Home Page Specials

Sydney, Australia

On the home page for recently revamped CruisePlanners1.com, there's a prominent slide show rotating through five images.  Clicking on any given image will bring up a related page.  One image is usually a featured weekly promotion, and if you visit the site often enough, you may begin to recognize the ones that are not that one. 

Before getting to that one, let me mention CP Vacations, which is currently one of the featured images and is also linked near the bottom of the home page.  While at first glance these won't knock you out as exceptional values, when you consider the inclusions like transfers, pre-cruise hotel stays and sometimes even air, they not only save you planning hassles but save you money on a seamless cruise vacation package.  Check them out to see if they work for your vacation plans.

While all of the information linked to the images is worth looking at once, the Weekly Travel Deals page is probably of most immediate interest to most people, as it sometimes contains exclusive offers from Cruise Planners which can be outstanding but must be booked within the stated time frame.  If that happens to include a cruise that works for you, this can be a great opportunity.  Other times, the featured promotions are for a handful of the many, many groups we have that may include special amenities or pricing.

Pearl Resort in Fiji

There's another section for Specials below the slide show.  It features three visible specials, and then you can use the navigation arrows to see more.  Clicking on these specials may bring up a page that confuses you, because I frequently see "Special CP Pricing!" that is higher than the lead rate just above it.  I think that is stupid too, but for whatever reason, that's how the corporate promotion office does it.  Sometimes, it is because that special price is for a higher category than interior, such as ocean view or balcony.  Other times, it is simply because that is the best rate in a held group that includes special amenities, and perhaps the reason for including the promotion was to hype the onboard credit.

What you should know is that for most "open" groups, I can actually get you the best currently available price and combine it with the group amenities.  However, to be clear, when groups get within about four months of the sail date, amenities may no longer be available, so it's good to lock them when you see them.

Just to confuse things further, the lead rates listed, which are the lowest nationally advertised rates being promoted by the cruise lines, may not be the lowest prices available.  When you call me or email me to find a cruise for you, I go through different rate codes to find the one that works best for your situation, and our new easy-to-use booking engine is designed to do that if you book it yourself online. 

Kaanapali Beach, Maui

So, to clarify, the "special" price may not be as low as the "lead rates" listed, and the lead rates may not be as low as the rates you may find if you book on our online search engine or call me.  Confused?

Well, rather than feeling confused, just consider yourself informed. .

However, among the Specials, sometimes I do post my hand-selected specials.  These are frequently flash promotions which are available for a day or two and then are gone, usually for a fast approaching embarkation date and after most passengers have made final payment.  These can be great values, if you can get the time off and necessary air isn't sky high by the time they're available.  Surprisingly, I sell very few of the flash promotions.  As I've said before, most people like the idea of a last minute deal, but few have calendars empty enough to take advantage when the time comes.

Bora Bora

I do occasionally see special deals for advance purchase, and I will occasionally put those into the Specials area.  However, you should know that the number of specials that I put online are minimal compared to the ones actually available, especially if you suddenly find yourself with vacation time scheduled just a few weeks away and no plans.  You should know that in peak seasons like summer and Christmas/New Year, the opporunities are considerably less, and as I said, if you wait until the last minute, even if the rate you dreamt of is available, your calendar will probably no longer accommodate you.

By the way, if you would like to receive weekly Travel Deals from us, simply subscribe with your email. 

Becoming Obsolete

Wes and Julie at the Parthenon in Athens.

Only a fool could ignore the emerging point-and-click retail world, and despite what my kids may believe, I am not a fool.

A recent New York Times article shows that even shoppers who physically go to retail stores increasingly prefer online help, even when live representatives are at their disposal.

Obviously, this portends the end of more American jobs which can be outsourced to remote servers in India or China.  As I learned as an Economics major in college, this is neither good nor bad.  It simply is.  Capitalism always reshapes itself to conform with consumer demand, and this is far preferable to dictators telling us what we want.

To that end, I am proud to introduce my fully revamped web site, still found at www.CruisePlanners1.com.  Moving with the times, we have invested tens of thousands of dollars to create the friendliest user interface for booking cruises anywhere, and I hope you take advantage of it the next time you choose to point-and-click to find a vacation.

Jay at Peterhof in Russia.

You'll recognize many of the icons and gadgets from my old site, but there are definitely changes that make it easier to navigate, plus some huge changes.  Most significantly, we now have a live booking engine for most cruise lines. 

Simply do your search based on month of travel, destination, cruise line, cruise length or whatever specifics you have in mind using "Find Your Cruise," and on the choices that pop onto the next screen, select "Book Online."  The rest is obvious.

