If you’re looking for your husband…
In Ketchikan, we caught a ride from a free shuttle that buzzed people from the ship terminal to the heart of the town. Our driver gave us a quick verbal tour. If you go up there, he said, you’ll get to Dolly’s House. Dolly was a famous madam who lived, he told us, to a very old age before dying, in her rocking chair, while counting her money.
That, I cried, is how I absolutely want to go.
(Earlier, I’d been at a dinner party where one of the guests told me the story of Cougar Annie. She had a series of husbands, he explained, some of whom died under suspicious circumstances. My God, I said, I sure hope people say that about me when I’m dead. That is my new goal. A death moment similar to Dolly’s would fit well in with my projected epitaph.)
Although I’m not much of a one for prostitution-tourism, I passed by Dolly’s House on my way along Creek Street.
If you’re looking for your husband… he’s in here read a sign in the window. I stopped in my tracks.
I ducked into Dolly’s House the way thousands of sailors must have ducked in before me.
That, I said, pointing to the sign. I want that.
I carefully transported it all the way from Alaska, and taped it to the glass of my front door. I think it adds a certain touch of class, don’t you? The same taste and sophistication, one can only hope, that I similarly bring to VIU.