January 2017
The last day of 2016 was also our last day working in an industry
that has served us well for the past few decades. We decided to start our next
chapter with an extended escape so that we could clear our minds. Liane, our
trusted travel consultant, found an 18-day cruise that seemed like a great fit.
It accomplished two objectives – an extended break and landed us in Florida,
which was our intended destination.
At this point we are not sure if this is our retirement,
extended sabbatical, or simply starting the next thing. It doesn’t matter. We
will figure it out. Our first step - unplug from e-mail and phones – and read a
lot of stuff that we have been putting off. My near term reading plan includes
Hemmingway short stories, Lee Childs mystery thrillers, and Nigel Calder
sailing manuals.
Liane knows that I don’t like crowds, I don’t like packing
and un-packing, and I don’t particularly like meeting new people – so she found
this cruise for us. Since it is the only option that fit into our dates – we said
‘yes’.
It is a small ship and offers certain amenities that inflate
the fare to three times that of our past cruising experiences. As such, we have
noticed some differences in contrast to the more “affordable” cruise ships. There
are no kids – but lots of octogenarians on board. Many of them speak with some
derivative of a Commonwealth accent and another large number who speak with an
American east-coast posh accent that sounds almost British. Then there is us. I
don’t know what we are.
Caviar is served around the clock in unlimited quantities
but I haven’t been able to find a single potato chip.
When we tried to board the ship, people kept re-checking our
credentials because, from the looks of us and the spring in our step they
thought we were supposed to be on the booze cruise down the way.
Upon arrival, we found our cabin stocked with champagne on
ice and an engraved invitation to dine with Marie – the cruise ship singer.
While our preference would typically be room service pizza and beer taken on
our private balcony – we thought for a moment and decided we would accept the
invitation. It seemed harmless.
We arrived at the formal dining room at the appointed time. The
room is probably capable of holding up to 300 people. I was holding the
invitation at an angle of display as my proof that we actually belonged.
Whenever I’m in these situations I feel like I’m about to be discovered as an
interloper and escorted out.
The maître de greeted us by name (how did he know that?),
ignored my awkward flashing of the invitation, offered his arm to Kim, and led
us to Marie’s table while I abruptly shoved the invitation into the pocket of
my off-the-rack blue blazer.
Marie is attractive and in her early twenties, British
singer, proper, polite, and hosted the table of 10 from a seat centrally
situated on the oblong table. Kim and Marie chatted and their conversation
carried on a bit too long as it seemed they were bonding, being the only two
females in the room under the age of 60. I assume the 10 guests were selected
at random – but not really sure how we came to be part of this group.
I glanced at the table and noticed with some degree of
distress that name cards had been placed so that Kim and I would not be seated
together. This added to my anxiety at being in the unfamiliar and uncomfortable
situation. I was seated at the pointy end of the oblong table between two pleasant
ladies who appeared to be in their early 80’s. To my right was Helen from Texas
and then a guy named Morrie (I think) from Connecticut and then Kim. To my left
was Connielou, then Morrie’s wife, then Connielou’s newlywed husband – another
guy named Morrie I think, and then Marie. The people at the far end of the
table are not really part of my story.
The conversation began slowly and politely. We learn that
Morrie #1 and his wife ran a men’s fine clothing store in Connecticut, Connielou’s
nephew is an Americas Cup sailing champion, Morrie #2 has a nephew who was a
world ranked tennis player and is now a commentator on the New England Tennis
Channel or some shit (I looked it up – it’s true), Helen moved to Texas from
Connecticut after her husband passed away, and oddly enough. Morrie#1 also had
a neighbor who moved from Connecticut to Texas after her husband passed away.
There were a couple of bread baskets on the table and one
was positioned in front of me. In an abstract act to make it look like I had
something to do instead of talk about my expansive worldly accomplishments - I
took a roll from the basket and hesitated before I put it on my bread plate.
The plates and glasses were all crammed pretty close together so I worked
through a pantomime that someone taught me to figure out which bread plate is
mine.
Holding my hands out in front of me making little circles
with the index fingers and thumbs. Looking down the thumb and forefinger on the
left hand make a letter “b” and on the right hand it is a “d”. “b” = bread goes left. “d” = drink goes right.
At that same moment, I notice that Kim, like me, is taking a
tiny cracker-like thing from the basket on her end of the table. She has no
intention of eating it – she is just filling a nervous gap in conversation. She
proceeds to put the cracker-like thing on the wrong bread plate. I try to get
her attention, but she won’t look at me. In fairness to her – the plates were
positioned awkwardly and the one she was supposed to use was closer to Morrie#1
while the one to her right was very close to her plate. The natural thing for
me to do at this point would be to pass the basket along – but I don’t want to create
a bread collision and embarrass Kim when everything would come to a halt. There
is no bread flow when one person takes the wrong side. It throws everything
off.
So the bread baskets stayed in place. Kim and I were the
only two who indulged for the rest of the night. I think the others noticed Kim’s
faux pox and politely avoided the impending bread conflict by ignoring the fact
that there was bread on the table.
As people get older it seems that people like to complain a
lot. We were less than 6 hours on the ship and there was already a long list of
complaints coming from our dinner party. Kim and I sat quietly, relieved that we
did not have to say much – just nod in agreement at the right time. It got
interesting when Helen ordered a coffee and then scolded the waiter for
bringing her a coffee instead of a cappuccino. I gave him a slight nod – so he
knew that he didn’t actually screw up. He apologized to her and took the coffee
away and Helen blurted out “…and this ship doesn’t provide those… you know…
escorts”. Huh. That woke me up. “Crystal Cruise Lines provide those gentlemen
who will dance with you … this ship doesn’t… what are they called?” hmmm… gigolos I wondered. If we had internet
on this ship I would google it.
