Tuesday, December 15: San Juan

We arrived in San Juan right on schedule just as I was finishing my blog post for the day. Fortunately, we cleared immigration here rather than later, in Fort Lauderdale. Unfortunately, we had to stand in what seemed an endless line before we got our passports, which had been taken away from us when we boarded the ship, and made the perfunctory pass by the immigration officials. No one could go ashore until all had made this trip. It took several hours. During this time, two more cruise ships docked next to us, one of them a Princess behemoth with thousands of passengers. I have been to San Juan many times and not needing to visit it again, I decided to just make it a lazy day and stay aboard. Besides, it was very, very hot, so hot that later in the day, when I decided it was foolish to be here without going ashore, I left the ship, passed through the necessary check-points, reached the street and then with the prospect of exploring among thousands of tourists rapidly losing its appeal, turned around and came back.
Jim, from Los Angeles, joined me at breakfast. A very thin, nerdy-looking guy, about 45, with a thin mouth and thinning hair, he very early in the cruise latched onto Maryella and Marissa, who tell me he was eager to let them know how stud-ly and rich he is. His thin eyebrows are arched in a permanently querulous position and he swallows his words, which makes talking to him almost impossible. I just say, “Right!” and “Un huh.” He’s a regular in dance class where his grasp of rhythm is thin at best. Even his pot belly has no enthusiasm. Each morning, he fills his plate to overflowing with eggs and fruit and muffins and bacon and brings to the table two glasses of orange juice that he posts, one on each side of his plate, like sentinels in the Valley of the Kings. Where all this food goes remains a mystery. This morning he insisted on telling me that his mom, who died a year ago (much like my own) had lived with him for her last fifteen years and that last night he had been invited to the suite of a couple of girls traveling together. These two topics seemed an odd combination for so early in the day. This last boast was far more information than I wanted. But, thin though he is, he’s also a Solo, so I shifted into host gear and tried to follow his very thin thread of thought while stuffing myself with fresh papaya.
Back in our suite (read stateroom [read cabin]), Heinz was just getting up and dressing for the day, primping his hair and checking himself out endlessly in the mirrored wall above his bed. I told him I had offered to stay aboard so he could go ashore but he dismissed my gesture by saying that he and his “group” were having dinner in The Veranda. So, he now has his own “group,” which consists of Margot (with the T), Brenda (the banker who no longer goes to the casino), Diane (from near Tampa), Rosalie (of the racy Margaritas), Ellie (of the emeralds) and critical Shirley (whom we had dubbed the Whiskey Sour). With the help of the maitre d’ in The Veranda, they had arranged for a very special dessert, a Grand Marnier soufflé. After dinner Brenda told me Shirley and Margot (with the T) had felt it needed more Grand Marnier (no surprise) and had asked the server to pour some directly into their dessert. Even that didn’t mellow them out.
During the morning, there was a simulated emergency aboard and service (of all kinds) was suspended for an hour while the crew participated. Shirley told me she was on her way to the laundry and just as she touched the handle to open a safety door, the captain blew the ship’s horn, making her believe she had set off some kind of major alarm. This became her “story of the day,” which competed with others’ personal anecdotes at Solo cocktails.
At my own dinner table was Libby (the talent agent), Patrick (picture him this morning waiting patiently on deck for the pool bar to open), Carol (whose luggage didn’t arrive with her), Rudy (from LA) and Dr. Rita/Ruth, who is so small that her head barely reaches above her plate. I had a hard time keeping the conversation light and flowing. Carol, who sat next to me, and who has brought up the topic of gay marriage with me several times, asked me about my past and when I told her, she called me a fraud and excused herself from the table. I have no idea what triggered this behavior. Libby said not to worry; Carol had just had too much to drink. Maybe so.
The show was a small, thick man juggling knives and plates and bowling pins, all while making jokes with the audience. He had a caustic edge that, while funny, soon grew tiresome and, as usual, I nodded off. Something about a big dinner, a couple of glasses of wine and the darkness triggers my momentary mini-escapes from this hostly environment. After the show, I escorted Dr. Rita back to her suite (read stateroom [read cabin]), which earned me points with Elsa who, grinning as usual like the Cheshire cat, was greeting people as they left the theater. “Did you enjoy the show?”
