60 hours in Juneau
Consider this a pitch for Alaska's capital city. Think there's nothing to do in Juneau? Allow me to prove you wrong. Here's what two guys did with roughly 60 hours in Juneau, in almost the order it happened. If Alaska needs a writer for its tourism industry, they can shoot me a line.
Juneau International Airport:
Quaint.
That's the first word that pops into my head as we wander around the airport. It's also the kindest euphemism I can come up with. I try not to judge, but judgment is already lying around at every corner waiting for me to pick it up and stuff it into my backpack.
The airport is called Juneau International Airport. I can't tell what international destinations Juneau serves. I asked Google and didn't find any. Maybe Russia or Canada. Either way it seems like cheating, in the same way that my hometown airport Oakland considers itself 'international' because it serves Mexico. It added Sweden to the list some years ago so I guess it has that.
We pick up our car, a Chevy Aveo, which is a car that seems to exist to be a car rental and nothing else. It barely fits two people and a couple bags, and somehow has a backseat to seat a total of five but I'm not sure I want to test that. It's not like there are enough people around to ask to jump in with us anyway.
We speed off into the night where the roads are empty and the lamp posts are few. The radio station is blasting late-night techno with the one line "we're the f***ing animals." I bleeped it out because that's how it is in the song. It doesn't seem to fit Alaska, but no one else is on the road so who cares.
Thank God for LTE, smartphones and Google Maps, and that all three work in Alaska, which is how we find our campsite. Yes, we opted to bring camping gear with us, which both seems like a great idea (live in nature) and a terrible one (live in nature). It's too dark to see anything and the only thing I can make out looks like a giant swamp.
"This seems nice," Jason says. I can't tell if he's serious or trying to make himself feel better about choosing this place and making me pay for it.
I have a love-hate relationship with camping. I grew up doing it every summer in Yosemite with my family and sometimes some family friends. But I think the reality is my brother inherited ninety-nine percent of the "camping" genes. I just like the idea of it. Part of the problem is I can be a germaphobe. And having to do maintain some amount hygiene while going to the bathroom and taking a shower are really not my favorite things to do at campgrounds.
Everything else is okay though. I like being in a tent and bundling up and trying to get comfortable.
"I'm not gonna wear pants. I hope that's okay." a voice says next to me.
"Not like I can see anything anyway."
The wind ruffles a few trees and shakes the tent a little bit. For some reason I find this comforting. I already can't wait to get up. That sort of excitement is actually a net negative, because excitement is not conducive to sleep.
Vacation is hard.
The one 'real' thing worth doing in Juneau:
We wake up the next morning to the mountainous version of paradise: a crisp breeze, warm sun, and nature as far as the eye can see. Our camping spot is practically next to a pristine, still lake, and we're surrounded by endless green trees with mountains hovering in the distance. Jason was right, this is kind of nice.
We attack our "list." Our first stop will be Mendenhall Glacier for a quick hike. Before we leave, we opt to move our tent about twenty feet away from where we pitched it the night before. This non-event will become super important later.
Back to Mendenhall Glacier.
It's beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.
And apparently it's receding. I spot a billboard that shows what the glacier looked like years ago. That blue ice is supposed to come all the way to where I'm standing when I took the above photo.
Nevertheless it is stunning. I am in awe.
Until I pull out a Clif bar to savor both some energy and the environment, and someone interrupts me with:
"Excuse me, no food allowed please."
Way to ruin the one moment Juneau offered.
Are you China?
After a few miles of hiking, we trek 'downtown.' I use downtown in the same snarky way that I describe Juneau's airport as 'international.'
At first glance it's actually not that small, and probably not much smaller than the downtown of my hometown (before Tiffany's and Apple moved in and now it's a giant upscale, outdoor mall). People are bustling around, bags in hand and walking in and out of various stores. It dawns on us that the entire industry downtown is tourism, which is probably why this downtown even exists.
We find a shop that's selling all sorts of meant-for-tourist stuff: boxed salmon, spices, photos of Mendenhall Glacier, you name it.
I walk up to the counter to try some samples of various different spices. They're all meant to be used with fish, and they're all actually really good. I briefly consider buying a tangy, citrus one before realizing it's $24.99 and promptly tell myself "no."
I hear the cashier conversing with someone who, at a very quick glance, is a lady from an East-Asian country. I stop paying attention and go back to sampling spices. All I can tell is that the conversation is not going very well.
Suddenly, someone taps me on the shoulder. It's the East-Asian lady.
"Are you China?"
I'm so confused that "what?" is the only word that comes out of my mouth.
"You, China?" she says.
I'm tempted to say no, and to have her feel embarrassed. The kinder man obliges and says yes, I do in fact know how to speak Chinese. My Mandarin is rusty but I help her understand that yes, she will need to be able to refrigerate the fresh salmon or else it'll spoil. No, I don't know if you have refrigeration on your cruise line. Yes, the boxed one is fine and won't spoil.
I can hear Jason smirk off in the corner. I'd punch him if I didn't mind getting arrested.
