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.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
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.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Pursuit of Happyness
One of the karmically (sp?) worst movies of all time would have to be the 2006 wrist-slitter "Pursuit of Happyness" starring Will Smith. It's not that the acting, directing and production weren't all first-rate, it was just that it was so appallingly dismal. There's nothing like a good miserable experience for catharsis, but it has be be grandiose. There was nothing grandiose about "Pursuit of Happyness." My summary, which I gave my friend over the telephone having just walked out of the theater is stunning (if I do say so myself) in it's accuracy and succintness: "Life takes a dump on the guy for two hours...then he gets a job." He didn't win the lottery; he didn't find true love; he didn't save the day. He got to work in a cubicle for 60+ hours a week.
I've been trudging about Anchorage for eleven days, trying to find a job. It's been one of the most infuriating, humbling, and ridiculous exercises I've ever had to endure. In the summer, downtown Anchorage is awash in tourist money and I've been told that being a bartender or waiter is the best way to rake in money. I went to the class to get my certification to serve alcohol and then started making my rounds, as it were, across the city, putting in applications at every bar and restaurant I could find.
I like to consider myself an educated man. I have a bachelor's degree. I read more than my fair share. I'm two years down in Law School. I consider myself somewhat sharper than your average bear.
I like to consider myself a somewhat professional man. Yes, I do throw off an air of cavalier insousiance, but when I put my mind to something I tend to get things done. Without pumping myself up too much I'll merely say that in my veiled past I knew a thing or two about managing personnel, equipment, and supplies in "difficult" situations.
And yet...and yet...I was consistently being turned down for not having experience in the food and beverage industry. "We only hire people with experience." "You gotta have experience." "Most of our people have at least five years experience." On and on, it went. I wanted to scream, "I can probably run the $#$!@#$@ restaurant, let alone hand people food and drinks! Where I come from the requirements for serving are a pulse and a substance abuse problem!" (Now is the time for you to think: "Well, Andre, why haven't you been a waiter yet?" I hate you all.) Suffice it to say, I kept quiet and took my lumps.
Finally, a manager confided in me, "there's lots of money to be made up here so we look for people with experience....but let's be honest...it's not rocket science."
I start tomorrow.
A job!
Oh Joy!?
I've been trudging about Anchorage for eleven days, trying to find a job. It's been one of the most infuriating, humbling, and ridiculous exercises I've ever had to endure. In the summer, downtown Anchorage is awash in tourist money and I've been told that being a bartender or waiter is the best way to rake in money. I went to the class to get my certification to serve alcohol and then started making my rounds, as it were, across the city, putting in applications at every bar and restaurant I could find.
I like to consider myself an educated man. I have a bachelor's degree. I read more than my fair share. I'm two years down in Law School. I consider myself somewhat sharper than your average bear.
I like to consider myself a somewhat professional man. Yes, I do throw off an air of cavalier insousiance, but when I put my mind to something I tend to get things done. Without pumping myself up too much I'll merely say that in my veiled past I knew a thing or two about managing personnel, equipment, and supplies in "difficult" situations.
And yet...and yet...I was consistently being turned down for not having experience in the food and beverage industry. "We only hire people with experience." "You gotta have experience." "Most of our people have at least five years experience." On and on, it went. I wanted to scream, "I can probably run the $#$!@#$@ restaurant, let alone hand people food and drinks! Where I come from the requirements for serving are a pulse and a substance abuse problem!" (Now is the time for you to think: "Well, Andre, why haven't you been a waiter yet?" I hate you all.) Suffice it to say, I kept quiet and took my lumps.
Finally, a manager confided in me, "there's lots of money to be made up here so we look for people with experience....but let's be honest...it's not rocket science."
I start tomorrow.
A job!
Oh Joy!?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Dangers of the Trade
Unfortunately, there's been very little to write about. Having discovered there's quite a passel of money to be made here in Anchorage as a bartender, I took the requisite class to get my certification to serve alcohol. Without experience, however, getting anyone to bite on any of the applications I've submitted has proved fruitless so far. Nonetheless, I've spent much of my time in bars.
