Thursday, November 26: Thanksgiving at Sea

Even though I was up early, there was no sunrise to photograph. I wandered around like a man without a country – I don’t feel comfortable going back to my suite with Heinz still sacked out – until I could get some breakfast. Then I changed from my passenger clothes - a T-shirt with sweater and my grubby khakis – into my social outfit: a Polo shirt and my clean khakis. And my badge, of course, which identifies me as Phillip Cooper, dance host, contrary to my request that they call me Phil Cooper. Wearing this outfit and my brightest smile, I presided over the coffee corner, where there are about six small tables of four seats, between nine and ten. When Heinz joined me in his best Bavarian presence, he sort of took over (as he has a tendency to do). I was doing just fine, introducing myself to people and chatting merrily away. But he’s so used to inserting himself into every social situation, he can’t help it. But he’s also very good at – better than I am – and I don’t really mind. It just makes it harder for me to establish a rapport with the guests.
I had looked forward to the morning lecture on St. Helena and Napoleon. The woman who gave it droned on saying every-word-as-though-it-should-stand-alone, making what I thought was interesting information, less interesting. When the British finally defeated Napoleon, he was afraid to surrender to French authorities and so surrendered to the British. They decided to send him to St. Helena, where he and a retinue of a few loyal followers arrived after sixty-nine days at sea in October of 1815. The house where he ultimately lived was small but renovated to accommodate a man who had once been the head of an empire. He had a daily routine that included receiving guests, always dressed in court attire. He gardened and read and was fairly well treated by the British commander in charge of his exile. But in 1818, there was a change of command and the new British consul didn’t like Napoleon and so had him isolated from visits and constantly followed. Napoleon died there at fifty-one in May of 1821 and there have long been rumors that he was poisoned by arsenic. I read some time ago that they now think there was some arsenic in the glue used in the wallpaper. Our lecturer didn’t elaborate. When Louis Napoleon visited the island in 1840, he was appalled at the condition of the house where Napoleon had been living and offered the French government’s assistance in restoring it to a museum, which it now is. Because the island is so remote, nothing much leaves or comes in and so the museum has been able to outfit the house with furnishings that Napoleon actually used. Napoleon’s body was removed to Des Invalides in Paris at that time. When we visit the island, a simple hunk of rock, five miles wide by ten miles long, we’ll do so by tender, which should be interesting.
After the lecture, there was a Thanksgiving Day parade, complete with members of the entertainment staff dressed in costumes, a marching band, balloons and, of course, a Santa Claus at the end. It was sort of like a Halloween parade, birthday party, football rally, Christmas extravaganza. Lorraine, the cruise director, who works really hard to keep everybody entertained, organizes these things and then participates. In this parade, she wore a Santa outfit (that showed her legs) and twirled a baton. Cute.
Then a buffet, an incredible spread laid out in the Atrium around the elevators on Deck 5. There was everything from sushi to roast beef, all displayed on tables with ice sculptures, slowly melting, and lots of things carved from vegetables: lion’s heads from watermelon, flowers from eggplant. The most interesting was a watermelon hollowed out to form a cage, with love birds made from carrots, nestling on a celery perch. The opening was shaped like a heart, with flowers all around it. Cute
The samba lesson in the early afternoon was somewhat confusing for me. Apparently there are several ways to do the samba. My way is old-fashioned and largely abandoned in favor of the Brazilian Samba, which is more lyrical, sexier, and less jumpy. It was hard for me to get because the emphasis and the long step come on a different beat in direct conflict with the way I’ve traditionally done it. But the teachers, from Sao Paulo, were very good – and beautiful – and the class was large. I danced with Mayala, the female part of the teaching duo. After our class, they gave us a demonstration of their expertise and it was so over the top, we all gasped at the end. It was too bad, really, to show us how good they were in comparison with how little we knew. But, as always, the guy wanted to show us his skill; clicking back on his Lucite heels was only a minor part of his routine. Mayala wound up suspended in his arms and supported by his knee. I don’t think I can manage that.
This was the night I was to have dinner with Henry in Signatures, one of the upgrade restaurants. When I saw him at breakfast, with his western omelet covered with A-1 Sauce, I warned that Elsa still had to obtain permission for me to do this and I hadn’t had word back from her yet. He dismissed my concern and, thrusting his hand over his plate, with the diamonds flashing in the sunrise, he said, “It’s a done deal!”
I changed into a suit for the occasion and met Henry and others in the Lounge as always. Elsa was there, of course, and in a two piece satin outfit – she seems partial to shine – that was a medley in pink and mauve, not her best color. Heinz danced while I shifted back and forth between chairs, trying to make conversation with first one group of Solos and then another. Unfortunately, none was very interesting and I find myself saying the same things over and over: “How was your day? What did you do? Did you enjoy it?”
I was surprised to find that Henry had invited only Elise and me to join him but we had helped him on the Dinner under the Stars night and I guessed he wanted to thank us. But he had another motive. He’s taken a fancy to Elise. He talked almost exclusively to her in an old-fashioned and courtly manner that was quite sweet, while I looked on feeling like the duenna at a first meeting between prospective (read over 80) lovers. Near the end, Henry invited Elise to join him again, this time in the other gourmet restaurant and said he would call her to give her the details. “What time do you get up?” he asked her. “Is it okay if I call you at nine o’clock?” On the way out, Henry left us to talk to a couple he knew and Elise, taking my arm to steady herself in the swells, admitted that she liked him well enough but didn’t want him pestering her for the whole trip. I think that’s their problem. Meanwhile, the food was excellent: fois gras with prune jam, a seafood bisque (more complicated than lobster or shrimp), champagne sorbet, roast turkey with stuffing and garlic mashed potatoes and green beans (done to perfection), and a dessert from the cheese tray. Henry had chosen a great wine – a Riesling that was very smooth and buttery. I asked the waiter for the name and he later presented me with the label from the bottle, still wet and carefully wrapped in paper folded paper towels.
The violinist was good. At least she didn’t fall off the stage (which happened once on a Silver Sea cruise). And she was young and pretty, which didn’t hurt. Then back to the lounge for more dancing. I don’t know why but I just don’t seem to want to dance. First, there are no Solos to dance with – even if there were, I probably wouldn’t want to dance with them – so I sit and watch Heinz jitter around the floor with anyone who’ll accompany him. The theme for the night was Rock and Roll and there were a lot of people there. Swing is one of my favorites but I just couldn’t bring myself to dance, even with the entertainment kids who were there in force. I did jitterbug once but it wasn’t successful; the girl I was dancing with really wanted to be alone to do her thing; I was only an excuse to be on the dance floor.
Not dancing is not a good thing. I could see Lorraine, who was the emcee for this gala event, watching me, and see the wheels turning in her head. He’s a dance host. Why isn’t he dancing? No one has said anything to me about it yet. But Heinz is beginning to be impatient with me, separating psychologically, as though to protect himself. I’ve learned that Ray left the ship because they weren’t satisfied with his behavior. If I don’t shape up, will they throw me off in Rio? Stay tuned.