Amy and Wes overlooking Magen's Bay in St. Thomas, USVI.

Of course, you don't have to book online immediately.  There's lots more information available which you can read by clicking "View Cruise."  It starts with a brief overview of the ship and itinerary.  Each port is hotlinked to give you more information about that specific stop under the initial tab, "Cruise."  Change the tab to "Ship," and you will find more information including room categories and deck plans.  There's also a tab for shore excursions through a third party vendor called "Shore Trips."  While they don't include all of the selections found through the cruise line, it will give you a good idea of what is available.  If you prefer Shore Trips rather than the cruise line excursions, you can book them at my site after you book your cruise.

If this sounds like too much self service, please know that there is also a tab to "Request Info," which will send your request to me so that I may personally help you.

Laszlo and Gina in Copenhagen.

Note that this is not the way everyone wants to shop, but I know there are some of you who prefer to do it yourself, at least to a point.  My wife, who lives with a travel agent, is one of you.  Shop to your heart's content, and buy on my site with confidence at www.CruisePlanners1.com, or contact me to book it for you.

I'll soon write about more of the features of my site, including great information found under our "Groups" tab, but I don't want to overwhelm you with information right now. 

Besides, the site is so intuitive, you can explore it on your own easier than finding a crowd in an Apple store in an othewise empty mall.

Allow me to add that if you would like to know about other alternatives that perhaps you had not considered and which might meet your needs better than your first choice, I'm still around.  Or if you have trouble sorting through the increasingly confusing range of categories, call me.  Better service leads to better trips!

The Red Dirt Web

Wes and Dad at Weirick Lakes in Corona in 1975

I was introduced to the term self-fulfilling prophecy in psychology and management courses in college.  I remember wondering how something so obvious could possibly be a subject of study.  Perhaps I believed everyone already recognized the obvious reality of self-fulfilling prophecy due to the fact that my wonderful dad regularly listened to the motivational records of Earl Nightingale, sometimes convincing me to listen with him, but not everyone seems to understand that thoughts have power.



Accepting that concept, it isn’t hard to understand how the optimistic GIs --- returning from winning World War II against what  at one time seemed to be an unbeatable foe --- dramatically transformed our country from the malaise of a Great Depression mentality into the most prosperous and happy of home lands in history.

According to a New York Times article today, "In 1952, 87 percent of Americans thought there was plenty of opportunity for progress; only 8 percent disagreed." With a mindset like that, is it any wonder that the United States bloomed when they returned home?

Self-fulfilling prophecy, however, can also work negatively.  According to the same New York Times article, a current survey found "41 percent said that there was not much opportunity in America, up from 17 percent in 1998."

Darlene & Cousin Reba by grandparent's farmhouse, 1963

If you read the entire article, you’ll see the theme is that the gap between rich and poor has widened to an unacceptable level, but what I intuit from the same statistics is the invisible hand of self-fulfilling prophecy.

On facebook, I frequently encounter people who support Occupy Wall Street and similar causes, believing the deck is stacked against them despite the fact that they are far more educated and, as evidenced by the fact that they are using laptops and smart phones to access their facebook pages, have far greater access to technology and essentially all knowledge of the world at their fingertips.  Why should the GIs at the end of WWII, most of whom had at most high school diplomas, have possibly been so much more optimistic?

At the risk of stating the obvious, those returning veterans had accomplished something major.  They had self-esteem based on their accomplishments, not because of some new theory of soccer games where no one has to lose so no one's feelings are hurt. Opportunity, however, still awaits those prepared to work for it, just as it did 100 years ago.

77 year-old Granddaddy loading cattle into his truck in 1976.

Long before Craig’s List, my grandfather was out wheeling and dealing on the backroads of Alabama.  That wasn’t his only job.  He was also the school bus driver and mailman in his small rural community.  On our recent trip to Alabama, my mother’s sister Ann told me that Granddaddy also worked for the movies, counting heads at any given showing for proper revenue distribution and accounting.  She said he would take her to see the movies on Saturday while he did his job.  Because she is nine years younger than Mom, she had a different experience of her parents, and my mother never mentioned this theater job, probably because by that time she was married to my dad and following her own path.   

Granddaddy was also a farmer.  As we drove through Notasulga, where his farm was located, Aunt Ann and her husband Roy told us a story we’d never heard about his first crop. 