I did have one noteworthy incident in the past few days. While at a bar named, appropriate or inappropriately enough, "Humpy's", after filling out an application, I struck up a conversation with a local. Rich was a 6'3", 290lbs native (a mixture of "Inupak", as they call themselves here, and Tlingit) who worked for a local environmental non-profit. He politely brought me a very healthy (ie properly toxic) Long Island Iced Tea, which, since it tasted like Iced Tea and we were busy discussing that common point about which all American men, no matter where they're from, can expertly converse: sports, I drained without a second thought. The bartendress set three more down in front of me and they vanished in short order. It was seven pm.
I awoke to the sunlight streaming in my eyes. "Damn sun!" was my first thought. "I'm entirely too big for this couch" was my second thought, as my legs spilled awkwardly over the side. "Who in the hell's couch am I on?" was my third thought. My fourth thought, and the one which overrode all others once I became aware of my condition was "Oh Jesus! I'm in my tidy-whities!"
Covered in a blanket, looking at my inexpertly strewn clothes on the floor, I heard footsteps coming from another room. Ordinarily I would not pray for a 6'3", 290lbs man, who could snap me like a twig, to walk in, but I don't think my fragile, still wildly inebriated, psyche would have handled being in a total stranger's house.
"Hey, man? You up?" Thank God! It was Rich. Rich who had told me all about his girlfriend and son at the bar so I wasn't terrified for my chastity.
"Um...yeah...what happened?" I asked sheepishly.
"Well, when I went to leave, I saw a friend and spoke to him. On my way out the door, I saw you try to get off the bar stool and you were having...trouble."
"Yeah...I don't remember anything."
"I brought you here. You curled in a ball on the couch and went to sleep."
"Yeah."
"When I checked on you in the middle of the night, you'd stripped down to your skivvies so I gave you a blanket. You looked cold."
"Yeah..."
It was nearly 10am. I was still profoundly drunk. Rich made me a waffle, which I promptly projectile vomited in his toilet, while he was off in another room, tending to his girlfriend. He offered to drop me off downtown, but I wanted to walk it off. Even with a compass around my neck it took me three hours to figure out where I was as I walked the outskirts of Anchorage, occasionally depositing bile and the other remnants of my stomach lining along the sidewalks. I finally made it back to the hostel, where I lay in my bunk, groaned, and thought to myself, "I didn't think they made hangovers this size." I will NEVER go Long Island Iced Tea for Long Island Iced Tea with anyone, let alone a much larger man, ever again.
Other than that, my time here has been filled with lots of walking, reading, and sleeping. In a few more days, if I haven't gotten a job, I'll head down to the fishing town of Homer.
I did have one noteworthy incident in the past few days. While at a bar named, appropriate or inappropriately enough, "Humpy's", after filling out an application, I struck up a conversation with a local. Rich was a 6'3", 290lbs native (a mixture of "Inupak", as they call themselves here, and Tlingit) who worked for a local environmental non-profit. He politely brought me a very healthy (ie properly toxic) Long Island Iced Tea, which, since it tasted like Iced Tea and we were busy discussing that common point about which all American men, no matter where they're from, can expertly converse: sports, I drained without a second thought. The bartendress set three more down in front of me and they vanished in short order. It was seven pm.
I awoke to the sunlight streaming in my eyes. "Damn sun!" was my first thought. "I'm entirely too big for this couch" was my second thought, as my legs spilled awkwardly over the side. "Who in the hell's couch am I on?" was my third thought. My fourth thought, and the one which overrode all others once I became aware of my condition was "Oh Jesus! I'm in my tidy-whities!"
Covered in a blanket, looking at my inexpertly strewn clothes on the floor, I heard footsteps coming from another room. Ordinarily I would not pray for a 6'3", 290lbs man, who could snap me like a twig, to walk in, but I don't think my fragile, still wildly inebriated, psyche would have handled being in a total stranger's house.
"Hey, man? You up?" Thank God! It was Rich. Rich who had told me all about his girlfriend and son at the bar so I wasn't terrified for my chastity.
"Um...yeah...what happened?" I asked sheepishly.
"Well, when I went to leave, I saw a friend and spoke to him. On my way out the door, I saw you try to get off the bar stool and you were having...trouble."
"Yeah...I don't remember anything."
