The Acceptance

Either Stacy's standards weren't as high as I thought or Grazina gave me a better rating on my dancing than I had anticipated, because shortly after my dance audition, Stacy emailed to say I'd been accepted. I must confess to mixed emotions. I was very pleased and flattered to have reached a goal I set for myself but way in the back of my mind was a nagging feeling of concern about facing the unknown. But Phil, I thought: where's your sense of adventure? So I reveled in being approved for a gig Stacy promoted as "...limited to the top candidates..." and buried my concerns. A few days later I received Stacy's contract, which I signed and returned. With it came a lot of information on being a host that included what to wear (I'll get to that later) and (a huge section on) "attitude/impression." This admonished me to remember I would be "on stage" whenever I was in public, that I must be "approachable" at all times, that I should take the time to "learn guests' names" (depending on the ship, there could be as many as 700 passengers), and that I must participate in all ballroom dancing. I would be expected to also participate in daily activities, go ashore with shore excursions, invite guests each evening to sit at my table - the ideal combination was described as one couple, one single man and four women traveling alone - and dance each evening until midnight or until the last woman traveling alone left the lounge. I must remember that I was to be an extension of the ship's staff and a goodwill ambassador for the cruise line. I must uphold Stacy's organization's reputation by being a "...consummate professional who was pleasant and easy to work with." At the end of the cruise, I would be evaluated by both the guests and the ship's staff and my ability to continue to be a host would depend on these evaluations. In other words, this was really a sales position. But I've sold before, even been a sales manager. I could do that. All of that.
A week later, Stacy offered me a specific cruise. Unfortunately, the entertainment director of Silver Sea, a cruise line with which I've traveled several times, decided I needed more experience before joining one of his ships. I was disappointed. (I've always wanted to sail from Santiago to Buenos Aires). But Stacy assured me that the Regent Seven Seas line was equally prestigious and catered to a similar clientele. She offered me a thirty-day cruise on the Regent Voyager from Cape Town, South Africa, to Fort Lauderdale. The route was the last two legs - Cape Town to Rio and Rio to Lauderdale - of a sixty day cruise that began in Athens. It sounded exciting. I've never been to Cape Town and always wanted to go there. I've been to Rio but way back in 1971. Other ports included Walvis Bay in Namibia, St. Helena (the island that was home to Napoleon's final exile), some additional ports on the coast of Brazil, Antigua, Barbados, San Juan and finally Fort Lauderdale. I liked the itinerary. But that old apprehension popped up from my subconscious, tapping me on the back and asking if I really wanted to be at sea for thirty days in this position for the first time. Wouldn't a shorter cruise be a better way to start? I posed this question to Stacy, and she agreed, but she had no shorter cruise coming up and she thought I'd be ideally suited for the one she was offering me. We agreed that I'd think about it for a few days; she wouldn't offer it to anyone else until I'd reached a decision. I tucked the issue into the darkened room in my mind, the place where I traditionally ponder my most serious questions. Should I? Or shouldn't I?