Flashing back to my childhood, I’d go with Granddaddy to Carmack’s store, a virtual monopoly in Notasulga, to buy Blackburn’s Syrup and a few other niceties my grandparents hadn’t either grown or bartered for, and the man working the register was respectfully called Mr. Carmack by my Granddaddy, who was politely called Mr. Strickland in return.  I would never guess there had been any bad blood between Mr.Carmack’s father and my grandparents.

Mom and Aunt Ann in 1976

Getting back to Aunt Ann’s story, at the beginning of the last century, long before I was born, Mr. Carmack was a rich man, or at least he owned a lot of that rolling red dirt covered with trees in rural Alabama. Granddaddy went to Old Man Carmack and cut a deal to buy a piece of land, having decided to become a farmer rather than following in the professional footsteps of his father, Reverend J.H.T. Strickland, whose grave we saw near those of my grandparents on a hill by the church in Notasulga.

Mr. Carmack agreed to sell Granddaddy enough farmland to make a go of it, in exchange for being paid a fair purchase price when the crop came in.  There was an old house on that acreage where he and Grandmother could live.  In California, of course, we’re accustomed to spending thirty years paying for a house on a postage stamp lot, so it sounds like an incredible deal: one year of work for a house and acres of land.

I should say that the house was primitive.  It didn’t have running water, requiring the use of a hand pump to bring well water to a bucket that could then be sipped from a dipper, or heated on the wood burning stove to cook or fill a wash tub on the porch for bathing or washing clothes.  Yes, there was an outhouse instead of a bathroom.  Something Aunt Ann told me that I didn’t know was that they didn’t get electricity (and it was quite rudimentary electricity even when I would go in summer as a child) until 1937.  Believe it or not, my mother was born in that house (yes, in the actual house) without electricity or running water.  It’s kind of mind-boggling to consider how far we have come as a country in terms of how we define poverty when you consider that my mom never felt poor.

Anyway, back to the story, my grandparents worked hard, clearing the land, planting crops, working long hours that started before day break.  Back breaking work, every waking hour of every day but the Lord’s day of rest, went into preparing the soil and sowing the fields.  As harvest approached, word got out that they would have a bumper crop.  Not only would they be able to pay the mortgage, but they would have enough to carry them forward to the next crop.

Old Man Cormack called their note in before they could bring in the harvest.  Granddaddy couldn’t believe it.  They had a handshake deal for the payment to be made at harvest, but apparently the contract’s fine print stated something else.

Notasulga former bank or post office building

Granddaddy was a good man, and everyone knew it.  With hat in hand, he went to the Bank of Notasulga.  The bank president, Mr. A.B. Hope, weighed the young man’s character as he listened to his story.  He agreed to loan Granddaddy the money, and he added, “If you ever need a loan to make ends meet, come and see me again.”  They brought in the harvest and the rest, as they say, is history.

Granddaddy made a go of it, working several jobs at the same time to be sure he had enough to feed and clothe his family, and he also paid that financial favor forward. 

He made small loans to others, white or black, to help them through tough times, even though most of us today wouldn’t have felt we had enough of a security blanket in savings to take such risks were we in his shoes.

As I said earlier, he bought and sold goods, everything from guns to livestock, as he would drive down the backroads in his truck.  As a child, I remember black people coming up the red dirt driveway to either buy dolls Grandmother made or to talk to Granddaddy.  For someone raised in Westminster, California, where I never knew any black people, this was memorable, especially as contrasted with what I heard in school about race relations in the south.  It turns out Granddaddy was sort of Craig's List for a lot of African Americans, who knew he could get their goods to the broader market and give them a fair price. 

Cousin Steve and Wes in 1976

My Uncle Roy became a sort of protégé, as did his son Steve, who is out there in his Jeep Commander still wheeling and dealing.  Like Granddaddy, Steve wears many hats.  A cop who retired after 32 years of service, he now runs a detective agency with a partner, works part time as a federal agent and does some security work.  He’s too busy working to worry if Warren Buffet or Bill Gates are getting more than their fair share, and like other hard working people, his smiling disposition says he’s happy to be alive.  By the way, my trip to Alabama and subsequently down memory lane came on the fourth anniversary of my mother's transition to heaven, an event that was sad for us but happy for heaven.

Personal Reflections On Alabama

Wes and Angie at Children's Chapel by Lake Martin

My cousin Angie reminds me of my mother.  I can’t think of higher praise.  She’s always sweet and welcoming in the best ways.  Her home has lots of thoughtful touches to make it as comfortable as it is beautiful, and as such is an extension of her.  I don’t know why the similarity never occurred to me before this last trip.  The twinkle in her brown eyes and her warm smile say it all.