"I brought you here. You curled in a ball on the couch and went to sleep."
"Yeah."
"When I checked on you in the middle of the night, you'd stripped down to your skivvies so I gave you a blanket. You looked cold."
"Yeah..."
It was nearly 10am. I was still profoundly drunk. Rich made me a waffle, which I promptly projectile vomited in his toilet, while he was off in another room, tending to his girlfriend. He offered to drop me off downtown, but I wanted to walk it off. Even with a compass around my neck it took me three hours to figure out where I was as I walked the outskirts of Anchorage, occasionally depositing bile and the other remnants of my stomach lining along the sidewalks. I finally made it back to the hostel, where I lay in my bunk, groaned, and thought to myself, "I didn't think they made hangovers this size." I will NEVER go Long Island Iced Tea for Long Island Iced Tea with anyone, let alone a much larger man, ever again.
Other than that, my time here has been filled with lots of walking, reading, and sleeping. In a few more days, if I haven't gotten a job, I'll head down to the fishing town of Homer.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
It Begins
I am a card-carrying adventurer. In a moment of characteristic "why the hell not?", I had 500 calling cards printed up, hunter green on ivory stock, proclaiming, "Ajax Hagood Carpenter, ADVENTURER." Let it not be said that I suffer from lack of brio. Let it also not be said that I suffer from abulia, a condition which seemingly affects more and more each year, whereby they cannot decide or act.
At times I can appear wild and reckless; my decision to come to Alaska is one of those times. At first glance, it seemed a whim. Having just completed my second year of law school, I was having a bit of trouble finding a summer law job. I'd had one firm nibbling and I'd done an interview a few weeks earlier, but within fifteen minutes of receiving the customary rejection phone call ("We had a number of highly qualified applicants but unfortunately we only have two positions to offer..."), I had made up my mind, logged on to the internet and purchased a round trip ticket to Anchorage for May 19th to August 14th.
Dwight D. Eisenhower once said, "Plans are worthless, but planning is invaluable." As a former Army Artillery captain, I whole-heartedly agree and live by that maxim. Also I am a believer in the idea behind Malcolm Gladwell's "Blink", that what appear to be instantaneous reactions are actually the byproduct of a lifetime's worth of cogitating.
In any case, I am an adventurer. I've (accidentally) swum with sharks in the Galapagos; I hiked the Inka Trail to Macchu Picchu; I scaled the walls of Carcassonne; I broke into a British Naval Radar Installation atop the Rock of Gibraltar and watched the sun set and then rise; I served a tour in Iraq; I canoed 2,180 miles of the Mississippi river, from the headwaters in northern Minnesota down to New Orleans (the likelihood of heat stroke keeping me from making the Gulf of Mexico).
Not having a job lined up in Columbia, SC, and having a trenchant desire to get moving; to get adventuring; to do something somewhere else had all been playing in my mind. Also, and not insignificantly, I'd had a rather unpleasant and painful "setback" with a gorgeous young lady. When I'd told my father of the possibility of going to Alaska for the summer, he'd thought it humorous to tell his friends I was running away from a girl. I rolled with it.
"Goddam, Ajax! I've heard of needing to get space, but Alaska?!!" one of his buddies chortled between puffs of his fine cigar and quaffs of his scotch.
"Well, the better looking the girl, the farther you need to go. I'm going to Alaska; that should tell you something," I said as I smiled and winked.
"Woohoo! Hahaha! Hot Damn! Go get 'em, boy!"
As it stood, getting some space to clear my head was certainly appealing, but I'd considered going to Alaska the previous summer before a family situation required that I remain in South Carolina. I'd done the research necessary. The best case scenario was I'd find a deckhand job on a fishing boat which ended up with a good haul and paid me a passel of money. The worst case scenario was that I not get a good job and ended up with a minimum wage job and had to pay rent in not only Columbia, but Alaska too. I wouldn't make any money in the worst case scenario, but at least I'd be in Alaska, where I've never been, and not sweltering in the 105 degree heat of Columbia. And I wouldn't be wallowing in the remnants of rejection. The decision seemed fairly straightforward and obvious.
