The bus stop was nothing more than a sign on a pole, which should have been our first clue that public transit in Vancouver comes with a side of improvisation. When the bus arrived, we asked how to pay. “Swipe your credit card,” said the driver. I swiped once. When I tried for my husband, it wouldn’t take it. We needed a second card. I had only brought one. Cue the awkward shuffle in a bus packed like sardines and a driver clearly on a tight schedule. He rolled his eyes, handed us tickets, mumbled instructions, and we stood, smiling nervously at strangers as the bus lurched forward.

Alaska’s glaciers are where I first learned to appreciate the beauty in shades of blue, white, and grey ice. It is where I learned to stand quietly and listen to the soft popping deep inside the ice. It is also where I discovered how thrilling it is to witness a glacier calve. There is nothing like watching a massive chunk of ancient, layered ice crack, roar, and break free before splashing into the sea and drifting away as a newborn iceberg. It never stops feeling awe-inspiring.

Ralph showed up at the airport with an extra parka, scarf, waterproof winter boots, and lined mittens. I changed into the boots, and then he quickly got to work. He layered the gear on me, pulled the scarf over most of my face, and cinched the fuzzy-lined hood down tight. The last piece was a pair of sunglasses to shield my eyes. We walked toward the door, both of us giggling.

It was gray outside, and I felt a jolt of excitement at finally experiencing Alaska. As we approached the door, I caught my reflection in the glass. I looked like the kid from A Christmas Story, stiff and awkward under all the winter gear. Right before the door opened, Ralph told me to blink often to protect my eyeballs.

I’ve made five trips to Alaska so far, three by air and two by sea. I genuinely believe everyone should cruise Alaska at least once. Still, my favorite way to visit is to fly in, rent a car, take a few train rides, or even take a floatplane excursion to visit remote, smaller towns.

Some places shine from the water. Glacier Bay is unforgettable, and many of the cruise stops sit on Alaska’s islands. The train ride from Fairbanks down to Seward is one of my favorite trips in the entire state. The stretch between Anchorage and Seward is the standout. Then again, nothing compares to flying over Denali National Park. Alaska is full of impossible choices like that.

On cruise ship days (typically Saturdays and Sundays, with Saturday being the busiest), vendors line the Embarcadero all the way from the cruise terminal south to Seaport Village and north past Waterfront Park.  The foot traffic can be enormous, depending on how many ships are in port that day.  With Norwegian Cruise Line adding San Diego as a start-and-stop port, there is rarely only one ship in port at a time.  

Gatun Lake, covering 166 square miles and sitting 82 to 87 feet above sea level, is alive with wildlife. Its forested islands and surrounding rainforest shelter over 100 species of mammals, more than 100 species of reptiles and amphibians, and over 500 species of birds. Cruising slowly through this diverse ecosystem, we even spotted alligators gliding past.  It was a reminder that, even amid such an immense feat of engineering, nature persists vibrant and alive.

Boats jammed together, bounced off one another, and veered sideways. Instead of frustration, the whole thing dissolved into laughter—from us on shore and from most of the boaters themselves. It was slapstick comedy on water, and absolutely priceless.

We walked a lot that first evening, but the following day, we jumped on trains and buses to get around. Crossing the Rhine River, we made our way to the highly anticipated Paper Museum.

Yes, I get it; you’re probably wondering, "Why would anyone in their right mind want to visit a paper museum on vacation?" That sounds like the kind of place you only go to as a chaperone on a child’s field trip, just because it’s your turn to wrangle the kids.

You would be wrong.

The change is subtle, but the days already hint that fall is arriving.

Today is the Equinox, officially ending summer and marking the beginning of fall. The rest of our summer staycation was filled with night concerts at the Rady Shell, plenty of paddleboarding, playing with Jax at the beach, relaxing in our backyard, watching the H-1 Hydroplane Unlimited finals, and trying a few new restaurants.

My husband and I love little surprises like that, so we happily set out. The day was warming up, and we shed our jackets as we climbed. We went up, then down, and around through the rocks. Just as we were working up a sweat, we turned a corner and the spray from the waterfall hit our skin, instantly cooling us.

From there, we continued to Dynjandi Waterfall. To our surprise, there were hardly any other people there, even though it’s the largest waterfall in northwest Iceland and one of the country’s most famous and “most beautiful”. To be honest, every waterfall we saw was billed as “the most beautiful,” but Dynjandi certainly lived up to the praise. Still, we couldn’t figure out where all the tourists were.

The park was alive before the sun had even started to set. Groups of young people glided in on bicycles, bottles clinking in backpacks, laughter spilling ahead like the soundtrack to a spontaneous summer festival. Within minutes, the lawns became a patchwork of circles, bikes stacked nearby. Everywhere I looked, more groups were forming, their numbers swelling across the park.

