Saturday:
I left Birmingham without mishap, but apparently when I changed planes in Tampa, my luggage didn't make the transfer. I was assured at the Fort Lauderdale airport that it would catch up with me before I sailed. Meanwhile my friend had had an out of town emergency and had to take his family to Naples. With no ride, I had to take a cab from the Ft. Laud. Airport to my hotel in Miami Springs--$70!!!
There was no Cuban restaurant within walking distance and I'd already destroyed my taxi budget, so I had dinner at a Honduran restaurant.
Sunday:
The next morning my luggage arrived at the hotel. I stole someone's slot on the shuttle to the Port of Miami arrived an hour early. The first thing I had to do was fill out a health questionnaire. I was tempted to get cute with it, but didn't want to be denied passage so I filled it out normally, which killed me. As you know, I HATE being myself on vacation.
Check in was very smooth, although I had to sanitize and sterilize my hands at several checkpoints before being allowed onboard. I was pleased to see they were taking no chances with the Norovirus. The cabins weren't ready yet so I had lunch at the buffet (after sanitizing my hands once again), and then placed dinner reservations for Sunday and Monday nights.
Simon, our Australian cruise director announced our rooms were ready and I went down to Deck 5 to drop off my carry on. The room was nice enough, but holy crap was it small! My cabin on the Carnival ship was quite a bit bigger. My luggage hadn't yet arrived, so there was nothing to unpack. For some reason my mini-bar was locked up. I had no intention of drinking a $5 bottle of water or an $8 bottle of beer, so I never asked that it be opened.
I was ready to go exploring, but first I needed to tinkle. I went into the bathroom, raised the lid of the toilet, and gagged. There is no way to say this delicately: a big gob of poop from the last occupant was smeared on the toilet seat. What is the point of sterilizing my hands every ten feet if you're going to expect me to sit in someone else's poop? I called housekeeping, but couldn't understand the thick accent of the person who answered. She finally made it clear that as soon as all the luggage had been distributed, someone would be by to clean. Nothing I said convinced her that this needed to be handled NOW. Finally I grabbed a wash cloth, ran it under hot water, soaped it up, and cleaned the darn thing myself. As soon as I finished I hurried to one of the hand sanitizing stations. I held my hand under the stream of disinfectant until the bag was empty. Even then I didn't leave but kept shouting, "More bleach!" to anyone in uniform who passed.
I had a decision to make. I'd be well within my rights to let this episode ruin the entire trip for me—and we hadn't even left Miami yet! I decided there was no point being miserable for a week and in spite of the crappy clean up job (and I mean that literally), I was going to have fun.
Dinner at Cagney's Steak House
Before I was allowed to approach the hostess I had to sanitize my hands. Once I was deemed clean enough she asked me if I wanted a table for one, or did I want to dine with new friends. Most definitely I wanted to dine with new friends. I was led to a table for eight. Two couples were already there: Vicki and Johnny, perhaps sixty years old each, and Paul & Bridget, about my age. I'd barely sat down when another couple joined us, a mother and daughter from Belgium.
We introduced ourselves to each other and concentrated on the menu. Once we placed our orders, the small talk commenced. Vicki and Johnny were frequent cruisers, going once a year. They were in one of the balcony suites. For whatever reason, Vicki liked to appear helpless. "Johnny? Cut my meat for me, Johnny." "Johnny? Hand me the salt, Johnny." Paul and Bridget were on their first cruise, and had an outside cabin. Helga and Hilda (or whatever their names were—I never did understand them) were also on their first cruise and had an outside cabin. When I admitted that I was in an inside cabin, and on one of the lower decks, yet, people started giving me the "be nice to him, he can't help if it he's poor" look.
I said, "I'd love to have a suite, or even an outside cabin, but when you're on a fixed income you have to stay within your budget."
"Fixed income?" Paul asked.
"Yes, I'm retired," I said.
"Damn! You can't be more than a year or two older than me. What's your secret?"
"Oh, good investments, I suppose," I said vaguely.
"What did you do before you retired?" Bridget asked.
"I'm an actor," I said. Helga, Hilda, Vicki and Johnny heard that and started paying attention.
Bridget said, "Really? On tv? The movies? I don't remember seeing you in anything." Our server appeared and passed out dinner plates.
"Oh I doubt you would've seen me," I said, smiling. "First, all my gigs were in the early 80s. Second, I was an adult film star. Of course, I didn't go by 'Bob Byrd' in the credits—my mother would've killed me. My screen name was Tommy Tripod." I nonchalantly started turned my attention to my knife and fork. By the way, Best. Creamed. Spinach. Ever.
