Or: How I ended up on what I can only describe as a floating retirement home, fought for a functioning elevator, got publicly humiliated by a Broadway performer, and somehow still found time to flirt with the excursion director.
Before I get into what can only be described as the most chaotic travel experience of my life, I need to tell you a little about my grandparents.
Because this story isn't just about a bad cruise.
It's about two of the most incredible people I know, a trip that should have been wonderful, and a company that managed to turn what was supposed to be a relaxing vacation into an absolute nightmare.
And I've been to 51 countries. I've seen some shit.
First, Meet the Grandparents
I get my travel bug from my grandparents.
From a very young age, they made sure my sister and I experienced the world in a way not many kids our age had the opportunity to. My grandpa decided that when each of us turned 10, we could choose a trip to take with our grandparents.
Because of that, my sister and I got to see the world. From Paris to Africa, Texas to Switzerland, they showed us there was a whole world beyond our own.
I genuinely believe they're the reason I've spent my entire life itching to get on a plane.
My grandparents have been married for 66 years. My grandpa is a retired three-star general in the United States Army, and my grandma was a world-class Army wife who packed up her house and moved 37 times, raised my mom, and somehow perfected a brownie recipe that serves approximately 50 people.
And they're the best brownies in the world. I will not be taking questions.
Every year, my grandparents get together with four other couples from their military years. They've traveled all over the world together, but their annual tradition usually involves a boat trip up the Tennessee River from Chattanooga.
One of the guys, Dan, has a boat. Everyone piles on during the day, drinks Appletinis, has a fabulous time, and returns to their hotels at night.
It's basically spring break for retired military officers.
Ten years ago, my grandma suffered a terrible complication during surgery that left her mostly paralyzed from the waist down. She can take a few steps, but she's primarily used a wheelchair ever since.
She's 88, has a fantastic attitude, works incredibly hard, and will absolutely destroy you in Words With Friends.
I tell you this because her condition isn't new. It didn't happen last week. She's been in a wheelchair for TEN YEARS.
Which means I know exactly what she needs to travel comfortably and safely.
For the past few years, I've been lucky enough to join the annual Boat Crew trips to help take care of my grandma and spend time with my eight other honorary grandparents.
So when the crew decided they wanted to take an American Cruise Lines trip through the Columbia River Gorge, I hopped onto my little Fora travel advisor account and got to work.
And that's where our story begins.
The Booking: Or, How an Elevator Magically Appeared
Let's make one thing abundantly clear.
I DID NOT JUST BOOK THIS TRIP ONLINE AND HOPE FOR THE BEST.
Okay?
In August 2025, I called American Cruise Lines. On the phone. With a REAL PERSON.
I explained my grandmother's condition in extensive detail. I told them she was primarily wheelchair-bound, that I would be traveling as her caregiver, and even gave them the exact width of her wheelchair.
I asked about accessibility. I asked about the rooms. I asked about the ship.
We were booked on the American Harmony.
Please remember that name.
Fast-forward to March 2026.
I called to confirm the addition of my friend Bailee, who is a registered nurse. Since this would be my grandma's biggest trip in quite some time, and we'd be so far from home, we thought having a little extra help would be a good idea.
During that call, I learned that the American Harmony had changed its itinerary.
We would now be sailing on the American West.
But NOT TO WORRY.
It was a GREAT ship!
What they didn't tell me was that the American West was built in the 1980s and, according to what we were later told, this would be one of its final voyages before being repurposed as a barge.
A fucking barge.
I went through my entire accessibility checklist again.
My grandma is in a wheelchair. She can't walk independently. Is the room accessible? Is the ship accessible? Should we book something else?
"No, no, no! You're going to have a great time!"
"This cruise is geared toward an older crowd!"
"You'll love it!"
Okay. Great.
April rolls around. I call again.
Same shit, different day.
May. Another call.
Same shit, different day.
June.
I call AGAIN, because apparently my intuition was trying desperately to get my attention.
And this time, the woman on the phone says:
"Ma'am, did you know there's no elevator on this boat?"
I'm sorry.
WHAT?
My grandmother is in a wheelchair. I'm bringing a group of older travelers. They're spry, but WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE'S NO ELEVATOR?
