Cruise Critic, the end-all and be-all of online cruising resources, has fit to grace its hallowed pages with two wonderful pieces on Cruise Confidential. First and foremost, they gave a fantastic review of the book. Every year they list the latest and greatest books about all things cruising. The top book covered, by the editor in chief, Carolyn Spencer Brown, no less, was none other than Cruise Confidential.
To quote from Carolyn, Cruise Confidential "offers a riveting look at his life as a waiter onboard a series of Carnival cruise ships. His experience is clearly not all pretty -- 80-plus hour work weeks; wild crew parties; mental breakdowns; and having to protect his dining room cutlery from packs of waiter-robbers. But the tales are fascinating, his experiences colored by the melting pot world of mega-ships, a multi-cultural mix of crew and officers.
Read the full review here: http://www.cruisecritic.com/articles.cfm?ID=307
Perhaps an even greater honor was being interviewed for one of their popular features, Q&A. Over a series of phone calls and emails, I was interviewed by Associate Editor Dan Askin for the article. You'll find twenty questions that get to the heart of the experience that prompted me to write the book, as well as how it changed my life. Wonderful stuff by Cruise Critic!
Read the Feature Q&A here: http://www.cruisecritic.com/articles.cfm?ID=1059
Cruise Critic is a cruise review community website which also has information for cruisers written by editors, news on cruising and a forum. They offer over 225 reviews written by editors and members of the site, and information on cruise ships and over 135 ports of call and includes information on specific cruising niches, including low-carb cruising and gay cruises. Anyone going on a cruise, or even thinking about it, is wise to consult Cruise Critic!
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sneak Peak at CityCenter’s Aria
A perk of being a travel writer is getting to see things that the average Joe cannot. One such perk was a two day preview of ARIA, the crown jewel of the biggest, baddist, poshist, mostest mutha-honkin’ casino resort complex in the world: the Las Vegas CityCenter. This $9Billion-plus monstrosity is the largest building project in the Americas and required some 13,000 or so workers to complete. Everything here is superlative in the classic Vegas style, from the condominiums (a cool half a million bucks for 600 square feet), to the shopping (original Luis Vuitton is embarrassed for being ‘the cheap stuff’ here), and the latest and greatest Mandarin Hotel. But what everyone wants to see, the ARIA casino, does not open until tomorrow, Wednesday the 16th of December, 2009.
I was a special guest with a two-day pass to tour and play at ARIA. Given $1000 of ‘play money’ good for table games, food, and drink, I was able to see everything this most impressive casino had to offer. In many ways ARIA is the latest in Las Vegas thinking: everything is larger, grander, and richer than ever before. But new to Las Vegas thinking is that it is garish to neither the eye nor the environment. Natural light, long an anathema to casino floors, shines down in welcoming pools of wholesomeness (a word rarely associated with Las Vegas). In fact, ARIA is the greenest casino ever built, proudly being U.S. Green Building Council LEED Gold Certified.
But there will be many such articles from far more journalistic voices than mine. True to my experience, I am interested in the restaurants. True to my style, I am interested in the quirky stuff, like what I encountered at Café Vettro. This place cracks me up on oh so many levels. It was the ONLY failure in what I consider to be an otherwise exemplary complex. ARIA in all other ways exceeded my expectations. But Café Vettro? Oh my.
Café Vettro labels itself slyly as “Contemporary American Comfort Food.” I thought that was a great angle, but feared it may have only been marketing-talk for a cheeseburger. After spending years touring the earth, I had learned that primarily what people labeled ‘American food’ was almost exclusively burgers and fries, or perhaps a deep-dish pizza loaded with meats and cheeses and not one vegetable. I strode up the architecturally-odd entrance ramp, with step pyramids of river stone encased in plastic to my right and giant cones rising to my left. The restaurant was quite large, capable of holding 800 souls. It was one giant room that curved along floor-to-ceiling windows facing the interior of the CityCenter complex.
Every face was smiling and enthusiastic, though they were unbelievably stressed. This was the first dress-rehearsal day, after all, and whenever something of this magnitude and complexity opens, there are many, many problems. They apologized in advance for anticipated ungainly timing of the service. Perhaps they should have apologized instead for the completely misleading advertising. Allow me to illustrate what ‘American Comfort Food’ means in Café Vettro-land:
1st course: gazpacho or empenadas.
2nd course: cold ratatouille or jalapeno crab cakes.
Sandwich: pork Cuban.
Entre: chicken schnitzel or mac and cheese.
Please notice that one of these things is not like the other. My waitress, Yvonne, is a sweetheart, but was completely overtaxed by the requisite disasters that come with ironing out bugs. The empanadas took 45 minutes to arrive and my crab cakes, ordered at the same time, took an astounding 95 minutes. The irony is that not less than six tables nearby came after I did and received their crab cakes first. Far more amusing was the bread mistake: the busboy brought mayonnaise with the bread thinking it was butter. That can’t be good.
But none of these things will be a factor for the public. My only complaint about the extraordinarily long wait was the décor and view that CityCenter was so proud of. Through those gargantuan windows I could only see the valet drop-off near the front desk, which was the size and style of an airport. In fact, the hangar-like ceiling, clean lines, and antiseptic design of the entire restaurant, combined with the interminable waiting, evoked the impatience during a layover in a long flight.
All that said, ARIA was magnificent. There will surely be a million words waxing poetic about the place, and I will agree with all of them that do not involve the Café Vettro. Surely half of my observations will be rendered moot when then place opens to the public tomorrow but, being a restaurateur, how could I resist sharing?