Making that connection suddenly helped me visualize Mom as a young girl, because when I was a little boy, I saw Angie as my favorite cousin Steve’s baby sister.  Angie is blonde, and my mother as a little girl had curly brown hair like Shirley Temple, but I can now imagine little Mary pleading “Quee-it” when her brother Edwin pestered her. 

On this visit, Angie has reached the stage of life where she has two sons in college.  It’s hard to believe my baby cousin’s children can be grown men.   Like my mother at that stage, she is a single mom.

Granddaddy and Grandmother about 1965

The biggest mistake of my dad’s life was divorcing my mother immediately after I graduated from high school.  They had almost broken up a couple of times previously, and in looking at old photos from about the period of a reconciliation where my grandparents came to visit.  In Granddaddy’s eyes, I can see anger at Dad (the photographer) for putting Mom through what he had, a look that says, “I’m not impressed by you or the modern age when leaving your family is okay.”  I don’t otherwise remember that look flashing through his cheerful face.

Make no mistake, my dad was a wonderful father and provider.  I really don’t know how he made Darlene and I always feel so secure when his occupation was hair dresser, which has always been a highly competitive field with lots of ups and downs.  He had the disposition of a highly successful man, and when neighbors in totally unrelated fields lost jobs, they would come to him for advice.  He was a very good man in almost every way, including bringing people who were down on their luck home for a meal or giving them a spot in our guest room for weeks or even months at a time.

He was not, however, monogamously inclined.  His divorcing Mom was not simply a matter of losing a wonderful life partner, but also of missed financial gain.  He dissipated much of his energy and earnings on short marriages to less suitable partners, whereas if he had just stayed the course with Mom, all his dreams would have unfolded.  For example, he had extensive aviaries in our backyard in Westminster, primarily because he loved birds in particular and all animals in general (yes, we had a cat, dog, parrot, tropical fish, hamsters, rabbits, turtles, rabbits, guinea pigs…).  But in the case of African peach-faced love birds, also as an investment.  On our frequent weekend trips to bird farms, he would discuss the fact that at some point the import of these birds would be banned, and the domestic stock would become quite valuable.  Shortly after their divorce, that law did indeed pass, but my dad had sold off all the birds before tearing down the aviaries in preparing for his departure.  The old story about Acres of Diamonds comes to mind, especially in terms of the diamond he had in my mother.

Darlene, Dad, Mom and Wes about 1963

My mother was always polite to him and even his string of new wives, because that the essence of who she was always came out, just as squeezing an orange will never yield anything toxic.  She said she never regretted her marriage or the time she had to be home with the kids, despite the fact that by the time she re-entered the work world, she found herself relegated to menial positions below her considerable intelligence and ability.

Angie, on the other hand, has been divorced for many years already, and with her mom and dad helping with things like getting the kids to and from school, she has been able to maintain a successful career.  I don’t know what happened to break them up, but Angie seems to have dealt with it effectively.  She still lives up the dirt driveway from her in laws, with whom she apparently does not have a strained relationship, although their hound dogs barking at and darting in front of cars that come up the driveway may aggravate some visitors.  More importantly, both her sons are wonderful young men.  Jonathan, a mechanical engineering major, has worked summers for Chevron on the Gulf Coast, and he already sees a future where he possibly goes to a remote location like Siberia to work a month, returning home to a little auto shop where he can work on the side.  Zachary is a sophomore, and while he has a part time job as well as full time studies, he’s still focused on those wonderful years of being a college student.  They’ll both do well, and I wish I had done more to make my mother proud.

While they live in what even cousin Donald calls the backwoods, they’ve got  all the modern conveniences including iPhones.  Angie’s sons have trained her well, because when a tornado was tearing through Huntsville on the evening our plane would be arriving, I received a text from Angie to see if we were alright.  Just like California or East Coast kids, messaging seems to be the preferred mode of communication for Auburn University students.  To paraphrase the funny Virgin Mobile commercial says, only a visionary like Richard Branson would have the foresight to know that in the future we would talk with our thumbs. 

Alabama For Your Golf Vacation?

Harry, Wes, Mary, J.E. and Alma, about 1963, on the farm.

To arrive at a just estimate of a renowned man's character
  one must judge it by the standards of his time, not ours. 

 --- Mark Twain

Wes, Stanley, Darlene and Reba at Treadwell's yard.

Golf course view from our room.

When considering possible vacations, Alabama doesn’t come quickly to mind for most people.  In fact, negative stereotypes, so familiar that I need not even mention them, dominate opinions about this state to the point that many would just as soon dismiss it altogether.

