Great Vacation Getaway - Day 4

This was the big day.  Our 20^th anniversary! The whole reason that we came on this cruise.

To say that the evening before seemed inauspicious is an understatement.  Angela went to bed with her stomach in total disarray, and I not only had no plan whatsoever for the next day, I hadn’t even read anything to have a half-assed plan with which to wing it.

The only fixed thing for the day of our anniversary was breakfast in bed.  I had ordered this to come at 7:30, so imagine my surprise when there was a knock at the door at 7:05.  I was, thankfully, awake, and I was also pretty pleased that Angela wasn’t green or pale or doubled over any more.  So I had that going for me.

Unfortunately, we couldn’t remember who had ordered what, and apparently we’d both ordered eggs.  I originally gave her my eggs, and we had to switch, and I found myself facing eggs that had been cut open with a fork that had been in Angela’s mouth.  Was she contagious?  Would I get ill if I ate the eggs?  Could I get by without eating?

I decided to risk it and eat the eggs.  Hopefully the cup of scalding hot coffee that I washed them down with would prove too much for any germs to survive.

While we ate breakfast, we broke out William’s card.  I had already been yelled at once for stumbling across it and almost reading it, so was curious to see what he’d made for us.  In fact, he wrote us a cute little poem, and had a nice little cartoon on it, and generally celebrated our love.  It was terribly sweet and we were touched by his thoughtfulness.

I was just finishing the coffee when Angela, recuperated from her descent into illness, made an announcement:

“Let’s go,” she said.  “I want to go do something.”

She looked at me impatiently, fully dressed, tapping her foot, ready to go.

I sat in bed wearing nothing but the sheets and looking longingly at the two carafes of coffee they’d brought me by mistake.  “Uh,” I said.  “In a minute?”

“Now,” she said.  It was as if, having cheated death, she had decided to seize every moment that lasted in our vacation.  “The boat’s docked.  Let’s get going, anniversary boy.”

Sighing, I got up.  “I gotta shower,” I said.

“Do it fast,” she said.  “I’m ready to go.”

I took my shower fast, and shaved fast, and then she chop-chopped me off the boat like she was the Green Hornet and I was Kato. 

On our way out of the boat, we ran into one of our trivia/scavenger hunt buddies from yesterday.  “Hey!” she said.  “How are my favorite newlyweds!”

“Morning,” I said. 

“Have a great day!” she sloshed her bloody mary at me.  It was eight in the morning.  Some people start vacation early.

Once we’d de-barked, and gotten down the pier, she turned and looked at me expectantly.  “What are going to do?” she asked.

I simply stared at her, perplexed.  How was I supposed to know?  I certainly hadn’t planned anything!  But then I reflected that this wasn’t a totally illegitimate question.  After all, I’m the one who always reads the books and does the planning and makes up the itineraries.  All she ever does is come along.

And then I got mad.  Who was she to expect me to come up with a plan?  On my anniversary, no less!  The nerve of some people!

And then I got even madder.  I mean, she practically frog marched me out of the room and the dragged me down the gang-plank, and now she expected me to have a plan on what we were gonna do?

So while I’m getting even madder and madder, you know what she says?

“The one thing I want to do is go to the Red Onion and get a sweatshirt.”

What the heck?  Did she say red onion, like the vegetable, or Red Onion, like some place I should know about?  Or Red Onion, like a flatulent teary-eyed superhero?  Now I wasn’t mad, but I was confused.

“So?” She looks at me expectantly.

“Well,” I finally said.  “Ketchikan is the kind of place where-“

“We’re in Skagway,” she said.

“Would you let me finish?”

“Sorry.”

“As I was saying, Skagway is a long thin district full of shopping and stuff, with a railway to the Yukon, the highlight of which is, as you noted, the Red Onion.”  Note how smoothly I just made some BS up on the spot.  This, boys and girls, is why I’m in management.  “I propose that we just take a stroll and see what happens.”

“Are we going on a train ride?”

“If you recall, we haven’t had much luck with trains,” I said.  “What with the whole ‘broken down grand canyon railway’ trip in our past.  I thought I’d not push it.”

“Okay,” she said.  “I can live with that.”

We headed off up into Skagway, which I thought was Ketchikan.  I was really curious to see what the Red Onion was, too.  Was it like a big giant onion or something?  Kind of like Idaho and potatoes, only without the cultish religious overtones?

We made our way up the street, stopping in every little store that we came to.  Again, I was strongly reminded of Gatlinburg.  And whenever something caught Angela’s eye, I would buy it for her, hoping that this display of gentlemanly spending would take her attention off of the fact that I had planned absolutely bupkus for us today.

As we neared the end of historic Skagway, she spied a street hawker for a show.  “That looks interesting,” she said.  “Let’s go see the show.”