Tuesday, December 15th, 2009
I was a special guest with a two-day pass to tour and play at ARIA. Given $1000 of ‘play money’ good for table games, food, and drink, I was able to see everything this most impressive casino had to offer. In many ways ARIA is the latest in Las Vegas thinking: everything is larger, grander, and richer than ever before. But new to Las Vegas thinking is that it is garish to neither the eye nor the environment. Natural light, long an anathema to casino floors, shines down in welcoming pools of wholesomeness (a word rarely associated with Las Vegas). In fact, ARIA is the greenest casino ever built, proudly being U.S. Green Building Council LEED Gold Certified.
But there will be many such articles from far more journalistic voices than mine. True to my experience, I am interested in the restaurants. True to my style, I am interested in the quirky stuff, like what I encountered at Café Vettro. This place cracks me up on oh so many levels. It was the ONLY failure in what I consider to be an otherwise exemplary complex. ARIA in all other ways exceeded my expectations. But Café Vettro? Oh my.
Café Vettro labels itself slyly as “Contemporary American Comfort Food.” I thought that was a great angle, but feared it may have only been marketing-talk for a cheeseburger. After spending years touring the earth, I had learned that primarily what people labeled ‘American food’ was almost exclusively burgers and fries, or perhaps a deep-dish pizza loaded with meats and cheeses and not one vegetable. I strode up the architecturally-odd entrance ramp, with step pyramids of river stone encased in plastic to my right and giant cones rising to my left. The restaurant was quite large, capable of holding 800 souls. It was one giant room that curved along floor-to-ceiling windows facing the interior of the CityCenter complex.
Every face was smiling and enthusiastic, though they were unbelievably stressed. This was the first dress-rehearsal day, after all, and whenever something of this magnitude and complexity opens, there are many, many problems. They apologized in advance for anticipated ungainly timing of the service. Perhaps they should have apologized instead for the completely misleading advertising. Allow me to illustrate what ‘American Comfort Food’ means in Café Vettro-land:
1st course: gazpacho or empenadas.
2nd course: cold ratatouille or jalapeno crab cakes.
Sandwich: pork Cuban.
Entre: chicken schnitzel or mac and cheese.
Please notice that one of these things is not like the other. My waitress, Yvonne, is a sweetheart, but was completely overtaxed by the requisite disasters that come with ironing out bugs. The empanadas took 45 minutes to arrive and my crab cakes, ordered at the same time, took an astounding 95 minutes. The irony is that not less than six tables nearby came after I did and received their crab cakes first. Far more amusing was the bread mistake: the busboy brought mayonnaise with the bread thinking it was butter. That can’t be good.
But none of these things will be a factor for the public. My only complaint about the extraordinarily long wait was the décor and view that CityCenter was so proud of. Through those gargantuan windows I could only see the valet drop-off near the front desk, which was the size and style of an airport. In fact, the hangar-like ceiling, clean lines, and antiseptic design of the entire restaurant, combined with the interminable waiting, evoked the impatience during a layover in a long flight.
All that said, ARIA was magnificent. There will surely be a million words waxing poetic about the place, and I will agree with all of them that do not involve the Café Vettro. Surely half of my observations will be rendered moot when then place opens to the public tomorrow but, being a restaurateur, how could I resist sharing?
Tuesday, December 15th, 2009
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Date palm love
Some trees where clothes. Date palms, in particular, look pretty in hand-me-down dresses. I enjoy peeking beneath their skirts. Provocative, no?
This weekend I explored the stunning and unlikely China Ranch Date Farm. Nestled near the SE corner of Death Valley, this is about as unlikely a place to farm as any on earth. It's actually in the rain shadow of Death Valley, for cryin' out loud. Is that even possible? The drive to this place from Las Vegas is 80+ miles of sheer sun-blasted waste. You feel like you are driving on the surface of the moon, alone in the magnificent desolation, except there is a road cut through it ramrod straight.
Turning off that highway takes a bit of nerve. The side road that extends off to the far horizon of brown blandness has no definable sides because the sand is trying to reclaim the land. Scrub occasionally sprouts up, but even that is brown and begging for death. Eventually my wife and I drove down into a bizarre gulch with ugly conglomerate-stone walls. We dropped some 80 vertical feet and the narrow road snaked through the canyon dominated by towering, ugly walls that threatened to topple at every turn. Some places they had, as the loosely conglomerated rock just dissolved and poured over the road.
Then suddenly we came to an old sign with rusted barbed wire welcoming us to China Ranch. It was so-called because in the Old West days a Chinese man farmed here. When he became prosperous the local white dudes got jealous. Then one day the Chinese guy disappeared and the whites moved in. Once you look past the sign, though, you can see why this place was worth dying for.
China Ranch is a desert oasis. Ground water seeps out of the blasted rock and forms a sliver of a channel through the valley, complete with crayfish. Here is a surprising garden of Eden, complete with lush grasses, shady trees, and cool breezes. It's a salad bowl set in the most forbidding desert landscape in North America. And it is loaded with date palms.
The Brown family has owned and operated this date farm since 1970, and welcomes any and all to freely wander among their amazing palms. The fall and early winter is an excellent time to visit because they are loaded with ripened or nearly ripened fruit. Each tree has up to half a dozen old dresses, nightgowns, or dress shirts wrapping huge clusters of dates. This offers protection from wind and birds, and slows the bees down a little. Peeking from the bottom of these skirts are heavy clumps of dates, some ready for eating. It's fascinating to lift an old Hawaiian shirt to see if the treats below are fiery red, soft yellow, or nutty brown.