Because my mother grew up in Alabama and most of her family remained there when we moved to California, we took many summer vacations there when I was a child.  By the time I was in high school, I felt a little embarrassed about being born in Alabama myself, because negative opinions already dominated discussions in school and on television.  And I felt that way despite knowing how wonderful it can be from personal experience.  Such is the power of peer and media pressure.

Julie and I returned to Alabama this past weekend, as a business trip to the south with her new company would bring her to Huntsville anyway.  I bought my own flight and tagged along, arriving a weekend early to drive down to Prattville on our own dime. 

Another view from Mariott room.

We stayed at the beautiful Montgomery Marriott Prattville Hotel and Conference Center at Capitol Hill.  Obviously, the name was not selected to roll off the tongue any more than the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim formerly known as the California Angels moniker.  However, at about $125 per night almost any time of year, it would be a super value in most parts of the world, especially when you consider it is located on a Robert Trent Jones designed Championship Golf Course, where golf runs about $46, considerably less than inferior public courses most other places.

Do the math, and you’ll soon realize this is a great value for serious golfers. 

Cousins at Fantail.

For meals, you don’t have to pay resort prices.  There are lots of restaurants nearby, including the familiar fast food chains and independents featuring fantastic local cuisine.  Anyone who has been to Alabama, or had a meal at my late Mom’s house in California, knows the fresh ingredients prepared by cooks who understand seasoning with love results in meals that are easily equal or superior to meals from more renowned culinary destinations like New Orleans and Paris.  We were fortunate to enjoy meals in the area that showcased some highlights of the local choices.

My cousin Angie met us by the highway and led us to her home in the woods, which involves turning at the correct trees rather than street signs.  She fed us barbeque superior to anything I ever tasted in Texas or anywhere else.  By the way, what we call barbeque in California is what the south calls grilling.  Barbecue is meat smoked for a day or so and then served with a sweet, spicy sauce.

Zachary, Uncle Roy and Aunt Ann.

For dinner, Aunt Ann and Uncle Roy beat the drum to bring in my cousins from all other necks of the woods to meet at the Fantail for a seafood buffet.  The thought of a buffet brings to mind somewhat bland food most places, but not in Alabama.  The fried freshwater catfish and hushpuppies were as fresh, crispy and delicious as the ones we had when I was a child and we caught and fried them up in an open kettle of peanut oil on the same afternoon.  The shrimp creole and stuffed crab measured up well with anything in New Orleans or San Francisco.  Deep fried oysters, popcorn shrimp, Alabama gumbo, buttery broiled fish fillets…it was all delicious.  The company was even better.

Aunt Ann, Donald and Steve.

Now I’m often accused of being quiet, but the same charge can’t be leveled against my country cousins. Their brand of self-deprecating humor might be misunderstood by a casual observer who wants to believe negative stereotypes.

 “We have a dope problem in Eclectic,” my cousin Donald said in the booming voice of someone who almost became a minister like our great-grandfather but instead went into his family’s fabric business.  “Most of us don’t have an IQ much above 60 or 70.” Now I know he, like my other cousins, is not simply college educated but has a quick wit and sharp business mind, but he comes off like Larry the Cable Guy. 

Wes and Julie at Lake Martin.

We had enough cousins to fill the banquet room, but someone in the main restaurant might have heard Donald shout, “At church that Sunday the preacher said, ‘We have to put it off a week so Donald can attend a Klan rally.’”  That raucously delivered punchline was true, but so was the more quiet explanation that he, as an avid gun collector, actually would be attending a well-known gun show in Birmingham, adhering to an equally strong but far less negative stereotype of guns and religion. 

I actually think they like being misunderstood.  It keeps the interlopers away and the buffet lines less crowded.

Steve, Michael, Wes and James by Grandparents' house.

After dinner, everyone headed home except my cousins Angie and Steve, who went back to our hotels to have drinks by the fire, where we swapped stories about when we were kids and Steve shared some adventures as a detective.  The stereotype of southerners is hard drinking rednecks, and I imagine there must be quite a few, but at dinner, we all drank iced tea, and at the bar, Angie had a water and Steve had another iced tea while Julie had a glass of wine and I had a Sam Adams.  Actually, I can’t recall seeing any of my relatives back there drink alcohol ever, although they make jokes about white lightening, and I’ve heard stories about my dad and Uncle Edwin honky tonkin’ around the time of Hank Williams, something Granddaddy made sure they knew he disapproved of.

Wes, Jay, Gina, Julie and Amy in Alabama, Summer 1992.