Oh, and apparently my grandmother wasn't booked into an accessible room either.
Lovely.
Despite my rapidly rising blood pressure, I remained surprisingly calm. I explained that no accessible room meant no Boat Crew. No elevator meant no Boat Crew.
We would simply have to find another cruise.
This woman put me on hold.
And I shit you not, when she came back, the elevator had magically reappeared.
I actually laughed.
"What, did you just decide to put one in?"
Apparently, it was a service elevator that had been decommissioned for passenger use but was still functional and could be used during our trip.
She then transferred me to someone she identified as the ship's hotel manager, who assured me that my grandmother would have a wonderful time and that the ship was incredibly accessible.
Don't worry!
It's geared toward an older crowd!
Everything will be fine!
Reader, everything was not fine.
I should have canceled right then and there.
On no planet does an elevator just appear out of thin air.
But we persevered.
Welcome Aboard! Everything Is Already Going Wrong.
I'm going to skip over the part where the accessible van I'd specifically requested wasn't there because they had "no record" of my request.
And the part where the hotel didn't have us in an accessible room.
AND the part where they told us we were on different ships because there was another Gibson traveling and apparently that was just too much for the reservation system to handle.
No.
Let's get to the actual cruise.
We finally arrived at the American West.
She was a relatively small paddle wheeler, carrying about 107 passengers, 14 of whom were our group.
From the outside, she was actually quite charming. Cute details, old-fashioned design, very romantic riverboat energy.
For a brief, beautiful moment, I was excited.
Then Bailee came to meet me as I boarded with my grandpa. She'd gone ahead with my grandma to get her settled for lunch.
"Don't panic."
Two words I never, ever want to hear from a registered nurse.
Not only did my grandmother's wheelchair not fit through the walkway in her room, but there was only ONE table in the dining room she could access.
And the restaurant didn't allow reservations.
Fantastic.
We went to inspect the room.
The walkway was technically about three feet wide. Plenty of room for a wheelchair, except for the two enormous dressers sticking out into it.
There wasn't even enough room for my grandpa's walker.
The bed sat in the middle of the room with approximately one foot of clearance on either side.
My grandma's wheelchair is 28 inches wide.
A fact I had repeated to this company approximately 4,000 times.
And then there was the bathroom.
Now, I've never been to prison, but if I had to guess, the bathrooms are better in prison than they were in this room.
The entire bathroom was a large tiled square with standard grab bars along the walls.
Except the toilet was positioned at an angle in the corner, making it incredibly awkward for someone actually using a wheelchair.
The ceiling was deteriorating in one corner, with what appeared to be mold exposed underneath. Pulling back the shower curtain revealed another lovely patch of what appeared to be mold near the floor.
A charming touch.
At this point, I was beginning to wonder whether we were on a vacation or participating in a psychological experiment.
But I did not panic.
Instead, I requested the captain, hotel manager, and excursion director.
And I unleashed my full caregiver powers.
The Crew Deserves Their Own Standing Ovation
I'm going to interrupt my complaining for a moment because I need to give credit where credit is due.
The actual crew members who helped us were AMAZING.
The captain showed up with a DRILL and two deckhands to physically rearrange the room.
The hotel manager listened to every concern and worked to find solutions.
The restaurant manager arranged for accessible tables to be reserved for our group throughout the cruise.
And Stephen, the excursion director, brought me a large glass of bourbon.
Honestly, at this point, he could have brought me a ring.
He also happened to be super cute, which certainly didn't hurt his case.
The hotel manager told me something particularly interesting.
According to him, passengers who were fully dependent on wheelchairs weren't supposed to be booked on this ship because of its age and accessibility limitations.
He said the sales department should have known that.
He also told me he was NOT the person I'd spoken to in June and that no one had contacted him about the ship's accessibility.
Did I believe him?
At the time? Absolutely not.
By the end of the cruise? Actually, yes.
He was genuinely trying to help us, and I appreciated that.
The crew removed the dressers, rearranged the furniture, and managed to create enough space for my grandma's wheelchair.
Unfortunately, that meant my grandpa had almost no room to get around the other side of the bed and practically had to crawl into it.
They also had nowhere to store their belongings.
But we decided to stay.
