My life up here has not been completely without entertainment. Last night, for instance, I went to the midnight movies with some of the guys from work. Colt, a gentle giant of a 23 year old, at 6'2" and 300lbs and wearing a bushy sandy blond beard, is the leader of the little group of employee buddies that I've run across. He is my fellow bartender and showed me the ropes. His two "little" buddies are both 17 year old bus-boys, Anthony, a 6'0", 280lb curly headed Puerto Rican, and Patrick, a baby-faced, long haired man-child of 6'5". They listen to heavy metal and play World of Warcraft. They find it astonishing that I do neither. I am very strange to them already, though, being an ancient 29 (and being me, to boot, of course).
In the car ride over to the theater I was entertained to listen to them talk about the various sundry aspects of the neighborhoods we were passing. Substance abuse is a big issue in Alaska. As the guys said, "It's either spend the winter drinking or doing drugs til you die or play video games." I decided at that point not to mock the World of Warcraft any more. They pointed out where the local heroin dealer lives and talked about how, since the liquor stores close early (and they are the only places to by alcohol), the local drunks will go to the 24 hour grocery stores and buy listerine to drink. "Oh yeah," said Anthony cheerfully, when I asked if people really drank Listerine, "my grandmother used to drink that stuff and it tears off the stomach lining. Then their breath stinks. We had to tear out the carpet in her room because we couldn't get the smell of her breath out of it."
Besides the conversation, the car ride was memorable in and of itself. Colt's car, an early nineties Pontiac, has worn out shocks on the right side, a busted out front driver window where someone broke in to steal his Ipod, a back driver-side passenger window that stays half-way lowered, a windshield that is spider-webbed with so many lengthy cracks that it may just burst at any pothole (particularly with no shocks on one side) and a board in the backseat that he jams against the seat behind the driver's seat to keep his driver's seat propped up. Of course, the car is filthy and littered with fast-food packaging and crushed energy drink cans.
After the movie, which was thoroughly silly, we dropped off Patrick and Anthony. I live close to the restaurant, but far away from where they live. On the way back, Colt said, "Uh oh...I'm out of gas." The car began to sputter. He began to pull the car over.
"NO!! NO!!!" I yelled, "Coast as long as possible!"
Colt, having never run out of gas before, had never had to push a car before. I have had to push a car before. When we were still rolling at 15 miles an hour, he said, "Well, we may as well start pushing. We're going just as fast."
"Hell no we're not! Roll until it stops. Trust me."
Eventually it did stop and out I got. I am quite thankful now for the daily six miles of walking I've been doing, because, unpleasant as it was, pushing that car (with the 300 pounder in it) would have been excruciating otherwise. In it's way, it was sort of pleasant as I pushed, asI looked out at the mountains, whose snows are now rapidly retreating, and the soft glow of the ever present dusk that passes for night. After a mile, which was rather long and troublesome considering it was 2am and the other cars on the road no doubt had their share of drunk drivers, we got to a gas station and then finally made it back at 3am.
Apparently, that was just what a normal night in Anchorage is like.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
The Joys of Hostel Living
Life Goes On. Currently, I'm attempting to sleep in a bunk beneath Mr. Snorey McNightTerrors.
-Mr. Sleepy MacSometimesLivingInAHostelFor$5ADayIsn'tWorthIt
-Mr. Sleepy MacSometimesLivingInAHoste
Fun with Muggers
On my daily soujourn to and from the library, I pass through the local park. It is regularly frequented by the drunken destitute. While, I've never felt endangered walking through there, I do believe I may have been subjected to the world's laziest mugging attempt the other day.
The path through the park crosses a picturesque stream. There is a twelve-foot-wide bridge that crosses it. A large, tall Inuit glared at me as I approached the bridge. He was leaning on a railing. I assumed he was drunk. I walked on the other side of the bridge and he turned to face me as I walked by.
"Hey! Come here!" he slurred menacingly.
"Can't do it, friend," I said cheerfully, my left hand holding the knife in my pocket, as I quickly kept moving.
"I said @#$!ing come over here!" he growled again, but didn't move.
I commend him on his chutzpah, but his technique needs work. That being said, maybe I'm just lucky his siren-call didn't ensnare me.