The grove itself is labeled so you can see the difference between Barhi date palms and Honey date palms. You can try them all in the gift shop, which we did. Gotta try em' all or you're missing out. I was amused at the ancient, huge brass spittoon near the samples, labeled 'Pitoon' for the pits. We chose three different batches to buy a pound or two of, and they were so fresh and juicy I just wanted to stare at them in wonder all day. But the best part of the gift shop, really, were the date shakes. Divine hardly describes it.
My wife and I managed to spend all afternoon here, but are eager to return. The stream wiggles its way right into Death Valley, which is just out back. There are half a dozen trails and miles and miles of desert solitude and beauty. The greenery marches deep into the valley, providing a hamlet for fox, bobcats, coyotes and all the jackrabbits you can imagine. And birds? They love it here. So do I.
This weekend I explored the stunning and unlikely China Ranch Date Farm. Nestled near the SE corner of Death Valley, this is about as unlikely a place to farm as any on earth. It's actually in the rain shadow of Death Valley, for cryin' out loud. Is that even possible? The drive to this place from Las Vegas is 80+ miles of sheer sun-blasted waste. You feel like you are driving on the surface of the moon, alone in the magnificent desolation, except there is a road cut through it ramrod straight.
Turning off that highway takes a bit of nerve. The side road that extends off to the far horizon of brown blandness has no definable sides because the sand is trying to reclaim the land. Scrub occasionally sprouts up, but even that is brown and begging for death. Eventually my wife and I drove down into a bizarre gulch with ugly conglomerate-stone walls. We dropped some 80 vertical feet and the narrow road snaked through the canyon dominated by towering, ugly walls that threatened to topple at every turn. Some places they had, as the loosely conglomerated rock just dissolved and poured over the road.
Then suddenly we came to an old sign with rusted barbed wire welcoming us to China Ranch. It was so-called because in the Old West days a Chinese man farmed here. When he became prosperous the local white dudes got jealous. Then one day the Chinese guy disappeared and the whites moved in. Once you look past the sign, though, you can see why this place was worth dying for.
China Ranch is a desert oasis. Ground water seeps out of the blasted rock and forms a sliver of a channel through the valley, complete with crayfish. Here is a surprising garden of Eden, complete with lush grasses, shady trees, and cool breezes. It's a salad bowl set in the most forbidding desert landscape in North America. And it is loaded with date palms.
The Brown family has owned and operated this date farm since 1970, and welcomes any and all to freely wander among their amazing palms. The fall and early winter is an excellent time to visit because they are loaded with ripened or nearly ripened fruit. Each tree has up to half a dozen old dresses, nightgowns, or dress shirts wrapping huge clusters of dates. This offers protection from wind and birds, and slows the bees down a little. Peeking from the bottom of these skirts are heavy clumps of dates, some ready for eating. It's fascinating to lift an old Hawaiian shirt to see if the treats below are fiery red, soft yellow, or nutty brown.
The grove itself is labeled so you can see the difference between Barhi date palms and Honey date palms. You can try them all in the gift shop, which we did. Gotta try em' all or you're missing out. I was amused at the ancient, huge brass spittoon near the samples, labeled 'Pitoon' for the pits. We chose three different batches to buy a pound or two of, and they were so fresh and juicy I just wanted to stare at them in wonder all day. But the best part of the gift shop, really, were the date shakes. Divine hardly describes it.
My wife and I managed to spend all afternoon here, but are eager to return. The stream wiggles its way right into Death Valley, which is just out back. There are half a dozen trails and miles and miles of desert solitude and beauty. The greenery marches deep into the valley, providing a hamlet for fox, bobcats, coyotes and all the jackrabbits you can imagine. And birds? They love it here. So do I.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Cruise Confidential meets Maxim
The word is most definitely out: cruise ships are wild places. 14 million passengers a year have as much opportunity for partying as they ever will in their lives. They are floating pleasure palaces with shows and casinos, with massages and feasts, and occasionally a port of call. And sex, drinking, sex and drinking. OK, that last part was more about the crew than the passengers.
The stories are growing more prolific about the licentious lives of the crew, and it was only a matter of time that a magazine that is really a Milkbone for Men (that is, Maxim) takes a peek below the waterline (a la Cruise Confidential). This is not surprising. Since Cruise Confidential was released last year, it has since won two national humor awards and is spawning a plethora of knock-offs. Maxim has the most fun with it, thus far.
Maxim’s November 2009 issue has an article, Wet & Wild, that takes a vivid, if glancing, look at the craziness of being a crewmember on a modern cruise ship. Considering the demographic of the magazine, it is not surprising that it pumps up the crew’s constant boozing and international sex-scapades. No less than three references to ‘threesomes’ come in a mere three pages, and each paragraph is saturated with alcohol. In a further effort to sensationalize the whole cruising experience, the article blends in the surprising side of ship-board mechanics. Surprising only for those who have never bothered to think about it. Case in point: dead bodies are stored in a walk-in freezer. Sounds intriguing but, really, what other method would you suggest?
Still, after living at sea four years and writing the authoritative book about the subject, I can honestly attest that 90% of the stuff is, if sensationalized, nonetheless true. Shall we take a peek?
True: passengers are not allowed in the crew bar, which is a dark, smoky sensual-naughty-fantastic place.
True: passengers are referred to as ‘animals’ by the crew.
True: crew members drink themselves sick and screw everything that moves (barring ‘animals’).
