Friday, December 4: If it's Friday, it's still...

Rio, in the rain. Heinz and I said goodbye to Nancy and Donna who, although finally feeling better, was now upset that she had finally met a man who interested her – Rudy was the lucky one – only to have to leave the ship, and Rudy, behind. It’s always something, isn’t it? As the day progressed, the ship took on a different personality as new guests arrived and perfumed the environment with their presence. It seemed the ship became more enlivened somehow but I’m not sure whether it was the particular personalities of the new arrivals or just the excitement of the anticipated holiday. This was especially obvious at Solo cocktail hour when the same Solos showed up and a lot of new ones joined. Heinz had made arrangements to leave the ship for the evening in order to attend a Samba School so I had the hosting largely to myself. And what a lot of new names to try to remember: Libby, from 72^nd Street, wrapped in a red shawl and telling me she was sorry but she was very cranky - she’d been traveling a long time and was tired. Carol, from Vancouver, who had a very tight connection at Dulles and lost one of her pieces of luggage. She didn’t expect to get it until Salvador and apologized that she’d have to “make do” for formal night (I offered her some of my neckties but that didn’t seem to help). Wanda, and her daughter, Cathy, both with the new entertainment group. Wanda reworks the costumes for the new singers and dancers and Cathy helps. Wanda ordered a huge steak for dinner – twice the size of those at The Prime Rib – and ate the whole thing. Libby, who was sitting next to me and eats like a bird, was scandalized. Wanda’s girth was mute evidence to her ability to stuff it in. Then there was Shirley, a birdy-plump woman with an ample bust who announced right away that she loved chocolate and dancing. Watch out! Maryella, from Pasadena, tall and blonde and looking like an Afghan hound, and her traveling companion, Marissa, another blonde who spoke hardly at all. Pruney Brenda, who screws up her face when she talks and has the most carefully manicured nails I’ve ever seen. And finally, Terry, from London, who kept his end of the table in stitches all through dinner. Margot (with a T), who was sitting on my other side, complained throughout dinner about having traveled so much on some line that was sold to Cunard. They transferred her considerable points away from Regent and she was furious about it. Also, when she returned to the ship today, they didn’t meet her with an umbrella and she got wet. She wasn’t happy about that and complained. I’m rather sure she’ll complain about me.
Contrary to the leg from Cape Town to Rio, all the ladies but Libby and Brenda went to the lounge for dancing. Sasha and Olena were there, demonstrating their icy ability to swing and switch and pose in Samba and Salsa, arcing around the dance floor in an exhibition of incredible technique coupled with an equally incredible lack of feeling. Instead of Romeo and Juliet, they might as well have been two highly engineered mannequins spinning mathematical patterns around the dance floor. I danced with Shirley, who thanked me, and Cathy who did not. And then, out of the blue, a 45-ish vision in a moppy hairdo, a strapless black top, balloon pants and Roman sandal heels stood up and crooked her finger at me as though she was calling a servant who been errant in some chore. I tried to respond politely but she dragged me onto the dance floor and used me – yes, that’s the right word – used me to show off, stomping and twitching like a grinning rabbit on speed. Marcy, she said. From the Hamptons and Palm Beach. Traveling with her sister who jumped out onto the dance floor and began her own version of twitching and stomping in an equally bizarre costume: tight leggings, more Roman sandals with six inch heels, and a filmy top that drooped around her body like a bathrobe, lined in fuchsia silk. When the floor became empty, Marcy and her sister danced alone, two Salomes showing their stuff to the crowd. It was energetic. But it wasn’t pretty.
When Heinz returned from his Samba Show, shortly after I escaped this circus for bed, I warned him that the next two weeks would be very different from the ones before. He’ll be pleased. He’s unhappy if he can’t be dancing.
With all the age around me – some of it in wheelchairs and on canes - I couldn’t help but think of this ship as just another assisted living facility, moving around to exotic places in the world instead of planted in one mundane location. The residents are really just the same, only with a lot more financial resources. Which gives them the incentive to be demanding. And the security to complain. I’ve just traded one form of Traveling with Phil for another. Stay tuned.