The path through the park crosses a picturesque stream. There is a twelve-foot-wide bridge that crosses it. A large, tall Inuit glared at me as I approached the bridge. He was leaning on a railing. I assumed he was drunk. I walked on the other side of the bridge and he turned to face me as I walked by.
"Hey! Come here!" he slurred menacingly.
"Can't do it, friend," I said cheerfully, my left hand holding the knife in my pocket, as I quickly kept moving.
"I said @#$!ing come over here!" he growled again, but didn't move.
I commend him on his chutzpah, but his technique needs work. That being said, maybe I'm just lucky his siren-call didn't ensnare me.
Self-Flagellation
I've not written in a while because I've fallen into a comfortable but none-too-exciting routine of walking to the library, fiddling around on the internet, walking back, getting ready and going to work, and then reading and writing before bed. I worked out a deal with the hostel where they dropped my daily rate to $5 in exchange for cleaning for a couple of hours in the morning.
I am going backwards. I used to be a professional, in charge of dozens of men and millions of dollars in equipment; now I'm a waiter and a janitor. The girl who runs the front desk in the mornings asked me, after I came in from picking up cigarette butts outside, "Aren't you too intelligent to be doing that?"
I am smart, in my way; I'm also a complete dunce in my way too. This is particularly true of well-known landmarks. When I was first in the Army, I flew up to Chicago to visit my best friend, Dewey, who was there for company training. I insisted we go up to the observation deck of the Sears Tower. Id' been to Chicaog a few years before, so I determined myself the local expert and led the way. Over to the Sears Tower we went and in no time we were looking out at the city from what, for a number of years, had been the tallest building in the world.
"André," asked Dewey, "if this is the Sears tower, then why is this placard saying that TALLER building over there is the Sears Tower?"
"Because I'm an idiot."
I'd taken us to the Hancock Building.
When I first wrote from here I mentioned the snow-covered mountains surrounding the city and Mt. McKinley, the tallest mountain on the continent, rising majestically from across Cook Inlet. Mt. McKinley is indeed visible from across Cook Inlet, but only barely, on extraordinarily clear days, since it's nearly 200 miles away. I'd confused it with Sleeping Lady Mountain (Mt. Susitna).
When I was a child, we had foreign guests come visit us in Charleston. Each day they'd go out sight-seeing. On their last evening in town, they got their pictures processed and showed us everything they'd seen (this was back in the days when airport x-rays would ruin film). Prominent in many of the photos, was California Dreaming, on the bank of the Ashley, which they thought was Fort Sumter. We were too embarrassed for them to tell them the truth. Now I'm glad to see that my particular flaw is cross-cultural and not genetic.
At any rate, I'm not necessarily too intelligent to be a janitor; I may be too intelligent to be a waiter though. The general manager of the restaurant already gave me a raise and offered to make me a manager if I'd stay. Somehow I made the bad decision not to take him up on that particular proposition, so maybe I'm not so smart after all.
I am going backwards. I used to be a professional, in charge of dozens of men and millions of dollars in equipment; now I'm a waiter and a janitor. The girl who runs the front desk in the mornings asked me, after I came in from picking up cigarette butts outside, "Aren't you too intelligent to be doing that?"
I am smart, in my way; I'm also a complete dunce in my way too. This is particularly true of well-known landmarks. When I was first in the Army, I flew up to Chicago to visit my best friend, Dewey, who was there for company training. I insisted we go up to the observation deck of the Sears Tower. Id' been to Chicaog a few years before, so I determined myself the local expert and led the way. Over to the Sears Tower we went and in no time we were looking out at the city from what, for a number of years, had been the tallest building in the world.
"André," asked Dewey, "if this is the Sears tower, then why is this placard saying that TALLER building over there is the Sears Tower?"
"Because I'm an idiot."
I'd taken us to the Hancock Building.
When I first wrote from here I mentioned the snow-covered mountains surrounding the city and Mt. McKinley, the tallest mountain on the continent, rising majestically from across Cook Inlet. Mt. McKinley is indeed visible from across Cook Inlet, but only barely, on extraordinarily clear days, since it's nearly 200 miles away. I'd confused it with Sleeping Lady Mountain (Mt. Susitna).