May 19th
Alaska is a damn long way away from South Carolina. I needed to get to Charlotte, NC, for my flight in order to cut the price of my ticket nearly in half. My mother drove me to the airport. Most would assume that she would be against her baby jaunting off to the frontier at the drop of a hat, but she just said, "This is what you do. Sounds like fun."
My father, himself a self-styled adventurer, rained fire and brimstone upon me, on how I was making a disastrous mistake and how it was sure to end up in me coming back with tail between my legs having failed, before he sensed my definitiveness and gave his blessing.
My travels took me thirteen hours, including the two hour layover in Cincinnatti. On the final, 8.5 hour leg to Alaska, I ended up sitting next to a young army wife whose husband was stationed outside of Anchorage. I learned two important things from her. The first being that there are two seasons in Anchorage: winter and construction; the second being that there was no permit necessary in Alaska to carry a concealed weapon. I was thrilled beyond belief to hear this last morsel as I'd brought my .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol with me on the trip. I certainly never planned on ever shooting a living thing, but if I were giong to the land of the Grizzly, I wanted somthing that might make any bear that mauled me remember the punch the tasty, pink, screaming thing packed. Even beyond that, the idea of walking around with my "monument to phallic inadequacy" seemed like one hell of a macho, good time.
We landed in Anchorage at nearly 9pm local time. The sun was still well above the horizon when I stepped out of the airport. After verifying with the local police that it was indeed permissable to to carry concealed without a permit ("if you get stopped; just let the officer know you have it..."), I caught a taxi into town to a cheap hostel. A fifty year old Jamaican (!) who'd lived there for twelve years drove me in town as I stared at the tall, snow-covered peaks which surrounded the city, as well as the continent's tallest peak, Mt. McKinley, off in the distance across the inlet.
He dropped me off at the Anchorage International Hostel, where I paid $20 for a bed in a bunk surrounded by what would turn out to be obnoxiously loud, obnoxiously stinky, and obnoxiously tight-pantsed Moldovans. I needed a drink.
I asked the corpulent young man at the front desk where the closest bar was. Before he told me where it was he reminded me that alcohol was prohibited in the hostel and that the hostel had a curfew. I condescendingly informed him that I was nearly twenty nine years old and merely wanted a drink after travelling for over 14 hours. He pointed me to a nearby bar and I stowed my pack in a storage room. Before I headed out, I put on my holster and the pistol. What the hell? Why not? I wasn't going to leave a $1300 pistol in an unsecured room. I had no ammo, but I stepped outside, wearing my sunglasses at 9:30pm, with cause mind you, and carrying a hand-cannon. I felt like "Dirty Harry." I felt like I belonged here.
I came back to the hostel after my drink, grabbed my gear, and headed down to my bunk. The Moldovans were incessantly chatty and pungent, but cleared out relatively quickly. There was another American in the bunkroom as I disrobed and locked the pistol and my wallet into a locker in the room. He was looking for work as a lumberjack for the summer.
I crawled into bed and read. The Moldovans wanted me to go drinking with them but I demurred, claiming I was too old for such hijinks. Just as I was preparing to go to sleep, at 10:30pm, with a hint of sunlight still rimming the curtains, the fat man from the front counter waddled in.
"You the fella from South Carolina?"
"Yup."
"Heard a rumor you got a firearm."
Apparently the lumberjack was a bit less manly than I'd thought.
"I do. Is that a problem?"
"No, I'm just gonna ask you to lock it in our safe for the night. Don't want it gettin' stolen."
"Well, I only just got off the plane so I don't have ammo for it, and, as you can see," I said as I pointed to the locker from my bed, "I have it locked up already."
"Oh....um....okay," the fat man said timidly as he began to shuffle out, "just promise not to use it in here."
"Sure thing."
I was asleep in less than ten minutes.
At times I can appear wild and reckless; my decision to come to Alaska is one of those times. At first glance, it seemed a whim. Having just completed my second year of law school, I was having a bit of trouble finding a summer law job. I'd had one firm nibbling and I'd done an interview a few weeks earlier, but within fifteen minutes of receiving the customary rejection phone call ("We had a number of highly qualified applicants but unfortunately we only have two positions to offer..."), I had made up my mind, logged on to the internet and purchased a round trip ticket to Anchorage for May 19th to August 14th.
