Wednesday, December 16: It's Time to Get off this Ship

When I went to bed about midnight last night, the entertainment crew was schlepping hefty, well-worn cartons out onto the atrium floor. When I came down to the computer room this morning, the atrium had been transformed for Christmas, with garlands and bows everywhere. Most of the public spaces – the restaurants, the theater, the lounges – have lighted Christmas trees. The one in La Veranda even lists to one side, appropriate, I thought for a tree on a ship.
On the door to my suite (read stateroom [read cabin]), in the slot where we receive all communications, I found a preliminary statement that, on examination, showed that all of Heinz’s charges had been posted to me. Wonderful! I gathered together the slips I’d retained from my clothes’ trips to the laundry and tried to straighten this all out at the reception desk where I’d left an imprint of my Visa card. They couldn’t follow my simple arithmetic – these charges add up to, and my laundry credit is – so I put it all in writing and gave them a copy. (This morning – Thursday – I stopped at the desk and they seem to have arrived at my same conclusion. I owe $1.90.)
I had breakfast with Terry (the bookie from London) who told me that a proper English breakfast would include kedgeree, a Scottish concoction of flaked haddock and mashed potatoes, buttered and lightly baked, which sounded just awful. And, he said, the English frown on anything that might be covered with syrup, like French toast, waffles or pancakes. These are far too American. We also discussed English terminology for various situations and I learned that a minor official who’s insistent of some petty policy is known as a “Jobsworth,” which translates into something like “I have to enforce this because it’s what my job’s worth.” Don’t ask.
Jim, whom I described to you yesterday, was also at breakfast and once Terry left, he told me more about himself and his life than either you or I would ever want to know. Delivered in a thin grin, he described, in avid detail, his medications, his operations and his experiences with women here on the ship. Apparently there are two girls traveling together with one husband and when the husband is away, Karen and Kristen play. They torture Jim with lurid suggestions meant to tantalize him sexually. One of them (according to him, of course) asked him late one night if he wanted to stay at the bar with the other one, or go with her to the ladies room and watch her pee. It’s really time to get off this ship.
In dance class today we worked on the quickstep, a dramatic and swoopy dance that consumes large areas of dance floor. The Dragon Lady loved the drama of it all, the little finger of her left hand poised for effect, her head turned and tilted to the side – she told me one should never look at one’s partner – as though she were in a competition for the tango. She and her husband make an odd pair. She’s totally dramatic, about everything, and he’s totally placid, about everything, moving her through her routine (and maybe her life) with quiet servitude. “No, no,” she’ll say, as she corrects him while he just grins and bears it. Anne (who breathes superior air) concentrated so hard on the steps she couldn’t smile no matter how much I kidded her. And the French Claudines insisted on twisting away, swiveling on their chicly pointed shoes no matter what dance they’re doing. I had a lot of trouble with the routine, a combination of six different steps, without a clear rhythmic pattern. Some steps are slow and some are quick: “slo, qvik, qvik, slo, slo, slo, qvik, qvik; no, back on yo-ore left,” Olena would prompt me. Heinz knew the steps, of course, and his disgust at my inability to perfect the movements was more than obvious. Or maybe that’s all in my head. Or maybe not. While Sasha and Olena dance beautifully together – all Russian posture and distain – they don’t make good teachers. They try to teach too much in too short a time and when 11:15 rolls around, no matter where we are, they’re out of there.
Later in the day, I ran into Rozanne and Leon. He, who was lost, was found in the shower. Rozanne was apologetic for her strident insistence that the ship locate him and grateful to me for having tried to assist her.
Around the edges of dance classes – one in the morning and one in the afternoon – I tried to find something to do. I had finished the book I was reading, a bit of worthless Sidney Shelton froth where I knew from the beginning how it would end. I tried a Gwen Ifill lecture and although she’s very bright and makes a good impression as a speaker, she could have said in five minutes what took over an hour. And the questions from the audience – “What’s Michelle really like?” – were painful. I abandoned Gabriele in the balcony and went back to my suite (read stateroom [read cabin]) for a welcome nap.
At cocktails, Heinz got the pick of the Solo litter and I, as usual, got stuck with the rest: Libby (the talent manager), Terry (the bookie). Wanda (the costume seamstress) and her daughter, Cathy. I didn’t really mind; I like them all. But it became obvious that Terry has moved in on Cathy – people treat each other differently once they’ve been to bed together – and that Wanda disapproves. She sat sternly over her chateaubriand, which she cut up into mouth-sized pieces before she ate any of it, glowering at her daughter across the table. Terry went blithely on, grinning broadly and telling Cathy stories of his bookie past, touching her arm occasionally in what seemed a gesture of possession. Cathy seemed mildly amused by his attention and when he said, “Well, my dear, we’ve had a go or two,” she smiled tolerantly. When the handsome grey-haired wine steward seemed to have forgotten us, she said he was mad at her. I commented that I had tried to get his attention but to no avail. She said, “What? Did you turn him down, too?” It’s time to get off this ship!
If you think AOL is difficult at home, try getting to your email here. It takes forever. And I seem to have to ask for the mail at least twice before any of it appears. Consequently, I haven’t been too loyal to email because I’ve wanted to save my computer time for the blog. But today, I finally retrieved some messages and found among them an invitation from the company that screens gentlemen hosts an invitation to join the first leg of a round-the-world whoop-de-do on this very ship, leaving in the middle of January. It embarks from San Diego and goes directly to French Polynesia, then on to Australia, Malaysia and finally, after 47 days, to Singapore. While I don’t think I want to repeat this experience, no matter where the ship might go, I was nonetheless complimented by being asked. Beverly and Tim, my new friends from London, thought I should say yes immediately, conditional on having a suite (read stateroom [read cabin]) all to myself. “Tell them you’re incontinent,” they said. But when I asked Heinz about his next gig, he told me he had accepted a position on this very cruise. Would I room with him again? No way. Goodbye Polynesia. I’ll have to visit you another time.
Lorraine, the cruise director, approached me at the captain’s farewell reception to tell me I had been doing a great job. I’m not just sure how she knows that, but she does have eyes in the back of her head and so sees everything. Although her official demeanor is always smiling and pleasant, I expect that underneath that mild exterior lies one very tough cookie.
Ron Shapiro stopped by on deck today to tell me that in his niece’s email to him, she said she’d heard the ship had lost an engine. The only way she could have known that, he surmised, was through reading my blog. I guess I have at least a few followers I haven’t met. Several people aboard, including Bev and Tim, have asked me for the blog address but I’ve told them it would be better to wait until I leave the ship. I’ve been pretty honest (and sometimes a little raw). I don’t want the Voyager to dump me short of Fort Lauderdale.
Rachael Carson picked the perfect title in “The Sea Around Us.” Sitting out on deck, contemplating the future, I could see how, with the sea all around us, early explorers might worry about sailing off the edge of the world. There is something very spiritual about all that water, as blue as the Microsoft tool bar on this page, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe later, at home, amid the mail and laundry, I can find the answer. It's time to get off this ship. Stay tuned.