When I was a child, we had foreign guests come visit us in Charleston. Each day they'd go out sight-seeing. On their last evening in town, they got their pictures processed and showed us everything they'd seen (this was back in the days when airport x-rays would ruin film). Prominent in many of the photos, was California Dreaming, on the bank of the Ashley, which they thought was Fort Sumter. We were too embarrassed for them to tell them the truth. Now I'm glad to see that my particular flaw is cross-cultural and not genetic.
At any rate, I'm not necessarily too intelligent to be a janitor; I may be too intelligent to be a waiter though. The general manager of the restaurant already gave me a raise and offered to make me a manager if I'd stay. Somehow I made the bad decision not to take him up on that particular proposition, so maybe I'm not so smart after all.
Friday, June 6, 2008
And Now a Word from a Pathetic Pontificator
I write this on the 64th anniversary of D-Day. That's appropriate for my topic. I've been reading everything Vonnegut I can get my hands on since I've been up here. I love the way he writes or, since he's dead, how he wrote. So it goes.
I just finished reading Wampeters, Foma, and Granfaloons, a collection of non-fiction articles, essays and speeches Vonnegut had written up to 1973. Though I love the man's writing, I can't abide his message, his vision. What was the message? What was the vision? The world is getting worse and worse and we are all doomed. And so on.
At the same time I loved that he tried to do something about it. He ranted and railed for us to change our ways to stop our descent. He was brilliant enough to coat his doom and horror with humor. Mary Poppins would be proud.
And through old Kurt's eyes he may have felt he were Cassandra, that no one listened to his TRUTH. I prefer to think he probably identified with Howard Beale, the Mad Prophet of the Airwaves, who built up a following by telling people the depressing reality of the way things are. Doom and gloom only hold people's attention for so long though. "A spoon full of sugar...," that wise woman repeatedly sang.
Part of what rubs me wrong about Vonnegut's TRUTH is that it is only partial and therefore propagandistic. We certainly are becoming worse and worse as a society if one looks only at our failures and short-comings. But that is only part off the story, as we all know. Our society has had resounding successes and possesses virtues. I don't wish to sweep our failures and short-comings under the rug; I merely wish that both sides be acknowledged so that I can make my point. Society is neither going up nor down, but forward. This is entirely sensible, I believe. If we ever want to continue to move forward, we must acknowledge both successes and failures, strengths and short-comings.
Awareness brings the possibility of control, I like to say, so it is only with a fuller picture of ourselves as a society that we can hope to lessen our mistakes and build on our achievements. It's a difficult accomplishment but one I think we're capable of making.
I've just written rather didactically about what "we as a society" need to do. I'm certainly no prophet and I'm no philosopher. I leave grandiose topics such as society to holy men and philosophers. I wish them the best of luck.
The only thing I can speak about with any authority whatsoever is the individual, and by that, of course, I mean myself. So here goes.
I have run across many armchair philosophers and pseudo-intellectuals in my short, but ever-lengthening, time on this planet. I ran across a group of them in the lobby of the hostel this evening. I can spot them easily. They are white, middle-to-upper class, and typically have enough college under their belt to be dangerous (to themselves). If they haven't had college, they've feasted on the fruits of their library cards.
At any rate, you can spot them by their message; it's fairly common and not particularly challenging; in fact they've simply confused bleakness with depth. Their message is this: life is meaningless and painful and anyone with any sense should be filled with despair at the injustice of it all.
In high school, these people were typically known as "Goths' and they carried as their banner their smug quotations from dead middle-to-upper class European men, which their immature minds had digested about as well as their bodies could digest pine bark. Those men all wrote when middle-to-upper class Europeans were the most powerful and blessed creations on the planet. At any rate, woe be to the Goths' peers who thought that life may perhaps, just perhaps, contain any goodness, no matter how small. "Automaton! Sheep!" Oh the condescension!
In college these Goths sometimes traded in their sartorial uniform of black everything to be taken seriously, having achieved at least the modicum of self-awareness necessary to realize intelligent people would find them foolish for talking about the sad, desperate, SOLITARY curse of life when the Goths and their friends were easily identifiable. At any rate, they put away their childish outward trappings, but still the message was broadcast triumphantly. Many may not have heard it because these now wayward "existentialists" chose only to expound their views around the likeminded, with the accompanying masturbatory glee that came with thinking they, and they alone, "got it."
