decidedly humorous in watching their trainer attempt to establish order among flocks of feathered fuschia chaos. You’ll have to watch the video to see what I mean.
Tune in later in the week for a visit to the Straw Market and the Queen’s Staircase….
Last fall my childhood best friend and I decided to take a vacation together. Though we’ve known each other pretty much since we were born (in the same hospital one day apart), we had never ever made time for a “girlfriend getaway.” I’m almost ashamed to admit, in retrospect, the cruise was my idea. I had taken a short cruise once before with my husband and found it to be a reasonably acceptable experience, though I have to admit one “at sea” day is about as much as I can handle. I don’t care what the television ads say, being stuck in the middle of the ocean with 2,000 people you’ve never seen before just isn’t that fun, no matter how many Bahama Mamas you drink.
But wait–this was a Carnival cruise. You know the tag line: The Fun Ship.
Well, my dear friend Sarah and I really had no idea what we were in for, though perhaps we should have taken the kilted guys playing bagpipes outside our hotel the night prior to embarkation as a sign. This was going to be a very unusual vacation.
It all started out decently enough. We had reserved an ocean view balcony suite and, hence, earned ourselves the right to priority, escorted check-in. But one cramped suite later, we discovered the meaning of the term “partially obstructed view.” From our miniscule balcony that we could almost fit a chair on with room for our legs, we had a marvelous view of…a lifeboat. Yep, a lifeboat. Well, at least in the event of an emergency, we were covered. All I had to do was swing one leg out of bed and into the lifeboat….no chance of drowning on this trip at least.
No matter. We weren’t going to spend that much time in our suite anyway, right?
Time to take a tour of the ship and hit the buffet….
Check out the "stars" in the ceiling
The particular Carnival cruise ship on which we were traveling was definitely showing some age and wear. (I’ll refrain from giving the ship’s name or the embarkation port in an effort to protect the potentially innocent.) Retro 70s was the going theme with no shortage of glitz (though the glitz could have used a little polishing). Nevermind. There’s that buffet, of course, one circuitous route past the water slide that was never operational the entire journey.
And that’s when we knew…this was going to be the cruise from hell. Sarah and I do not make any pretensions to being slender beauties, but the clientele of the ongoing ship’s buffet made us both feel, well, a little out of place…or maybe underweight is a better word.
As we glumly gathered our fare and sat down among corpulent strangers, we both looked at one another across the table and realized we were next to tears. These people were going to eat their way through the Caribbean, and we were stuck with them for the next five days.
“I think I’m going to cry,” I said to Sarah.
“Me, too,” she responded.
And I felt like the worst friend ever for even thinking a cruise was the way to go for our first annual girlfriend getaway. Sarah was never going to want to get away again.
But it wasn’t long before a glimmer of hope appeared–the safety drill! Pretty soon we were rounded up with our other suite mates, all the top deck, ocean, limited ocean, and partially obstructed ocean view balcony folks, and we saw svelte couples in tanks and trim retirees with glistening white dentures, all the comforting signs of normalcy.
“WHERE have these people been?” Sarah asked as we strapped on our life jackets. “THESE people look normal.”
And yes, yes, they did. And pretty soon a cruise attendant in white shorts and shirt advised us that in the event of a Titanic-like disaster, we would be the first ones off the boat. So it turned out that our lifeboat-view balcony suite had at least earned us high rank in the disaster-at-sea pecking order.
But after the safety drill, all these comforting strangers disappeared again, probably, Sarah surmised later, hiding out in their suites. That’s certainly what we felt like doing.
Ketchup and Mustard just back from the bar
Thank goodness we didn’t, however, because we were about to have the most hilarious time of our lives. Did I mention we accidentally took this cruise across Halloween? Oh, yes, but even next to the stocky gentleman we were to see later attired as a Crown Royal bottle and a happily paired ketchup and mustard, FORMAL NIGHT was going to knock our socks off….stay tuned….
With most of the stores closed, we set about looking for breakfast and found one good enough to allay all our misgivings of the previous night and early morning. The Capital Cafe on Franklin Street, directly adjacent to the Baranof Hotel, a decidedly nicer option our acquaintances in Seattle had failed to mention when proffering advice on southeast Alaska lodgings, gave us our first taste of southeast Alaska fare. For Sarah, it was a salmon and asparagus omelet, for me, slightly spicy gravy over biscuits with some strangely neon yellow eggs.