Dwight D. Eisenhower once said, "Plans are worthless, but planning is invaluable." As a former Army Artillery captain, I whole-heartedly agree and live by that maxim. Also I am a believer in the idea behind Malcolm Gladwell's "Blink", that what appear to be instantaneous reactions are actually the byproduct of a lifetime's worth of cogitating.
In any case, I am an adventurer. I've (accidentally) swum with sharks in the Galapagos; I hiked the Inka Trail to Macchu Picchu; I scaled the walls of Carcassonne; I broke into a British Naval Radar Installation atop the Rock of Gibraltar and watched the sun set and then rise; I served a tour in Iraq; I canoed 2,180 miles of the Mississippi river, from the headwaters in northern Minnesota down to New Orleans (the likelihood of heat stroke keeping me from making the Gulf of Mexico).
Not having a job lined up in Columbia, SC, and having a trenchant desire to get moving; to get adventuring; to do something somewhere else had all been playing in my mind. Also, and not insignificantly, I'd had a rather unpleasant and painful "setback" with a gorgeous young lady. When I'd told my father of the possibility of going to Alaska for the summer, he'd thought it humorous to tell his friends I was running away from a girl. I rolled with it.
"Goddam, Ajax! I've heard of needing to get space, but Alaska?!!" one of his buddies chortled between puffs of his fine cigar and quaffs of his scotch.
"Well, the better looking the girl, the farther you need to go. I'm going to Alaska; that should tell you something," I said as I smiled and winked.
"Woohoo! Hahaha! Hot Damn! Go get 'em, boy!"
As it stood, getting some space to clear my head was certainly appealing, but I'd considered going to Alaska the previous summer before a family situation required that I remain in South Carolina. I'd done the research necessary. The best case scenario was I'd find a deckhand job on a fishing boat which ended up with a good haul and paid me a passel of money. The worst case scenario was that I not get a good job and ended up with a minimum wage job and had to pay rent in not only Columbia, but Alaska too. I wouldn't make any money in the worst case scenario, but at least I'd be in Alaska, where I've never been, and not sweltering in the 105 degree heat of Columbia. And I wouldn't be wallowing in the remnants of rejection. The decision seemed fairly straightforward and obvious.
May 19th
Alaska is a damn long way away from South Carolina. I needed to get to Charlotte, NC, for my flight in order to cut the price of my ticket nearly in half. My mother drove me to the airport. Most would assume that she would be against her baby jaunting off to the frontier at the drop of a hat, but she just said, "This is what you do. Sounds like fun."
My father, himself a self-styled adventurer, rained fire and brimstone upon me, on how I was making a disastrous mistake and how it was sure to end up in me coming back with tail between my legs having failed, before he sensed my definitiveness and gave his blessing.
My travels took me thirteen hours, including the two hour layover in Cincinnatti. On the final, 8.5 hour leg to Alaska, I ended up sitting next to a young army wife whose husband was stationed outside of Anchorage. I learned two important things from her. The first being that there are two seasons in Anchorage: winter and construction; the second being that there was no permit necessary in Alaska to carry a concealed weapon. I was thrilled beyond belief to hear this last morsel as I'd brought my .50 caliber Desert Eagle pistol with me on the trip. I certainly never planned on ever shooting a living thing, but if I were giong to the land of the Grizzly, I wanted somthing that might make any bear that mauled me remember the punch the tasty, pink, screaming thing packed. Even beyond that, the idea of walking around with my "monument to phallic inadequacy" seemed like one hell of a macho, good time.
We landed in Anchorage at nearly 9pm local time. The sun was still well above the horizon when I stepped out of the airport. After verifying with the local police that it was indeed permissable to to carry concealed without a permit ("if you get stopped; just let the officer know you have it..."), I caught a taxi into town to a cheap hostel. A fifty year old Jamaican (!) who'd lived there for twelve years drove me in town as I stared at the tall, snow-covered peaks which surrounded the city, as well as the continent's tallest peak, Mt. McKinley, off in the distance across the inlet.
He dropped me off at the Anchorage International Hostel, where I paid $20 for a bed in a bunk surrounded by what would turn out to be obnoxiously loud, obnoxiously stinky, and obnoxiously tight-pantsed Moldovans. I needed a drink.