Some of the folks didn't seem to know what to say next, but Vicki had no problem. She leered at my crotch and said, "Tommy? Why did they call you 'Tripod' Tommy?"
I shrugged modestly and said, "Well…you know." Conversation took a more generally turn with everyone contributing their fair share, but every time I glanced at Vicki, seated to my left, she winked at me. It was starting to creep me out. One of the photographers strolled over to us and paired off Paul and Bridgett and took their picture. Then he told Vicki to scotch over closer to Johnny. She did, and he took their picture, but then she scotched back over to me. "Tommy? Take a picture with me, Tommy." And she placed a hand on my thigh.
"WHOA!" I knocked over my glass of water. Vicki didn't seem to notice. I gently moved her hand off my thigh Helga spoke up and said, "Me too! I want to be in picture with big American sex star."
After dinner Paul & Bridget and Helga & Hilda excused themselves and left. I also said goodnight and started to get up, but Vicki pulled me back down to the chair. "Tommy," she said. "Your cabin sounds awfully small, Tommy. Why don't you come up to our suite and . . . have a drink?" She winked at me again.
I was having serious second thoughts about this particular identity. "Vicki, I think I should clarify something. The movies I made had an all male cast, if you know what I mean."
Without missing a beat she said, "Did you hear that, Johnny? You can come, too, Johnny!"
I would bump into Vicki and Johnny frequently over the next 5 days and every time I did, Vicki invited me to their suite for "drinks". Oh, what a tangled web we weave. Vicki insisted that I sit with them during the evening's entertainment (a magic show) but I told her I already had plans to meet someone else.
Monday
Most of the day Cuba was on our port side. We were close enough to Havana to see the downtown skyscrapers. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The Norwegian Pearl is a HUGE ship. My only other experience cruising was on the Carnival Holiday, which is barely a dinghy when compared to the Pearl. To get from my cabin to the mid ship elevators, I had to walk an incredibly long corridor between the ocean view cabins and the inside cabins.
I was on my way to breakfast, walking along at a good clip, when I approached an elderly couple walking in front of me. I slowed down, rather than run them over, and resigned myself to an even longer walk. The woman was slow, but steady. The man hobbled and drifted from side to side, making it impossible to pass him. Suddenly he stopped altogether. His wife kept walking, leaving him and me behind. I was trying to decide why he's stopped when he released a series of the loudest, foulest, blasts of gas I have ever encountered outside an Adam Sandler movie. They varied in tone and volume but the odor was consistent.
I suffered in silence for fifteen seconds or so, but when there was no sign that it was going to end I said, "For God's sake, would you stop? "
He neither turned around nor ceased the barrage. "It's natural," he said defensively as a particularly strong blast escaped him.
"There's nothing at all natural about what you're doing," I assured him. I certainly wasn't lying. It sounded like the philharmonic tuning up before a concert. "Can't you smell that? God knows I'll be carrying that stench in my clothing the rest of the day. I know you can feel it—your butt cheeks are jiggling."
"It's natural!" he repeated. He hobbled off, still pooting. I decided not to follow, but to wait until he was long gone. He'd just turned the corner toward the elevators when the cabin door behind me opened. A woman in her early 20s took one step into the corridor and then began to gag. She glared at me and said, "Oh, that's nice. What did you have for breakfast, helium and shit?"
When I cruised before it rained all day, every day. I'm happy to say the weather on this trip couldn't have been better. I grabbed lunch from the Garden Café and took it with me to eat poolside where I could glom the hotties. This was to be my lunch routine the remainder of the trip. Norwegian doesn't make it easy, though. There are no trays provided in the café. It was all I could do to balance a dinner plate, napkin, silverware, and drink.
After lunch I attended a lecture on the history of magic (much more enjoyable than the magic show itself from the night before). Then I wandered over to the first of many art auctions. The poor representative from Park West couldn't get a bid out of anyone. I finally felt sorry for him and offered two bits for a Chagall, but he didn't seem to appreciate it.
Eventually it was time to change for:
Dinner at Teppanyaki
I haven't figured out how, yet, but this meal is going to get me some kind of freebie from Norwegian Cruise Lines.
It started out simply enough. The Teppanyaki restaurant can only feed 40 people at a time, spread out over 4 tables. Any table I'm at is always "off" since I'm not part of a couple. There were only eight of us at my table, but one of those eight was a two year-old child named Remmy. Within seconds of being seated around the grill from which our Japanese Chef would prepare our meal I discarded my planned identity and created a brand new one in about 3 seconds.