The article continues to grab at all the stuff people wonder in passing: what about falling overboard, what about rapes, what about murders? Do the cruise lines really cover them up? What about pirates and sinkings? All hurled at the reader with shocking suddenness and only a passing reference to how you really don’t need to worry about any of it.
The article has many little tidbits that are worth reading. We learn how hearing “Hey, Baby” 1,000 times a day will make you crazy. We learn of the guys who are fired for cooking in their cabin: an entire pig’s head roasting painfully slow over a hot-plate. We learn of the Pacific Islanders who are ‘gay at sea’ but have families back home. This is the stuff that makes ship life memorable.
After reading the article, the most fun is perhaps had in analyzing the illustration of a cut-away view of a ship, with all the article’s stories therein. My personal favorite is the captain at the top holding out a pair of underwear. I am reminded of the captain of Carnival Conquest, an old Italian fellow, who had a low-ranking officer invite various female crew to his cabin for a conversation about ‘possible advancement’, or whatever other excuse could be had. This one I know all about, because my girlfriend earned some enmity by declining.
Let’s see what else is in the illustration…
Dead body in the freezer? Check.
Sailor smoking a cigarette on the anchor chain? Check.
Hog’s head on a hot plate, gay at sea couple kissing? Check. Check.
Beer pong and beer bongs? Sorry.
Nope, no hookahs or boxing either.
Chef urinating in the soup? What, is this Fight Club?
And everywhere threesomes? You wish.
The stories are growing more prolific about the licentious lives of the crew, and it was only a matter of time that a magazine that is really a Milkbone for Men (that is, Maxim) takes a peek below the waterline (a la Cruise Confidential). This is not surprising. Since Cruise Confidential was released last year, it has since won two national humor awards and is spawning a plethora of knock-offs. Maxim has the most fun with it, thus far.
Maxim’s November 2009 issue has an article, Wet & Wild, that takes a vivid, if glancing, look at the craziness of being a crewmember on a modern cruise ship. Considering the demographic of the magazine, it is not surprising that it pumps up the crew’s constant boozing and international sex-scapades. No less than three references to ‘threesomes’ come in a mere three pages, and each paragraph is saturated with alcohol. In a further effort to sensationalize the whole cruising experience, the article blends in the surprising side of ship-board mechanics. Surprising only for those who have never bothered to think about it. Case in point: dead bodies are stored in a walk-in freezer. Sounds intriguing but, really, what other method would you suggest?
Still, after living at sea four years and writing the authoritative book about the subject, I can honestly attest that 90% of the stuff is, if sensationalized, nonetheless true. Shall we take a peek?
True: passengers are not allowed in the crew bar, which is a dark, smoky sensual-naughty-fantastic place.
True: passengers are referred to as ‘animals’ by the crew.
True: crew members drink themselves sick and screw everything that moves (barring ‘animals’).
The article continues to grab at all the stuff people wonder in passing: what about falling overboard, what about rapes, what about murders? Do the cruise lines really cover them up? What about pirates and sinkings? All hurled at the reader with shocking suddenness and only a passing reference to how you really don’t need to worry about any of it.
The article has many little tidbits that are worth reading. We learn how hearing “Hey, Baby” 1,000 times a day will make you crazy. We learn of the guys who are fired for cooking in their cabin: an entire pig’s head roasting painfully slow over a hot-plate. We learn of the Pacific Islanders who are ‘gay at sea’ but have families back home. This is the stuff that makes ship life memorable.
After reading the article, the most fun is perhaps had in analyzing the illustration of a cut-away view of a ship, with all the article’s stories therein. My personal favorite is the captain at the top holding out a pair of underwear. I am reminded of the captain of Carnival Conquest, an old Italian fellow, who had a low-ranking officer invite various female crew to his cabin for a conversation about ‘possible advancement’, or whatever other excuse could be had. This one I know all about, because my girlfriend earned some enmity by declining.
Let’s see what else is in the illustration…
Dead body in the freezer? Check.
Sailor smoking a cigarette on the anchor chain? Check.
Hog’s head on a hot plate, gay at sea couple kissing? Check. Check.
Beer pong and beer bongs? Sorry.
Nope, no hookahs or boxing either.
Chef urinating in the soup? What, is this Fight Club?
And everywhere threesomes? You wish.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Cruise Confidential's first knock-off
Jeez, I come back from vacation and find someone ripped off my entire book! They say imitation is the highest form of flattery. Well, I certainly hope so. True, my book has been out a year now, so that's enough time for a knock-off at half the length of mine. All griping aside, I hope he does well. Anyone who survives being a waiter on the high seas deserves some cred. Certainly I applaud anyone with the perseverance to write a book-length manuscript and self-publish. No doubt this book will corroborate some of the outrageous events narrated in my book. (For the record, please note that not a single cruise line crew member has ever, ever disagreed with a single item I wrote of). Further, there is obviously a lot of interest out there about this subject. My book, Cruise Confidential (Traveler's Tales, 2008) is now in its third printing.
But really, Mr. Spencer... Cruiseline Confidential? Talk about cheeky.
Here's the blurb he wrote about his own book:
Want to know what really happens behind the door marked 'Private - crew members only'
What do the crew get up to when they are off duty?
What do they get up to when they are ON duty?
What do they get up to with the passengers?
How do they 'earn' their tips?
For the first time it is all in print.
The memoirs the cruise companies didn't want you to see!!!