I asked the corpulent young man at the front desk where the closest bar was. Before he told me where it was he reminded me that alcohol was prohibited in the hostel and that the hostel had a curfew. I condescendingly informed him that I was nearly twenty nine years old and merely wanted a drink after travelling for over 14 hours. He pointed me to a nearby bar and I stowed my pack in a storage room. Before I headed out, I put on my holster and the pistol. What the hell? Why not? I wasn't going to leave a $1300 pistol in an unsecured room. I had no ammo, but I stepped outside, wearing my sunglasses at 9:30pm, with cause mind you, and carrying a hand-cannon. I felt like "Dirty Harry." I felt like I belonged here.
I came back to the hostel after my drink, grabbed my gear, and headed down to my bunk. The Moldovans were incessantly chatty and pungent, but cleared out relatively quickly. There was another American in the bunkroom as I disrobed and locked the pistol and my wallet into a locker in the room. He was looking for work as a lumberjack for the summer.
I crawled into bed and read. The Moldovans wanted me to go drinking with them but I demurred, claiming I was too old for such hijinks. Just as I was preparing to go to sleep, at 10:30pm, with a hint of sunlight still rimming the curtains, the fat man from the front counter waddled in.
"You the fella from South Carolina?"
"Yup."
"Heard a rumor you got a firearm."
Apparently the lumberjack was a bit less manly than I'd thought.
"I do. Is that a problem?"
"No, I'm just gonna ask you to lock it in our safe for the night. Don't want it gettin' stolen."
"Well, I only just got off the plane so I don't have ammo for it, and, as you can see," I said as I pointed to the locker from my bed, "I have it locked up already."
"Oh....um....okay," the fat man said timidly as he began to shuffle out, "just promise not to use it in here."
"Sure thing."
I was asleep in less than ten minutes.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Y'all Can Keep the Columbia, SC Summers
I did the Ajax thing and bought a ticket to Alaska. Going there for nearly three months (May 19th-August 15th). I'm taking a gun. I hope to have a job fishing on a halibut boat before too long. If that doesn't work I'll go living on Kodiak Island for the summer like my hero Timmy from the movie "Grizzly Man" or in a bus in the woods like Chris McCandless. I sure as hell won't have any sort of appropriate resume when/if I go looking for a job after graduation next year, but I'll be interesting at dinner parties.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Things You Really Don't Want to Hear
On my way over to the health center the other day, the evangelicals were standing outside the Russell House handing out pamphlets against evolution. The van they were standing beside had "George W. Bush is NOT pro-life!" painted on it and they had numerous signs up claiming that "Sodomy is against the laws of SC! Sodomy is against the laws of the US! Sodomy is against the laws of God!" I politely accepted the pamphlet that was thrust towards my wayward soul and made my way to the second floor of the Russell House to grab a quick bite to eat before my appointment.
As I waited in the checkout line, I thumbed through the anti-evolution pamphlet. When I got to the register, the thoroughly unattractive woman tending it, in her late 30's/early 40's, said, "Oh boy! I guess the nutjobs are back out there again!"
"Yup," I replied, "They're explaining to everyone how sodomy is against God's law."
"Sweetheart," she laughed, "I'm Catholic and I'm dating a Muslim! What do you think happens to me?"
Absolutely flabbergasted and appalled, I laughed nervously as she then continued, "Plus I'm a feminist!"
I'm not 100% sure what she meant by that but I sincerely hope that it didn't mean she returned the favor.
As I waited in the checkout line, I thumbed through the anti-evolution pamphlet. When I got to the register, the thoroughly unattractive woman tending it, in her late 30's/early 40's, said, "Oh boy! I guess the nutjobs are back out there again!"
"Yup," I replied, "They're explaining to everyone how sodomy is against God's law."
"Sweetheart," she laughed, "I'm Catholic and I'm dating a Muslim! What do you think happens to me?"
Absolutely flabbergasted and appalled, I laughed nervously as she then continued, "Plus I'm a feminist!"
I'm not 100% sure what she meant by that but I sincerely hope that it didn't mean she returned the favor.
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