Life comes into focus in The Last Frontier

INSIDE A STEAM ROOM WITH FOUR OLD ASIAN GUYS SOMEWHERE OFF THE COAST OF BRITISH COLUMBIA -- In the end, we are all just people, with more that unites us than divides us.

Unfortunately, you can't take them home as souvenirs.

I thought about this while working up a good schvitz during our recent cruise to Alaska (Motto: "Come for the hell of it, stay for the halibut.") The four gentlemen in the steam room with me had also traveled great distances to see one of the most beautiful parts of America, breathe the fresh air and enjoy a slower pace of life in the Land of the Midnight Sun.

And, of course, to try to figure out how to use our digital cameras. There was so much fiddling with camera lenses and settings on the ship I kept looking for Tevye pulling his milk cart around the pool deck. In watching many men take photos, I also developed my Amateur Photographer Theory: The size of the camera lens is inversely proportional to the size of a man's tripod, if you catch my drift.
  
We also cruised to Alaska, if we're being honest, to eat until our stomachs waved the white flag. And then eat some more. For those who have never been on a cruise, imagine the fullest you've ever been after eating a meal. Now imagine feeling that way for seven days straight. (You get used to the feeling by Day Four.) Ordering multiple entrees and appetizers and desserts is not only allowed but encouraged. Note I didn't use the word "or"; if there were not multiple plates in front of me at all times, I felt I wasn't doing my job.

It's not just there is delicious food everywhere you look, it's that it's prepared and presented beautifully, too. For example, each night at dinner there was a chilled, fruit soup on the menu. It would be called something like, "pineapple reduction with buttermilk swirl." But I'm pretty sure the only thing "reduced" was the amount of syrup in the can of pineapples used to make the soup. And yet, each night, I eagerly looked forward to the fruit soup offering. One night, I swear I lapped up daiquiri mix under the guise of strawberry soup.

Our menu was significantly different than that of many of our hearty guides in Alaska. Some go to the food store once a week because that's how often food is delivered to the local grocery stores. Even more amazing were the dozen people living on a glacier for five months with more than 200 sled dogs. All of their supplies have to be helicoptered in, and they live two to a small trailer with one port-a-pot to share. On the plus side, they get better cell phone reception up there than I get in my kitchen.

But there's a friendliness and joie de vive about people in Alaska that we should adopt in the Lower 48. And by "people in Alaska," I mean those we met in the many gift shops near the port. When I was younger, I liked getting a T-shirt from somewhere we traveled during summer break to wear on the first day of school. Sure, it was a bit of a humblebrag, but I needed my fellow Franklin Middle School sixth graders to know that someone among them visited Central Perk during the summer of '95.

On our cruise, however, I noticed a large number of people wearing T-shirts or sweatshirts from the port we just left. Did they think others on the ship were not aware we were just in Skagway? Did they spill something on the shirt they were wearing at the port, requiring them to quickly change? Or, in what would I consider a genius move, did they pack less in their suitcases than they needed knowing they would buy clothing as the trip progressed?

Maybe we'll see these get-ups on "Dancing with the Stars."

Of all the outfits I saw on this trip, the ones that stood out the most were the husband and wife wearing a Hawaiian shirt and dress, respectively, with the same print. (It was so, um, stunning, that I had to take the photo you see to the right.) And that's when I realized that not only are we all just people with more that unites than divides us, but relationship dynamics are universal as well.

This insight led to a peek into my future thanks to Anna and Allwyn, the lovely Australian couple who have been married for more than 30 years and sat next to us at dinner. When I would order a second dessert even as I complained how full I was, Belle would give me a look of disapproval. When Allwyn tried to order one dessert, Anna told him he shouldn't eat that and had him order something else.

Allwyn and I discussed the love of our favorite football teams, his of Australian Rules variety (go Hawks!); our wives shook their heads and wondered how we could spend so much time and energy on a sports team. We dutifully went and fetched glasses of water for our beloveds to have by their bedside at night. Anna and Belle chatted about everything imaginable; Allwyn and I would keep the chitchat limited to in between bites of meat.

Lest you think these relationship traits are limited to men living in democracies, our assistant waiter, Tu, is from China and looked to be in his 20s. He was extremely helpful and friendly but on the quiet side. We found out halfway through our trip he had been dating a Chinese woman who also works on the ship for eight months.

"When we are together," he told us one night, "I mostly listen."

He'll be just fine.

In with the Old Guy

I'm a big believer that age, much like 690,131.42, is just a number. But now that I'm officially out of my 20s, I've started to notice certain signs of getting older.

Not my ear... yet.

It began a few months ago where most of my life-changing moments occur -- in the barber's chair. (I still maintain I was just waiting to be discovered to join a boy band in the early aughts when I was rocking the frosted tips.) Maria, who has been cutting my hair for years, was finishing up with the razor when she gently ran it over my outer ear, almost apologetically.

"Better on the outside of the ear than on the inside," I said with a laugh.

"Just wait a few years," the hair follicles in my ear replied with a laugh.

It was my first Old Guy Moment. And while I don't think I'll be needing adult diapers anytime soon, recently I've been paying closer attention to Old Guys to see what's in store for me.

One of the first things I do when I come across an Old Guy is look down, where I inevitably notice white tennis shoes. And not just any sneakers -- these always look beat up, like they've been on a Saturday errand run from hell. Do Old Guys buy the shoes already used? And where, exactly, do they get them? I swear I've never seen white tennis shoes at a shoe store. Maybe they are a dog whistle to an Old Guy. I guess I'll find out if and when I hear the siren's call.

The white tennis shoes on an Old Guy are often accompanied by tucked-in shirts, no matter the outfit. I get tucking the dress shirt into slacks, or a polo shirt into khakis. But do we need to tuck the old T-shirt into the bathing suit? For some men, maybe the tuck/untuck decision comes down to how to best downplay the size of the gut. The simplest solution might be some exercise which, on the plus side, means more time wearing the white tennis shoes.

Speaking of the gym, that's about the only place where you see an Old Guy with messy hair. Let's stipulate that many Old Guys don't have much hair to mess up. That will not be an issue for me, however, since I come from a line of men with full heads of hair. In fact, one of my great ancestors, Josephus Jacobus, had a thriving business in Babylonia selling hairshirts made straight from his scalp.

When it comes to modern-day Old Guys with hair, I've noticed very few use hair products and yet nary a follicle is out of place. When they walk in a breeze, the hair moves with the synchronicity of a rowing team and then immediately falls back in line when the breeze stops.

Right now, the front of my head is trained well but the sides and rear flank remain a Wild West without some hair paste, so I have some work to do (and some years to age). On the other hand, the Old Guy with perfect hair probably has to go to the bathroom every two hours while I'm in the prime years of bladder control, so maybe it all evens out.

The thing about all of these Old Guy traits is, I'm not exactly opposed to them. Maybe they are the Boy Scout badges of advanced manhood. Maybe, when you reach the age when you tuck a T-shirt into your jeans, you don't care that you tucked your T-shirt into jeans. We should all be as comfortable in our skins as an Old Guy.

Which is why I'm kind of looking forward to the journey, as long and filled with bathroom breaks as it might be. That just leaves one question: How long after turning 30 do I receive the Old Guy fannypack?