Oh, and did I mention the elevator wasn't working?
Because the elevator wasn't working.
Yes. THE elevator.
The one that had magically appeared during my June phone call.
Apparently, it needed an emergency repair, which they arranged for the following day.
There was also no genuinely wheelchair-accessible public bathroom on the ship. The bathroom designated as accessible wasn't even wide enough for my grandpa to bring his walker inside.
But the crew had worked so hard to accommodate us that we decided to give the trip a chance.
And honestly, if the story ended here, this wouldn't be a bad review.
It would be a story about a company whose employees went above and beyond to fix a difficult situation.
Unfortunately, we were just getting started.
Enter: The Broadway Villain
After finally settling into our rooms, we enjoyed a decent dinner and headed into the lounge for the evening's entertainment.
Enter Chuck Wagner.
A Broadway performer with a big voice, an impressive career, and, as I would soon discover, an apparently very fragile ego.
The stage setup was something to behold.
A projector perched on a barstool. A laptop sitting on a chair. Cords running in every direction.
This was not a high-tech operation.
Chuck proceeded to tell the story of his life through PowerPoint and song, performing selections from his Broadway career.
He was tall, charismatic, and had a wonderful voice.
The crowd, however, was giving approximately zero energy.
So Bailee and I, being the supportive little audience members we are, made sure to clap and cheer after every song.
At one point, my grandma texted me from across the lounge.
She was ready for bed.
No problem.
I waited until the end of the song, got up, walked over to her, and wheeled her out.
A completely normal thing to do, right?
WRONG.
The following evening, Chuck decided to publicly berate me in front of the entire audience.
He accused me of leaving "dramatically," being disruptive, and disrespecting his performance.
I'm sorry.
SIR.
I was helping my 88-year-old grandmother get to bed.
The look on my face must have been spectacular.
Several passengers approached Bailee and me afterward to apologize for what happened.
Dennis, one of the retired generals in our group, even went up to Chuck and shared a few choice words.
Now, keep in mind, having two women in their 20s and 30s aboard a ship where the unofficial boarding requirement appears to be collecting Social Security means we stood out.
By day two, everyone knew who we were.
People kept asking how we'd ended up on what I affectionately started thinking of as the River Styx cruise.
But never in my life have I been singled out like that by a performer.
Especially after everything we'd already been through.
The next day, Chuck attempted an apology.
Except it wasn't really an apology.
He explained that Dennis had been rude to him, that he made fun of everyone who left his shows, and that he was "sorry we took it wrong."
Ah, yes.
The classic non-apology apology.
One of my biggest pet peeves, right up there with eye-rolling and burping at the dinner table.
Anyway, we skipped the rest of his performances.
And frankly, the PowerPoint autobiography was making me sad.
The Wheelchair Incident: Weeeeeee!
Despite everything, Stephen kept his promise.
He made sure we could participate in as many excursions as possible and personally confirmed the accessible transportation arrangements.
We had an incredible driver named Leonidas, who was kind, helpful, and genuinely wonderful throughout the trip.
On one excursion, we arrived at the bus and began loading my grandma onto the wheelchair lift.
I was helping Leonidas when a woman came rushing over.
She informed me that I was NOT allowed to touch my grandmother's wheelchair.
She moved me aside and insisted that I couldn't board until my grandmother was properly secured.
Because, you know, safety.
Hey, whatever you say, girlfriend.
I'm used to doing everything myself, so if someone wants to help, fantastic.
We got on the bus.
The bus started moving.
And on the very first turn...
Grandma went WEEEEEEEEEE all the way to the side.
Her wheelchair rolled across the bus, and she had to put her hand out toward the window to catch herself.
Bailee and I immediately jumped to help.
THE WOMAN HAD NOT LOCKED MY GRANDMOTHER'S WHEELCHAIR.
The same woman who had just lectured me about safety.
I cannot make this shit up.
Once we stopped, I spoke with Leonidas and the woman I thought was part of the crew, who turned out to be the tour guide.
I explained that Bailee or I would be checking the wheelchair restraints from that point forward.
Because, call me crazy, but I prefer my grandmother to remain in the same location throughout a bus ride.
The excursion itself was lovely.