Remmy ran around the room, unsupervised, stealing everyone's chopsticks and soup spoons. Well, almost everyone's. I was too quick for him. When I didn't let him have my eating utensils he started shrieking as only a two year-old can. We all looked expectantly at his parents. His mother said, "Remmy, would you behave, please?" You can guess how effective that was.
As Remmy continued to howl his mother said, "If you don't stop right now, we are leaving and you can stay in the cabin the rest of the night." This threat was repeated frequently, but Remmy knew, as did the rest of us, that Mommy had no intention of following through with it.
It wasn't until he was distracted by some new mischief that he quieted down enough for the adults at the table to introduce ourselves to each other. Jim and Beth, owners of a bakery in Michigan; Dick and Cindy, he a lawyer, she a housewife, from Ohio. No one cared about Remmy's parents so I can't tell you their names, or what they do for a living. And then there was me, Dr. Roberts, Child Psychologist in private practice in Washington, D.C., where I also consult frequently with the FBI.
"FBI?" Dick the lawyer asked. I had to be careful here…this guy might prove a challenge.
"Yes," I said. "You've heard of profilers, the psychiatrists who put together a psychological mug shot, if you will, of unidentified serial killers? I do similar work, only from another angle. You see, I've examined enough spree killers and serial killers that I've been able to identify specific childhood characteristics that actually identify potential killers while they are still children."
"That's impossible," Beth said.
"Not at all. It's actually been tested in the field. It has an 89 percent accuracy rate. Take little Remmy here," I gestured toward the brat. "Notice how his mother doesn't tell him to behave, but rather asks him to behave. Look at it from Remmy's viewpoint. He's being given the option to either behave, or act like a monster. Since he has a choice, he chooses to be a monster. Threats, when they are made, have no effect because they are never enforced." I chuckled knowingly and smiled at the little bastard's parents. "Oh, if only they'd let me threaten the little lamb, he's soon see that I meant business."
I shrugged my shoulders and said, "Of course I can't go home with him to ensure consistency, so I'm afraid it's unlikely that his future will change. Yes, little Remmy here is looking at life in the hoosegow. I don't say he'll be a killer—though I certainly wouldn't be surprised—but he'll be boosting cars and knocking over liquor stores by the time he's sixteen or my name isn't Robby Roberts."
To be honest, I don't think any of them bought it, but we are all united in our hatred for Remmy so they played along. Jim said, "Is there nothing they can do to prevent this?"
Before I could answer Remmy flung his miso soup across the room. Mommy said, "Remmy will behave please? "
"It appears he's doomed." I said to Jim.
The funny thing is, Remmy's folks never once got angry with me. Since they live with the little hellion I suppose nothing I said came as a surprise.
The Teppanyaki restaurant was just like any other Teppanyaki restaurant. No matter what you ordered it came with a piece of grilled shrimp. Rather than make a big deal out of it, I just left my shrimp on the side of my plate where it couldn't contaminate the rest of my food. Towards the end of the meal, here came the ubiquitous photographer.
He took a picture of Jim and Beth, then one of Dick and Cindy. When he came to me, I speared the shrimp on my fork and made a face at it. Rather than take my picture he aimed the camera at the Demon family. I said, "Hey! You didn't take my picture!" The photographer ignored me and took a snapshot of Remmy smearing teriyaki sauce all over the table. "HEY!" I said, louder this time. "Take my picture."
"No," he said, and started to walk away.
By now the rest of the table, were telling him to take my picture. He kept refusing. Finally I asked him why. "These are serious pictures," he said. "And you are not serious. You waste my time."
"Look here, Ansel Adams. I suggest you climb off your high horse and take my damn picture. This is my cruise and I want a memento of it." The rest of the table, indeed all four tables began telling this little weasel to take my picture. Finally he lifted the camera, without aiming at anything, and the flash went off. "Not so fast, Rembrandt! You didn't give me a chance to pose!" I once again picked up my speared shrimp and made a face at it. The flash went off and the photographer left.
After dinner I made my way to the Stardust Showroom where Second City performed. They were hysterical. Then it was off to the "big screen" to play Wii. The big screen isn't some 52 inch plasma. The big screen takes up one and a half stories. This is where the macho types had gathered on Sunday to watch the super bowl. After getting my butt beat by a group of eight year olds at tennis, baseball, and boxing, I went to bed. As I passed the bar next to the big screen I heard, "Tommy? If they had wrestling I would have taken you on, Tommy."
