It's a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

So won't you be my neighbor?

Since I'm sure everyone is wondering what my life is like in the ever-exciting burg of Anchorage, let me just fill you in.  Often I am asked where I live, and when I tell people, I am given a similar response, "You live there? Is it safe?"  So what does that tell you?  I know! I know! I live in the hood.  Yeah, it's true.  I live on the wrong side of the tracks. I didn't know that when I moved in.  No, I had no clue.  I found this apartment while I was in the safety of my own apartment in a neighborhood full of dogs and baby strollers in San Francisco.  How was I to know that I was about to move to the bad side of town?

Nothing terribly exciting has happened over here.  Sure, I have to walk two miles to get anywhere.  And, anytime I walk, cars honk at me, and men call out to me.  They say things like, “Lookin’ good!”, “Girl, you fine.”, and “That’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout”. But, that's normal, right?  And yes, there are a few more guard dogs than I'm used to seeing.  And yes, I do get irritated with my roommates when they leave the window open (seeing as how we live on the ground floor and all).  But, it's not all bad.  Well, I guess one of our neighbors in the complex has a red pick-up truck with the words, "Louisiana Redneck" emblazoned on the back window.  But, really?  Is that such a bad thing?

Last night I went out to a bar/club, and one of the people I met inquired as to the safety of my neighborhood.  I reassured her that everything was fine.  Then, I had a flurry of dreams that were quite to the contrary.  One dream involved a police raid on the entire building, where my neighbors were scurrying around trying to hide.  One of the neighbors ran through the building, yelling, "The cops are here!  Hide!"

Luckily that was a dream.

Oh, and just now...at 2:00 AM, I hear the pitter-patter of little feet running through the hallway.  Maybe the kid has a different bedtime than other little ones.  Who am I to judge?  I'm awake.  I just happen to be an adult, and I'm in charge of my own schedule...but who's counting?

At any rate, I thought this might be a good time to talk about my little jaunt from downtown back home today.  It really sums up the neighborhood.

Whenever I walk to or from downtown, I make an effort to walk down one of the lettered streets because they are typically nicer and less...gravelly...trafficky...full of crazies. (Note: I did say “less”, so don’t think it’s like walking through a gated golf course community on the other streets.)  Today, I chose "A" Street.  As I walked down the street, toward 15th, I noticed a crazy man ahead of me.  He was at least one block ahead of me, and he would periodically stop, point at things and yell at his invisible companion.  Every so often, I was the object about whom he was pointing and yelling.  At other times, he would hit the parking meters, and occasionally, put money in them.  I eventually caught up to him and walked slowly behind him until I had a chance to pass him.  Seeing as how he was randomly yelling, I didn't want to do anything that might aggravate him.

Once I passed him, I opted to walk down 10th Street toward Gambell.  My reason?  Well, I had to do laundry, and I figured I should try to get some quarters at the grocery store.  As I walked toward Gambell, I noticed a couple of homeless men sitting in an abandoned parking lot, screaming at each other about something unintelligible.  Quite honestly, I don’t know that they were screaming at each other--one was screaming while the other was sympathizing.  Now, I'm from San Francisco, so this sort of thing doesn't really faze me.  

Perhaps that's why I never noticed that I was living in the bad part of town.  I passed them, along with the other homeless that I often see yelling at each other, me, or nothing in particular.  (Just as a side note, I did see the homeless couple that I passed about a month ago downtown.  They were yelling at each other as usual.  This time, they didn't have any special deliveries.  And by special deliveries, I mean plastic bags full of human waste that they stow in the free newspaper dispensers along the sidewalk.)

I walked another block and a half, and I could see the grocery store.  As I got closer, I saw more angry homeless people shouting at no one and at everything simultaneously.  Then I saw a couple in love, and I became my mother (as in, I thought, "This is no place for love-making!").  They were leaning against the trashcan right next to the front entrance of the store.  They were so enraptured with each other that they were completely unaware of their surroundings.  Perhaps they thought they were in the privacy of their own bedroom or were on a deserted beach on Fantasy Island, because the way they were making out suggested that sweet, sweet love was in their near future...and might be witnessed by everyone planning on buying their Independence Day provisions at the grocery store.  (Though, I would recommend only buying boxed foods from the store.  Their deli smells like the refrigeration isn't working properly).

I walked right next to them as they smacked and slurped by the entrance, but I said nothing.  The crazy homeless person on the other side of the entrance also said nothing.  By the time I left the store, they had all but disappeared, and I saw a few crazies wander over to the bar and lounge next door (which, I might add, is the place currently seeking a cocktail waitress, and I considered applying for about 10 seconds).