The next day, we headed to Lake Martin for lunch at Sinclair’s Kowaliga.  If you’re familiar with Hank Williams, you’ll know the song “Kaw-liga,” which is written about this area, but the restaurant most brings to mind the feel of an old Rodney Crowell song, “Stars on the Water,” even if the stars weren’t out when we dined at lunch time.  It is a rustic restaurant appropriately decorated with Hank Williams memorabilia beautiful setting. 


That day, they had a fried chicken special for $8.99, which came with two vegetables, mashed potatoes and corn bread.  Since that would have been my favorite meal when I was a child, I couldn’t resist ordering it, and the huge chicken breast was delicious.  The mashed potatoes couldn’t hold up to Mom’s, but this would be a nice day trip for your golf escape.

The Innocents Abroad

I finally finished my leisurely read of "The Innocents Abroad" by Mark Twain. It's available for free on Kindle and other e-readers, and in fact you can read it on your computer, if you like.

What I find most amazing is not the sentiments about travel, but the fact that 150 years later, so many of his sentiments reflect my own.

"It was worth a kingdom to be at sea again. It was a relief to drop all anxiety whatsoever—all questions as to where we should go; how long we should stay; whether it were worth while to go or not; all anxieties about the condition of the horses; all such questions as "Shall we ever get to water?" "Shall we ever lunch?" "Ferguson, how many more million miles have we got to creep under this awful sun before we camp?" It was a relief to cast all these torturing little anxieties far away—ropes of steel they were, and every one with a separate and distinct strain on it—and feel the temporary contentment that is born of the banishment of all care and responsibility. We did not look at the compass: we did not care, now, where the ship went to, so that she went out of sight of land as quickly as possible. When I travel again, I wish to go in a pleasure ship. No amount of money could have purchased for us, in a strange vessel and among unfamiliar faces, the perfect satisfaction and the sense of being at home again which we experienced when we stepped on board the "Quaker City,"—our own ship—after this wearisome pilgrimage. It is a something we have felt always when we returned to her, and a something we had no desire to sell."

As someone who sells cruises, I guess you could say I do have a desire to sell, but certainly not to sell my personal experiences any more than Mr. Twain. Of course, being Mark Twain, he includes lots of tongue-in-cheek humor, often lampooning the citizens of foreign lands and his fellow passengers.

In one such passage, his humor makes a good point about being on the right ship for you, as opposed to what might be right for someone else. He prefaced a newspaper article written immediately upon their return by saying he was surprised that some of his fellow passengers found it insulting, but he could not understand why.

Keep in mind that this is not the white haired man in a white suit you probably envision, but a man in his mid-twenties who in many ways was sort of the Tommy Bahama or Jimmy Buffett of his age, a man who enjoyed good cigars, adult beverages and pretty young ladies. I hope you enjoy his humor as much as I do. 

RETURN OF THE HOLY LAND EXCURSIONISTS—THE STORY OF THE CRUISE. TO THE EDITOR OF THE HERALD:

The steamer Quaker City has accomplished at last her extraordinary voyage and returned to her old pier at the foot of Wall street. The expedition was a success in some respects, in some it was not. Originally it was advertised as a "pleasure excursion." Well, perhaps, it was a pleasure excursion, but certainly it did not look like one; certainly it did not act like one. Any body's and every body's notion of a pleasure excursion is that the parties to it will of a necessity be young and giddy and somewhat boisterous. They will dance a good deal, sing a good deal, make love, but sermonize very little. Any body's and every body's notion of a well conducted funeral is that there must be a hearse and a corpse, and chief mourners and mourners by courtesy, many old people, much solemnity, no levity, and a prayer and a sermon withal. Three-fourths of the Quaker City's passengers were between forty and seventy years of age! There was a picnic crowd for you! It may be supposed that the other fourth was composed of young girls. But it was not. It was chiefly composed of rusty old bachelors and a child of six years. Let us average the ages of the Quaker City's pilgrims and set the figure down as fifty years. Is any man insane enough to imagine that this picnic of patriarchs sang, made love, danced, laughed, told anecdotes, dealt in ungodly levity? In my experience they sinned little in these matters. No doubt it was presumed here at home that these frolicsome veterans laughed and sang and romped all day, and day after day, and kept up a noisy excitement from one end of the ship to the other; and that they played blind-man's buff or danced quadrilles and waltzes on moonlight evenings on the quarter-deck; and that at odd moments of unoccupied time they jotted a laconic item or two in the journals they opened on such an elaborate plan when they left home, and then skurried off to their whist and euchre labors under the cabin lamps. If these things were presumed, the presumption was at fault. The venerable excursionists were not gay and frisky. They played no blind-man's buff; they dealt not in whist; they shirked not the irksome journal, for alas! most of them were even writing books. They never romped, they talked but little, they never sang, save in the nightly prayer-meeting. The pleasure ship was a synagogue, and the pleasure trip was a funeral excursion without a corpse. (There is nothing exhilarating about a funeral excursion without a corpse.) A free, hearty laugh was a sound that was not heard oftener than once in seven days about those decks or in those cabins, and when it was heard it met with precious little sympathy. The excursionists danced, on three separate evenings, long, long ago, (it seems an age.) quadrilles, of a single set, made up of three ladies and five gentlemen, (the latter with handkerchiefs around their arms to signify their sex.) who timed their feet to the solemn wheezing of a melodeon; but even this melancholy orgie was voted to be sinful, and dancing was discontinued.

