All the Roadrunning

I missed the White Star Crew Party last night.  Held once a month or so, these dark, fraternity-esque gatherings take place in the luggage loading hall, a wide expanse of metal floor located in the middle of the ship on Deck 1.  This is the area where passenger’s luggage is offloaded and loaded during our turnaround days; but on White Star Party nights, it transforms into a rave hall, a hot and steamy metal warehouse where crew of every nationality attempts to release a month’s worth of frustrations in a few measly hours.   The floor is usually sticky with beer spillage, the music alternates between trance and R&B and the lack of light provides the perfect cloak for all the hanky panky. 

Free Heineken and Sutter Home is dished out by the plastic cupful and the only decorations are black canvas sheets hanging from the ceiling, sealing off areas that might be dangerous for the rowdy party goers.   

It is United Nations meets Girls Gone Wild and Animal House.   

Over my years on the ships, I have attended more than my share of these parties, but this time I had no desire.  As the party raged on last night, I was quite content to be dreaming and drooling in my bed.  I dreamt of Hawaii actually, more specifically of driving a boat onto the beach and crashing it into a home owned by a famous actor. Regardless of the content, this dream state allowed me to rest for yet another 10 hour period, a length of available sleep time simply unheard of when we are sailing around the Mediterranean or Caribbean.   But as all we are doing is crossing the Atlantic over and over again, 10 hour journeys into the depth of night have become both common and expected.  When the violent hissing of my automatic porthole washer wakes me up yet again, there is no longer reason to complain.  I could not possibly need any more sleep. 

I am not only resting during the night either.  Almost every evening I have been visiting my favorite location on the ship, the Canyon Ranch Spa.  Thanks to the stripes on my shoulders, I am one of a handful of crewmembers that is granted the most sought after privilege of being allowed to frequent this magical oasis.  At 7:00pm I normally head up to Deck 7, duck into the back crew entrance of the spa and immediately enter a state of pure relaxation, finding myself far removed from anything resembling ship life.   

Birds chirp melodiously, waterfalls cascade from the sky and the most pleasing scents sift through the air.  For one hour I alternate between the meditative aromatherapy sauna, the warm oak benches of the Finnish sauna, the pore cleansing steam room, the hot water foot massage module, the tropical rain showers, the jacuzzi and the deep tissue massaging water jet located in the middle of the tranquil pool.   

Usually there are only one or two guests in the facility at this time of day, as most are dressed in their tuxedos, sipping sparkling wine and shaking hands with the Captain.   And so, in complete peace and quiet I reenergize with my free nightly pass to the most luxurious spa at sea.  Such is the life I live.  In the end, despite the negative aspects of life on board the ships, I actually get paid to go to the spa, paid to rejuvenate and spoil myself as often as I want.  Paid to spend a night in Hamburg as well.  Can you see why it is so difficult to leave? 

My day is coming to an end right now, as our Tour Office has just closed for the evening and all of my work is complete.  It is 5:00pm and the “Groovy Choir” is screaming in absolute disharmony outside of my office.  Twice a voyage guests meet in the Grand Lobby and join our Jazz Trio for a 1.5 hour session of sing-a-longs.  At the moment they are shouting out an absurd medley that includes the theme song to the Flintstones, Lean on Me and What a Wonderful World all at the same time.  As always happens when the “Groovy Choir” is performing, I am starting to feel a headache rapidly approaching.   

But I am not worried.  It is certainly nothing that the aromatherapy sauna cannot instantly remedy. 

Every now and then cruise ship crewmembers are treated to a special occasion, one so welcome and so refreshing, so anticipated and so extraordinary.  It is that glorious occurrence when a ship is docked in one place for twenty four straight hours.  And it is not due to a lack of creativity, but rather as a mark of straightforward description, that we label these rare and most celebrated events simply as, ‘overnights’. 