It is the personal memoir of my time working as a waiter on the S/S Oceanic which sailed from Cape Canaveral to The Bahamas. The waiters were the 'Kings' of the cruise ship. They worked hard, partied hardest, ate the best food, gambled the most, had the most sex and unlike rock stars we never took a day off to recover. Rehab for us was the next party! The best thing was the passengers never suspected a thing and they loved us!!!!!!
Sound familiar? For any so inclined, you can find it on Lulu.com.
But really, Mr. Spencer... Cruiseline Confidential? Talk about cheeky.
Here's the blurb he wrote about his own book:
Want to know what really happens behind the door marked 'Private - crew members only'
What do the crew get up to when they are off duty?
What do they get up to when they are ON duty?
What do they get up to with the passengers?
How do they 'earn' their tips?
For the first time it is all in print.
The memoirs the cruise companies didn't want you to see!!!
It is the personal memoir of my time working as a waiter on the S/S Oceanic which sailed from Cape Canaveral to The Bahamas. The waiters were the 'Kings' of the cruise ship. They worked hard, partied hardest, ate the best food, gambled the most, had the most sex and unlike rock stars we never took a day off to recover. Rehab for us was the next party! The best thing was the passengers never suspected a thing and they loved us!!!!!!
Sound familiar? For any so inclined, you can find it on Lulu.com.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Cigars on Mt. Whitney
Because I am busy writing my next book on life at sea, I have had little time for writing blogs. This has also been a period of many long weekends with my wife, hiking and climbing and exploring the Mt. Charleston area around Vegas and trips into the slot canyons of Zion, among others. To top it off we will be vacationing in New Orleans through the first week of October. So I thought I would backtrack and offer up a little bloggish tale I wrote immediately upon my return from ships. This was when I had just decided to return to Reno, Nevada and pick up the pieces of land life (which is not easy, as any sailor will tell you). So the little story below was written about three years ago. It is still very bloggish: not polished at all, but a fun little bit of reading.
Terrified that I would not have any more adventures once I returned to land, I immediately set out for something great, something noble. Something stupid. I wanted to climb Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the United States (outside of Alaska, anyway). It’s a whopping 14,497 feet (4419 meters) and takes a whopping 24 miles (39 km) to reach the summit and back. It is nothing but freezing, wind-swept granite blocks the whole way. Perfect!
Crazy moves like this require crazy companions, and I had just the right one in mind. I called my friend Gunne (pronounced Goo-na) and asked if he would like to go. He’s from Norway, if you don’t recall. That means he’s a tough as nails and a little crazy. He said, “We’ll make a day trip out of it!” A man after my own heart.
My preparations for climbing this superlative mountain were simple: moving to Nevada and standing in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for my car registration. I didn’t have time for anything else. I took a short jog two days out and encountered my first slight problem: I thought I was going to die. My throat locked up on me, probably from the altitude adjustment, and I had to walk the whole way. I was a wreck the remainder of the day, I could hardly move. That was only a five-minute run!
Now, you all know I have absolutely no modesty, false or otherwise. I truly feared I was not ready. I slept only 4 hours that night. I gathered all my gear and met up with Gunne at 11AM. Bless his wife for making sandwiches, because Gunne and I are very similar in our thoughts: we just brought a little granola and some Gatorade. Then came a five-hour drive through some of the prettiest country America has to offer. We pass near Mono Lake, Yosemite National Park, Mammoth Lakes, and all that good stuff. We even passed a prison camp where America locked up the Japanese citizens in WWII (now we just send them to Cuba). Then we were in Lone Pine, the tiny town at the portal of the greatest mountain in America.
We stopped at the Ranger Station to pick up our permits from the Department of Natural Resources (DNR). The two rangers there had a striking resemblance to Vikings. Now, I have been to all four Scandinavian countries and have seen reminders of their glorious war-mongering past in much of the youth: long, full beards tied up in all sorts of unique manners, facial-piercing, and a generally tough appearance. These guys would have looked quite natural carrying a battle ax instead of an iPod.
“Gun?” the DNR guy asked. I blinked in surprise.
“No, I don’t have a gun! Why would I want a permit for a gun? I’m a metrosexual.”
But Gunne was already talking to the guy, and I realized he just didn’t know how to properly pronounce his name.
With time to kill, we discovered a small saloon in Lone Pine called Jake’s. We sat at the end of the bar and prepared for our arduous task by hammering down three pints. A local gravitated towards us and struck up a conversation. When the next round of beers came, he raised his glass and said, “Skol!”
I blinked in surprise.
“No, I don’t have any Skol! Do I look like I chew tobacco? I’m a metrosexual.”
“That’s Norwegian,” Gunne explained. “It means cheers. He obviously recognized my accent.”
Turns out that in tiny Lone Pine, this guy was born of Norwegian parents and had visited Norway dozens of times. Small world! We then drove up the snaking road to the Whitney Portal. It’s good the road curved so much, because we were not able to drive straight anyway. We passed Alabama Hills, which were the ugliest pile of broken rock you had ever seen, then entered some nice pine forest. There we found a little restaurant next to the trailhead.
We had a burger and listened to the groans and complaints of all those who came off the mountain. It was Sunday, so it was a busy day. Joints would creak when people sat down, exhausted. As I munched on French Fries a handsome, young, Asian ex-Marine next to us narrated his story, “… those last 1,000 miles were awful! I didn’t think I could do it.”
“You said miles,” I commented, “you meant feet.”
“Nah, it felt like miles to me.”
“Are you one of those idiots who did the whole thing in one day?” someone asked.
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have. Thank God I don’t have to drive home. That would be stupid.”