Tuesday, Cozumel
Before leaving Birmingham I arranged a shore excursion directly with the Sea Trek people. The Helmet Dive would allow me to breathe underwater while wearing my glasses, and without needing to shave first. The near drowning and unintentional skinny dipping that occurred the last time I was in Cozumel need not concern me on this trip.
Since I booked directly with the tour group, I couldn't rely on the Pearl to get me where I needed to be. With map in hand, I set out on my own. Thirty minutes later, I arrived at Jeanie's Dive shop, formerly known as Jeanie's Waffle House. Jeannie is a lady of many talents. I gave my reservation printout to the guy running the show and he handed me a diving helmet and pointed to a bench where some other folks were already gathered. Before long others joined us and when were ten in number the guide led us to the beach and gave us some instructions on how the helmets work, and told us what we'd be doing the rest of the day. A leisurely boat ride to the coral reef, and then we'd don the helmets and walk the ocean floor, twenty feet below the surface.
As were preparing to board the boat I took off my "happy tourist shirt", which I wanted to keep dry and was putting on my "don't wanna get sunburned while I'm in the water shirt" when the guide started shouting at me. He ran up to me and grabbed me and started pulling me back up the beach, all the while saying, "You can't go! You can't go!"
"I could if you'd let go of me!" I said.
He stopped pulling me long enough to point to the eight inch scar running down my chest. "You can't go! You had chest surgery. Under water you die! Twenty feet!"
"What are you babbling about? I've never had chest surgery in my life!" I lied. He pointed again to my scar. "It's a tattoo," I told him.
"I'm sorry senor. I cannot allow you to go. If you die, I am out of business." He assured me I'd get a refund, apologized again, and then was hit by inspiration. "Senor! It is resolved! You can go power snorkeling with my cousin!"
"How do you say 'bite me' in Spanish," I asked him.
I headed back to the pier where I wandered around the shopping areas, but nothing caught my eye. I was saving my souvenir shopping for Grand Cayman—Fred emailed me asking me to find an authentic Rastafarian type and buy a puka shell necklace. Since there was nothing for me to buy in Cozumel, I went back on board the ship.
I expected it to be empty since we were in port, but there were still hundreds of people on board, mostly poolside. So that the day wouldn't be a total loss, I went to the Garden Café for my lunch and started looking for a good spot to glom the hotties.
Several people had rearranged the lounge chairs into clusters, creating a maze for those trying to walk from one end of the pool area to the other. As I tried to traverse the labyrinth I stumbled and dropped my drink. It landed on one of a group of sunbathers, but all of them got wet, including some woman who was face down with her bikini top untied. Her boyfriend thought I was trying to startle her into sitting up and flashing me the goods. My protestations fell on deaf ears, and I was lucky to escape unharmed. As I quickly made my way to the other side of the pool area, a voice behind me said, "Tommy? You don't need little tricks like that with me, Tommy." I turned around and to my horror Vicki grabbed the top of her one piece and flashed me. I can only pray that now that I'm back on land, the nightmares will end.
Before dinner I went to the photo gallery to purchase the photo of my making a face at the shrimp. I figured the gang at work would get a chuckle out of it. Alas, the picture was not there. I found the photos of Remmy, Jim & Beth, Dick & Cindy, but no sign of the picture that the photographer never wanted to take in the first place. I went to the purser's desk to lodge a complaint. The woman on duty was very sympathetic, and indeed shocked at the behavior of the photographer. She asked me to wait while she fetched the Photography Manager. I told him what had happened and at first he claimed I was mistaken. I suggested he check the reservation list from last night's Teppanyaki dinner and ask my fellow diners if I was mistaken. Then he said that occasionally a photo will be erased accidentally.
"Disregarding for the moment that that is complete and utter crap, I find it difficult to believe that the one picture that is accidentally purged is the one picture that I had to fight to have made." He promised he would locate the missing photo and get back to me within 12 hours.
Once again I had to make a decision whether to let this ruin my trip or not. I reminded myself that I was here to have fun, and I put my anger aside until I got back home. Then I fully intended to raise merry hell with NCL. Crappy toilet seats and bullying photographers ought to be worth at least a free upgrade should I decide to cruise with these guys again.
Dinner at the Summer Palace.
Once again, I chose to dine with strangers. My hands had been sanitized so often that they had a permanent alcohol smell. I decided it was time to challenge myself. The novelty had begun to wear off on simply assuming a new persona at every meal. Tonight I wouldn't stop with a new identity. Tonight I was going to bring out . . .
The accent.