Three days ago we sailed down the Elbe River and into the port of Hamburg, arriving at the tide influenced hour of 2:30am.  As the side thrusters snugly nudged the vessel alongside the pier at the Grasbrook Cruise Terminal, I slept happily in my cabin.  I am certain that a smile was upon my sleeping face, my subconscious being fully aware that we would be docked in this German city for over 24 hours.   

Of course I had work to do, tours to operate, guests to disembark, a Tour Office to open in the afternoon.  But all of that would certainly not engulf the entire 24 hours, nor would I choose to let it.  There would be free time, oh yes!  Free time in the outside world, free time for me to run around in childish wonder, to bathe in normalcy and to forget about formalities and restrictions.  Even better, this was Hamburg!  This was not Southampton or Brooklyn, our typical ports of call, where I rush off the ship to spend my two hours of free time buying soap and blueberries.    

At 6pm this past Wednesday, the work day was complete and my team and I gathered outside of the ship to meet our local tour operator who had invited us out for a drink.  Before long we were in a car, already giddy at being inside such a small form of transportation, driving through the crowded streets, passing warehouses and statues of numerous Wilhelms.  Eventually we reached the scenic Alster Lake in the city centre.   

At this point, we could not contain ourselves, practically delirious at the notion of an evening outside. To those of you who do not work onboard a cruise ship, our evening outside will most likely seem dull, unworthy of mention, just another night.   

But sitting at an outdoor café, at a shiny silver table, under the authentic sun and in actual fresh air, with a fountain shooting water high into the sky in the middle of the lake and bicycles, pedestrians, ice cream stands, pigeons, traffic lights and public buses surrounding us, could be described as pure bliss.   

Before long, our mugs were full of Holsten Lager, and we began rambling on about how different these pigeons looked from those elsewhere, how well-timed were Hamburg’s traffic lights, how nice were the aprons of the waitresses and how beautiful was the building across the street, a building that was one of the ugliest I have ever come across.  But our brains were simply unwinding, adjusting to normalcy, trying to spit out any remnants of its usually intense and solely work-related focus.  And the result was just pure gibberish. 

Our tour operator sat quietly nodding her head, smiling politely, probably wondering why she had even invited us out, as we laughed and giggled and spoke about our favorite shoe lace colors.  I give the tour operator credit, she stayed with us for almost two hours before taking her leave, informing us that she needed to return to her office to complete some paperwork.  We knew she hated us, but we accepted her excuse, fully aware that we would have done the same.  Anyway, we still had five hours left to continue feeling like free human beings.   

Only minutes after wandering off in the direction of St. Michael’s Church, we discovered a far more spiritual place to spend some time – a German wine festival.  Under the shadow of the elegant clock tower rising out of the Rathaus (Town Hall), hundreds of large tents housed hundreds of food and wine stalls, with long wooden tables and benches, servers dressed in liederhosen and accordion players bouncing around while tugging on their suspender straps. 

Granted, this festival was not exactly what one might envision as typical for this part of the world.  Instead of obscenely large mugs of beer, blond braided waitresses carrying ten of these mugs in each hand and platefuls of sausages, we were soon sipping Stuttgart Riesling, commenting on its complex  qualities and munching on pretzels and omelets.  We did clink our glasses loudly as often as possible and swayed sloppily to the music, just as the movies had taught us to do, but in the end, we were the only people in the vicinity doing so.       

We drank several bottles, we sang several songs.  We sat there at that table for three straight hours, laughing uncontrollably, simply because we had no rules, no strict codes of conduct, no restraints imposed upon us.  Passersby asked us where we were from and after baffling them with our motley mix of nationalities (USA, Ukraine, Nepal, UK, Canada) we explained where we worked.  This led to photographs and stories and in certain instances hugs and kisses and in certain of those instances, unwanted hugs and unwanted kisses. 

By the second bottle and the ninth plate of pretzels, Hamburg soon became our favorite port, our favorite city, our favorite place in the entire world.  “I could live here” we all said at some point.  In the end it could have been Hong Kong, Dubai, Athens or Reykjavik, and at various times over the years it has been those places as well.  But on this night, our world was centered on Hamburg, a fascination brought on simply because this city allowed us to drink its wine while dressed in jeans and t-shirts. 