"Thank you for your help," the cashier says sheepishly after she's done helping out the Chinese lady. She's kind of cute.
"This happen a lot?" I ask her.
"Here and there. We're a pretty big destination for foreign tourists especially if they come from Vancouver. We're practically only open during the summer just for cruises. It's dead, otherwise."
Looks like we were right. Tourism is why this downtown exists.
Cruise Watching:
We walk to the pier where all the cruise ships are parked. We debate the benefits of cruise lines. Jason sees them as sanitized ways of traveling for people unwilling to actually participate in the location you're visiting, and that cruise line passengers do it so they can take pictures, buy souvenirs, and show them off to people at home. "Look at what I saw." Cultural currency, he calls it.
I take the side that maybe if you go with the right people, they can be fun. So long as you don't care what you're doing or where you're actually going.
"Yeah, I guess," he mumbles. It doesn't help that he knows ultimately I agree with him.
As we walk along the pier, we observe each cruise ship and how they're all different from each other. One is clearly an older ship that honestly looks a little rusty and like the Motel 6 of cruise ships. Consider another one at the other end that has lifts, fancy balconies and even some sort of viewing dome at the very top.
"Maybe we should do a cruise." I suggest, half-jokingly. I would've done one if Jason wanted to.
He Googles some prices. "No thanks."
We sit on a bench, conveniently when a lot of the passengers are boarding back on to the boat for the night for their meals, dancing, and sleep towards their next Alaskan destination. For about an hour, Jason and I barely say a word to each other, only to point out various families or interesting individuals boarding the boat. I love people watching, and cruise ship people watching is probably the best version of that activity.
I look for the "Are you China" lady. I don't see her, and for a moment I'm disappointed.
Canned Cocktails:
On our way back to the campsite, we stop by a Fred Meyer. I don't honestly remember why we go, but once we were there we think it'd be a good idea to buy some materials to start a campfire next to our tent. It was actually pretty cold outside, despite the fact that it was August, in the 50s and raining.
That last part became important, and we reminded ourselves of that before we actually purchased anything.
"Are we gonna be able to start a fire?" I ask.
"Probably not," he says.
We look at each other and decide to just abandon that idea and leave the store. Except on the way out, we see an alcohol section of the store and decide to walk in. I don't really want anything, until Jason calls for me.
"Hey how do you feel about canned cocktails?"
"What is a canned cocktail?"
I find Jason in a small refrigerated section where there are, you guessed it, canned cocktails. Various mixed drinks in a small soda-like can. I've never had one. It seems like a bad idea, especially given the alternative of spending money on a campfire and trying to stay warm, even if that idea would've been futile.
An hour later, we're parked next to our tent, feet propped onto the dash and about to open our canned cocktails. I open a Mudslide. He opens a Manhattan. The cans have that same refreshing 'pop' when you open a soda can.
They also have none of the refreshing taste. I don't want to describe it because then I have to relive it.
"Um, this is kinda bad," I mumble.
"We wasted our leftover money on this shit?" Jason growls. I want to remind him that this was his idea.
"Hey, I'll try anything once," I say, quoting my motto.
"You knew this was going to be bad."
He's not wrong. We leave the cans on the dash and tent up for the night.
Camping Lessons:
I wake up an hour or so later and my hip is wet so I roll over slightly. I don't think much of this.
Some time later, my hip is wet again. So are my feet. In pseudo-consciousness I reach underneath my sleeping bag and feel my towel, which is soaked. Strange, I think. So I roll over to the other side. The rain is still pounding against the tent and up until then, the pitter-patter is the most beautiful sound I think I've ever heard in the entire world.
It's 4AM. My back is now completely soaked. My brain tells me HEY DUMBASS! SOMETHING IS WRONG and so I sit up and it dawns on me that our tent is soaking up water through the bottom of the tent because when we moved the tent the day before, we forgot to appropriately move the tarp with it.
I imagine someone going "you didn't move the tarp!?" and I want to punch them immediately. It's not like that piece of advice helps now.
I grab the car keys, put on my shoes and unzip the tent door. Raindrops greet my face. I cuss under my breath. Jason sort of wakes up.
"I'm going back to the car," I tell him.
He makes some sound acknowledging it.
I park my body in the passenger seat, push the seat all the way back and recline it as far as it'll go. I prop my feet on the dash, right where my canned Mudslide still taunts me. I take another sip and I realize room temperature canned Mudslide is even more offensive than regular canned Mudslide.
I'm really cold and the only remaining dry clothes I have are two t-shirts. I throw them on and even put my backpack on my chest to act as some sort of partial-body insulation.
I try to fall asleep and I'm starting to feel like I'm going to catch a cold.
Juneau International Airport, Redux:
Jason wakes up and joins me in the car a few hours later. He suffered the same fate. All of our stuff was soaked. It's gross and we quickly pack everything up and stuff it into the trunk of the Aveo.
I forget who, but one of us floats the idea of changing our plane tickets to leaving today, instead of tomorrow. We start playing the polite-but-be-considerate-but-I-really-want-to-just-go-home game. Thankfully, Jason and I can be both direct and considerate. So we both realize, we're both done in Juneau and can definitely go home.