And then I walked the rest of the way home.  The neighbor’s Doberman pinscher that could easily leap over their 3-foot fence didn’t attack me.  Rather, another neighbor’s 3-legged golden retriever and Pomeranian rushed me.  I won't lie.  I was a little scared.  That Pomeranian meant business.

So that's my neighborhood.  I didn't even tell you about the projects that are behind my building.  I walk by those when I go to the Fred Meyer (my preferred grocery store).  It really is beautiful.  I'm just thankful we have a family of moose to keep us all in line.

The last straw!

First ulu knives, then snow globes?  What's next TSA?  Huh?

And what's the other thing on there?  A harmonica?

The Angriest Cab Driver in the World

I just got out of the cab of the angriest cab driver in the world.  All I wanted to do was to go home.  I would have walked.  Really.  I would have.  Ask anyone that knows me.  I prefer walking over jumping in a cab, but the truth of the matter was that I was tired, it was cold, and I was lugging 85 pounds of luggage with me (not that I haven’t lugged heavier luggage in the past…just 2 weeks ago for the entire 2 miles it takes to go home).  But tonight, I decided to take a cab.  Too bad my cab driver wasn’t happy to see me.

He rolled up to the hotel, I helped him load my bag into the trunk, then I got inside.  I told him my address, and he said, “I was really hoping for an airport run.  All I wanted to do tonight was airport runs. But no, I haven’t gotten any of them.  Just this bullshit.”

I said nothing.  Then he took a phone call.  When he hung up, he said, “I get more money delivering pizzas.”  As he said this, he patted the pizza delivery box sitting on the front seat.  Needless to say I was concerned he might deliver pizza on the way to my apartment.  I decided then and there that he was still only getting ten bucks from me.  If I wanted to go on a pizza route, I would have called Domino’s.

We pulled up to the entrance to my apartment complex.  I handed him my money (of which he got a substantial tip considering I rounded $8.25 to $10), and he grumbled.  I asked for a receipt, and he slapped one in my hand.  Then, I unloaded my own bag.  As I walked away, I said, “Have a good night.”

He turned to me, with venom spewing from his lips, he said, “It is NOT a good night.  It is TERRIBLE night.  Just TERRIBLE.”  He got in to his cab, rolled down the window and continued yelling as I walked to my door, “My shift started at 5pm.  It’s terrible.  I should be delivering pizzas.  This is bullshit.”

I didn’t know what to do, so I tried not to smile (which, by the way, is my go-to reaction to everything), and I walked inside.

Perhaps driving a taxi isn’t his calling.

Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.5: When Cameras Drop

I did it!  I completed my very first tour up here in Alaska.  It went smashingly.  I already miss my people--the 60th Anniversary crew, the honeymooners, the 35th Anniversary-ites, and the girls.  If only we could just travel together all summer!

I'll tell ya what I don't miss though...  I do not miss the unescorted groups that kept getting thrown on my coach with all of their questions, confusion, and general bad attitudes.

My first tour was an intimate affair of 18.  We laughed and didn't cry...except when we had to share our coach with random strangers.  For whatever reason, (well, okay, I know the reason.  We were only 18 people, and the coach seats over 50) other unescorted groups were tossed into our coach.  This wouldn't be a problem, except that the unescorted people kept asking me questions, and, technically, I shouldn't talk to them because they didn't pay for my services.  Alas, I'm a nice person, and I didn't want to be a jerk in front of my own guests, so I helped them out a little--not a lot.

On our last day, I thought I was home-free.  I was positive that we would be the only group on the coach.  And then, I discovered, much to my dismay, that 20 extra people were joining us.  And those 20 extra people were not nice.  They were all angry that they didn't have a tour director, so I had to give this answer, "Well, I'm sorry you're upset, but you chose a tour that is unescorted.  Mmhmm, yes, I do understand your frustration, but when you chose your tour, you opted for one that did NOT have a Tour Director.  Yes, I can see that, and I'm sorry you feel that way.  Well, the simple answer is, the people on my tour paid for a Tour Director, you did not."

And what I really wanted to say after explaining and re-explaining was:

"Because you're cheap."

But those words were never uttered.