We saw waterfalls, people crowded around to look at the drone footage I was capturing, and we enjoyed hot toddies at a café.
For a few glorious hours, it felt like an actual vacation.
Then we got back to the ship.
And there she was.
The woman from the bus, whom I'll call D, standing with her arms crossed, looking ready to deliver a lecture on laws and liability.
She started speaking sternly to Leonidas.
I tried to address her directly.
She wouldn't look at me.
Finally, she put her hand up toward my face and told Leonidas she wasn't dealing with me.
I was genuinely confused.
I hadn't refused her help.
I hadn't demanded to load the wheelchair myself.
I JUST WANTED THE DAMN WHEELCHAIR LOCKED.
I got off the bus and tried to clear up the misunderstanding.
She walked away.
I tried again.
She got on another bus.
I apologized for whatever miscommunication had happened, but she wouldn't speak to me.
Over the next few days, I tried three separate times to address the situation.
Each time, she either walked away or turned her back.
And I kept thinking, am I coming across like a raging bitch here?
Because I promise, I'm not trying to be difficult.
I'm just a granddaughter trying to make sure her 88-year-old grandmother gets to enjoy a vacation with her friends without being launched across a bus.
Apparently, that's a controversial request.
The Part That Isn't Funny
Here's the thing.
I can laugh about the disappearing elevator.
I can laugh about the Broadway performer who apparently considered me his personal nemesis.
I can even laugh now about the absurdity of the wheelchair incident, because thankfully, my grandma wasn't injured.
But there is something about this entire experience that genuinely breaks my heart.
People have no idea how difficult traveling with a disability can be until they've experienced it themselves or cared for someone who has.
The lack of accessible bathrooms.
Transportation that isn't properly equipped.
Airports that feel like obstacle courses.
Hotels that claim to be accessible but aren't actually functional for someone using a wheelchair.
Every single step requires additional planning, patience, and energy.
And the person who suffers the most isn't necessarily the caregiver.
It's the person living with the disability.
My grandma often worries that she's too much trouble or that she's a burden.
And it breaks my heart.
Because she's not.
She is an incredible woman who spent decades traveling the world, raising a family, supporting my grandfather's military career, and showing my sister and me what life could look like beyond our own backyard.
Why should she have to stop experiencing the world because she's in a wheelchair?
Why shouldn't she be able to go on a trip with her friends?
Why should something as simple as getting to dinner or using the bathroom become an enormous ordeal?
And why, after spending thousands of dollars and making countless phone calls to ensure her safety, should we have to fight for the most basic accommodations?
That's what made me angry.
Not the outdated décor.
Not the mediocre entertainment.
Not even the fact that the ship was apparently one voyage away from becoming a barge.
It was the fact that I did everything I was supposed to do to prepare for this trip, and it still wasn't enough.
And Then Everything Got Worse
As if the cruise itself hadn't been enough, my grandmother became seriously ill toward the end of our trip.
She developed influenza A and severe pneumonia, ultimately requiring hospitalization in Vancouver, Washington.
What was supposed to be a relaxing river cruise turned into eight days in a hospital, including time in the ICU.
Watching someone you love struggle to breathe is terrifying.
Watching your 88-year-old grandmother go through that after you've spent months trying to ensure she would be safe and comfortable is something else entirely.
I'm not going to claim that the ship caused her illness. I can't establish that.
But I can tell you that the stress of the entire experience, followed by the fear of not knowing whether we would get her home safely, was unlike anything I've experienced while traveling.
And suddenly, the vacation didn't matter anymore.
All I wanted was to get my grandparents home.
Thankfully, we did.
The Refund: Apparently, Accessibility Is Negotiable
While dealing with everything happening on board, I contacted American Cruise Lines customer service.
And that experience was almost as frustrating as the cruise itself.
When I explained that I'd spoken to someone identified as the hotel manager before the trip, my account was disputed.
I was essentially told that the conversation hadn't happened.
I explained that I was a travel advisor and blogger and that I intended to share an honest account of our experience.
They interpreted that as a threat.
Which, okay, maybe saying "THIS IS NOT A THREAT" before explaining you're going to write about something isn't the most elegant approach.
I'll give them that one.
But I wasn't asking for special treatment because I have an audience.
