Cruising for a bruising
It's my first new post in like, forever, having just returned from 12 days aboard the Queen Mary 2. For your edification and entertainment, this week's blogging will consist of my notes and impressions of life shipboard. Enjoy!
Day 1: I arrive, late, of course, in a fashion typical of my friend A., where coming closer to the objective also incrementally increases hysteria. Cabin looks like extremely opulent dorm room, and upon walking through the lobby comparisons to the Titanic are inevitable. Boat rocks badly, and most of the passengers spend the nite barfing in their extremely clean and well-appointed bathrooms. Meet 22-year-old L. and her parents, who are trying to attach her to any single man not riding a rascal scooter. This is more difficult than it seems, because most of the other passengers appear to be in the advanced stages of, well, life. Regardless, this is the manner to which I’d like to become accustomed: champagne in the room and down pillows. It takes me about 30 seconds to break something. Spend the evening watching a calypso band I like to call “The Only Four Black Guys” perform pseudo-reggae version of “Fly Me to the Moon”. Awesome.
Day 2: Goddamn. That’s a lot of water. Being a Midwestern girl, I fight my panic with food. And food. And for the love of God, where is all this food coming from? Begin to notice that the passengers are (via Venn Diagram): 25% German, 70% elderly, and 5% elderly German. A. calls ship “A Bar Mitzvah at sea”, which makes me think that Bar Mitzvahs are like Polish weddings, possibly minus the chicken dance. And oh yeah, the food. It’s fantastic, and tea in the ‘Queen’s Room' feels as though one should be wearing a large hat. Meet two ladies henceforth referred to as “The Brazilian Sisters”, because, well…yeah. We also meet two elderly sisters who appear to be using cruise ships as surrogate for assisted living (4 in 10 months) who tell A. and I at lunch that getting married is the fastest way to ruin your life. I concur, perhaps more vehemently than they expect. Meet the perky pilates instructor, who then punishes us by making us assume odd positions while maintaining “the core connection, yeah?” Start to notice the absolute car wreck that is accents on this ship. Vijay, our waiter, is a Scot via Bombay, but desperately tries to sound like the BBC, which fails every time he calls us ‘Luv”; our dinner companion is German via South Africa, and Gerry sounds like the guys on “The Office” via der Hitlerjugen.
Day 1: I arrive, late, of course, in a fashion typical of my friend A., where coming closer to the objective also incrementally increases hysteria. Cabin looks like extremely opulent dorm room, and upon walking through the lobby comparisons to the Titanic are inevitable. Boat rocks badly, and most of the passengers spend the nite barfing in their extremely clean and well-appointed bathrooms. Meet 22-year-old L. and her parents, who are trying to attach her to any single man not riding a rascal scooter. This is more difficult than it seems, because most of the other passengers appear to be in the advanced stages of, well, life. Regardless, this is the manner to which I’d like to become accustomed: champagne in the room and down pillows. It takes me about 30 seconds to break something. Spend the evening watching a calypso band I like to call “The Only Four Black Guys” perform pseudo-reggae version of “Fly Me to the Moon”. Awesome.
Day 2: Goddamn. That’s a lot of water. Being a Midwestern girl, I fight my panic with food. And food. And for the love of God, where is all this food coming from? Begin to notice that the passengers are (via Venn Diagram): 25% German, 70% elderly, and 5% elderly German. A. calls ship “A Bar Mitzvah at sea”, which makes me think that Bar Mitzvahs are like Polish weddings, possibly minus the chicken dance. And oh yeah, the food. It’s fantastic, and tea in the ‘Queen’s Room' feels as though one should be wearing a large hat. Meet two ladies henceforth referred to as “The Brazilian Sisters”, because, well…yeah. We also meet two elderly sisters who appear to be using cruise ships as surrogate for assisted living (4 in 10 months) who tell A. and I at lunch that getting married is the fastest way to ruin your life. I concur, perhaps more vehemently than they expect. Meet the perky pilates instructor, who then punishes us by making us assume odd positions while maintaining “the core connection, yeah?” Start to notice the absolute car wreck that is accents on this ship. Vijay, our waiter, is a Scot via Bombay, but desperately tries to sound like the BBC, which fails every time he calls us ‘Luv”; our dinner companion is German via South Africa, and Gerry sounds like the guys on “The Office” via der Hitlerjugen.
posted by La Blonde Parisienne at 12:19 PM
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