We call Alaska Airlines. We're put on hold. Numbers get thrown out of what's our maximum threshold we're willing to pay to go home.
Alaska Airlines agrees that we can both go home for about $395 each.
Jason tries to play the pity card, explaining that our tent failed us and that we're soaked and life is miserable. Alaska Airlines offers to cure our misery, still for $395 each.
We decide to go straight to the airport. Experience says going to a counter in person is more effective than being on the phone. You know, empathy, eye contact, and stuff.
There are no counters at Juneau International Airport. Just baggage services. Need a ticket? Do it on the web. This seems oddly efficient and 21st century like for a city that you can only get to by boat or plane.
We look at each other in mild despair. What are we going to do with our last day in Juneau? I start looking up hotels. He looks up Airbnb, which we've never used.
"Maybe we can just sleep in the car," I suggest. I mean, that's what I just did this morning anyway. But the thought of spending the whole night in the car is far less appealing.
Thankfully, Jason bursts my attitude with some optimism. "Hey, I found a place. Two big rooms and the house looks nice. Seems cheap too. What do you think?"
Laundromat reading:
We make our way downtown for no particular reason. The same radio station is now playing oldies or something. Jason and I conclude that the station plays different things at different times of the day. Different cruise ships are here today. Maybe there will be more people watching.
Our stuff is still soaked and we're waiting to see if our Airbnb host responds.
I have a brilliant idea in the mean time.
"I wonder if there are any laundromats around. We can dry our towels and sleeping bags and stuff."
"Oh that is a good idea."
For the next two hours we sit in a laundromat, reading on our Kindles while our clothes, towels and sleeping bags all spin round and round and round.
"What are you reading?" I ask to mix things up.
"Some sci-fi. You?"
"This book about forming habits and how they rule your life."
"Oh."
Eventually our Airbnb contact gets back to us. The place is ours for the night and we can go over any time.
We check the dryers. Our stuff is still mildly damp.
"Good enough," Jason declares. I can't say I disagree.
My first Airbnb:
The house is like a gigantic cabin with a fantastic view. I feel like every house must have a fantastic view though. There's water and trees and mountains everywhere. It's like Seattle, just even smaller. Like, miniature sized.
We pull out a bag or two and knock on the door.
"Welcome! You must be Jason," a middle-aged woman answers. I'll call her Jenny.
"That's us. Thanks for responding on such short notice." Jason can be very polite.
"Not at all. You guys are actually my first stays!" she says excitedly.
"This is our first time using Airbnb."
Jenny welcomes us inside, which really is like a cabin. Rich wood floors, a few thick rugs, warm cozy lighting. Jenny shows us our rooms (which have giant mattresses), offers a few snacks and tells us a little bit about what life is like in Juneau. She also mentions being able to take a hot shower, and so we quit the small talk immediately and head upstairs.
I have never been so happy to be taking a shower. The hot water, it feels, so good. The almost, almost scalding water dripping down your hair and to your toes and the steam rising up from your feet. It's almost a spiritual experience if only because the alternative is death by rain and soaking up water from beneath you because you forgot to move a f***ing tarp.
We plop down on a bed and sit for a little while. A cat shows up out of nowhere. Cats love Jason. He has a special gift to that makes run to him and purr almost on cue. Ironic, actually, because his body hates cats. That he starts sneezing is proof.
"Aren't you allergic?"
"Yeah. I mean kind of."
He doesn't stop stroking the cat's head, and its eyes make no effort to hide its enjoyment.
The cat is definitely not the highlight of the Airbnb but if you read Jason's review you would feel it was:
“Jenny was fantastic! I contacted Jenny in a fluster around 7:30 am after having my tent collapse on my the night before, needing a place to stay the following night. She was very prompt in getting back to me and offering next steps. We felt very much at home being hosted by Jenny, and her cat spent a couple hours in the evening nuzzling up to me and falling asleep on my lap. Thanks again, Jenny!”
“Thanks Jason. I know our cat Panteta reslly appreciated the attention.”
I'm not sure it's fair to say our tent 'collapsed', but it's more fun that way.
I do catch a cold.
The thrill of the Adventure:
"Hey where do you wanna go?" Jason asked me one random afternoon while we were both taking a quick break at the office.
I didn't have very many good ideas. We had been planning a trip for some time, wanted it to be cheap, and wanted it to be sunny because Seattle hates the sun.
"What about Arizona? We could do that in a few months when Fall rolls around. I've never been."
"Could work."
A few days later I got a phone call.
"Hey how do you feel about Juneau?"
"Like, Juneau, Alaska?"
"Uh huh."
"What's there?"
"I don't know. Tickets are cheap. We can go in a couple weeks. It's summer and it should be sunny. We can go camping."
"Let's do it. What's the worst thing that can happen?"
What's the worst? Plenty. I didn't even include the beer tour with the apocryphal stories, the hipster dining joint, or the 6AM return flight.
It's okay. We had canned cocktails.