Great. We pounded a few more beers as a sensible precaution, then climbed into Gunne’s car for a few hours of rest. Gunne fell asleep instantly at 9:15 PM. I lay in my sleeping bag and worried about the next day. I looked at my watch: 10:15. Then 11:15. I rolled over and saw it was 12:15. I finally fell asleep at 1:15 AM.
Then comes 2 AM… rise and shine! It was brisk outside, but not too cold. There was no moon that night, and it was black as pitch. We assembled our gear and were on the trail by 2:30. You could see a few points of light pierce the darkness above from those few who rose earlier. We already had discussed plans in case one of us couldn’t make it. Gunne was worried that his injury might prevent his achieving the top (though he’s made the summit before). He had injured his ribs pretty badly. While I said nothing, I was positive I would not be able to handle the altitude.
Hours crawled by as slowly as we crawled over the rocks. The stars were amazing out there on the mountaintop. We solved all the world’s problems. I was always curious to hear his point of view on America’s dealing with the world because he is from Norway and his wife is from Iran. I find it refreshing when people don’t differentiate Republicans from Democrats because such distinctions are irrelevant once outside our borders. Finally, after several hours, the sun came up.
We were in a sea of broken granite blocks. As far as you could see they were piled up in mounds big and small. The trail beneath us was phenomenally well groomed. I couldn’t believe it: all these blocks of a million sizes and shapes had been pieced together like a puzzle to create a neatly paved walk. A short wall neatly embraced the sides. As we labored higher and turned on switchbacks, the walls rose as well, the rocks all fitting snug and tight.
Gunne explained that in the 1930’s, when America was going through its Great Depression, the president ordered this job done. That president, Franklin Roosevelt, was a very smart man: when morale was low and jobs scarce, he did all the great projects of the west: the Golden Gate Bridge, the Hoover Dam, and the Royal Gorge Bridge, to name a few. The amount of labor required for this well-groomed trail all the way to the top just amazed me.
The solar toilets on the trail, numbering only two, were both too full and closed down. This was fine with me, because I had no idea what a solar toilet was. We passed the last one at 12,000 feet (3658 meters) and began the arduous 99 switchbacks. As the sun rose behind us, we would labor our way to the right for a while up the steep incline, then switch over and go back to the left. This continued for almost two hours. Then, finally, you see the backside of the mountain. It was awesome.
Hidden behind the great, serrated peak of Whitney is a deep valley with a frigid blue-green lake in the middle. As far as the eye can see, there are granite jumbles of rock in piles thousands of feet high. No green, only granite of gray and red. Cameras were out instantly. I noticed I was feeling really good, and figured we weren’t up too high. Then we saw a sign that read 13,600 feet (4145 meters). I couldn’t believe it! I started babbling about how I felt like a million bucks. I felt great: no headaches, and I had energy to last days. If Gunne was annoyed by my blathering (as most people usually are) he said nothing.
One of the hard things about Whitney is that you reach such a high altitude so fast… and have to remain there for so long. Many mountains it’s a hard, intense push straight up. Not so, with Whitney. You have miles to labor at high elevation, going horizontally over the sharp peaks. It’s like walking along the top of a giant saw.
And then we made it. I felt great, and pulled a little ahead of Gunne. Considering I am 17 years younger, I should have been a LOT ahead of him, but such is the stuff of Gunne. There is a small stone hut up there and these large slabs of granite ideal for laying on and basking the sun. The view? Well, it was magnificent. The mountain is actually 14,497 feet high, so if you stand up you top 14,500. That’s a lot easier to say, at least. There were about 8 or 10 people there relaxing. People were taking photos, patting each other on the back, and swapping stories of other climbs they have known.
And what was I doing? Why, smoking a cigar, of course. And to think airplanes pressurize the cabins at a pitiful 8,000 feet! Ha! They don’t call me LungBruns for nothing.
“Keep that thing downwind from me,” I heard someone call, “I already can’t get enough air to breath up here!”
The weather was unbelievably fine: hardly a breeze and sunny and clear. Gunne was actually only a minute or so behind me, and we relaxed and munched on sandwiches and drank Gatorade for a bit. We had both been popping aspirin along the way, which surely must account for our lack of problems. Though a slight headache was starting on us both.
And then it was time to head back. We had 12 more miles to go (19km), after all, and a five-hour drive to boot! On the way down we passed many, many people struggling on their way up. You immediately could tell who would make it and who wouldn’t. A funny thing happened on the way back: we were of course going downhill most of the way, right? Well, near the 99 switchbacks there is about a quarter-mile ascent. I swear we took only three steps up and were so tired we could hardly move. It’s ironic, we both had to stop and catch our breath on the way back… after about two miles BACK from the top!
We did not run down as fast as we had anticipated, but we made good time. My headache blossomed only after we dropped down to about 12,000 feet and would not go away. Hours later we reentered the pine forest and appreciated the magnificent views for the first time. We had passed all the really pretty stuff in the dark. Our feet got tired near the end, but we both felt great. Of course, then there was the five hour drive home. I think the hardest part of all was stepping out of the car after those long, cramped hours… our legs had stiffened up tremendously. Gunne was a Hell of a trooper: he drove the whole way home. I, of course, entertained him with my countless stories and histories that could hardly fail to interest anyone. Poor, poor Gunne. Can you believe we were home by 9:30 PM?
All in all, I was expecting the hardest physical challenge of my life. It turned out to be so easy that I had to actually force myself to shut up most of the day. But I felt so good! And we all know how hard it is to quiet me down. I woke up early the next morning and lifted weights.