I was asking for accountability.
And luckily for me, I'm a chronic note-taker.
I document everything.
Dates, conversations, names, details.
I even put my notes into ChatGPT.
So they could question my recollection all they wanted.
I had receipts.
Here's something else you should know.
I've traveled to 51 countries.
I've taken hundreds of tours, stayed in countless hotels, been on cruises, and experienced everything from incredible luxury to accommodations that would make a hostel look like the Ritz-Carlton.
I've had wonderful experiences.
I've had terrible experiences.
And in all those years, I have never asked for a refund.
Until now.
I requested a full refund for my grandparents' booking and my own.
American Cruise Lines initially offered 25%.
I declined.
I provided documentation, explained the repeated accessibility assurances we'd received, and continued advocating for my grandparents.
Eventually, they agreed to refund my grandparents' booking in full.
And for that, I am genuinely grateful.
But my request for a partial refund of my own booking was not approved, and the company considered the matter closed.
Now, I understand that there wasn't technically anything wrong with my room.
My room was fine.
But I wasn't there for a relaxing solo vacation.
I was there as a caregiver, and instead of simply helping my grandparents enjoy their trip, I spent the majority of it managing accessibility problems, advocating for their safety, and trying to make an unsuitable situation work.
I don't think that's an unreasonable thing to ask a company to consider.
But at the end of the day, the most important thing was that my grandparents received their refund.
They deserved that.
Would I Ever Sail With American Cruise Lines Again?
Absolutely fucking not.
My grandpa said he would rather be sleeping on a hammock in Vietnam during the war. And I think that says it all.
And I want to be very clear about something.
There were genuinely wonderful people working on that ship.
Stephen, Leonidas, the captain, the hotel manager, the restaurant manager, and several other crew members went out of their way to help us.
I am incredibly grateful for them.
But excellent employees cannot make up for a booking process that, in my experience, repeatedly provided inaccurate information about accessibility.
A company that markets itself to older travelers has an enormous responsibility to understand the needs of those passengers.
And when a family calls repeatedly over the course of more than a year to explain a disability, the answer should never be, "Don't worry, you'll have a great time," unless the company can actually accommodate that person.
I will travel to 50 more countries.
I'll take countless more tours, cruises, and adventures.
But I can promise you one thing.
There is no amount of money you could pay me to get on another American Cruise Lines ship.
Even if Stephen himself showed up at my front door, proposed marriage, and offered me unlimited complimentary cruises for the rest of my life.
Sorry, Stephen.
We'll have to honeymoon somewhere else.
And to the American West, wherever your next chapter takes you:
May you rest in peace as a barge in Alaska.
I'm sure you'll be much better suited for that.
One Last Thing
When I started Brittany in Wanderland, I made a promise to myself that I would always be honest.
Not just about the beautiful hotels, incredible destinations, and once-in-a-lifetime experiences.
But about the ugly parts of travel, too.
Because travel isn't always glamorous.
Sometimes it's stressful, disappointing, exhausting, and downright ridiculous.
And sometimes the most important travel stories aren't about where you went or what you saw.
They're about the people you went with.
My grandparents gave me the world long before I ever had the opportunity to explore it on my own.
The least I can do is fight to make sure they still get to see it.
Even if that means arguing about an elevator that apparently didn't exist until June.
With love, a little bourbon, and absolutely no future American Cruise Lines bookings,
Brittany
Brittany in Wanderland
P.S. WAIT. Because apparently, Chuck wasn't finished with us.
After the cruise, Ron, another one of the retired generals in our group, ended up on the SAME PLANE as Chuck.
Because of course he did.
And apparently, Chuck felt the need to stop Ron and inform him that Dennis was an "asshole" and that he "wasn't intimidated by generals."
SIR.
WHAT IS HAPPENING?
First of all, nobody was trying to intimidate you. We were simply trying to get an 88-year-old woman to bed.
Second, this man had an entire Broadway career, and somehow his greatest performance of the week was an ongoing feud with a group of retired military officers on a river cruise.
I genuinely cannot make this shit up.
Anyway, Chuck, if you're reading this, I hope your next audience gives you the standing ovation you so desperately deserve.
Just please let the elderly people go to bed.