It seemed every announcement over the loud speakers was made by an Ozzie. With that many legit Australian accents it was too risky for me to assume one as well.
The last time I attempted an English accent, for some reason I kept calling everyone "darling" which didn't go over so well with the men in the group.
In the end I settled on an indeterminate Slavic accent. I left it vague whether I was a Croatian peasant or the Tsar of all the Russias. If I was ambiguous about my origins, I was specific enough about my occupation, although when asked I was quick to point out it was not a job at all. "It is a blessing. It is a curse. I would not wish it on anyone. Still, it provides a decent living. I am a psychic. My family has always possessed the gift of second sight."
This by far was my most popular imposture yet, even more so than Tommy Tripod. Everyone wanted a reading. Hell, I should have charged for them, I would have easily cleared a couple hundred bucks.
For each of my readings I asked the person to hand me something that had been owned only by them, something they had worn for a long time, something that over the years had collected the essence and aura of their owners—rings, watches, etc. I held the object in my fist and closed my eyes and concentrated. When the mood had been properly established I fed them a bunch of bull. "There is an object of great value hidden in your house. It appears to be little more than trash. Don't throw anything away without first having it appraised."
I told one man that someone was looking for him, perhaps a long lost daughter given up for adoption? "You never knew of her before, am I right?" Of course I was right—I made her up! His wife didn't look too happy about that one. I clutched the wedding ring of a hot looking specimen. When I opened my eyes I told him, "Stay away from the water! I mean, you can take a bath I guess, but do not go near the ocean! Danger awaits!"
His wife said, "We paid $45 apiece for Stingray City and we're going!"
I nodded my head subserviently and said, "The choice is, of course, yours. As are the consequences." I kid you not, before the meal was over people from the adjoining tables were lined up asking for readings. I may have to bring out this persona on a future trip.
I finally claimed exhaustion and excused myself. I spent the rest of the evening singing karaoke. I am happy to say there was absolutely no sign of Vicki and Johnny.
Wednesday, Grand Cayman
My shore excursion ticket told me to report to the Stardust Showroom at 9:45. I got there at 9:44, just in time to hear one of the assistant cruise directors say, "Okay, then if there are no more questions, let's go to deck 4!" All I could do was follow the crowd. There were 300 of us. I was among the first on the tender that would take us to shore. I smiled and waved at the couple from last night's dinner who were ignoring my psychic warning as they came aboard the tender. The smile froze on my face when Vicki and Johnny were right behind them.
I always knew there was a chance that two or more of my alter egos would crash into each other. I always figured that I'd just be non-committal and in no mood to discuss "work" and all would be well. But this was more than clashing identities, this was clashing ethnic backgrounds. I had to use my accent with Archie and Jesse, and remember to drop the accent with Vicki and Johnny.
Fortunately, when we go to shore we separated into three groups and herded onto 6 different buses. I was on a bus with Archie and Jesse. Vicki and Johnny were on a different bus. Disaster averted.
These buses had been altered so that they could carry the maximum number of passengers. There were two seats along the right side of the bus, and two along the left side. This left a narrow aisle in the center. However, attached to the right side aisle seat was a third seat that folded down, creating a seat in the center aisle. There were no supports under this third seat. It was simply attached to the seat next to it. I was the last person on the bus, so the only seat left for me was the "fold down" seat that was opposite the door of the bus.
I am not a slender fellow. I took one look at this seat which was already sagging without anyone sitting in it. Archie and Jesse were in earshot, so in my Slavic accent I told the driver, "I can't sit there. It will not hold me."
"That seat will hold anyone, mon. Sit down!" It was either sit, or miss another shore excursion, so I sat. The seat listed threateningly to the left. I placed my right foot on the floor and my left foot dangled in the well created by the steps leading from the bus door to the seats
Ash Wednesday is a holiday in Grand Cayman. The banks and most businesses were closed. We rode up one street and down another while our guide pointed out areas of interest. Then we pulled into a Rum Cake/Souvenir shop where we had fifteen minutes to shop. These were the same rum cakes I saw for sale in the Fort Lauderdale airport. I was happy to stay on the air-conditioned bus, but since my fold out seat was by the door, I had to get up in order for the rest of the folks to get off. Worse, I couldn't get on again until EVERYONE was on, because once I was in my seat, no one could walk down the aisle to THEIR seat.