I pick on my wayward brethren, these pretend existentialists, the Arrogant, I call them, but they are no more or less enfuriating and asinine than the other end of the spectrum, the Spoiled, not surprisingly enough also white and middle-to-upper class, who think, uncritically, that life is all flowers and sunshine.
The "truth" as I've seen it, as I've seen it throughout my life (and now I suppose I myself speak with the accursed, aforementioned glee) is that life is a great deal many things, to include horrifying, wonderful, meaningful, meaningless, and a host of other contradictions. I think I offer nothing new when I posit that life is what you make of it.
What do I make of it? What's my personal philosophy? First of all, I think objectivity is of paramount imporantance. Like the Arrogant and the Spoiled, I am a middle-to-upper class white. I am even educated, as imperfectly as I may be. My life isn't perfect and it isn't easy. No one's is. but I've damn sure got it better than most, better than billions on this marble of ours. I try not to lose sight of that.
I'm not a Sri Lankan whose world got washed away in the tsunami; I'm not an Iraqi whose family got killed by a bomber; I'm not a tribesman who had his hands cut off by a rival tribe; I'm not even an American high school drop out, working a dead-end, minimum way job, and living hand to mouth. I most certainly never stormed an impossible beach of bullets, shrapnel and death, watching my friends die all around me. I have it entirely too damn good to insult those who do suffer by either thinking I have it badly OR that life is just too damn stupendous for words.
My philosophy is that there is no wisdom, maturity, or heightened awareness in recognizing only the bad or good that life has to offer. My philosophy is that it's a sight wiser and more mature to count what blessings we have and to try and focus on the best, not worst that life has to offer. Good and bad are going to happen to us so enjoy as much as you can. There is ugliness in this world, and there is beauty; seek out the beautiful. There is unspeakable badness in people, and there is unbelievable goodness; appreciate the good and contribute how you can.
My philosophy is practical, I feel. Be nice to other people, even if they don't deserve it; especially if they don't deserve it. Don't be selfish. Help people if they're down; help people when they're not down. Try to make things better.
It's all very basic and not very exciting. It's not an original philosophy by any stretch of the imagination. For those inclined to believe such things, it's no less than what the son of God told men to do; he told men that for their happiness. For those disinclined to believe in that sort of thing, it's no less than what was obvious to an uneducated carpenter's son over 2,000 years ago; he told men that for their happiness. For those really disinclined to believe in that sort of thing, some nefarious pedagogical mastermind came up with it to keep men weak and subservient; it still makes a lot of sense and, however inadvertently, works for men's happiness.
So be it for the individual or society, I say to the Arrogant or any Mad Prophets, sure there's a damn lot to gripe about, but there's no wisdom or utility in only doing so. To only complain when so obviously fortunate comes across as the mewling of an ungrateful child. I say do something about it; find the good and do what you can to make things better.
I just finished reading Wampeters, Foma, and Granfaloons, a collection of non-fiction articles, essays and speeches Vonnegut had written up to 1973. Though I love the man's writing, I can't abide his message, his vision. What was the message? What was the vision? The world is getting worse and worse and we are all doomed. And so on.
At the same time I loved that he tried to do something about it. He ranted and railed for us to change our ways to stop our descent. He was brilliant enough to coat his doom and horror with humor. Mary Poppins would be proud.
And through old Kurt's eyes he may have felt he were Cassandra, that no one listened to his TRUTH. I prefer to think he probably identified with Howard Beale, the Mad Prophet of the Airwaves, who built up a following by telling people the depressing reality of the way things are. Doom and gloom only hold people's attention for so long though. "A spoon full of sugar...," that wise woman repeatedly sang.
Part of what rubs me wrong about Vonnegut's TRUTH is that it is only partial and therefore propagandistic. We certainly are becoming worse and worse as a society if one looks only at our failures and short-comings. But that is only part off the story, as we all know. Our society has had resounding successes and possesses virtues. I don't wish to sweep our failures and short-comings under the rug; I merely wish that both sides be acknowledged so that I can make my point. Society is neither going up nor down, but forward. This is entirely sensible, I believe. If we ever want to continue to move forward, we must acknowledge both successes and failures, strengths and short-comings.
Awareness brings the possibility of control, I like to say, so it is only with a fuller picture of ourselves as a society that we can hope to lessen our mistakes and build on our achievements. It's a difficult accomplishment but one I think we're capable of making.