The theme for dancing until midnight was “Rock and Roll.” The Lounge was packed with guests. The orchestra played songs like “Only You” and “Hounddog” and Lorraine sang (and well; she must be a disappointed entertainer). Heinz and I danced. The two Claudines have become ravenously hungry for the dance floor, not even sitting down between numbers but turning to one of us at each song and then swiveling and twisting the night away to their own version of whatever dance they think they are doing. I just hang on, trying to remember that it’s not about the steps; it’s about showing them such a good time that they’ll buy another cruise. But tonight was a challenge. I was so hot and out of breath, my shirt wet with perspiration, that I reached a kind of nirvana, a weird feeling of separation from it all, as though being in this movie and watching it all at the same time.
As I was on my way to the lounge before dinner, I ran into Rozanne in the lobby, arguing with the Destinations Desk personnel, who didn’t seem to be helping her. (I’ve had my own problems with them.) Foolishly, I stopped to say hello (Rozanne is always as astonished as I am that I remember her name) and got involved. It seems that Rozanne’s husband, Leon, had gone ashore for a tour that included horseback riding in the jungle. He hadn’t returned. Rozanne asked what I thought were simple questions: had the bus returned to the ship and had her husband signed back in? The Destinations Desk didn’t seem able to answer these questions or maybe they knew the answers and just didn’t want to give them to Rozanne. I went down to the boarding area and asked the attendant at the door if Mr. Halio, in suite 833, had signed back in. The answer was no. When I went back to tell Rozanne, she was, again, asking the desk if the bus was back. If not, there might be no reason to worry. If so, then her husband could be lost somewhere in the jungle. It wasn’t a happy time. I decided to get uninvolved and wished Rozanne the best, urging her not to worry and to let the ship solve the problem. I heard later that the bus had returned to the ship and that her husband was not on it.
For comic relief, I stopped at the bar to talk to John and Ramona and Henry, who was having his usual Southern Comfort Manhattan. Ugh. Big busted Ramona, who refers to John not as her husband but the man she is traveling with, was nursing her usual martini and whining about not being a good mother to her wayward son. John wasn’t paying attention to her – he’s probably heard her lament a thousand times – but intent instead on the audience for his jokes. “Drinks are like breasts. One isn’t enough, and three are too many.” I moved on.
I must admit that my reservoir of bullshit is running out. I’m tired of coddling up to all these tiresome people – the idle rich – who have nothing interesting to say and spend their time one-upping each other with their nights aboard and their equivalent privileges. I long for my Levis and a T shirt and my own agenda for the day. I’m satisfied that I’ve done a good job at being a host (even if Heinz would not agree) and had an interesting experience but it’s time to be home again. I’ll be happy to get there.
Picture this. A tall, thin woman, probably 75, still with a remarkably good body and daringly dressed in a bikini. She’s sitting on the pool deck in one deck chair with all her paraphernalia – her bag, her book, her lotion, her chic coverall - arranged carefully on the chairs on either side of her. Her diamonds sparkle in the sun. Her gold bracelets dangle from her stick-like arm. She has bleached blonde, shorter than shoulder length, straight hair parted in the middle and which she keeps putting back behind her ear with an expensively manicured dark red nail. She’s wearing heavy yellow sunglasses that proclaim Gucci or Chanel on their temples. She has a little palsy and like Katherine Hepburn, shakes her head slightly as she concentrates on the cell phone in her hand. She arranges the pillows behind her and spreads out to worship the sun. Her phone rings – in Puerto Rico, we’re back in America and cell phones are now working – and she answers it. She speaks briefly. Then she lies back down. But she keeps her cell phone in her hand. It rings again. She answers. She lies back. She sits up. She focuses on the phone, which never leaves her hand, even when she decides she’ll read a little. She changes her mind and lies back in the sun. Her husband, all hairy back and overweight and tanned like turtle hide, brings her a cappuccino. She sits up to take it, drinks one sip and puts the cup down on the deck. Her phone rings. She answers it.
You get the picture. When Fort Lauderdale finally appears on the horizon, I will be so ready for it. Stay tuned.