I did sample a few different types of rum which wasn't the smartest thing to do on an empty stomach on a hot day. When the rest of our group was on the bus I pulled down my fold out seat and gingerly lowered my tush and we were off again, this time to Hell. I'm convinced that if you look up "tourist trap" in the dictionary you'll find a photo of Hell, Grand Cayman. Blackened rocks roped off next to another gift shop. That's all it is. Once again, I had to disembark so that my fellow tourists could go take pictures of rocks. I amused myself by chasing a few wild roosters around. Grand Cayman has wild roosters the way downtown Birmingham has rats.
Fifteen minutes later I followed the last passenger onto the bus and pulled down my seat and sat. We were now on the way to the boat that would take us to Stingray City. The bus went around a tight curve and with a grating sound the supports holding up my chair reached their breaking point. They snapped in two. I would have fallen onto the floor, but the broken seat was in the way. Instead I was dumped into the door well of the bus, after first banging the back of my head against the stainless steel handrail. I'm quite proud of myself: I remembered my accent while I let loose a string of curse words. From behind me Jesse gasped and said, "He was right! He predicted it would break and it did!" I finished the ride standing up.
We arrived at the boat along with another of our buses. Passengers from both buses boarded the boat and soon we were bouncing over the sea towards the sandbar. There was a "changing room/toilet" on the boat that had room for one person at a time. The line to the changing room snaked upstairs to the upper level of the boat. Archie and Jesse were on the upper level; I was on the lower level sitting next to—you guessed it—Vicki and Johnny. Across from us a young German couple was arguing about something. She kept pointing to the line to the changing room and he kept shaking his head. Finally he stood up and in front of God and everyone, pulled his shorts and undies off and reached into a duffle bag and pulled out a pair of swim trunks which he put on. Meanwhile Vicki, Johnny, and I all had an unobstructed view. I said, "Hush my mouth and call me a Nazi. You come sit next to me, Hans."
Vicki said, "Tommy? We can share him, can't we Tommy?" Actually we couldn't. The German couple apparently understood enough English to give both Vick and me a nasty look.
I was afraid that with so many of us the rays would be scared off, but they're greedy little buggers. When we left the boat we separated into groups of nine and there were plenty of sting rays to go around, even with all the other boats with groups from other ships. My one complaint was that there was only six pieces of squid. Hardly enough for each of us to feed the rays. I didn't realize just how big these puppies get. Some of them are HUGE. The waves would occasionally lift us off the sand and I was terrified I'd land on one of them, pissing it off. I admit I kept thinking of Steve Irwin.
I was among the first to interact with the rays for our photographer. You can tell how at ease and not at all afraid I am. That's Vicki behind me.
And now Johnny is behind me on the right.
After my pictures were taken I swam off to interact with other rays. Snorkels and masks were available, but with my glasses and beard, I couldn't use them. I still had a pretty good view since the water was so shallow and so clear. I was petting one of the rays when a man behind me said, "Dude! What the hell happened?"
I turned around and there stood Archie, wearing a mask, his face covered in blood, which continued to stream down his face from a cut at his hairline. He looked at the man who asked him what happened and said, "What do you mean?"
I shouted, "Holy crap! I was right!"
Archie looked at me suspiciously. "What happened to your accent?"
"Screw that noise!" I said. "Get me to some damn lottery tickets before I lose my mojo!"
We were in the water just over an hour. I would have been happy spending the whole day there. This alone made the trip worth while. It was hard to think of nasty toilet seats or rude photographers while getting super hickeys from giant sting rays.
After a quick bus ride back (standing, of course), Vicki, Johnny, Archie (with butterfly bandages on his scalp—I'm still not sure how he cut himself) and Jesse headed for a tender to go to the ship and change into dry clothes. I had an assignment I had to fulfill, though.
My instructions from Fred were clear: locate an authentic island Rastafarian and purchase a puka necklace for him. A quick look in the local gift shops showed only inauthentic Rastafarians. If I wanted the real deal, I'd have to venture away from the tourist areas and into the heart of the Island. I walked for perhaps an hour when I saw the ghost of Bob Marley standing behind a home made table covered with pipes. "Hello," I said. "I need a puka necklace."
He looked at me for a second and without turning his head, spit some red juice out of the corner of his mouth. "Naw, mon," he said. "I don't got no puka."
"That's a shame," I said.
He smiled, showing blackened teeth. "I got ganja," He said.
"Ganja? Is that better than Puka?"
"Much better," he promised.
Well. Won't Fred be surprised? "Okay. I'll take the ganja."
"How much?"
"I don't know." I tried to imagine how long a puka necklace was. "How about twelve inches." I said.
"How about a twenty bag," he said and place a Ziploc bag next to one of the pipes.
"Holy crap! Ganja is pot? I never bought pot before! How does this work? Do I ask you if you're a cop or do we just start haggling over the price?"