Throughout my five-day tour, there was a group of 4 people that kept taking the front seats on the coach.  I still don't know how they did it.  Somehow they managed to stake out a spot that was closer to the coach area than me, so every time I got on board, they were already there.  Knowing that others were getting upset (since I was annoyed myself), I opted to remedy the problem by banning anyone from sitting in the front two seats.  I took one for myself, and the other was to be the "picture seat" where guests could rotate in and out every 20 minutes.  This plan would have been a good one if it weren't for those unescorted people.

One couple from the other group claimed motion sickness and insisted on sitting in the front seat.  And let me tell you, they were a piece of work.  For eight hours, I had to sit next to the unhappiest woman on Earth (or so I thought until I met Scowling Poodle-Face on my second tour).  She had a constant monologue going throughout the ride.  "When are we off this bus?  It better be soon.  That driver better drive fast.  I'm not staying on this bus until 5.  Why aren't we going faster?  Why aren't we taking a different road?  We better not go back to Denali?  I'm never going there again.  That place is horrible.  Why would anyone go there in the first place?  When are we getting off this bus?  Why are we on a bus?  Well, the train was even worse.  Why would we go on a train?  When do we eat?  Why are we stopping?" ...

While those two definitely peppered my experience, it was the couple in the back that lent the comic relief.

Our lunch break was in Wasilla (insert Sarah Palin joke here).  As we unloaded the coach, the couple from the back (who were on the unescorted tour) approached the driver and me with an issue.

"Is it possible to leave the tour early?"  The wife asked.  The driver and I looked at each other, somewhat confused.  "My husband's father is in the hospital, and we have to catch the next flight home."

"Well, I can call my supervisor and see what we can do, "replied the driver.

"We just need to get dropped off in Anchorage.  It shouldn't be that hard."

"Except that we have 36 other passengers that need to get to the ship.  We'll see what we can do."

With that, we went inside the restaurant for lunch.  Upon our return to the coach, the driver worked out a plan to make a detour and drop the couple off in Anchorage.  Everything seemed fine.  All was right with the world.  The complaining motion-sick lady was still complaining.  Once we made the announcement that we were making an unscheduled stop in Anchorage, she started demanding that we take her to Nordstrom.  My people were still delightful, and then tragedy struck.

I was standing in the aisle, chatting with one of my favorite little ladies when I looked up and saw the woman, for whom we were stopping in Anchorage, frantically waving her hands.  I rushed over to her, and she pulled me into the lavatory.

"I dropped my camera in the toilet."  She was panicking and almost in tears.

Baffled, I replied, "I'm so sorry."

"Can you get it out?"  She then thrust her arm down the toilet hole.  "I can't reach it."

"I don't think you'll be able to reach it.  Take your hand out of there."

"I haven't flushed, so it should be there.  Maybe you can reach it?"  She asked, her arm still shoulder deep in the toilet.

"It all goes into a tank.  I'm not sure how deep it is, but I'm not putting my hand in the toilet."

"But your arms may be longer than mine."

"I'm sorry.  I don't think you can retrieve it that way."

"Well, what do I do?"  She cried.

"I'll talk to the driver, but we'll have to drain the tank."

She was getting frustrated. "Can't he just pull over and do that now?"

"No, ma'am.  We can't.  We have to drain the tank at a special facility.  It's illegal and an environmental hazard to drain human waste on the side of the road (ed. despite how much you might think Wasilla is a s-hole)."

"But how am I going to get my camera back?" She shoved her arm back down the toilet.

"We will do everything we can, but there is nothing we can do right now.  How about you come back to your seat?"

She then fumbled with the sink and got frustrated when water didn't come out of the faucet.  "Why won't this work?"

Feeling really bad and a little disgusted, I replied, "There isn't any water.  We only have hand sanitizer on the coach."  As I said that, I was thinking, "And don't get near me, you probably have the Walk AND the Hep now.  Who shoves their arm down a toilet hole in the first place?"

She rubbed hand sanitizer all over her hands, then sat down next to her husband, who was shaking his head in annoyance, and started to cry hysterically.  "I don't know how it happened!  I've had things in my pockets before, and they've never fallen out!"

I sat down across from them and felt great sympathy for her  "I'm so sorry.  We will do everything we can.  We are getting you to Anchorage as fast as we can, but I make no promises about the camera.  Is there anything else I can do that might make you feel better?"

Her husband turned to me, narrowing his eyes, "You can get the camera back, that's what you can do!"

I was taken aback and wanted nothing more than to defend myself and say, "Sir, I did NOT throw your camera in the toilet on a motor coach.  In fact, I was nowhere near the toilet when the camera fell in.  I have NOTHING to do with this.  Your anger is misdirected.  I'm just trying to help here, and you're not even going to tip me...and for the record, no tip is worth risking the Hep."

