Vietnam Just After Christmas
By Milt Abel | December 30, 2009
I was driven to the Kimdo Royal City Hotel, arriving well after midnight, and through the glass exterior of the lobby I could see all the lights were off. That didn’t stop a sleepy, middle-aged bellhop from shuffling out to meet me our taxi at the sidewalk. He had partially closed a brass-buttoned Beefeater coat and when he saw me climb out with no luggage and only my backpack he relaxed considerably and belched loudly, ‘maybe not a flush tourist after all.’
Before I could enter the lobby, lights were turned on and excessive amounts of Christmas decorations flickered into view. It was a medium-sized lobby, but compared to all the small storefronts I had seen in the thirty-minute drive from the airport, it was expansive. The holiday decorations were tucked into every corner and along each architectural feature; cheaply overdone. My sense is Vietnam is not a Christian nation and all this Christmas hullabaloo was for us, proportionately rich, tourists. But it seemed a clumsy attempt to ingratiate and please; like showing up in lederhosen at the airport to greet a German friend.
After completing the check-in the same bellhop wanted to carry my backpack (my luggage was lost by Korean Air) to my room and show me around, but I wanted him to stop holding in his stomach and didn’t want a stranger opening and closing curtains my room, so I gave him a buck and shooed him away right at the elevator lobby. It’s discouraging to smell garbage in your hotel floor’s hallway, and see the carpeting stained in several places, but the room itself was nice. I fell asleep wondering how long they kept the lobby lights on after I stepped into the elevator.
There was an elaborate breakfast buffet with several items recognizable as being edible and tasty, but just as many looked like they would haunt me if I dared to swallowed them. Walking down to the buffet I was able to see some of the local beauty of Vietnam’s architecture and handicrafts. It was being obscured by fake garlands and reindeer antlers. It made me wonder why I wasn’t more receptive to see the hidden beauty of the place, and I answered myself with the realization that I felt awkward here. It was similar to the awkwardness of a family reunion with a relative who the last time you’d met you’d had a huge screaming match with: holding me back on soaking up all that might be good about Vietnam was the nagging memory, “Oh, that’s right. We had fought.”
Though it was only about 40 miles to the ship from the hotel the drive took over two hours. The road, for both directions, was one lane, or two, or three depending how you could intimate the motorcycles that made up most of the traffic. The condition of the road itself varied widely; from looking war-torn and mostly dust, to expansive, obviously overdone, government projects in areas where it wasn’t needed. The most interest part of the drive was the ferry across the Saigon River. It was bottleneck for sure, and the motorcycles swarmed over unoccupied deck space like ants at a picnic, but novel in that it was there instead of a bridge. We had to wait as large container ships sailed between us and the far side. Small fishing scows, which seemed to be using the same motor used by the motorcycles, were frequently passing too, but they had to get out of our way. Size does matter on the Saigon River.
The drive took longer for another reason. Twice our driver (I was shuttled to the ship with another entertainer, Tian Jaing -a pianist from China) stopped for roadside treats. Everyone with a roof, even some that just had tarps, was selling something along the roadside. Fruit and soft drinks were available almost completely along the entire drive while others threw together makeshift restaurants, or building supply outlets, or both. Interest about the open restaurants was that almost all offered hammocks between the table settings. In Vietnam it appears to be totally appropriate to go to a restaurant and lay down. You can tip the waiter, or he can tip you.
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Rangiroa 12-12-09
By Milt Abel | December 13, 2009
Yesterday we were at Rangiroa, the second largest atoll in the world. I was told which atoll was the largest, and where it was, but I’ve forgotten and I’ll just have to happen across it like I did this one. Atolls are rings (mostly) of coral that once surrounded islands where the central land eroded or sank leaving the ‘ring around the collar’ to establish themselves as the inhabitable, or at least the throw yourself on the beach-able, part. Many atolls were formed in the last Ice Age when the oceans retreated, being sucked up to make ice, and when you sit on these hot, atoll beaches with an iced cocktail in your hand, you sense a grand plan.