He was no longer smiling. "How it works is, you give me twenty dollars for the bag."
"That's no fun. I'll give you ten."
"Mon, this ain't let's make a deal. Do you want it or not?"
"Not, actually." He snatched the baggie away. I'm not sure, but I think he called me a blood clot, which I assume is an insult in the islands. I headed back to the Tender Area, thinking Fred would have to settle for a fake Puka.
After the $70 cab ride and the Honduran dinner, I was short of funds. I'd placed my debit card in my waterproof wallet before leaving the ship. I found a puka necklace in the gift shop for eight bucks and took it to the counter to pay. When I handed the clerk my debit card she said, "Fifteen dollar minimum if you charge." I looked around but didn't see anything else I cared to spend seven bucks on. Then I remembered that our bus driver had told us that the number one industry on the island was banking. He bragged that there were nearly six hundred banks on the island. With that many banks, how far away could an ATM be? I told the clerk I'd be back and I took off toward town, away from the beach.
I was right. It was easy enough to find a bank, but I'd forgotten it was a holiday. For some reason, all the darn ATMs were INSIDE the banks, not outside. I kept walking from bank to bank to bank looking for one with an outdoor ATM. I never did find one, but I did find one where your ATM card would unlock the ATM lobby. Minutes later I had cash.
I was also hopelessly lost. There were no people. No open businesses. No taxis. I tried back tracking, but after a couple of blocks the buildings all looked alike. I was just starting to panic when a bike rider nearly ran me over. I asked for directions to the beach and he pointed. Eventually I was back to the beach area, but several blocks from the tender area. At least I knew where I was going now.
I went back to the gift shop to buy Fred's puka, but it was closed. Dang, just how long had I been wandering around lost? I looked at my watch: six fifteen.
SIX FIFTEEN? The last tender to the ship leaves the island at six-thirty! Running is not in my repertoire, but I came close to a jog. I flashed my ship ID and driver's license at the guard at the pier entrance and kept on toward the Queen of the Carib, already nearly full of sunburned tourists. I didn't slow down until I'd crossed the gangplank was safely in the only available seat. It was positioned so that I was facing backward, but seasickness was the least of my worries. I gasped for breath, my throat raw, and the person next to me very kindly offered me some bottled water which I chugged gratefully. "What's the rush, friend?" He asked me.
"I nearly didn't make it," I said. "They keep warning you that time, tide and the Norwegian Pearl waits for no man. It'd be just my luck to be stranded here."
He looked at me in confusion. "Norwegian Pearl?"
I patted my waterproof wallet, checking that my nitro glycerin tablets were accessible. I turned around to face the front of the Tender and saw the Carnival Freedom getting closer and closer. Twenty minutes later a pissed off Tender Pilot pulled away from the Pearl and continued with his passengers to the Freedom. Crewmen on the Pearl assured me that it people frequently got on the wrong tenders, and indeed, just last week the Pearl Tender detoured to drop off an errant Costa Cruise passenger. Nevertheless, I still felt rather stupid.
Murder Mystery Dinner in the Indigo Dining Room
On Monday I'd stopped by the ship's library to sign up for the Murder Mystery Dinner. They told me to meet in the Stardust Showroom at 7:00 on Wednesday for my instructions. I was a little late since I had to change out of my sting ray clothes but they waited for me. There were twenty-four of us, divided into groups of six. Assistant Cruise Director Matt gave each us a sheet of paper with our identity, a script, and some sealed envelopes with clues to be opened at specific times during the course of the "investigation". Then Matt led us all to the Indigo dining room where, during dinner, we would solve our murder.
Once we were seated we went around the table and disclosed our identities to each other. When it was my turn I said, "Well this certainly brings back memories. I'm Lei Lanni, Hula Dancer."
The person on my left looked at my fine physique and said, "You have memories of hula dancing?"
"No," I said and hesitated. "I probably shouldn't' have said anything. It's not something I usually bring up with strangers, but since I did," I smiled shyly at my tablemates. "I don't have memories of being a hula dancer . . . I have memories of being a woman. I'm a post-op transsexual. Let me tell you, it made getting a passport damn near impossible, what with my birth certificate saying "female" and my passport photo showing me as I look now."
Another of my table mates said, "Oh my god! I saw something about this on the discovery channel! They give these women so much testosterone to make them grow facial hair, that they all get male pattern baldness." Wow. News to me, but it certainly worked to my advantage. I deflected all other questions and insisted we play the game, which by the way was a lot of fun. Everyone at our table really got into it, although there were frequent glances at me when people thought I wasn't looking.