Gunne commented several times on how this was harder than climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa, because that climb is split over several days (it’s just shy of 6,000 meters). Hell, where’s my passport?
Terrified that I would not have any more adventures once I returned to land, I immediately set out for something great, something noble. Something stupid. I wanted to climb Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the United States (outside of Alaska, anyway). It’s a whopping 14,497 feet (4419 meters) and takes a whopping 24 miles (39 km) to reach the summit and back. It is nothing but freezing, wind-swept granite blocks the whole way. Perfect!
Crazy moves like this require crazy companions, and I had just the right one in mind. I called my friend Gunne (pronounced Goo-na) and asked if he would like to go. He’s from Norway, if you don’t recall. That means he’s a tough as nails and a little crazy. He said, “We’ll make a day trip out of it!” A man after my own heart.
My preparations for climbing this superlative mountain were simple: moving to Nevada and standing in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for my car registration. I didn’t have time for anything else. I took a short jog two days out and encountered my first slight problem: I thought I was going to die. My throat locked up on me, probably from the altitude adjustment, and I had to walk the whole way. I was a wreck the remainder of the day, I could hardly move. That was only a five-minute run!
Now, you all know I have absolutely no modesty, false or otherwise. I truly feared I was not ready. I slept only 4 hours that night. I gathered all my gear and met up with Gunne at 11AM. Bless his wife for making sandwiches, because Gunne and I are very similar in our thoughts: we just brought a little granola and some Gatorade. Then came a five-hour drive through some of the prettiest country America has to offer. We pass near Mono Lake, Yosemite National Park, Mammoth Lakes, and all that good stuff. We even passed a prison camp where America locked up the Japanese citizens in WWII (now we just send them to Cuba). Then we were in Lone Pine, the tiny town at the portal of the greatest mountain in America.
We stopped at the Ranger Station to pick up our permits from the Department of Natural Resources (DNR). The two rangers there had a striking resemblance to Vikings. Now, I have been to all four Scandinavian countries and have seen reminders of their glorious war-mongering past in much of the youth: long, full beards tied up in all sorts of unique manners, facial-piercing, and a generally tough appearance. These guys would have looked quite natural carrying a battle ax instead of an iPod.
“Gun?” the DNR guy asked. I blinked in surprise.
“No, I don’t have a gun! Why would I want a permit for a gun? I’m a metrosexual.”
But Gunne was already talking to the guy, and I realized he just didn’t know how to properly pronounce his name.
With time to kill, we discovered a small saloon in Lone Pine called Jake’s. We sat at the end of the bar and prepared for our arduous task by hammering down three pints. A local gravitated towards us and struck up a conversation. When the next round of beers came, he raised his glass and said, “Skol!”
I blinked in surprise.
“No, I don’t have any Skol! Do I look like I chew tobacco? I’m a metrosexual.”
“That’s Norwegian,” Gunne explained. “It means cheers. He obviously recognized my accent.”
Turns out that in tiny Lone Pine, this guy was born of Norwegian parents and had visited Norway dozens of times. Small world! We then drove up the snaking road to the Whitney Portal. It’s good the road curved so much, because we were not able to drive straight anyway. We passed Alabama Hills, which were the ugliest pile of broken rock you had ever seen, then entered some nice pine forest. There we found a little restaurant next to the trailhead.
We had a burger and listened to the groans and complaints of all those who came off the mountain. It was Sunday, so it was a busy day. Joints would creak when people sat down, exhausted. As I munched on French Fries a handsome, young, Asian ex-Marine next to us narrated his story, “… those last 1,000 miles were awful! I didn’t think I could do it.”
“You said miles,” I commented, “you meant feet.”
“Nah, it felt like miles to me.”
“Are you one of those idiots who did the whole thing in one day?” someone asked.
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have. Thank God I don’t have to drive home. That would be stupid.”
Great. We pounded a few more beers as a sensible precaution, then climbed into Gunne’s car for a few hours of rest. Gunne fell asleep instantly at 9:15 PM. I lay in my sleeping bag and worried about the next day. I looked at my watch: 10:15. Then 11:15. I rolled over and saw it was 12:15. I finally fell asleep at 1:15 AM.
Then comes 2 AM… rise and shine! It was brisk outside, but not too cold. There was no moon that night, and it was black as pitch. We assembled our gear and were on the trail by 2:30. You could see a few points of light pierce the darkness above from those few who rose earlier. We already had discussed plans in case one of us couldn’t make it. Gunne was worried that his injury might prevent his achieving the top (though he’s made the summit before). He had injured his ribs pretty badly. While I said nothing, I was positive I would not be able to handle the altitude.
Hours crawled by as slowly as we crawled over the rocks. The stars were amazing out there on the mountaintop. We solved all the world’s problems. I was always curious to hear his point of view on America’s dealing with the world because he is from Norway and his wife is from Iran. I find it refreshing when people don’t differentiate Republicans from Democrats because such distinctions are irrelevant once outside our borders. Finally, after several hours, the sun came up.
We were in a sea of broken granite blocks. As far as you could see they were piled up in mounds big and small. The trail beneath us was phenomenally well groomed. I couldn’t believe it: all these blocks of a million sizes and shapes had been pieced together like a puzzle to create a neatly paved walk. A short wall neatly embraced the sides. As we labored higher and turned on switchbacks, the walls rose as well, the rocks all fitting snug and tight.