I learned all this from the naturalist on board, Douglas Pearson, who is one of the more memorable characters I’ve run across in my life. Almost unbelievable in his breadth of knowledge. Last night I attended his stargazing lecture out on a purposely darkened upper deck. That was at eight-thirty, when I saw him this morning he had held another stargazing gathering at 4am to lecture about stars that appeared only at that hour. And on top of that, he will lecture about the islands almost everyday covering subjects from history to mythology to botany. Serious, if I walked up to him, pointed to a wall, and said, “Douglas, tell me about that paint.” He would be able to go on for ten to fifteen minutes, although rarely staying on topic. Consider a fifty-eight year old man with ADD who used all that energy throughout his life to learn about whatever crossed his path. He still has the energy and tentative approval-seeking of a child and is utterly a fascinating joy to listen to the first hour, then you start wondering if Ritalin is available on the ship.
The Rangiroa atoll measures approximately 55 by 18 miles, so you could herd all of the metropolitan sprawl of Portland inside; collared by intermittent land that never gets over 15 feet high or a couple hundred yards across. When the Pacific Princess sailed inside to anchor for the day we stayed overnight because it wasn’t until 8am this morning that the tide would be deep enough for us to sail back out in the single navigable passage for our ship -small though it is for a cruise ship.
I tendered ashore and walked nearly a mile to a lovely beach. This atoll is just fifteen degrees off the equator and it’s summertime here, so I took, and used, an umbrella with a bright red and yellow and green Scottish plaid pattern that was left in my cabin by its previous occupants. There were stretches of the paved road where I was completely by myself with nothing but the ocean on one side and palm tress on the other. Once I was passed by an open jeep filled with men jeering and laughing at my silly umbrella and un-island-like appearance. It wasn’t until they passed that I recognized my fellow entertainer, juggler Jonathan Stamp, and the ship’s videographer and shore excursion manager. My feelings weren’t hurt, in fact I was pleased to get a laugh just walking somewhere, and to distract me from swinging into melancholy a dolphin jumped completely out of the surf, straight up, then back in with surprising little splash just a couple dozen yards away. Maybe he wanted to get a look at me too.
I got to swim a bit, the water stays shallow for hundreds of feet from the shore, but becomes a swimmable depth within twenty. A couple middle-aged ladies were snorkeling there as well and when I pointed out a stingray I had spotted we began chatting and I learned they were from the ship and hadn’t seen my show but had heard such nice things about they implored me to share a joke or two with them right there, waist deep in the tropical surf. I did and they enjoyed most the moment when I lost my train of thought because a big fish was nosing toward my swimming shorts.
It rained on the walk back so the umbrella didn’t look as silly as it did on the way out. I took a different route, weaving my way along the shoreline, which involved crossing the few scattered homes’ properties. Despite the heavy rain clothes weren’t pulled from clotheslines and when I thought further, it made sense. The rain was the same temperature as the water, which was the same temperature as the air, so what difference did it make? The locals I passed stood as casually in the rain as they did under cover; unless you were wearing crepe paper, there was little damage to be done.
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Raiatea, French Ploynesia 12-4-09
By Milt Abel | December 5, 2009
We are anchored about a mile from the pier and are staying overnight, leaving in the afternoon tomorrow for our scheduled stop in Moorea on Monday and then Pappete, the turnaround, on Tuesday. Bora Bora has certain cache’ doesn’t it? Any name that’s doubled brings notoriety; the craggy mountain spires covered with lush foliage, the low billowing white and grey clouds that surround those spires, the sapphire blue ocean -all unnecessary. We’d still know about Bora Bora because of that repeated name. Thinking about it, the naming hook hasn’t been abused, has it? Would we listen to him as much if he chose to call himself Sting Sting? Maybe Walla Walla, Washington went too far.
The Island also has the musical South Pacific to raise its profile. Doing laundry yesterday aboard the ship I chatted briefly with a couple from South Carolina who were somewhat disenchanted with the cruise. They liked my show, but were frustrated with the total lack of non-outdoor activities these islands offer. They were singing my tune, because you know me, give me a an air-conditioned Starbucks with an internet connection and I’m happy. But these people were north of seventy in their age and surfing, scuba diving, or just hiking on the beach, in this heat and humidity wasn’t something they were going to do voluntarily -even if it was the last thing on their bucket list, they’d reach for an eraser before a boogie board. They were excited about today’s stop however because of the notoriety of the island from the movie South Pacific, “My husband and I want to visit Bloody Mary’s Bar,” she said. That naming thing comes into play again here as well. Movie or no movie, I’d pay a visit to Bloody Mary’s before I’d darken the door of Hemoglobin Karen’s.