I've just written rather didactically about what "we as a society" need to do. I'm certainly no prophet and I'm no philosopher. I leave grandiose topics such as society to holy men and philosophers. I wish them the best of luck.
The only thing I can speak about with any authority whatsoever is the individual, and by that, of course, I mean myself. So here goes.
I have run across many armchair philosophers and pseudo-intellectuals in my short, but ever-lengthening, time on this planet. I ran across a group of them in the lobby of the hostel this evening. I can spot them easily. They are white, middle-to-upper class, and typically have enough college under their belt to be dangerous (to themselves). If they haven't had college, they've feasted on the fruits of their library cards.
At any rate, you can spot them by their message; it's fairly common and not particularly challenging; in fact they've simply confused bleakness with depth. Their message is this: life is meaningless and painful and anyone with any sense should be filled with despair at the injustice of it all.
In high school, these people were typically known as "Goths' and they carried as their banner their smug quotations from dead middle-to-upper class European men, which their immature minds had digested about as well as their bodies could digest pine bark. Those men all wrote when middle-to-upper class Europeans were the most powerful and blessed creations on the planet. At any rate, woe be to the Goths' peers who thought that life may perhaps, just perhaps, contain any goodness, no matter how small. "Automaton! Sheep!" Oh the condescension!
In college these Goths sometimes traded in their sartorial uniform of black everything to be taken seriously, having achieved at least the modicum of self-awareness necessary to realize intelligent people would find them foolish for talking about the sad, desperate, SOLITARY curse of life when the Goths and their friends were easily identifiable. At any rate, they put away their childish outward trappings, but still the message was broadcast triumphantly. Many may not have heard it because these now wayward "existentialists" chose only to expound their views around the likeminded, with the accompanying masturbatory glee that came with thinking they, and they alone, "got it."
I pick on my wayward brethren, these pretend existentialists, the Arrogant, I call them, but they are no more or less enfuriating and asinine than the other end of the spectrum, the Spoiled, not surprisingly enough also white and middle-to-upper class, who think, uncritically, that life is all flowers and sunshine.
The "truth" as I've seen it, as I've seen it throughout my life (and now I suppose I myself speak with the accursed, aforementioned glee) is that life is a great deal many things, to include horrifying, wonderful, meaningful, meaningless, and a host of other contradictions. I think I offer nothing new when I posit that life is what you make of it.
What do I make of it? What's my personal philosophy? First of all, I think objectivity is of paramount imporantance. Like the Arrogant and the Spoiled, I am a middle-to-upper class white. I am even educated, as imperfectly as I may be. My life isn't perfect and it isn't easy. No one's is. but I've damn sure got it better than most, better than billions on this marble of ours. I try not to lose sight of that.
I'm not a Sri Lankan whose world got washed away in the tsunami; I'm not an Iraqi whose family got killed by a bomber; I'm not a tribesman who had his hands cut off by a rival tribe; I'm not even an American high school drop out, working a dead-end, minimum way job, and living hand to mouth. I most certainly never stormed an impossible beach of bullets, shrapnel and death, watching my friends die all around me. I have it entirely too damn good to insult those who do suffer by either thinking I have it badly OR that life is just too damn stupendous for words.
My philosophy is that there is no wisdom, maturity, or heightened awareness in recognizing only the bad or good that life has to offer. My philosophy is that it's a sight wiser and more mature to count what blessings we have and to try and focus on the best, not worst that life has to offer. Good and bad are going to happen to us so enjoy as much as you can. There is ugliness in this world, and there is beauty; seek out the beautiful. There is unspeakable badness in people, and there is unbelievable goodness; appreciate the good and contribute how you can.
My philosophy is practical, I feel. Be nice to other people, even if they don't deserve it; especially if they don't deserve it. Don't be selfish. Help people if they're down; help people when they're not down. Try to make things better.
It's all very basic and not very exciting. It's not an original philosophy by any stretch of the imagination. For those inclined to believe such things, it's no less than what the son of God told men to do; he told men that for their happiness. For those disinclined to believe in that sort of thing, it's no less than what was obvious to an uneducated carpenter's son over 2,000 years ago; he told men that for their happiness. For those really disinclined to believe in that sort of thing, some nefarious pedagogical mastermind came up with it to keep men weak and subservient; it still makes a lot of sense and, however inadvertently, works for men's happiness.