Gunne explained that in the 1930’s, when America was going through its Great Depression, the president ordered this job done. That president, Franklin Roosevelt, was a very smart man: when morale was low and jobs scarce, he did all the great projects of the west: the Golden Gate Bridge, the Hoover Dam, and the Royal Gorge Bridge, to name a few. The amount of labor required for this well-groomed trail all the way to the top just amazed me.
The solar toilets on the trail, numbering only two, were both too full and closed down. This was fine with me, because I had no idea what a solar toilet was. We passed the last one at 12,000 feet (3658 meters) and began the arduous 99 switchbacks. As the sun rose behind us, we would labor our way to the right for a while up the steep incline, then switch over and go back to the left. This continued for almost two hours. Then, finally, you see the backside of the mountain. It was awesome.
Hidden behind the great, serrated peak of Whitney is a deep valley with a frigid blue-green lake in the middle. As far as the eye can see, there are granite jumbles of rock in piles thousands of feet high. No green, only granite of gray and red. Cameras were out instantly. I noticed I was feeling really good, and figured we weren’t up too high. Then we saw a sign that read 13,600 feet (4145 meters). I couldn’t believe it! I started babbling about how I felt like a million bucks. I felt great: no headaches, and I had energy to last days. If Gunne was annoyed by my blathering (as most people usually are) he said nothing.
One of the hard things about Whitney is that you reach such a high altitude so fast… and have to remain there for so long. Many mountains it’s a hard, intense push straight up. Not so, with Whitney. You have miles to labor at high elevation, going horizontally over the sharp peaks. It’s like walking along the top of a giant saw.
And then we made it. I felt great, and pulled a little ahead of Gunne. Considering I am 17 years younger, I should have been a LOT ahead of him, but such is the stuff of Gunne. There is a small stone hut up there and these large slabs of granite ideal for laying on and basking the sun. The view? Well, it was magnificent. The mountain is actually 14,497 feet high, so if you stand up you top 14,500. That’s a lot easier to say, at least. There were about 8 or 10 people there relaxing. People were taking photos, patting each other on the back, and swapping stories of other climbs they have known.
And what was I doing? Why, smoking a cigar, of course. And to think airplanes pressurize the cabins at a pitiful 8,000 feet! Ha! They don’t call me LungBruns for nothing.
“Keep that thing downwind from me,” I heard someone call, “I already can’t get enough air to breath up here!”
The weather was unbelievably fine: hardly a breeze and sunny and clear. Gunne was actually only a minute or so behind me, and we relaxed and munched on sandwiches and drank Gatorade for a bit. We had both been popping aspirin along the way, which surely must account for our lack of problems. Though a slight headache was starting on us both.
And then it was time to head back. We had 12 more miles to go (19km), after all, and a five-hour drive to boot! On the way down we passed many, many people struggling on their way up. You immediately could tell who would make it and who wouldn’t. A funny thing happened on the way back: we were of course going downhill most of the way, right? Well, near the 99 switchbacks there is about a quarter-mile ascent. I swear we took only three steps up and were so tired we could hardly move. It’s ironic, we both had to stop and catch our breath on the way back… after about two miles BACK from the top!
We did not run down as fast as we had anticipated, but we made good time. My headache blossomed only after we dropped down to about 12,000 feet and would not go away. Hours later we reentered the pine forest and appreciated the magnificent views for the first time. We had passed all the really pretty stuff in the dark. Our feet got tired near the end, but we both felt great. Of course, then there was the five hour drive home. I think the hardest part of all was stepping out of the car after those long, cramped hours… our legs had stiffened up tremendously. Gunne was a Hell of a trooper: he drove the whole way home. I, of course, entertained him with my countless stories and histories that could hardly fail to interest anyone. Poor, poor Gunne. Can you believe we were home by 9:30 PM?
All in all, I was expecting the hardest physical challenge of my life. It turned out to be so easy that I had to actually force myself to shut up most of the day. But I felt so good! And we all know how hard it is to quiet me down. I woke up early the next morning and lifted weights.
Gunne commented several times on how this was harder than climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa, because that climb is split over several days (it’s just shy of 6,000 meters). Hell, where’s my passport?
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Frommer's interviews author of Cruise Confidential
The travel gurus at Frommer's are interviewing the author of Cruise Confidential!
Pauline Frommer chatted with me on Thursday, Sept. 10th for her Travel Show on Sunday, Sept. 13th.
An excerpt of Arthur Frommer's blog is below:
[Bruns'] recently-published book is Cruise Confidential: A Hit Below the Waterline (Travelers' Tales), and it has caused quite a sensation in some travel circles. Pauline interviews him this coming Sunday at the start of the first hour of our "Travel Show" on the WOR Radio Network, five minutes past noon, New York time. If you're not in listening range of the 110-some-odd stations across the country that now carry the broadcast, you can hear it live at www.wor710.com, and you can hear the same program later either on the WOR website or as a podcast.
Pauline Frommer chatted with me on Thursday, Sept. 10th for her Travel Show on Sunday, Sept. 13th.
An excerpt of Arthur Frommer's blog is below:
[Bruns'] recently-published book is Cruise Confidential: A Hit Below the Waterline (Travelers' Tales), and it has caused quite a sensation in some travel circles. Pauline interviews him this coming Sunday at the start of the first hour of our "Travel Show" on the WOR Radio Network, five minutes past noon, New York time. If you're not in listening range of the 110-some-odd stations across the country that now carry the broadcast, you can hear it live at www.wor710.com, and you can hear the same program later either on the WOR website or as a podcast.
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