The pilgrims played dominoes when too much Josephus or Robinson's Holy Land Researches, or book-writing, made recreation necessary—for dominoes is about as mild and sinless a game as any in the world, perhaps, excepting always the ineffably insipid diversion they call croquet, which is a game where you don't pocket any balls and don't carom on any thing of any consequence, and when you are done nobody has to pay, and there are no refreshments to saw off, and, consequently, there isn't any satisfaction whatever about it—they played dominoes till they were rested, and then they blackguarded each other privately till prayer-time. When they were not seasick they were uncommonly prompt when the dinner-gong sounded. Such was our daily life on board the ship—solemnity, decorum, dinner, dominoes, devotions, slander. It was not lively enough for a pleasure trip; but if we had only had a corpse it would have made a noble funeral excursion. It is all over now; but when I look back, the idea of these venerable fossils skipping forth on a six months' picnic, seems exquisitely refreshing. The advertised title of the expedition—"The Grand Holy Land Pleasure Excursion"—was a misnomer. "The Grand Holy Land Funeral Procession" would have been better—much better.

Wherever we went, in Europe, Asia, or Africa, we made a sensation, and, I suppose I may add, created a famine. None of us had ever been any where before; we all hailed from the interior; travel was a wild novelty to us, and we conducted ourselves in accordance with the natural instincts that were in us, and trammeled ourselves with no ceremonies, no conventionalities. We always took care to make it understood that we were Americans—Americans! When we found that a good many foreigners had hardly ever heard of America, and that a good many more knew it only as a barbarous province away off somewhere, that had lately been at war with somebody, we pitied the ignorance of the Old World, but abated no jot of our importance. Many and many a simple community in the Eastern hemisphere will remember for years the incursion of the strange horde in the year of our Lord 1867, that called themselves Americans, and seemed to imagine in some unaccountable way that they had a right to be proud of it. We generally created a famine, partly because the coffee on the Quaker City was unendurable, and sometimes the more substantial fare was not strictly first class; and partly because one naturally tires of sitting long at the same board and eating from the same dishes.

The people of those foreign countries are very, very ignorant. They looked curiously at the costumes we had brought from the wilds of America. They observed that we talked loudly at table sometimes. They noticed that we looked out for expenses, and got what we conveniently could out of a franc, and wondered where in the mischief we came from. In Paris they just simply opened their eyes and stared when we spoke to them in French! We never did succeed in making those idiots understand their own language. One of our passengers said to a shopkeeper, in reference to a proposed return to buy a pair of gloves, "Allong restay trankeel—may be ve coom Moonday;" and would you believe it, that shopkeeper, a born Frenchman, had to ask what it was that had been said. Sometimes it seems to me, somehow, that there must be a difference between Parisian French and Quaker City French.

The people stared at us every where, and we stared at them. We generally made them feel rather small, too, before we got done with them, because we bore down on them with America's greatness until we crushed them. And yet we took kindly to the manners and customs, and especially to the fashions of the various people we visited. When we left the Azores, we wore awful capotes and used fine tooth combs—successfully. When we came back from Tangier, in Africa, we were topped with fezzes of the bloodiest hue, hung with tassels like an Indian's scalp-lock. In France and Spain we attracted some attention in these costumes. In Italy they naturally took us for distempered Garibaldians, and set a gunboat to look for any thing significant in our changes of uniform. We made Rome howl. We could have made any place howl when we had all our clothes on. We got no fresh raiment in Greece—they had but little there of any kind. But at Constantinople, how we turned out! Turbans, scimetars, fezzes, horse-pistols, tunics, sashes, baggy trowsers, yellow slippers—Oh, we were gorgeous! The illustrious dogs of Constantinople barked their under jaws off, and even then failed to do us justice. They are all dead by this time. They could not go through such a run of business as we gave them and survive.