So be it for the individual or society, I say to the Arrogant or any Mad Prophets, sure there's a damn lot to gripe about, but there's no wisdom or utility in only doing so. To only complain when so obviously fortunate comes across as the mewling of an ungrateful child. I say do something about it; find the good and do what you can to make things better.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Keep It Classy
I'd been warned by a few of my friends who'd been to Alaska that there were two things about the women. The first was that there is a 10:1 man/woman ratio in Alaska, and the second is, because of that ratio, the women are to be avoided at all costs. As misogynistic as that sounds, believe me when I promise you that I cleaned up what they really told me so that it could be put in print without damning me.
At any rate, being in Anchorage where half of the total population of the state lives (600k in Alaska, thus 300k in Anchorage), there are far more women here than if I were in one of the smaller communities. The women seem much the same as anywhere else at first glance.
The other night at the restaurant where I bartend, during a lull, I struck up small talk with a waitress, Jessica, a petite mousy little 22yo who looked as if she were born to be a librarian or kindergarten teacher. I asked her, "What's the craziest thing you've ever done?" thinking I'd hear something as racy as "jaywalking."
"Sex in a movie theater," she said without batting an eye.
"Oh..." I mumbled, batting an eye.
"Yeah, it was packed. It was pretty hot."
"I was going to say mine was when I broke into a British Naval Radar Installation on the Rock of Gibraltar to watch sunset and sunrise, all while I was an American Army officer...yours sounds like it was more fun though."
"Yeah. It was hot."
"Wanna go to the movies?" was what I didn't ask.
At any rate, being in Anchorage where half of the total population of the state lives (600k in Alaska, thus 300k in Anchorage), there are far more women here than if I were in one of the smaller communities. The women seem much the same as anywhere else at first glance.
The other night at the restaurant where I bartend, during a lull, I struck up small talk with a waitress, Jessica, a petite mousy little 22yo who looked as if she were born to be a librarian or kindergarten teacher. I asked her, "What's the craziest thing you've ever done?" thinking I'd hear something as racy as "jaywalking."
"Sex in a movie theater," she said without batting an eye.
"Oh..." I mumbled, batting an eye.
"Yeah, it was packed. It was pretty hot."
"I was going to say mine was when I broke into a British Naval Radar Installation on the Rock of Gibraltar to watch sunset and sunrise, all while I was an American Army officer...yours sounds like it was more fun though."
"Yeah. It was hot."
"Wanna go to the movies?" was what I didn't ask.
Monday, June 2, 2008
Hostile? Hostel?
Though I've spent my fair share of time in hostels, 'til now, that time has been in Europe and South America. Though the uninitiated might think sleeping in a room of bunkbeads with grimy foreign tourists would be unpleasant at the best and dangerous at worst, I have found my experiences to be some of the best of my travels. At times, the hostel buddies I've made have been temporary, such as Brid (pronounced Breed), the Irish Engineer my friend Andrew and I befriended in the Galapagos, or long lasting, like my Australian friends Dana and Daniel who I met in Rome and then fortuitously ran across in Nice a week later
I am pleased to report that I am nothing short of a blithering idiot. I had thought perhaps an American hostel would be filled with the same sort of interesting people. Nope. I failed to acount for where I was and the types of people who travel here. Europe and South America get (mostly) cultural tourists, who, no matter how grimy, have a sense of awareness and refinement; that is, except for Americans. I typically shy away from other Americans on my overseas travels because they have no awareness or refinement. They are loud, obnoxious, and inconsiderate and travel for no other reason than it "seemed like something to do." They gloss over cultural sites and center their time around bars and nightlife. I myself have found that bars typically look the same everywhere.
At any rate, Alaska is not a cultural mecca, per se. There are no great monuments or wonders on par with Macchu Picchu or the Eiffel Tower. Alaska is the wilderness. It is rugged. So far, I have discovered a few distinct types in the hostels. First and best are the outdoorsmen: the hikers and kayakers, who have come, reverently, to experience the beauty of the land. Next are the eastern Europeans, who have come for the summer to make as much money as they can before they head home. Last, and by far the most populous, are the Americans. Some are here to work, some because it "seemed like something to do." All are loud, obnoxious, and inconsideate; most are bizarre; many are convicts.