Rather, I said, "We'll do what we can."

I walked over to the driver to update him on the new situation, and he gave me the same answer I gave them.  When I returned to the back of the bus, the wife decided that the camera wasn't that expensive, so it didn't matter.  Ten minutes later, I walked back to check on them and give them instructions for their departure in Anchorage.  The wife handed me her husband's business card asking me to mail the camera or even just the memory card when we found it.  She also apologized for her outburst explaining that the lost camera was the last straw.

Once we reached Anchorage, the couple exited the bus.  We retrieved their luggage, and the wife gave the driver a hug.  Part of me was surprised that I didn't get a hug, but I was also relieved.  She was unclean after all.  And, I didn't tell the driver that she shoved her arm down the toilet until three hours later, which gave me a little bit of pleasure since he did screw me over first thing in the morning by misleading my group for his own enjoyment and purposely driving away when he knew I was missing two people.

I have no idea what happened with the camera.  I passed the card onto the driver supervisor, and the story is now the stuff of legend.

Moral: Don't carry valuables into the lavatory on a coach.  And if you do, and it falls into the toilet, just walk away.

Close Encounters of the Moose Kind

I know, I know...I went missing.  I've been nowhere to be found.  I'm not much of a blogger.  It's true.  I'll get better, I promise.  I've just been so busy barfing on 6-seater planes, almost falling off of ATV's, and running scared from mosquitos.  There's a lot on my plate, alright?!

This week, I settled into my new apartment in good old Anchorage, Alaska.  It's a sweet pad located two miles from downtown (which means I get in a good amount of walking on a daily basis--minimum distance each day: 5 miles, current record: 14 miles).  I'd love to complain about the walking, but after spending 14 days on a bus, eating nothing but reindeer sausage and goldfish crackers, I needed a little physical activity.

Right next to my apartment is a lovely park.  In addition to being the future home of a million enormous mosquitos (because those f*ers are HUGE....they're like water fo

wl.  It's terrifying), it is the territory of a family of mooseseseses (how does one make moose plural?).

The first moose sighting happened on Wednesday, while I was in Whittier gawking at the bearded and mustached masses that arrived on a Carnival Cruise ship for the International Beard and Mustache Competition (awe-inspiring).  Two of my roommates went on a little walk and happened upon a full-grown female moose quietly grazing near some standing water--500 feet away from a busy playground.  That evening, they told us all about their moose encounter, and our other roommate, a naturalist by trade, decided that she

 wanted to go on a moose hunt.

The next night, we went on our moose hunt, following the same path that the first pioneers took.  No moose were to be seen.  The naturalist decided that she wanted to go home because we walked to fast (and I might be partially responsible since I make no effort to slow down--I'm a fast walker, okay?).  She turned back, and we continued on until we got to the path through the park.  We started walking down the path, which was abuzz with activity at 10pm (which, for the record, felt like 7pm due to the placement of the sun), and as we walked, one of my companions talked endlessly about being attacked by a bear.  The fool read a book about bear attacks right before we went on our walk.  Unwise.

After awhile, a couple of girls walked up to us and told us that there were a couple of baby moose along the path.  They advised that we walk by as quickly and quietly as possible.  The three of us stood there, unsure of what to do.  Should we risk it?  Tentatively, we continued walking, then stopped dead in our tracks.  A moose walked out onto the path, about 500 feet ahead of us.  We stood silently as it wandered across the path and into the trees.

We looked at each other, still questioning whether we should continue.  Our true concern was that the mother moose could be lurking anywhere, and she probably wouldn't ignore us if we were too close to her babies (which were probably yearlings based on their size).  After a couple of minutes, a pair of bikers rode toward us.  "Don't worry," One of them called.  "They're just happily munching.  You can walk by."

We shrugged our shoulders and continued on our journey.  Just as we turned a corner, we spotted the other moose, eating the grass right next to the path.  We walked very slowly, noticed the other moose in the trees about 50 feet from us, and continued.  The bikers were right, the moose was happy, but I didn't want to be the one to make it unhappy.  For whatever reason, I was elected as the leader our trio, and I walked briskly and silently.  As I got closer to the moose, I admittedly became a little timid.  It's back came up to my shoulders, and it wasn't full-grown.  He looked up at me briefly, and I averted my eyes, choosing only to look at it out of the corner of my eye as I faced forward and sped by.  

