Saturday, December 12: Steaming Toward Barbados

I was up just in time for the sunrise. Not spectacular but good enough for some digital space. My only companion on Deck 11 at the stern of the ship was the deck hand. Dressed in his white coveralls and yellow boots, he was with long deliberate strides squeegeeing the water used to clean the ship every morning toward the deck drains. His boots were prominently labeled “Ding Dong.” I wondered how he got that name and if his fellow mates called him that. Soon we were joined by the early-morning joggers, including Eberhard, the hotel manager, flinging themselves around the jogging track.
At breakfast, I told some Solos who had gathered at the table that the assistant wine steward had told me the night before that the ship calculated their wine supply based on three glasses per day per guest. Shirley commented, incongruously, that she never drank wine. “Why, I had only had three glasses at lunch,” she said, without catching the irony. Also at breakfast, I stopped to say hello to Dr. Rita who, slumped over her plate and wearing a bright blue sun hat that covered her face, looked lost in her chair. She thanked me again for helping her with her jewelry and said she needed another favor. It seems she had a run-in with the reception desk because she had asked to see the hotel manager, Eberhard, and they had refused to set up an appointment for her. Would I intercede? I went straight to Lorraine, who was far too busy to listen – she had a captain’s meeting in five minutes – but called the reception desk anyway and insisted that they set up Dr. Rita’s appointment. As before, I backed out of what I was sure would become some kind of controversy before I might get further involved. When I was in the Army, a lifetime ago, I learned that one never volunteers for anything. The more anonymous one is the safer one is.
At lunch, I met Judy and Herb who live in Cooper Village in New York. I asked them many questions about how they came to be on this particular ship and why they traveled (which they had done extensively) with Regent. They gave me the usual answers: the familiarity, the perks, the service, how pleasant everyone was. But Herb then recounted an experience only the day before when he left a book on his deck chair for only a minute to go to the bathroom. When he got back, a lady was sitting in his place, reading his book. He asked her for the book and she refused to give it to him, saying, “How do you know it’s yours?” He explained that the bookmark was his boarding pass, which had his name on it. She checked, found the bookmark, and returned his book. But she didn’t return his chair.
Chairs are very important to the passengers. Early in the morning – and despite pleas from the ship to the contrary – people reserve their preferred deck chair by placing a book or a towel where they want to sit. Then they go about their business until sometimes several hours later, they return to occupy the space. Long before the breakfast hour is over (around ten o’clock), all the chairs in the shade are so reserved, which is indicative of the age and competitiveness of the guests. No one wants to be in the sun.
In another chair episode, one guest told me that she and her husband, and another couple, were occupying four chairs around a table in the lounge when a man approached them and said they were in his space. The lady asked if the seats they were in were reserved. “No,” the man said. “But I’ve traveled over 120 nights with Regent and this is my space.” The foursome was astonished and told the man to go…well, you get the drift. He stomped away, infuriated that his rank didn’t pull.
When I stopped on my way into the lounge for the cocktail hour to bid a good evening to the Dragon Lady and her smiling husband, she gave me a once-over and said I cleaned up pretty good – I was wearing a double-breasted dark suit – but that my shoes were ugly. “You shouldn’t be wearing those ugly shoes,” she said. Maybe so, honey. But I have special permission to wear them because of my feet. Of course, I didn’t say that. I only hoped out loud that she have a pleasant evening and then moved on, smiling my public smile, even though her bossiness – she’s now telling Sasha how to conduct the dance lessons - makes me want to just slap her up side her head. I asked her husband, jokingly, if she treated him this way and he said, “Yes. Always.” Poor man.
At dinner with Libby (of whom I’ve grown very fond), Maryella and Marissa, we were talking about the lamb chops for breakfast and I told them about one of the passengers saying to me that I should live a little. Maryella said her mantra for that was, “If not now, when?” I like that almost as much as “Yes you can.”
When I snore (which, apparently, I do), Heinz wakes me up by smacking his hands together. I always hear the smack. So I wonder if he smacks twice and I wake on the first one and hear the second, or if the first one wakes me, and I hear it all at the same time. Is that even possible? You can see what trivia occupies my mind. It’s time to leave this gig and get on with my (real) life.
After dinner, I struggled to speak high school French to Claudine #1 while she struggled to speak her high school English to me. She beamed when I said, “Vous etes tres chic.” She was/is. It’s a little like my other mantra: “I’m just doing the best I can.” Tomorrow, Barbados. Stay tuned.