Inwardly, I groaned.  As a lifelong fan of outdoor drama, if this had been KETCHIKAN: The Musical Story of the Suppression of Eskimos!  I would have been all over it.  But this looked like a decidedly indoor drama.  And the signboard outside didn’t fill me with excitement:  “The Story of Soapy Smith.”

Is that like Snuffy Smith?  Because I hate that guy.

But we went inside anyways.  When Angela saw the price, she suddenly balked at it.  “Twenty bucks?” she asks.  “No way!”

Now I’m on the offense, though.  Not only do I see an opportunity to break out some money and win points, but if this thing is as bad as I think it is (and boy, does it look bad), it’s a double win for me: a bloggortunity combined with a waste of cash that was her idea!  I haven’t made out this good since she decided to have children!

Plus, I can see a poster on the wall that has women flashing their butts at the audience.  If this show is raunchy, it’s a triple-play!

“We’ll pay!” I said as I knocked her aside.  I looked down at her sprawled on the floor.  “Uh, happy anniversary?”

Once we’d paid, and bought popcorn (which was stale, another good sign of impending bad show), we entered into the theater.  Sitting on the stage was a little old man poorly playing guitar and reciting bad poetry.

It’s worth noting that the poetry he was reciting came from Ketchikan, I mean Skagway’s, most famous poet ever, some dude you never heard of.  And the guy reciting it made sure to note that he wasn’t nearly as good as the guy you never heard of.  I didn’t know about that other guy, the one you never heard of, but I was sure that the guy on stage was right.

On the up side, that five minutes of my life felt like about five hours.

Only right at the end, when the dude freelanced, did he ever do anything good, a poem about triangles and squares and cubes.  But that could have been the nerd in me coming out.

Then the play started, and I settled in for a good piece of schadenfreude that I could use to ride out the next five years.

But you know what?  It really was pretty good, for a play centering about a con man and three hookers.  And the piano player was really good!

Quick aside: Soapy Smith was a con man who ruled Ketchikan (I mean Skagway) for about seven months, until he was shot to death in an argument over a prospector who was robbed of $2800.  He was portrayed as a villain at the time, but the play has him portrayed sympathetically, which is an interesting choice.

But the best part was the audience participation, featuring Doug.  Now, you might think that Doug would seize his part of the limelight and ham it up a little, since he was featured pretty prominently on stage. 

You’d think wrong.

Once, many years ago, I got the chance to do some audience participation theater at Disneyworld, and when my chance came, boy did I ham it up.  That’s what they want you to do, you know? 

Not Doug.  If you’d replaced him with any inanimate object (chair, light post, totem pole, Egyptian mummy…) it would have done a better acting job than this guy.  You’d think he was afraid that these were actual harlots accosting him, instead of actresses.  Dude, they’re not really gonna take you upstairs and rob you.  Your wife’s not really gonna be mad (well, I dunno, maybe she is). 

At any rate, it was a good show, and we had a good laugh. 

After that, we went down the other side of the street.  Somehow we’d missed the building made of antlers as we walked up Ketchikan (I mean Skagway’s) only street, so we marveled at it as we passed.

And then, just as lunchtime came upon us, we encountered it.  The Red Onion Saloon and Brothel.

To say that this is the finest eating establishment in all of Alaska is an understatement.  It is quite possibly the finest eating establishment in the entire Northern Hemisphere.

Okay, I kid.

What it is is a turn-of-the-century saloon and brothel that has survived by converting itself into a restaurant that gives tours of the upstairs former brothel.  But what really sells the place is the period atmosphere, the old-timey décor and the band playing downstairs, and the waitresses in period costume.

By which I mean figure-enhancing bustiers and low-cut tops.

Angela and I came inside and immediately got seated.  “Would you guys mind sharing your table?” the waitress asked.

“No,” I said.  “That’s okay.”

So we were seated with a very nice couple from another boat, retirees who were out enjoying a day in Ketchikan (or Skagway or wherever the heck we were).  We had a nice chat with them, and they both congratulated us on our anniversary.

One of the funny things about this place was the brothel-themed dishes, like the Sloppy John or the Harlot Sandwich or whatever.  And our waitress was really selling it, too, referring to herself as a whore and generally having a good time with it. Plus, she had a good saucy English accent, which was good for a laugh.

Now you gotta understand something for this next part: all of these waitresses are wearing corsets, the tops of which are stuffed with bills.  All of the corsets display a generous amount of cleavage. 

She comes with the bill.  “Do I pay you or up front?” I asked.

“You better not give another whore my money!” she says.

“Okay,” I said and I gave her my credit card.

“Here,” Angela gives me a five dollar bill.  “Give her this as a tip.”

“I’m gonna put it on the card,” I said.

“But then you can’t stick it in her bustier!” Angela says.

“I thought we weren’t getting each other anything for our anniversary this year?” I asked.

So the waitress comes back, and I’ve got my $5.  “I’m trying to figure out how to do the tip,” I said.

“Nothing smaller than a tenner goes down the front,” she says.  “Anything less goes in the side.”

