Cruising for a bruising, pt. 3- the long awaited
Day 5: The pilates instructor: “and toight…. toight…toight…push…. Good.” I can’t help but giggle, and my 70-something exercise partner, giggles too. I like to think that she is one dirty old lady, and I don’t know why this thought makes me so happy. By the way, I was right about the instructor's accent: he’s from Jo’burgh. I’m awesome. I dissertate by the pool in the pavilion bar and watch a Japanese man demonstrate the twist to two old ladies. I run into my exercise partner and her husband, and suppress the urge to high-five him. The Brazilian sisters are poolside wearing bikinis and gold cowboy hats, which makes me suspect that they are lying about the whole Venezuelan thing. Later, at tea, there is a string quartet, which is lovely, until I realize they’re playing Beatles tunes. Eh, the New Jerseyans love it.
Day 6: We disembark in Curaçao to a calypso band playing, strangely enough, Havah Nagila. We sightsee and shop, and M. declairs “Everywhere you go, there are rich people and poor people, and the rich people need somewhere to shop.” We bargain with the taxi driver to take us to Playa Porto Mari. Initially he wants $35 one-way, but we bargain him down to $50 round-trip for the three of us. Ok, forget we- we just let the man handle it. Fifty dollars is apparently not a bad day’s take for Curaçao, because once we arrive, the driver adjourns to the bar for the rest of the afternoon. The beach is top-optional for the ladies, and I reach for the back of my bikini, but this is immediately and strongly contraindicated. Abashed, I rent a scuba mask, and in the water are so many fish, it’s like swimming in an aquarium. Later, I relax on the beach and take in the tits. I’ve spent most of my life self-conscious about my small chest, but it turns out I just have very Dutch breasts. Who knew? Later at dinner, M. is afraid that she is underdressed. I suggest that the easiest way to be excused for bad behavior is simply to plead American; perhaps that’s one of our national selling points. America– if you simply cannot be expected to know any better.
Day 7: I note that my increased tea consumption is causing me to use words like “brilliant” and “grand” in everyday conversation. Perhaps this works for the Brits, but it just makes me sound very affected, which is awesome. At lunch today I saw a man consuming what appeared to be a plate of mayonnaise, but I pray to baby Jesus that I am wrong. Also, there is an elderly man roaming the ship who has worn metallic silver pants every. single. day. I shall call him ‘Ziggy Stardust’. At sunset, the 'kids' gather for wine on the deck, and L. explains to us that “people hate Jews for killing Jesus, but really, we had almost nothing to do with it.” A new plateau in religious understanding is reached.
Day 6: We disembark in Curaçao to a calypso band playing, strangely enough, Havah Nagila. We sightsee and shop, and M. declairs “Everywhere you go, there are rich people and poor people, and the rich people need somewhere to shop.” We bargain with the taxi driver to take us to Playa Porto Mari. Initially he wants $35 one-way, but we bargain him down to $50 round-trip for the three of us. Ok, forget we- we just let the man handle it. Fifty dollars is apparently not a bad day’s take for Curaçao, because once we arrive, the driver adjourns to the bar for the rest of the afternoon. The beach is top-optional for the ladies, and I reach for the back of my bikini, but this is immediately and strongly contraindicated. Abashed, I rent a scuba mask, and in the water are so many fish, it’s like swimming in an aquarium. Later, I relax on the beach and take in the tits. I’ve spent most of my life self-conscious about my small chest, but it turns out I just have very Dutch breasts. Who knew? Later at dinner, M. is afraid that she is underdressed. I suggest that the easiest way to be excused for bad behavior is simply to plead American; perhaps that’s one of our national selling points. America– if you simply cannot be expected to know any better.
Day 7: I note that my increased tea consumption is causing me to use words like “brilliant” and “grand” in everyday conversation. Perhaps this works for the Brits, but it just makes me sound very affected, which is awesome. At lunch today I saw a man consuming what appeared to be a plate of mayonnaise, but I pray to baby Jesus that I am wrong. Also, there is an elderly man roaming the ship who has worn metallic silver pants every. single. day. I shall call him ‘Ziggy Stardust’. At sunset, the 'kids' gather for wine on the deck, and L. explains to us that “people hate Jews for killing Jesus, but really, we had almost nothing to do with it.” A new plateau in religious understanding is reached.
posted by La Blonde Parisienne at 11:46 AM
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