Yesterday, while we were tied up in Raiatea, I took advantage of the tropical beauty and locale by going for a short, dusk swim off a hotel dock about a half mile away from the ship . These islands, at least where Western influence has encroached, lose a lot of their beauty. Walking along the road to the nearby hotel meant strolling past homes with unkempt or undefined crabgrass lawns, not to mention (but I will) unkempt or undefined abandoned cars, barking dogs roped to clothes-wires, and all the while negotiating where to place your feet in the mix of puddle and extra paving gravel while cars and motor-scooters streaked by.
Particularly interesting on this walk were the land crabs. Between the cinderblock retaining walls that ran along most small property fronts and the road’s pavement were hundreds of small holes. I remember from a visit to this nearby hotel a couple years ago, myself and another entertainer had walked down this road and saw dozens of these land crab that live in this little holes. The holes themselves look like well-defined snake holes, smooth and devoid of rubble, some were not so nicely finish, but all showed a darkness of greater depths. This time I didn’t see any land crabs on my way out to the hotel but saw dozens on my way back when I learned the secret in spotting them. They could sense the encroaching footfalls and would scurry into their holes before you got near, but by looking another five or ten yards up the road you could see them darting back into their holes. Some were golf ball size and a few as large as softballs. The larger ones didn’t seemed as frightened and began to just sit there keeping an eye on me, emboldened maybe by their size, ‘I see you, you see me, what are you going to do about it? Huh, punk?’
The water was surprisingly warm, but cool enough to be pleasant. The outside air temperature was around 82 and the water 86. The salt water makes you more buoyant so I laid back in the very mild chop, occasionally spitting out the seawater that lapped over my tucked chin and looked up to watch the clouds turn from white to pink to grey as the sun set behind the high hills beyond the hotel. Better than most Starbucks really.
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Still Home 11-21-09
By Milt Abel | November 22, 2009
I know she meant well, but I can’t refrain from making fun of an offer of generosity last night.
My wife is an amateur triathlete. She bikes and swims and jogs for no money, no endorsement deals or sponsors. If she was to get a sponsor it would be something very domestic and staid, nothing about cutting edge performance. She’s a good athlete but many years from the physical peak we all reach in our twenties. So at the short course triathlons she competes in, while competitive for her age group, she is noticeably behind those who might be sponsored by Gatorade or Speedo. My wife’s steady jog brings her across the finish line well after the out-and-out winners, male and female, had the time to change their shoes. But seeing her show up like that reminds us that the race is not over, there’s more to do, and presents itself for some niche marketing. I could see my wife being sponsored by a phone company, “call a friend’ stenciled across her back, or maybe a gentle reminder from a local auto service to change your oil.
Every month my wife’s circle of bike enthusiasts host a dinner party. The host responsibilities rotate through the pedal-bike gang, and last night’s hosts did a stellar job with food, spirits, and hospitality. Because of my frequent traveling I don’t attend many of these affairs so I’ll hold self imposed pop-quizzes with my wife as we drive over about names and spouses names. Last night I did well on the drive over and am now getting a solid ‘C’ in Names, I looks like I’m going to fail Occupations unless I turn in some extra credit.
Several new faces were present last night, but again, I travel and they may been more regular attendees than me. One lady, who was a charming conversationist through dinner, and possessed an obvious sense of social responsibility, showed up to the post -dinner gathering in in family room where most of us were watching the closing minutes of the University of Oregon vs. Arizona football game. She bravely watched a game that obviously didn’t interest her, and threw the occasional comment in the mix that floated around after each down. Then, during a change of possession, she held out a packet of foiled covered pills and generously offered to the entire room, “Anybody want an anti-gas pill?” There was laughter, and I try to make it louder by picking out a jovial soul in the group and said, “I think that message is for you.” But she had no takers. When you think about it, who would? “Yeah, I just can’t seem to stop farting. Give me one of those.”