The first hostel I stayed in, I shared a room with a red-headed bear of a man who had latched on at one of the local hotels as a cook. He regaled me with stories of when he was in high school in Indiana, nearly fifteen years earlier. He'd taken the same four classes all four years (home ec, study hall, shop, and gym) because he was a football player. He got a full scholarship to play at Illinois, but within a year he was in jail for hat would turn out to be a four-year-stretch after a fight went wrong. "I spent my 19th birthday in the hole. My 21st too...but I was brewing my own hooch for that one." He also told me about his brother who was a college baseball player before durg use obliterated his mind and he spent the next few years in mental institutions or jails.
My next hostel experience started out quite auspiciously. Among several others in the room was a gregarious North Carolinian. I chatted with him when I first checked in; it turned out he'd been stationed in Bamberg too when he was in the Army. I went out and when I came back that evening he bagan talking to me, ignoring the fact that there were three others trying to sleep in the room. I only just managed to get him quiet and get myself to sleep when door slamming kicked in my PTSD. A group of Aussies had just checked in, apparently after they'd been to the bars, and they had no idea it was nearly midnight. We in our room muttered and cursed as the Aussies yelled to each other in the hall and slammed their room doors every three seconds. Finally tired of having flashbacks of being mortared, I launched from my top bunk and stormed out to the hallway to confront them.
When I opened my room door, I came fact to face with a skeleton of a man with close cropped hair. "What are you lookin' at?" he growled, glaring at me through sunken eyes.
That was it. I snapped. I punched him in the nose and as he staggered back, his hands covering his bloody, broken nose, I kneed him in the groin. He dropped like a stone. "Oy!" Two of his friends came out of their room. I was able to kick the big one in the left knee, the satisfying crunch and his scream letting me know I'd crippled him, but the second one socked me in the side of the head. I reeled for a moment but he wasted his opportunity. He was much smaller than me so I lunged at him, dragging him to the ground. We grappled for a moment before I was able to get on top of him and I battered his face to a pulp. After the last, satisfying "THWACK!", which sent his eyes rolling in the back of his head and knocked him unconscious, I roared.
Or, when I opened my door, I politely asked the skeleton if he wouldn't mind asking his friends not to slam their doors or yell in the hallways. I went back to my bunk and they were nice enough to slam the doors every six seconds instead of every three.
Two nights ago was by far my best. I came in from my first night of work to a gigantic blob of a man sitting on one of the bunks. We exchanged pleasantries as I got myself ready for bed. He asked if it would be okay if he kept the light on. I said that was find but that I'd like it if he didn't slam doors, because it reminded me of mortars. Big Mistake. He launched into a thirty minute diatribe about his vietnam fater who could only see in infrared and had to be "plugged in to a computer to think," how the blob wanted to be in the navy or marines but he'd been to jail a bunch and had been in mental institutions for three years, and how he used to be 375lbs but had gotten down to 220lbs before deciding to get back to 320lbs because he was "wasting away."
Over the course of his rant, he kept mentioning the "secret service", which to him was apparently a covert military group that is comprised of convicts and mental patients, which someday might find a place for him. By the end of it, he'd become incomprehensible because of his profanity and general lack of vocabulary: "I mean, the (f-bomb)-in' (poop), it's like (f-bomb), you know what I mean?" The fact that I'd wrapped my face in a t-shirt, to keep out the light, and was grunting my monosylabbic responses didn't deter him. I was only saved when another roommate walked in. The next morning, I didn't move in my bed until the blob had packed up and left, even though he waited an hour, sitting on his bunk, no doubt waiting to talk at me some more.
I need to find a place to stay.
I am pleased to report that I am nothing short of a blithering idiot. I had thought perhaps an American hostel would be filled with the same sort of interesting people. Nope. I failed to acount for where I was and the types of people who travel here. Europe and South America get (mostly) cultural tourists, who, no matter how grimy, have a sense of awareness and refinement; that is, except for Americans. I typically shy away from other Americans on my overseas travels because they have no awareness or refinement. They are loud, obnoxious, and inconsiderate and travel for no other reason than it "seemed like something to do." They gloss over cultural sites and center their time around bars and nightlife. I myself have found that bars typically look the same everywhere.