The Dance Audition

Stacy, in Fort Lauderdale, put me in touch with a local dance instructor for my dance audition. Now even though I once taught ballroom dancing, that was more than fifty years ago. And although I have a reputation as a good dancer, that may be built on myth (which I admit to having perpetuated) as much as on practice. I hadn't danced in some time either. So it was with some trepidation that I approached the appointed time for my audition with Grazina. One other thing bothered me. Stacy's printed material specified leather-soled shoes for dancing but I hadn't worn anything but Crocs for many years. Could I dance in them? And what would Grazina report if I showed up for my audition in Crocs?
Nervously, I set out for my audition. I had to wear Crocs; I have no other shoes (except for some sneaker-type ones, which would be even worse). I decided that if Grazina asked about my Crocs, I'd just tell her I wore them so much of the time that I 'd forgotten to bring any other shoes, a little fib I decided my conscience would permit. Driving to a dance studio in the wilds of Ellicott City, I felt a little like a cross between Gypsy - "...light the lights; you've got nothing to hit but the heights," and a tryout for "Chorus Line" - "I need this job; I really need this job."
Grazina turned out to be the daughter of a Russian emigre - I wonder why all serious ballroom dancers seem to be Russian - probably in her mid fifties, shorter than me and blonde, with a strange manner of speech, an unusual mixture of curiosity and matter-of-factness with a flavor of seriousness under it all. "Oh. You must be Phil. Give me just a minute to set up. Which dance do you want to do first?" Although she didn't mention my Crocs, she changed into some little ballerina slippers herself, securing them with rubber bands around her foot. She got right to it. We opted for a fox trot first, the dance I'll probably be called upon to perform the most. As we were dancing, I could see she was paying attention to everything: posture, lead, breathing, as well as the steps themselves, which she identified in a whispery kind of voice each time I shifted into a new step. "Yes. Left turn. Okay, box. Conversation." It was a little unnerving, searching my memory for patterns learned long ago and translating them into foot movements, all with ongoing commentary. When the song ended, we shifted into waltz, then rumba. I was pleased to find that I could still do rumba motion with my hips and knees even with a left knee replacement. When the rumba ended, I opted next for swing, with steps I was confident I could remember. That went well. And then the cha cha, my weakest dance. After a few stumbles, she told me I was doing progressive steps, front to back and back to front instead of the basic side to side. I tried to do it her way but what little groove was left in my memory was so deep I couldn't climb out to perform the steps her way. We stopped. "Um-hum," she said, noncommitally. She asked me to sit down while she filled out the evaluation sheet. She asked many questions unrelated to dancing and then got to the evaluation part. I could see she was hesitant to be too hard on me, making ratings and then erasing them to give me a better score. And then the audition was over. I paid her for her time and she agreed to send me a copy of her remarks. On the way home, I wondered how I could tell my friends that after having this sterling reputation for dancing for so long, I had failed the dance audition. Oh well, unlike in Chorus Line, I didn't really need this job.
During the audition, when Grazina had asked me about my family and why I had decided to apply now for this host gig, I mentioned that my mom had just died, freeing me now to travel more extensively. A few days later I received a card from Grazina, a folder of the highest quality white paper with a beautiful Ilfachrome photograph of a red rose pasted on the front. Inside, Grazina expressed her "...deepest sympathy on the passing..." of my mother. I was very surprised. She wasn't just a Russian ballroom dancer after all.

The Interview

Stacy, my contact in Fort Lauderdale, called to acknowledge receipt of my application and suggested that while she was processing it, I could proceed with my formal interview. I interpreted that as a good sign. Since going all the way to Fort Lauderdale was impractical, she put me in touch with Joe, a man in Alexandria, Virginia, who had been a host for years. I called him and we agreed to meet for lunch in a restaurant in Alexandria near I 95, convenient for both of us. I hadn't had a job interview in a long time and I was somewhat nervous, about what to wear, how to appear, how to present myself. I knew he would report back to Stacy and I wanted to make a good impression. I drew up a list of questions to ask, consulted Mapquest for the routing and set out, wanting to be the first to arrive so I could case the joint and compose myself for the interview.
I needn't have worried. Joe was already there by the time I arrived and turned out to be a very nice guy. About 60 (more or less - I'm not a very good judge of age), he'd retired from a facility management career with a Fortune 500 company some years ago and now acted as a consultant in the oil industry. Between cruises, he worked with oil companies in the Middle East so he traveled extensively and often. He was very forthcoming about the gig, telling me how much he enjoyed it and giving me hints on the routine. He cautioned me to be careful to spread myself around. Often, he said, one or two women would want to have all his dance time and one had to be careful to be sure no one became jealous. He'd had invitations to staterooms, which he always declined - going to one can get you kicked off the ship - and urged me to connect with the entertainment director as early in the cruise as possible. He said he always volunteered for every shore excursion but sometimes, getting back to the ship, showering and dressing, going for cocktails, then dinner, then dancing until midnight made a very long day. He also urged me to pay attention to single men traveling alone, suggesting that often there was one or two who'd recently become a widower and needed social care. He urged me never to volunteer for Cunard, saying their dance floors were like football fields, with whole cadres of women lined up against the wall like spiders ready to pounce on any host, and an entertainment director insisting that he dance every dance. He'd traveled mostly with Regent Seven Seas, a line he liked a lot. He also advised that my first cruise should be a short one so I could really see whether I liked this gig or not before I committed to a longer one. Over his objection, I paid for lunch and we agreed to keep in touch. I thought it went well enough. One more hurdle passed, I thought. And promptly got lost in Washington, trying to take what I thought was a shortcut home.
(I call this trip a "gig" because I don't quite know what else to call it. While I'm sure it will be an experience, it seems awkward to refer to it in that way. And it's not a job in the usual sense of that word since probably for reasons of liability, the gig is set up so that a host doesn't legally "work" for either the cruise line or Stacy's organization. That's made very clear in the contract. Instead, a host is considered a volunteer. So there you are. I'm becoming a gentleman host volunteer. Sort of like a man with no country, on a gig, from country to country.)