I know she meant well, but it just brings out the prude in me. At least her example kept me from offering the gang, “Who wants hemorrhoid creme?”
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At Home 11-20-09
By Milt Abel | November 21, 2009
Typical Oregon weather today, sunshine is only a thin pamphlet wedged into a bookshelf of rain, clouds, and wind. Cold too. The kind of day meant for reading, but everything on the shelf looks dreary.
Not all gloom though. Tonight I enjoyed some old-time media. Our local high school’s football team, involved in the state playoffs and at an away game, was being broadcast over the internet. No video, but a live play-by-play announcement from local-market sportscasters who contained their partisanship to commercials and updates from other playoff games, the rest of the time their team was talented and aggressive, and we were lucky and suspect. The game was a win for us, and “an inspiring effort all season” for them.
It was fun to listen to the game in front of the fireplace, playing Scrabble with the wife; the kind of evening you go to work for, so you can come home to, and getting both ‘blanks’ in the game made my Scrabble play ‘an inspiring effort.’
Nothing’s perfect. We have two dogs; one I love and one I hate. It’s not easy for me, being a parent of three kids, to be so partial to one and so dismissive of the other. I’m exuberant in greeting the dog I like; “Hiya Boy!, How’s it going, eh? Yeah, good dog!” petting and stroking him, and the the other will come up and he gets; “Oh, it’s you.” Everybody in the family wanted a second dog but me. I travel so much that my vote was reduced to counting as less than one, and now we have a dog that I hate. It farts and snores, so it’s able to bother me even while unconscious. Very early this morning I couldn’t sleep from its snoring so I left to sleep on the couch -shutting him in the basement has caused more disturbance than me just relocating myself, but even then there’s no escape. He followed me downstairs and showed his love and devotion by laying next to the couch and farting and licking a paw that been bothering him, repeatedly. There’s something unnerving about hearing a dog licking himself, with my eyes closed I think of automatic car washes, that section with the soap-soaked ribbons of outdoor carpeting dangling and jerking back-and-forth, slapping against your hood and windshield, this is what comes to mind when a large dog rhythmically licks himself nearby.
He’s got a thorn or cut on his paw and it’s been bothering him for a couple days now. He so big it’s hard to get a good look at the thing, and my wife knows that any expense with a trip to the vet for an inspection will be a hard sell. I regret getting too excited when we discussed his hurt paw, if I had a tail I’m sure it would have been wagging when I asked, “Do you think it could be fatal?”
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Between Kusadasi and Sarande 10-13-2009
By Milt Abel | November 20, 2009
Between Kusadasi and Sarande 10-13-2009
I’m still having trouble with my circadian clock. I thought I had it licked but two nights in a row of waking up after just four hours of sleep and then napping for the remaining four hours at different times throughout the day tells me I’m still holding on to Pacific Time here in the Eastern Mediterranean. I’m straddling two continents in my pajamas. At least I’m doing that extra thorough get-ready-for-bed teeth-brushing several times a day.
When I do sleep, it’s the sleep of the dead. The other day, after a late afternoon -early evening nap I found a chocolate and daily program set on my bedspread that wasn’t there when I had drifted off. My cabin stewart, Ade (pronounced add-day) had knocked on my door and visited me without rousing me. Knowing how I snore it’s no surprise I didn’t hear the knocking, he could have tumbled butt over shoelaces into a drum set, and I wouldn’t have stirred. Usually when people visit you in the night unannounced, they take something rather than leave it. It’s just odd to wake to see an offering at your feet and not be a deity.
I had two shows last night and they went quite well, despite that we were still in port. Usually the evening’s entertainment when a ship is still docked is a film in the main theater, or at least only one performance, not the usual two-seating times accommodation. But both shows went well and I tried a new joke about Kusadasi’s main tourist attraction and a tour that most everyone went on. Ephasus is an ancient city 20 miles outside of town that rivaled Rome or Athens in its heyday and now is nothing but ruins. It’s a pretty lame joke really, but anything can get a strong response if you sell it right.
The Joke: I went on a low-cost tour of Ephasus where the tour guide banged a cymbal each timed he mentioned something. Did any of you go on this one? It was called Ephasus with emphasis.