At half past one in the morning we piled into one of those typical all-beige Mercedes taxis found in Germany, and rode back to the ship.  Being surrounded by beige during this short ride, images of my all-beige cabin began painfully popping into my head, the first sign that the 2am all aboard time was no longer somewhere far off in the distance.   

Every time our ship visits Hamburg, we receive an unforgettable welcome and farewell, with crowds of up to 100,000 people coming out to see us.  Cameras flash more rapidly than at the Super Bowl, locals ask uniformed crewmembers to pose for photographs and to sign autographs.  And tonight was no different. 

Upon arrival at the pier, we were greeted by a mob of several thousand people, all wanting to bid farewell to our ship.   As I pushed my way through the crowds to the security booth at the entrance gate, I stared up at my glowing ship, all lit up with its blue and white lights, its gravitational beauty beckoning me home.  The security guard checked my crew ID and opened the gate, allowing me to walk into the large empty space next to the ship where only we selected few can enter.  

Walking up the gangway, my night in Hamburg suddenly lay behind me and it was my cabin, my tiny shower, my neatly pressed uniform that awaited me now.  And only seconds later, as I took that first step back onto the ship, Hamburg simply faded away completely, no longer my savior, no longer my favorite city in the world.  My gibberish immediately returned to polite, scripted greetings as each step along the route to my cabin seemed to choke out the last of my freedoms.   

Ordinarily, the end of an ‘overnight’ offers as much of a reason to mourn as its beginning ignites us to rejoice.  But this time, after the Riesling had worn off and I had stubbed my toe as usual while trying to turn around in my bathroom, I had only to glance at the itinerary calendar hanging on the wall of my cabin.    

On August 27^th we shall ‘overnight’ in Hamburg once again.
     

Four days ago, I sent one of my staff members on an innocent mission to the Carpenter’s Workshop in order to borrow a phillips head screwdriver.  The team had unanimously decided to dismantle and re-construct the shelving system located inside of our storage locker on deck #2.  Born into creation partly because the organizational system needed some improvement, this plan also had the added benefit of giving my team something to do.  As our days pass by without even a blip of difference from the previous one, in the midst of a stretch of sea day after sea day after sea day, I am struggling to keep the soldiers occupied.  All of their necessary work is usually completed by 10:00am, which is only one hour after their day began.   

With a screwdriver in hand, we spent an entire afternoon removing shelves and hooks and cabinets, making a terrible mess while experimenting with new designs until we found the most efficient setup.  We actually finished our re-building work within a couple of hours of starting the project and as a result no longer had any need for the trusty screwdriver.  But as things happen, my laziness kept me from walking across the crew corridor on Deck 1 and down the three flights of stairs that lead to the Carpenter Shop.  And so the screwdriver ended up sitting on the desk in my cabin instead, for three days actually, right there next to a stack of plastic cups and a small bucket full of pens and paper clips.  It probably would have remained there for many more a day as well had I not received a particular phone call this morning from one unhappy man who was most likely wearing blue coveralls at the time. 

The carpenter on the other end of the line simply wanted his screwdriver back, the one that he had so graciously lent us.  He asked me when I planned on returning his tool, repeating several times, “I need that screwdriver back today!”  Soon enough, his passionate pleas began to affect me greatly and I began admonishing myself for thinking that this piece of metal had little value in the grand scheme of things.  The carpenter had now made it quite clear – this one screwdriver was the only reason that this ship remained afloat!   