The Application

A Google search of "gentlemen host" took me to the web site of a company in Fort Lauderdale that supplies this service to several cruise lines. In a rush of enthusiasm, I called them, spoke (in what I thought was my sexiest voice) to their representative long enough for her to decide I was a qualified candidate, and asked her to send me the appropriate application. When this arrived, I realized the gig was more than a notion. Although the basics were simple enough - a host travels free in exchange for specific efforts to help women traveling alone have a good time - the devil is always in the details. The application process required sending a recent photograph of me in a tuxedo, a copy of the first page of my passport, an essay of 500 words explaining why I thought I was a good candidate, the names of at least two dance references, six letters of recommendation, a dance audition, a personal interview and a background check. It was almost like trying for a security clearance! But I was game. Among the personal questions posed was one on marital status that included a box for "never married," which I checked, wondering just what that might signify. Given my age, a "never married" would probably telegraph that I'm gay. But might that not be an advantage? Entertaining women most emphatically did not include visiting them in their staterooms. Both they, and I, were safe there. I searched through my photographs to find one I thought complimentary and found one of my friend Rhea and me, both dressed formally for Christmas Eve on a Silver Sea cruise from Australia to New Zealand. It was a few years ago but what the heck? Rhea was wearing black, with a fuchsia silk shawl and I was spruced up in my tux with a big white handkerchief in my pocket. Tanned and elegant, we looked great! And I didn't think it would hurt to have a beautiful woman on my arm in my application picture. The passport page was easy to scan and include, and I was able to convince several friends to act as dance references and write letters of recommendation. I salted the dull facts of my background with bits of "playing Bridge," "teaching dancing," "widely traveled," "photographer" and so on. And still thinking of the gig as a lark - if I got it, fine; if I didn't, it wouldn't change my life - I ended the 500 words by saying, "And I never spill soup on my tie." The night after sending the application back, I had dinner at The Prime Rib and promptly spilled glop all over my tie. Karmic justice. It served me right for being so flippant!

The Inspiration

At just over six feet tall and weighing in, dripping wet, at a skinny 145 pounds, I was a scrawny, spindly teenager. My kid sister said I wore only bow ties because if I wore a long one, it would cover me completely. I was too nearsighted to see a ball clearly enough to catch it, or kick it, so I failed miserably at softball and soccer. And although at my height I should have been good at basketball, I was shamefully uncoordinated. The one time tried out for the basketball team (at my father's strident insistence), I stumbled on a lay-up drill and skidded down the floor on my chin, leaving a wake of blood behind me. Not pretty. The scar is the same as one for a neck lift, which I could certainly use but haven't had. My gawkiness also made me shy and socially inept and I retreated into my academic work where, by dint of intelligence and hard work, I excelled. Latin was much more my subject than Industrial Arts. So I gave up any hope of every being elected by my classmates to Safety Patrol - I secretly coveted the white belts and silver badges they wore as they smartly directed traffic down the halls of Caroline High School - and focused on my aptitude for polishing that good old scholastic apple. But then, like the saving sherrif riding into Dodge City, an itinerant ballroom dance teacher came to town and changed my life forever. In a fifteen-year-old, subconscious prescience of potential popularity, I begged my parents to let me join her classes. Musical genes inherited from my mother dropped me into the rhythmic grooves of fox trot and rumba without effort and the spatial relationships of foot patterns were just like so much geometry to me. I learned quickly. And quickly became popular. Especially with the girls. When college came, I even landed a job giving dancing lessons of my own, teaching over-priviledged, suburban Philadelphia kids the social graces as well as the waltz, cha cha and tango in classes their parents, called The Swarthmore Junior Assemblies. The money I earned paid for my first, eight-week trip to Europe in 1955 on an all-inclusive student tour that cost about $700.00. Incredibly inexpensive as that now seems, I was so poor that by the end of the trip, on an extension in Paris, I survived on cheese and bread. How La Boheme! And what a long time ago.
That first taste of ocean liners and foreign tongues stimulated my appetite for travel and since then, I've feasted on many exotic places in the world. Now retired from a high-powered management career and free of responsibilities to my shrinking family, my love of wanderlust and dancing suddenly came together. In the description of a cruise I was thinking of taking, an asterisk in its details blinked at me like a flashing neon sign: "This cruise will include gentlemen hosts." Somehow I immediately knew (without knowing) that gentlemen hosts were men who traveled free in exchange for entertaining ladies traveling alone. No, not in their staterooms - that was strictly forbidden - but as a good partner at Bridge, shuffleboard, dinner and dancing. Especially dancing. Why, I can do that, I thought. I can most certainly do that. I went online to investigate.