Lame, but it could be fun. The first audience, which was twice the size of the late show, moaned. (and who could blame them) here is a live recording of that first attempt.
Ephasus with Emphasis early show
Here is the second show’s recording of that same joke. It was a sparse but appreciate crowd and they enjoyed the joke. I did execute a little better too.
Ephasus with emphasis late show
But it gives some insight into how subtle and ever changing the craft of stand-up comedy can be.
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Traveling to Israel 10-8-09
By Milt Abel | October 11, 2009
I got on board the Prinsendam about seven hours ago, and after a light meal and tons of water -flying in passenger jets dehydrates you, it’s something to do with the circulated air and pressure changes -I slept for about five hours until the ship started to shake and shudder alarmingly. I’m at the very end of the ship on deck six and the propeller vibration works like a fruit tree shaker in my cabin; rattles and clanking and creaking, the upside was I could pick the fruit right off the carpet rather than use the ladder.
When I was in the Frankfurt airport and entered the cordoned-off area for my Tel Aviv flight the level of security jumped noticeably. A guard with a machine gun looked bored as a team of screeners patted down and metal-detector wanded each of us individually. They were not shy. The wand was pressed into my crotch in case I tried to hide something under my scrotum like I do when I visit the dentist. Once at Tel Aviv airport the security was closer to what I’ve seen elsewhere.
I got worried when my contact/driver wasn’t where I was informed he would be, which was before customs, so he could shepherd me through the process. I was pulled from the line by a security guard as he checked my papers in an office and then he asked a couple question just outside its door.
“You’re a comedian?”
“Yes”
“You’re not Jerry Seinfeld?”
“No. But I wish I was.”
Not the truth, but a mild enough joke to make him smile and let me through.
Outside the secure area, among family members with welcoming balloons, my driver waited with a sign with my name on it and no balloons. He was perhaps one of the least talkative cab driver (we got in cab for the 100 km drive to Haifa) I’ve ever had. I mentioned to him it was my first time to Israel and he didn’t offer any explanations or descriptions or soothing assurances whatsoever. It’s been my experience over the years that telling a local driver it’s your first time somewhere opens the floodgates of conversation, perhaps the only other opening line that works better is “I have lots of money I don’t want.” But he, who looked a lot like Zero Mostel, remained quiet for the next eighty minutes. More security at the pier, I was asked a lot of casual questions by a young gal as a more serious security male looked on. I know this is a screening process to try and see signs of lying -I made sure to uncross my fingers through the interview.
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Alaska-Russia
By Milt Abel | October 9, 2009
Alaska to Russia 9/16/2009
Despite what former vice-presidential candidate Sarah Palin might have said to pad her international chops, you can’t see Russia from anywhere in Alaska, certainly not from where I was when I went way out on the Aleutians to cross the Bering Sea. And let’s not even mention the fog. Just because you can see something doesn’t mean you’ll have any kinds of expertise about it, I mean, I know what my wife looks like, but she’ll agree, that doesn’t mean I understand her.
I was aboard the Regent Seven Seas Mariner; a beautiful little ship that is, without doubt, the highest-end cruise ship I have yet to sail on. If you can afford it, go. The luxury and courtesy were embossed in every detail, and I had a bathroom that was almost the size of the one I have at home -unheard of in my previous sailings. The inclusive alcohol was a bit of a party onto itself as well. Even the production shows were a caliber above anything I’ve yet to see on a ship. A stable of very talented singers and dancers put on show after that show that was outstanding as I joined the Ship from Seward, Alaska to Hakodate, Japan.
Dutch Harbor was lean. We called on the port for a day and I was curious to see any effects of World War II. There had been some fighting there in the middle of 1942 and the Japanese even occupied a couple islands in the Aleutians. Dutch Harbor was bombed, and I mentioned on stage a few nights later that they wouldn’t nowadays because there were too many Toyotas and Hondas parked about. There was a nice museum about the WWII experience in the Aleutians in Dutch Harbor and it was fascinating, I recommend it.
