Juneau, Alaska

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Idly watching them, and with an assist from a third glass of the excellent Alaska ale, I did one of those cognitive flips”€”like the wire-frame cube illusion“€”suddenly seeing the seaplanes as toys. I”€™m sorry, but of all the objects in the world that are not toys, seaplanes look the most like toys.

And Alaska gets to you in that way.  The strangeness and improbability of the place summons up recollections of childhood, when everything was strange and improbable.

The improbable capital.  Juneau itself, for example, is the only state capital on the American mainland not accessible by road. I didn”€™t know this before coming here and didn”€™t believe it when told, so I drove north on the city’s one highway to see for myself. Sure enough, 40 miles out the highway turns into an unpaved track. There’s a barrier across it, and a sign (riddled with bullet holes) saying END. Same thing at the southern end: I checked.

Locals told us that there are occasional efforts to move the state capital to somewhere less improbable and more central, but the state legislature won”€™t vote the funds. Good for them: Brasília is not a happy precedent.

Gypsy paradise.  The average age of a cruise passenger is 50-plus, it says here. Watching them milling around the streets of Juneau, I”€™m surprised it’s that low.

I got to chatting with one of the help at our hotel, an H-2B from Bulgaria. (That’s a seasonal guest-worker visa. Heaven forbid young Americans should have to do menial work in their vacations!) Bulgaria, like Romania, is cursed with a big Gypsy population. My new friend was soon telling me Gypsy horror stories.

Then, nodding to the window through which could be seen platoons of cruise folk doddering up Juneau’s steep streets: “€œIf they ever find out about this place they”€™ll be swarming here. It’s Gypsy Paradise!”€ He made the universal pickpocket/Gypsy gesture, dipping his hand down with fingers together and thumb stuck out.

I hope I haven”€™t opened a floodgate there.