I bet you thought I forgot I left you high and not dry feasting on a delicious Salmon Bake lunch.
No, I didn’t.
The Salmon Bake proved to be a highlight of the Juneau day, although I’ve since learned that the Salmon Bakes you see all over Alaska are invariably overpriced. Indulging in a diet of salmon and seafood is definitely in the cards for the next visit, but it will be in a different type of venue.
Our ride back from the Salmon Bake became another of those special moments that populated the trip despite the problems we encountered with Holland America management..
The Salmon Bake company provided the ride back to the cruise ship dock aboard a fleet of yellow school buses, again driven by a seasonal worker who arrived in Alaska in May and was winding down her time in Juneau. I hate to admit that some of the details have become fuzzy, but a lot of what she told us stands out.
The driver, whose name escapes me but will be called Marsha for purposes of this post, hailed from North Carolina. When the economy there went south for her, she divested herself of her possessions, bid farewell to her family and joined the ranks of CoolWorks employees. At the age of 54 (or thereabouts) she took this turn of events as a golden opportunity to see parts of the world she’d only heard of–and get paid for it, to boot. She signed up for a stint in Juneau, moved there and rented an apartment with a roommate. That served as her homebase both for reporting for work and for having time to explore the area during her off-hours. We somehow ended up sitting close behind her on the ride, so we were able to really pick her brain about her adventures. At the end of the cruise season, she would be returning to the Lower 48 to another location and another short-term occupation. For her it was a perfect solution to spice up her life. While Gary was quite ready to depart Alaska for his home in Illinois, Marsha looked forward to her newest assignment. And by the time we disembarked the bus, I was ready to sign my name on the dotted line for a stint with CoolWorks. Until I remembered my dog, my newly-purchased house and my job.
Rain, rain and more rain.
We determined not to let the RAIN waylay us on our shopping expedition after our return to the dock, especially since our morning driver, Gary, had told us where he got the musher ball cap he’d worn during our tour.
At the very end of the cruise ship boarding ramp sat a visitors bureau kiosk. We couldn’t possibly pass up a chance to test their customer service skills and their information skills. The lovely lady “manning” the booth loaded us up with brochures and lots of handy hints about Juneau. She pointed us in the direction of all the shops who sold “made in Alaska” treasures as well as native-made items. Her directions were spot-on. If the rain hadn’t been spot-on, too, it would have been much more comfortable. Of the several visitors bureaus we visited during the tour, the Juneau lady was the only one who showed any enthusiasm for her job and a love (and knowledge of) her surroundings.
We returned to the ship about an hour and a half later, drenched, dripping and divested of a bit of our disposable cash. I found the cap I treasured as well as a dogsledding tee shirt, so I was a happy camper. I was less than thrilled that the bookstore I’d so enjoyed on my previous trip to Juneau seemed to have shrunk both in its physical size and in the number of Iditarod-themed books. I spent all of five minutes discovering that the store held nothing for me. Gayle had bypassed the bookstore in favor of a quilt/craft store down the way, and she, too, found nothing of interest.
I even slipped into the gift store of that quintessential Juneau bar, the Red Dog Saloon, and couldn’t find a doggone thing that I wanted to buy.
Making our way back to the ship, we were ready to dry off, clean up and relax.
As we discussed our day, Gayle and I solidified the decision that we’d skirted around the day before. Neither of us felt comfortable with the two shore excursions we’d participated in, so–thinking we had until three days beforehand–to cancel the land tour scheduled for our last night in Fairbanks, we agreed we’d do just that. A no-brainer, we figured. Gayle, who was much more on top of things than I, had mentioned she didn’t think we even had time to do the Chena Hot Springs tour (which was my idea because Shevy had told me how much he’d enjoyed the place). The tour departure time was 6:45 p.m. Chena Hot Springs sat 60 miles from Fairbanks. We were scheduled to leave for the airport from the hotel at 11:00 p.m. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Gayle had analyzed the situation correctly.
Not wanting to waste any more time once we’d firmed up the decision, we made our way from the bowels of the ship up to Deck 6 to speak to Shore Excursions.
“We’d like to cancel a land tour we have scheduled for our time in Fairbanks,” I announced confidently to the young lady behind the desk.
“We can’t help you with that.” She stated, equally confident. “I don’t think you can do that, but you’ll have to speak to the cruise tour specialist, who is at that desk.” She pointed across the way to an empty desk. “She’ll be there from 5 pm to 6 pm.”
The first niggling doubt crept into my brain that this cancellation wasn’t a slam-dunk. We had a half hour or so before the cruise tour specialist was scheduled to be on duty, so we busied ourselves with something until that time.
When we came back, a bleached-blonde with pixie hair sat at the desk behind an open laptop.
I approached her, Gayle trailing right behind, and broached the subject. “We need to cancel a land tour.”
Without even a “can I have your name?” she declared that “oh, no, there’s no way you can do that. Land tours are final once you book them. You can’t cancel, and you can’t get a refund.”
In unison our mouths dropped open. “But it’s a week away,” Gayle explained.
“Doesn’t matter. It can’t be cancelled.”
“I don’t believe that.” I opened the notebook I’d brought along. “Who do I need to talk to?”
“Well, you’ll probably need to speak to some at Holland America corporate offices.”
“Do you have that number?”
“No. You can ask at the front desk.” She pointed across the way toward the cubicle to the left of shore excursions.
Dutifully we trooped back across the lobby and stood in front of the front desk. “Do you have a telephone number for the Holland America corporate offices?” I explained what we were trying to do.
“No, I don’t.” The young lady announced with some authority and no courtesy. She turned her back to us.
Say what? No one on the friggin’ ship has the telephone number to Holland America on land? I find that incredibly hard to believe to this day. The ship’s management made it abundantly clear that they would do nothing to help us.
Since we were still in port, we had a chance to make a cell phone call without paying exhorbitant shipboard rates. We found a place outside on the deck and proceeded to rifle our papers for a phone number.
While I called Holland America, Gayle called her step-son, Terry, who, wearing his travel-agent hat, had booked the cruise for us.
You could pretty much see the steam drifting up out of our ears into the misty Juneau twilight.