We sailed for two days across the Bering Sea to Petropalosk, Russia. I had been to Russia earlier this year. In June I spent three days docked in St Petersburg but wasn’t allowed of the ship because I was negligent about getting the proper visa. Regent, in its thoroughness, took care of that and I was able to spend the afternoon strolling through this extreme eastern Russian port. Didn’t care for it. Dirty, decrepit, depressed, dowdy, disenchanting, all the negative ‘D’ words -A to Z really. Certainly there was love and joy there, but it wasn’t on display. My concise description of Russia: Canada if it had been arrested and abused in its youth.
Something unique happened as we crossed from Alaska to Russia. We crossed the international date line and just threw Monday, September 21 out the window. Chose not to observe it. Like some fanatical religious sect, we all agreed not to participate in a tradition (i.e. a whole day) that was observed by all others. I joked onstage about the power the captain had, that he could just wipe a whole day off the face of the earth just by his choosing. “He’s going to take away the letter ‘O’ next!” I warned my audience.
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Azamara Journey 6-18-2009
By Milt Abel | July 17, 2009
Azamara Journey 6/18 – 6/25
Azamara is Celebrity Cruise line’s boutique spin-off; two smaller ships that, at least from my experience on the Journey, cater to the sophistication of Celebrity’s clientele but in a more informal environment. Literally more informal, the two week cruise, which I participated in the first half of, had no formal nights. The dress code was resort-casual for all 14 nights. Finally it would be easier to tell who was the maitre ‘d, the only one in a tuxedo.
I joined in Copenhagen and we were scheduled to head to Warnemunde, Germany, then Helsinki, then three days in St. Petersburg with a stop at Tallin, Estonia the day after. There was a sea day or two tossed in there to round out the seven days with a sea day or two in between to fill out the seven days on board. I don’t immediately recall if the sea day was before Helsinki or before or both. Frankly, my circadian clock was so screwed up I wasn’t sure if it was day or night, let alone whether we were at sea or not. By the time we got to Russia the ship’s time was 11 hours ahead of Oregon time, and when you throw in the fact that it was also the time of the summer solstice (it only got truly nighttime-dark between 1:30AM and 3:00AM, or around noon back in the Pacific Northwest) you get an idea why I was wearing my pajamas to the dinning room. Thank goodness the dress code was resort-casual, it wasn’t as egregious as it could have been.
Warnermunde, Germany was a delightful little coastal resort town. Located in former East Germany, I wasn’t prepared for the bright colors and lovely open-air cafes and restaurants that shouldered against each other along the waterways. It helped that the weather was sunny and pleasant, had it been grey and raining I would have subconsciously held the Communists responsible. I was brought up in all the 60’s and 70’s fear propagation against communism and all the grey and rain it causes, certainly it wasn’t as bad everywhere as they’d have us believe -some places may have been worse, but like any news story about a storm’s consequences, a lot depends on where you place the camera. For me, the most indicative story about how dire life was under communism came when the first McDonald’s opened in Moscow and how it caused lines for service to stretch for a mile, certainly that screamed they were destitute.
Our next stop was Helsinki, Finland which I wrote an incredibly stupid joke for that my wife almost talked me out of using in an email exchange. Almost talked me out of, I wish she had been more persuasive. I had a late night show the night of our Helsinki stay and the line was, “Helsinki? Sounds a little depressing. I’d be more comfortable if they called the town Heaven-raisey.” Luckily it was buried deep inside a pretty successful show so it didn’t cause the ship to sink.
I also saw something extraordinary while walking down the wide sidewalks that hemmed the port. A seagull hovered just over the shoulder of a little girl working on an ice cream cone and when the cone was raised a bit, and the girl’s face was turned to her mother, the gull dropped down two feet and forward, and carved some ice cream into its beak and flew off. The seagull snatched ice cream out of the hand of a walking girl, waiting for the optimum moment to steal. Scary. Crime may be low among the humans in Finland, but watch out for their seagulls.
St Petersburg, Russia looked like a nice place to visit, and hopefully someday I’ll be able to just that. For the three days we were docked deep inside the city limits I was forbidden to leave the ship because I didn’t have the right paperwork. I didn’t have a Seaman’s book, which would have allowed me to leave the ship as a crew, and I wasn’t on an organized tour which would have allowed me to leave as a passenger. The two nights and three days I spent in the city were occupied mostly with a dazed frustration of trying to get to sleep or trying to stay awake. I have several photos of the St Petersburg skyline taken at 4 in the morning.