During dessert one of the women said, "Okay, we all want to know." She lowered her eyes to my lap, but not with the same leering curiosity that Vicki had. "Does it work?"
"Not for you, I'm afraid. It turns out I was a gay man trapped in a woman's body."
An older woman on my left said, "Seems to me you could have saved yourself a lot of money and still had all the men you want. Well, maybe not. Judging by your current appearance I guess you must have been one ugly woman."
Thursday, at sea
A fun day. Second City had an Improv Workshop that was a blast. After the first few exercises, they shuffled us around. I don't think it was an accident that after the shuffling my new partner wasn't a fellow cruiser, but one of the Second City women. We were definitely in sync with each other. It brought back memories of the old days.
After the workshop I had another Glom the Hotties lunch by the pool. Since I never did buy Fred's puka necklace, I had some real money in my pocket. I wandered around the ship and somehow found myself in the casino. I don't gamble much, and when I do I limit myself to the slot machines. I don't understand all the subtleties of poker and black jack. Roulette and craps just confuse me. Even a chimp can keep hitting the "bet max" and "spin" buttons on a slot machine.
Even some of the slots are confusing, with different payout lines and combinations. Thank goodness the machine knows if you win or not, otherwise I'd be lost. I found a free machine and fed it a twenty dollar bill. I pushed the bet max button and then the spin button. Rats. I lost a buck. Nineteen to go. I pushed the buttons again and all hell broke lose. An orange light on the top of the machine spun and flashed. Bells rang. And on the digital readout on the machine the $19.00 kept going up, and up and up and didn't stop going up until it read $412.00.
I pushed the "cash out" button and got the hell out!
Dinner at La Cucina
I admit I didn't select the Italian restaurant until I happened to see Vicki and Johnny standing in line at Le Bistro, the French Restaurant. As usual, I told the hostess I wanted to meet new friends and I was led to a table for six where I took that last chair. Nancy and Warren, an older retired couple sat across from me. To my left was Janet, another solo cruiser. Next to her sat Gary and Beverly, there on their honeymoon. On my right were Beverly's parents, Susan and Ned.
We introduced ourselves and I stuck fairly close to the truth: "I'm Bob Byrd, from Birmingham, Alabama." We waited until we'd ordered before making small talk. Most everyone agreed that we were sorry our cruise was ending. This would be our last dinner on the ship. I said, "Speak for yourselves. This is my fourth cruise in a row and I'm leaving for the next one tomorrow."
"Must be nice!" Susan said.
"That all depends," I said.
The honeymooners, no experts in tact, said, "How do you afford it?"
I explained that three months ago I'd been diagnosed with Amdocs Syndrome, a terminal neurological disorder. Rather than mope around at home and wait to die, I sold my car, sold my house, and have been cruising ever since. "I have no idea how much time I have left. My primary care doctor says it could be months but my neurologist isn't as optimistic. Whenever I go, it will be with a smile on my face, that's for sure," I added bravely.
Everyone seemed uncomfortable with the conversation and was quick to change the topic. They avoided eye contact with me; as if they were afraid acknowledging me would somehow confer Amdocs Syndrome on them. Soon I was ignored altogether as Beverly told the rest of the table how Gary had proposed.
I waited until I was sure no one was looking at me and closed my eyes and allowed my head to droop on my chest. After a few seconds of no reaction I let my arm drop to my side and allowed my fork to fall. The next thing I new Janet was screaming and knocking over her chair in her haste to get away from me. I opened my eyes and started screaming right back at her. When everyone in the restaurant was staring I demanded, "What! What's wrong?"
"I thought you were dead!" she said.
I looked as innocent as I could and looked helplessly at the others. "I suppose I should be used to it by now," I said. "Some people have a hard time dealing with illness."
"But he was dead!" Janet insisted. Beverly glared at Janet and said, "I think you're mean."
I said nothing and twirled some spaghetti on my fork.
After dinner, Second City has a script-less adults only show in the Spinaker Lounge. I got there early to snag a seat near the stage. After their first two bits the same woman I'd been paired with at the workshop said they needed a volunteer from the audience. Several hands went up. She ignored them and grabbed my hand and led me to the stage. For the next ten minutes she and I were partnered and interacting with two of the Second City regulars. That REALLY took me back to the old days. I'd forgotten how fun it is to perform before a live audience. All too soon it was over, but I can still hear the applause.
Sadly I can also still hear, "Tommy? Are you sure you won't come up for a drink, Tommy?"