Then, as if on cue, the circles began to stir. People stood, lined up, and began coordinated movements. I commented to my husband that maybe these were exercise groups, or perhaps line dancers. 

Another night, we discovered the Tenth Avenue Arts Center, a small downtown theater, and saw an original musical called Wulfeater. It’s written by Brian and Danisha Jenkins, with music and lyrics by the Jenkins and Julia Roskopf, and choreography by Christian DePaul and Roskopf. The whole production was an immersive, interactive experience set in the fictional world of Cleveland, digging into themes of capitalism, oppression, and patriarchy. At times, it felt like we were sitting in the bar with the characters, watching their lives unfold.

The music was raw hard rock, the acting was sharp, and even the intermission became part of the story. By the end, the whole audience was on its feet, cheering the characters as they fought to take their lives back, even as some clung to the comfort of the status quo. It was thought-provoking and unforgettable. As director Brian Jenkins shouted: “Welcome to the Wulfeater, mother f*ckers…Are you ready to have some fun?” The answer was definitely yes.

My husband and I sat down on a shaded log for a water and snack break, watching their antics for a while. These mischievous little thieves were clearly here for a reason...  

Hikers came and went, and those who stopped to jump in the water would lay down their backpacks and leave them unattended.  No one worried about theft, at least not from people. But the monkeys? They were watching.

These clever little monkeys would watch the people, and as soon as someone went swimming, the monkeys would dart down, inspect the bag, and, if possible, open it. Some of them even knew how to work zippers!  

By the time the swimmer noticed, the monkeys had already snatched what they could and taken off, just as the person came running up the beach.

At our table sat six men—fathers and their adult sons—cheerfully recounting their day’s fishing trip. When my husband stepped away to get more beers, one of the men leaned in quietly and asked, “Are you two here on holiday or trying to escape?”

I laughed out loud. He smiled playfully, shrugged, and said, “Well, judging by your accents, it could go either way, and I don’t want to offend. You might have a gun!”

My husband came back to the table just as my Kiwi neighbor and I were laughing it up.  I shared his question and answer with my husband, who immediately started laughing too.  From then on, we were friends. The men shared stories of their annual fishing ritual, with The Shucker Brothers as a must-stop before heading home, and staying connected until the following year.

We were learning how open, friendly, and fun the Kiwi people are.

As the sun dipped lower, we strolled along the Bondi Promenade and cut over to Campbell Parade to find a spot to relax before heading back to Coogee. There were plenty of places to choose from, but, true to form, we found the best dive bar and joined in the revelry. Chuck Trailer’s Bondi Beach was exactly the kind of spot we love.

It felt like home, like being back in San Diego’s Mission or Ocean Beach. Laid-back, beachwear-friendly, and full of good energy.

The best part? The spinning wheel.

The cardboard roulette-style wheel had numerous “prizes”, with highlights including a free drink, food discounts, a time-out, and a shoe drink.

We got to witness all of them. Let the fun begin!

I saw the birds ahead and the water splashing and told my daughter to get ready. Jax had sensed them long before we saw them. He suddenly jumped up and paced, anxious but excited. He came to me, and I thought he wanted to look over the edge—but he didn’t. Not yet.

Then the dolphins came. Hundreds—maybe thousands—jumping, racing, playing in our wake. My daughter’s family lit up with joy. Jax, still whining, finally came to the rail and looked over. His tail wagged. His ears popped back up. And he started that high-pitched whine he uses when he’s thrilled. Like when we approach Dog Beach or Fiesta Island—his "I can’t wait" sound.

My husband knelt beside him while Jax leaned over the rail, tail wagging, eyes wide. He’d look out, then come boop my hand, like he was saying, “Are you seeing this?!”

As the light began to soften, we hopped in the car and drove toward Hampden Bridge, crossing over the Kangaroo River and turning onto Bendeela Road just as Alex had advised. Almost immediately, we saw what we’d hoped for—kangaroos! Troops of them dotted the open fields, grazing in the golden hour light. My husband pulled over so I could hop out, take some photos, and just soak it in.

A little further on, as we passed some homes tucked back from the road, I saw them—two wombats munching away in someone’s front yard. I doubt the homeowners were thrilled, but I was absolutely giddy.

Little Italy is full of charm, and you can find just about any style of Italian cuisine—from casual trattorias and cozy pizza takeout spots to upscale dining. We popped into The Market by Buon Appetito, an Italian grocery and café. The aroma alone was enough to tempt me, but somehow, I walked out without a single item. That’s a personal record.

Just when I started to worry, Captain Kyle steered us south, and as if on cue, we could see hundreds of birds.  As we approached, the magic happened!

Dolphins. Thousands of them. We were suddenly in the middle of a megapod—common dolphins feeding, leaping, and surrounding our boat in every direction. As we entered their controlled chaos, they seemed to welcome us, some darting alongside the R.I.B., others weaving beneath it.  They!  Were!  Everywhere!