Earlier in the day I read a short story by Earnest
Hemmingway called “The Short and Happy Life of Francis Macomber”. I had read it
before. This was a different version. I think
the version we read in high school had the n-word and sex parts taken out of
it. In the story, there is an event where Francis Macomber is on safari hunting
a lion and he wounds the lion and ends up running like an arm-flailing
frightened coward when the dying lion jumps out of the tall grass at him. The
great white hunter courageously saves the day. I was about to have my own Francis Macomber cowardly
moment.
As the conversation settled into a comfortable rhythm where the
group alternated between complaining about the ship and bragging about their famous
kids and nephews and such, Kim and I realized that we could sit back and
passively observe without having to contribute much. I relaxed for a moment … then…
I heard a slipping, crashing sound directly behind me. And a
frail voice calling out “Harrrry… I’ve fallen... Harrrrrrry…” I turned behind
me and saw a lady and the maître de sprawled on the floor, him having been
pulled to the ground by the falling lady. Apparently, the offering of the arm
gesture is for show only – they don’t practice stopping an actual fall. Harry
continued to shuffle along, oblivious to the crash behind him.
At this moment, the great white hunter would have sprung up
from his seat and took command of the situation. Check her breathing and pulse,
isolated her neck and spine, “Annie, Annie
are you okay?” Cowardly Francis Macomber would pretend nothing happened and
reach for another roll from the bread basket. You can guess which thing I did.
A few seconds later, overcome with shame, I realized that I
needed to do something. It was too late. The fallen lady was now surrounded by
men in their 70’s and 80’s clutching and pulling at her limbs to try to lift
her off the ground – this resulted in scooting her across the floor while the
poor woman wailed at the pinching and pulling. I tried to calculate how I could enter the
fray and help out. Then she shouted “just leave me alone and I’ll stand up”. And
she did.
These falling scenarios are so commonplace on these ships
that the interactions at our table never halted. It was like nothing even
happened.
The conversation turned to boating. Helen from Texas
mentioned that she used to live in a boating community in Connecticut and she
had the biggest slip on the property but no boat. So she sold the slip to a guy
named Norman.
As they say in Independence… I shit you not… Morrie #1 says “we
also knew a Helen in Connecticut who didn’t have a boat and sold her slip to
our neighbor, Norman. Isn’t life strange that way”.
Eventually he figured it out…
“wait, did you live at
xyz and your husband walked around naked all day with the curtains open?”.
“Yes, that was my late
husband Ernie. I didn’t know you could see in our windows! We shopped at your
store! I remember now”.
“You did. And I always
wondered why you came in the store one day and bought pajamas – he never wore
pajamas”.
“The home care nurses
stopped coming unless he would put clothes on…”
…. We all started laughing and the noise level got slightly higher
and we were all being regaled by more stories about naked Ernie…
We didn’t notice at the time – but at the next table there
was a gentleman who was glaring at us. Seething. Confused. His party was
subdued and ours was getting more raucous as the evening progressed.
He saw beautiful Marie and beautiful Kim being entertained
at a table of randomly placed people where no one appeared to be coupled up
with anyone yet everyone was talking and laughing. He specifically sneered at
me, sitting at what he thought was the “head” of the oblong table. I was in his
seat. He is the regaling one. The natural leader of the pack. While I’m basking
in the joy that is rightfully his - he
is stuck at somber table #1 in God’s waiting room.
My friends and past blog readers accuse me of embellishing
things. So you probably think that last paragraph was some fanciful imagined
scene playing out in my head… lest you doubt me … read on.
The seething man got up from his seat in the middle of the
meal and walked over to our table. He interrupted our conversation and made an
announcement loud enough for most of the room to hear.
“I find you to be a very interesting group. Very interesting indeed. Quite
a collection, you all are. Can I ask how you all know each other?”
Morrie #2 gave a dismissive answer to brush him off – but he
would not give up.
He extended a pointed finger at the end of his fully
extended arm directly at me – like the prosecutor pointing at the guilty
defendant…
“You. Yes you. What
EXACTLY is your connection to this group?”.
In my mind – what he also said was “I see you sitting there in your outlet mall jacket and I saw you spell
out b and d with your fingers because you never learned proper etiquette and I
see you trying to eat with two hands and the downward-facing fork in your left
hand is the wrong kind of fork and that is why food keeps falling off of it…you
are an imposter!!!”
I agreed with him… I didn’t really belong there… I nervously
fumbled for my crumpled invitation in the pocket of my cheap jacket…
“Don’t ask me – Marie invited me and I just showed up”. I
gestured toward Marie so everyone would stop looking at me.
“Which one is Marie?
Why did she invite you?”
Marie quietly explained the situation to him and invited him
to see the maître de about being invited to a hosted dinner. Of course, he’d have to wait until the maître
de got back from the infirmary following the slip and fall incident.
Morrie #2 dismissed him with a polite and proper equivalent
of “get the f* out of here” and he returned to his table. Then the guys made
jokes about him while he glared in my direction. Looks like I have a posse who will
look out for me.
I’ve seen him on the ship a few times since – and he still
glares at me. Retired less than a week and on the ship less than one day and I
already have a nemesis. Good news is that I also have a posse.
Liane, what have you gotten me into? What’s my play here? I’m
in foreign territory.