“Quick!  Get me a tenner!” I said to Angela.

“Here,” she says. “Let me get the camera.”

As Angela is digging out the camera, the waitress announces to the whole restaurant: “Take a good look, everybody, and see a real man put a tip down the front!”

So in front of everybody with Angela snapping pictures I put a ten dollar bill down the cleavage of the busty waitress, and then there was applause all around, and Angela snapped a picture of  me with my arm around the waitress, and everybody wins.

Now here’s the funny part: I sat back down, and the lady at the table with us was offended that this all happened on our anniversary!

“On your anniversary!” she harrumphed.  “Of all things!”

Wait, did you miss the part where it was my wife’s idea?  Did you not get the whole brothel-themed eatery thing?  When you ordered the Harlot Sandwich, did you think it was just a funny name for ham?

On the way out, I bought Angela two shirts, since she was such a good sport.  And I tipped the barmaid and the gift shop girl, just to be nice.  I’d have tipped the owner and the other waitresses and a few patrons waiting, but Angela started to lose patience, and I was out of tenners.

After that, we went back to the boat to get some rest, having been on our feet for quite a while.  As we waited for the elevator, it happened.

“Hey!” these people said.  “You two were on TV!  You were on the Newlywed game.”

“Thank you,” I said.  “Would you like me to sign something?”

“I still can’t believe how bad you honked it,” Angela said.

“Well, it’s hard,” one of the ladies said.  “Those questions are just completely unexpected.”

“No, he spent all day drilling me on the answers,” Angela said.  “Then he got them wrong.”

I’d have argued, but it was true.

After plenty of rest and relaxation, it was time for us to head back out to explore the boat some more and find our dinner.  As we went, who did we pass but our good friend from the trivia?

“Hey!”  She said.  “It’s my two favorite newlyweds!”  Once again, she was following a cup, this time filled with beer. 

“Hey,” we said as we passed.

At dinner, we went to a fancy steakhouse.  We’d booked it kind of last minute, but owing to us still being in port it was almost completely empty.  Not only did we get a good meal, but they sang to us because it was our anniversary!

But you have to understand who sang to us: the head chef.  Of the whole boat!  And this is a big deal, because he’s this German guy with a mustache like Salvador Dali.  And he is also a fantastic yodeler.  And him and his accompanists sang “Will You Call Me Sweetheart” and brought us a cake and everything.  It was great.

I tell you what, Norwegian really goes all-out!

After dinner we were prevented from going to our room by the room valet guy, so we headed over to the bowling alley and bowled a couple of games.  There was a special going on, two games for the price of one, so we bowled two games.  Typically, this means we do better in the second game than in the first.

Tonight?  Not so much.  But at least we didn’t have to put the bumpers up like the group next to us!

After bowling we headed back to our room to get a little rest before the White Hot Dance Party.  In the hall, who did we pass but:

“If it isn’t my two favorite Newlyweds!” she slurred as she tried not to spill the wine she carried all over the floor.

“Hey,” we both said.  I marveled at her stamina.  She had to have downed about six barrels of booze today.

She then said something, mostly intelligible, which I think was about how she hoped we had a good night.

When we opened the door, what greeted us but, to our delight, the room made up with balloons and streamers and a big HAPPY ANNIVERSARY banner. 

How nice!

After some time in the room, we were ready to head for the White Hot Dance Party.  What is that, you ask?

Well, it’s a room with a smog machine, loud music, and people dancing.  After watching in a mixture of fear and mild amusement, Angela turned to me and asked:

“When did we get so old?”

“I don’t know,” I said.  “But I want to leave.”

So leave we did.

On our way we passed by the hot tubs, and it happened again.

“Hey!  I know you!” a lady yelled.

Bear in mind, I’ve seen this lady around the boat.  I have come to think of her as the woman who doesn’t realize she’s not a schoolgirl any more, but wears her hair in pigtails anyways. 

“You two were on TV!” she says.

Now, bear in mind, I never turn away the fans.  It’s really all for them.  So I have to go back to talk to them.

“Yeah,” I said.  “That’s us.  Sorry I don’t have any 8x10s.”

So these two ladies are in the hot tub, and we have a nice chat with them, and three things become readily apparent:

-Pigtail Lady is drunk as a skunk

-Pigtail Lady is an old maid (she said it, not me)

-Pigtail Lady is drunk as a skunk

Listen, I’m not one to judge, and at least it’s the end of the day and not the beginning.  But this lady has more sheets to the wind than a laundry line.

Finally, teeth chattering, Angela says it’s time for us to go.

“Go!” Pigtail Lady announces.  “Go to the nuptual bed!”

“That’s good advice,” I said.  “We should take it.”

We made a quick turn through the café, pausing to speak with more fans, and then it was back to the room and to bed.

An altogether good day.  Particularly since we didn’t see Mr. Grumpy a single time.  Imagine that!