If you’re reading this, I’ve succeeded in finding a Starbucks or somesuch internet cafe in Juneau, Alaska, where I will have likely bitten the bullet and paid for internet use.
Given that internet use (via super modern satellite technology) is available on the boat, at the abhorrently premium price of $0.75 a minute. To put this in perspective, that means an hours worth of internet costs you $45. In some countries, it would be cheaper to pay a dark skinned native to physically run pads of scrawled ones and zeros back and forth, and a crowd of similarly dark skinned natives to translate this data and report back to you its contents, while you lavishly sit on a bleached white throne made of dark skinned native bones, with a D.S.N. acting both as a footrest, and a translator.
Indeed, similarly priced footrest/translator devices are available from the Sharper Image for about the price of three hours of internet!
Or $0.75 a minute could pay for a near infinite number of replays of the Cruisin’ Exotica racing game, available for your driving enjoyment 24 hours a day on the Deck 1 video arcade. Why one would even fathom racing around the virtual tropics while on a freaking expensive cruise brings me to my next point:
I have been puzzled, as the entire ship runs out of activities and things to do at approximately 10:30 PM. This is puzzling, because I have been on one other cruise in my life, this one in the Caribbean. This other cruise was much more eventful after sunset – I have fond memories of nearly throwing down with some punk ass rich white kid for calling me a "gawd damned chink" on the basketball court at about 10:30 PM. But alas, here at 10:30, I have no such ignorance to violently suppress, and nor have I met any such individuals my age who would even consider spitting racial slurs at me.
A shame, because I have aged, and while all those years ago, I walked away from the situation and cried in my cabin, I cannot say with any honesty that a similar incident now would result in such a Buddha-like tranquility. I would dare say that I would express a secret inner glee as I snuck out my adversary’s unconscious body onto the Promenade Deck at two in the morning, and would barely be able to suppress the tiniest shout of elation as I dumped him unceremoniously overboard.
In the brief moment it takes for me to light my cigarette with a worn chrome lighter, I would quickly shuffle through a list of suitable last words for my perished foe, looking out upon the black Alaskan waters. Upon taking a quick drag, I would exhale the smoke quickly into the brisk night air, barely enjoying it, and settle on the subtle yet biting, "Sorry kid, but you just got iced."
It only took a few minutes of playing a simple word association game with myself to figure out exactly why this particular cruise was so mind numbingly boring at night (the fact that I’m even updating my journal indicates how bored I am, I’d think). I’ve copied down my notes below:
Carribbean : Hot, exotic, beaches, bikinis, college kids, parties, alcohol, swimming, accidental pregnancies
Alaska : Houses made of ice, totem poles, cold, looking at whales through binoculars, arctic, the unyielding approach of death
And exactly as I should have expected, rather than the predominately teenage crowd I met in the Carribbean, here I’m surrounded by rich old people. Rich old people who go to sleep at 10:15 and get up at 5:30. And not only that – fat old people. Just as racist, not nearly as vocal, and not nearly as socially acceptable to choke out or dump off the stern at two in the morning.
Clearly, I’m on the wrong cruise.
Today before lunch, hanging around outside the restauraunt, I noticed a young woman, part of the Holland America staff, standing and looking around. A man, I would guess mid-twenties, wearing a beer t-shirt and sandals approached her: "Is this where the singles lunch meeting is?" he asked, hopeful and non-chalant. She said it was. I noticed that total, there were about six "singles" who showed up, and most of them, women pushing forty and looking like they probably watched a lot of the Maury show, and had at least three cats back home.
I felt sorry for the guy, but then again, lunch was fantastic. Holland America has, at least, a well deserved reputation for fantastic food, and of the limited amount I’ve partaken in insofar, it’s looking like really good food is going to be one of the few highlights of this trip. For those unacquainted, each meal comes with an appetizer, a soup, a salad, a main course, and a dessert, all included in the price of admission. The menu is devoid of combo numbers, freedom fries, and what’s more, uses an elegant cursive font, as well as numerous lines and slants over vowels to indicate how high class and foreign all the food is.
As for onshore activities, nearly all of them cater towards the rich, the immobile, and some combination of the two. Helicopter rides (with an small fee for those who are over 250 lbs), private yacht tours, and riding on various moving vehicles and looking at things tend to comprise most of the activities. My best bet, I think, is to just hump it on my own, or keep going for that Cruisin’ Exotica high score.
The only other activity that I can really partake in is good ol’ gambling, which becomes much more legal once you’re in international waters. Sunday afternoon saw the opening of a Blackjack tournament. Jimmy and I, both fancying ourselves Gods of Gambling, paid the $20 entry fee. Needless to say, we both didn’t even come close to making the finals. Dropping by at around 4:45, we both were surprised to see the Finals table –
Somehow, my freaking dad had qualified for it. Here he was, surrounded by stuffy rich old assholes (assholes who would insult the dealer, threw chips around, and generally acted like they really thought they were Gods of Gambling). "Dad," I said, shocked, "Are you that ‘Kent’ on the leaderboard?" "Yes!" he said. He had played on a whim with my uncle and bet everything he had on the last two hands of his qualifying round, and nailed blackjack twice. "Dad," I said, now concerned, "Do you know how to split, or double down?" He looked at me blankly and the game started.
Unfortunately, he lost early, but he did get a sweet XXXL T-Shirt that says "Casino Winner" on the back of it for all his troubles. The dealer said the only size they had was XXXL, which ended up being a little tight for most of the people at the final table (I told you they were fatties – I still can’t figure out how they all crowded around the Blackjack table). My dad seemed unphased by loss. "Don’t worry," I told him, "You might not have gotten the $500 grand prize, but then again, you don’t have to worry about Type-II Diabetes."
It’s really not so bad – I’m looking forward to revising my script for a pretty big film class I’m taking this next semester, as well as doing a lot of reading. A lot of reading.