And then we went to see the Emperor of Russia. We just called on him as comfortably as if we had known him a century or so, and when we had finished our visit we variegated ourselves with selections from Russian costumes and sailed away again more picturesque than ever. In Smyrna we picked up camel's hair shawls and other dressy things from Persia; but in Palestine—ah, in Palestine—our splendid career ended. They didn't wear any clothes there to speak of. We were satisfied, and stopped. We made no experiments. We did not try their costume. But we astonished the natives of that country. We astonished them with such eccentricities of dress as we could muster. We prowled through the Holy Land, from Cesarea Philippi to Jerusalem and the Dead Sea, a weird procession of pilgrims, gotten up regardless of expense, solemn, gorgeous, green-spectacled, drowsing under blue umbrellas, and astride of a sorrier lot of horses, camels and asses than those that came out of Noah's ark, after eleven months of seasickness and short rations. If ever those children of Israel in Palestine forget when Gideon's Band went through there from America, they ought to be cursed once more and finished. It was the rarest spectacle that ever astounded mortal eyes, perhaps.

Well, we were at home in Palestine. It was easy to see that that was the grand feature of the expedition. We had cared nothing much about Europe. We galloped through the Louvre, the Pitti, the Ufizzi, the Vatican—all the galleries—and through the pictured and frescoed churches of Venice, Naples, and the cathedrals of Spain; some of us said that certain of the great works of the old masters were glorious creations of genius, (we found it out in the guide-book, though we got hold of the wrong picture sometimes,) and the others said they were disgraceful old daubs. We examined modern and ancient statuary with a critical eye in Florence, Rome, or any where we found it, and praised it if we saw fit, and if we didn't we said we preferred the wooden Indians in front of the cigar stores of America. But the Holy Land brought out all our enthusiasm. We fell into raptures by the barren shores of Galilee; we pondered at Tabor and at Nazareth; we exploded into poetry over the questionable loveliness of Esdraelon; we meditated at Jezreel and Samaria over the missionary zeal of Jehu; we rioted—fairly rioted among the holy places of Jerusalem; we bathed in Jordan and the Dead Sea, reckless whether our accident-insurance policies were extra-hazardous or not, and brought away so many jugs of precious water from both places that all the country from Jericho to the mountains of Moab will suffer from drouth this year, I think. Yet, the pilgrimage part of the excursion was its pet feature—there is no question about that. After dismal, smileless Palestine, beautiful Egypt had few charms for us. We merely glanced at it and were ready for home.

They wouldn't let us land at Malta—quarantine; they would not let us land in Sardinia; nor at Algiers, Africa; nor at Malaga, Spain, nor Cadiz, nor at the Madeira islands. So we got offended at all foreigners and turned our backs upon them and came home. I suppose we only stopped at the Bermudas because they were in the programme. We did not care any thing about any place at all. We wanted to go home. Homesickness was abroad in the ship—it was epidemic. If the authorities of New York had known how badly we had it, they would have quarantined us here.

The grand pilgrimage is over. Good-bye to it, and a pleasant memory to it, I am able to say in all kindness. I bear no malice, no ill-will toward any individual that was connected with it, either as passenger or officer. Things I did not like at all yesterday I like very well to-day, now that I am at home, and always hereafter I shall be able to poke fun at the whole gang if the spirit so moves me to do, without ever saying a malicious word. The expedition accomplished all that its programme promised that it should accomplish, and we ought all to be satisfied with the management of the matter, certainly. Bye-bye!

MARK TWAIN.

Victoria, British Columbia

After visiting all of the ports in Alaska, there's still more to see on a Princess Inside Passage cruise we've been following.

You'll still be enjoying  amazing entertainment onboard your floating resort as you pass beautiful coastal scenery and probably playful birds, whales or other sealife.

And, you'll enjoy your evening visit to beautiful Victoria, a taste of British civilization after ports that stress rugged American individualism.



Once again, Princess has lots of excursions from which to choose, or you can strike out on your own to sites mentioned in Princess excursions.

Enchanting Butchart Gardens is the top attraction of Victoria, while pub hopping follows that fun British tradition.

You can take a quick tour of the lovely city in a double deck bus like you might dream of taking in London or opt for the historical horse drawn trolley.

Don't be surprised if your brief visit to British Columbia makes you want to return again soon, and I'd love to help you plan that trip too. Better service leads to better trips!