Once we were far enough away, one of my companions and I stopped and looked back.  The third member of our party was within a foot of the moose, attempting to take its picture until he (the person) got spooked and quickly walked away.  He never got the shot with his iPhone, so we have no proof of our encounter, but it totally happened.  And it was awesome and scary all at the same time.

When we returned to the apartment, we told our naturalist roommate about our experience.  As expected, she was upset, especially since we ended up walking close to the same mileage as her.  The next night, she set out to find the mooseseseses, but came back empty-handed.  Last night, the three of us headed out through the park, and our little moose friends were there again (though not quite as close).

And that's the closest I will ever be to a large wild animal, I hope anyway.

Card Carrying Member of the Sour Toe Cocktail Club

Jealous?

You should be.

I drank a shot of whiskey with a severed human toe in it, and I have a card AND a certificate to prove it!

You see, there's this little club in Dawson City, Yukon Territory, Canada, and all you have to do to become a member is drink a shot of Yukon Jack with a preserved severed human toe in it.  The rules require that you touch your lips to the toe.  Apparently, it's quite a tradition.  I'm the 31,400th member of the club.

You can google it to learn more, but I'll give you the skinny.  Basically, this little club started in the 1970's, and the toe is allegedly the amputated toe of miner from the 1920's.  It's been preserved in alcohol and salt, and it is nasty!  Apparently, people will their toes to the Captain to be used in the ceremony.

Anyone with $5 and an iron stomach can join the club.  You simply need to sign your name, buy a shot, and the Captain (who is this creepy pirate-like guy with bad breath and rotting teeth) will drop the toe in your drink.  The rules are simple, "You can drink it fast, you can drink it slow, but your lips must touch touch this gnarly toe."

We were inducted into the club in groups of three.  He would say each line to each person, and on the third person, he would shove the toe in their face and flap a hang nail/skin flap on the toe.  It was pretty disgusting.  I was in the second group to try the toe, and I was the third person, so I had the image of the skin flap burned on my memory.

Once it was my turn, I readied myself for the barrage of photos, and before I knew it, the Captain had dropped the toe in my glass.  I drank it, but the toe didn't slide to my lips, so I, like everyone else, pulled it out of the glass with my fingers and placed it in my mouth.  The Captain jumped in and announced that I didn't qualify because it didn't touch my lips while I was drinking the shot.  Not wanting to be a failure, I put it back in the glass, and knocked it into my mouth.  And then, I joined the club!

It was totally gross.  What's ever worse is that he charges a $500 fine to anyone that swallows the toe.  Who would do that?  Gross!

The best part about being a member of the club is that I can put the toe in my drinks for free from now on!

Lucky, huh?

You Can’t Stop the “Walk”

Oh Canada!  Blah blah blah blah blah blah….

Yup, you guessed it!  I’m in Canadia!  We’ve been journeying through the Yukon Territory for the past couple of days, and while I’ve taken in the sights, I’ve also taken in a load of information (some of which I may have napped through).  The one topic I did not sleep through was…. (drum roll please) … THE NOROVIRUS!

Yay!

Hey kids, did you know that I have a 60% chance of catching it while I’m up here in Alaska?  I didn’t.  I was blissfully unaware.  Here I thought you had to be on a cruise ship to catch such a thing, but I suppose if you are traveling around in a bus with people who have been (or are going to be) on a cruise ship, it’s pretty likely that this nasty little virus might drop into your intestinal tract to say hello.

Wanna know what it does?  Well, I’ll give you the short version.  It’s bad.  Really bad.  Think projectile vomiting and explosive diarrhea AT THE SAME TIME!  And think of it on a motor coach…and just imagine if 10 other people on the motor coach have it at the same time?!  Doesn’t that sound awesome?!

Once you get it, you’re screwed.  There’s nothing you can do.  AND…you have to be quarantined for 72 hours.  I so hope this won’t happen to me.  All I wanted to do was wash my hands in bleach…repeatedly.

I know what you want to know.  Isn’t there a way to avoid the virus?  Why, yes, there is!  Constant hand washing.  In fact, you may as well wear disposable gloves everywhere you go because this virus hangs out everywhere.  We got a stern lecture on buffet lines, as in, never go to a buffet because it’s a disaster waiting to happen.  Those utensils are like a cess pool of disease.

So guess what we had for dinner?

Buffet.

And guess what we’re doing tomorrow night?

Drinking shots of whiskey with a severed human toe in the glass.

You’ll have to stay tuned for that action.