During our last day in St. Petersburg a Russian navy ship docked just ahead of us and I opened my show with that night with this joke, “What a beautiful day. You just wanted to walk. I walked too far and board that ship next to ours instead of this one. Not nearly the same service. All that crew and just one passenger and I couldn’t even get arrested -well, actually they were willing to do that.”
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Madrid, April 20, 2009
By Milt Abel | April 26, 2009
Madrid, April 20, 2009
I’m camped across from the boarding gate in terminal 2 for my flight to Lisbon from Madrid. It’s 9:15 in the morning and I’ve already been traveling for eighteen hours; Portland to NYC, then NYC to Madrid, hopefully I’ll fly to Lisbon in the next hour, then in a couple hours more I’ll be flying to the Azores. Five airports, three languages -four if you count New York as foreign (and most do), and my luggage is supposedly going to be waiting for me when I get off the plane in Ponta Delgada. We shall see.
This trip is not for the novice traveller. I’m joining the Holland America Prinsendam late this afternoon in the Azores, supposedly, and the amount of transfers, and inter-terminal airport shuttles, and ticketing and re-ticketing, would leave the less seasoned traveller rolled off in a ditch to keep the path clear for those of us that can make it. Just the inter-terminal shuttle in Madrid is a long enough trip to make you think you’ve been the victim of a prank. I thought Houston’s airport was spread out, and JFK’s terminals, which I had just previously passed through, are no tightly packed cluster of cabanas themselves, but the bus trip between terminal 4 and terminal 3 in Madrid must have been at least five to seven miles in length, passing through rolling hills and other varied terrain not usually associated with airports. I began fantasizing about jumping off the bus before I ended up in yet another country. And whether I would announce any explanation to those I left behind in that bus who continued across the outback, or tundra, of savanna, with their blind faith that they would eventually, eventually, reach the next terminal.
I did arrive at terminal 2 and I did catch my flight to Lisbon, but it was in Lisbon where I was almost derailed, or more accurately, de-itineraried. When I fly for the cruise lines everything is supposedly taken care of, at least tickets are supposed to be paid and shuttles and taxis arranged; this last leg of my multi-legged, multi-carrier, itinerary was gimpy. In the Lisbon airport, when I arrived at the terminal (yes, there was another inter-terminal bus ride. My third of the day) and checked in at the Sata (no, I had never heard of that airline before either) I was informed there was no ticket for me. A reservation, yes. A ticket, no. I’d have to buy a ticket. I weighed the options; my luggage was checked through to Ponta Delgada in the Azores, the ship was in the Azores for only this afternoon, then four days at sea. If I didn’t catch the ship at today’s dock I would have to reroute to Hamilton Bermuda and spend four days hovering in hotels and more airports. I bought the ticket knowing I would get reimbursed but regretting having to put anything on my credit card and having to deal with the extra paperwork.
Surprise of surprises my luggage was among the first twenty pieces to crawl out from under the car wash-like strips that drag over emerging bags along the conveyer belt. My luggage made it, and I almost didn’t.
The trip had started out rocky when my next seat neighbor on the flight from Portland to New York was an immense woman with a John Madden physique. She took the middle seat next to me, and more. She was courteous enough in our exchanges of passing drink cups or getting up and down for bathroom exits, but her size was a constant intrusive rudeness. Her barrel-like torso, and heavy arms, could not shrink back across to what real estate her ticket had paid for; she was three to five inches on my property the entire five-hour flight. When you have only twenty and some inches to start with, four inches is a lot. Even leaning forward to move my broadest point, my shoulders, to the area in front of her arms and shoulders only meant her elbow was rubbing against the side of my waist. She wore a windbreaker with a slick fabric and the gentle motion of the plane caused a zinging sound with every rub against my gut that was as annoying a sound as if I was listening to a raven peck at my coffin lid. My only comfort was there was someone on the plane bigger than her, and he wasn’t sat next to me. I got off in New York with a sore back and neck; the back from constantly leaning away for five hours; the neck from carrying the heavy scowl I sported for just as long.
Topics: comedy, cruise ship, humor, travel | No Comments »
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