At any rate, Alaska is not a cultural mecca, per se. There are no great monuments or wonders on par with Macchu Picchu or the Eiffel Tower. Alaska is the wilderness. It is rugged. So far, I have discovered a few distinct types in the hostels. First and best are the outdoorsmen: the hikers and kayakers, who have come, reverently, to experience the beauty of the land. Next are the eastern Europeans, who have come for the summer to make as much money as they can before they head home. Last, and by far the most populous, are the Americans. Some are here to work, some because it "seemed like something to do." All are loud, obnoxious, and inconsideate; most are bizarre; many are convicts.
The first hostel I stayed in, I shared a room with a red-headed bear of a man who had latched on at one of the local hotels as a cook. He regaled me with stories of when he was in high school in Indiana, nearly fifteen years earlier. He'd taken the same four classes all four years (home ec, study hall, shop, and gym) because he was a football player. He got a full scholarship to play at Illinois, but within a year he was in jail for hat would turn out to be a four-year-stretch after a fight went wrong. "I spent my 19th birthday in the hole. My 21st too...but I was brewing my own hooch for that one." He also told me about his brother who was a college baseball player before durg use obliterated his mind and he spent the next few years in mental institutions or jails.
My next hostel experience started out quite auspiciously. Among several others in the room was a gregarious North Carolinian. I chatted with him when I first checked in; it turned out he'd been stationed in Bamberg too when he was in the Army. I went out and when I came back that evening he bagan talking to me, ignoring the fact that there were three others trying to sleep in the room. I only just managed to get him quiet and get myself to sleep when door slamming kicked in my PTSD. A group of Aussies had just checked in, apparently after they'd been to the bars, and they had no idea it was nearly midnight. We in our room muttered and cursed as the Aussies yelled to each other in the hall and slammed their room doors every three seconds. Finally tired of having flashbacks of being mortared, I launched from my top bunk and stormed out to the hallway to confront them.
When I opened my room door, I came fact to face with a skeleton of a man with close cropped hair. "What are you lookin' at?" he growled, glaring at me through sunken eyes.
That was it. I snapped. I punched him in the nose and as he staggered back, his hands covering his bloody, broken nose, I kneed him in the groin. He dropped like a stone. "Oy!" Two of his friends came out of their room. I was able to kick the big one in the left knee, the satisfying crunch and his scream letting me know I'd crippled him, but the second one socked me in the side of the head. I reeled for a moment but he wasted his opportunity. He was much smaller than me so I lunged at him, dragging him to the ground. We grappled for a moment before I was able to get on top of him and I battered his face to a pulp. After the last, satisfying "THWACK!", which sent his eyes rolling in the back of his head and knocked him unconscious, I roared.
Or, when I opened my door, I politely asked the skeleton if he wouldn't mind asking his friends not to slam their doors or yell in the hallways. I went back to my bunk and they were nice enough to slam the doors every six seconds instead of every three.
Two nights ago was by far my best. I came in from my first night of work to a gigantic blob of a man sitting on one of the bunks. We exchanged pleasantries as I got myself ready for bed. He asked if it would be okay if he kept the light on. I said that was find but that I'd like it if he didn't slam doors, because it reminded me of mortars. Big Mistake. He launched into a thirty minute diatribe about his vietnam fater who could only see in infrared and had to be "plugged in to a computer to think," how the blob wanted to be in the navy or marines but he'd been to jail a bunch and had been in mental institutions for three years, and how he used to be 375lbs but had gotten down to 220lbs before deciding to get back to 320lbs because he was "wasting away."
Over the course of his rant, he kept mentioning the "secret service", which to him was apparently a covert military group that is comprised of convicts and mental patients, which someday might find a place for him. By the end of it, he'd become incomprehensible because of his profanity and general lack of vocabulary: "I mean, the (f-bomb)-in' (poop), it's like (f-bomb), you know what I mean?" The fact that I'd wrapped my face in a t-shirt, to keep out the light, and was grunting my monosylabbic responses didn't deter him. I was only saved when another roommate walked in. The next morning, I didn't move in my bed until the blob had packed up and left, even though he waited an hour, sitting on his bunk, no doubt waiting to talk at me some more.
I need to find a place to stay.
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