As I hung up the phone, I found myself quite troubled that one single screwdriver held so much power.  Were there no other phillips head screwdrivers on board?  We are not working and living on board a rowboat, this is the largest ocean liner in the world, a 150,000 ton vessel with 15 decks, 1700 cabins, 10 eating establishments, over a dozen bars, an abundance of meeting rooms, 4 swimming pools, a theatre, a planetarium and hundreds of offices, closets and cabinets (and don’t forget that kennel full of cats and dogs!).  But despite all of this, and despite all of the 100,000 screws that are responsible for securing all of the above, I was fascinated at the prospect of there being only one screwdriver on the entire ship. 

With head hung low, I finally made my way to Deck B, the lowest deck there is, and into the carpenter’s office.  He immediately grabbed the tool from my hand.  “My screwdriver, thank you!” he blurted out as he ever so gently placed it back into his soft, worn out leathery tool bag. All I could do was offer a quick apology and walk right out.   

On my way back upstairs I stopped in the Officer’s Mess for a cup of green tea, deciding to take a short break before returning to my office.  While sipping my tea, I noticed that the chair in which I sat had a loose arm rest, the table wobbled clumsily and a wheel on the tea trolley was about to fall off.  And I felt ashamed – the ship was falling apart because of my irresponsibility.   

I turned towards the window and stared out at the ocean for awhile, just watching the calm rolling waves, thinking how the ocean was in perfect order because these waves were exactly where they were supposed to be.  And before long that thought alone brought me enough comfort to return to my office and continue my day.  With the screwdriver now returned to its proper place in the world, all would soon be in perfect order on board our legendary vessel as well.

The passengers were being brutal, complaining non-stop about the excursions they had participated in earlier in the day.  Whether it was the sandwiches they were served or the broken compass on the catamaran which ‘posed a serious danger’ to their lives, you would have thought that Tortola more closely resembled a war-torn wasteland than a beautiful tropical island.  The line of angry guests wrapped half way around the circular Grand Lobby of the ship and every single one of them seemed to have their arms crossed, waiting for their turn to unleash their frustrations on myself and my two colleagues. 

After almost two hours of standing at the counter of our Tour Office on board the Queen Mary 2, listening and nodding and forcing myself to smile, my feet hurt and I just wanted to take a break.  But that was simply not possible, as there was no indication that the line of guests was about to shorten any time soon.  By this point, my face no longer hid the frustration it held, my replies grew shorter and blunter, my willingness to repeat the same answers over and over again rapidly faded. 

But then, just as I began the old ‘questioning what I am doing here’ routine, I heard a voice, one that was heavily-accented, of European descent, of a female, an oddly familiar yet not too familiar voice. 

“Hello, is this the place to book a private tour of St. Lucia?” was all it said.   

I looked straight in front of me, I glanced to the left and to the right, but I could not find a person anywhere in sight whose voice could have sounded like this.   There were mostly men, angry men, standing in line and the only woman in the vicinity was speaking to my colleague in an unmistakably Long Island accent.  I stood there intrigued and confused. 

And then I heard the voice one more time.  Suddenly, a small hand and then a thin arm slowly rose up over the counter, offering itself to me in greeting.  I leaned over as much as possible, wanting to know who this arm and hand and voice belonged to.  Instantly, I recognized the smiling person in front of me, even before she spoke again.   

“Hello, my name is Dr. Ruth,” she said. 

All of the day’s problems immediately disappeared as I soon found myself sitting in the lobby organizing Dr. Ruth’s private tours and listening to her tell amusing stories about her travels and her work while offering an endless stream of sexual jokes.  Barely a minute would go by without her bursting into a fit of laughter, causing myself and everyone else in the area to join in.  After this initial meeting I found myself in a wonderful mood for the remainder of the voyage, drawing from the unwavering positive energy Dr. Ruth naturally projected.

 Over the next week, she requested to meet me every morning at 8am (not in that way!) in the Grand Lobby so that we could re-confirm her plans for the day.  I would then escort her off the ship and to her waiting vehicle in each port of call.  And as she also requested, when her private tours returned to the pier, there I would be, waiting to accompany her back onto the vessel.  She even gave me the nickname of “Bodyguard”, a title that brought with it a significant amount of teasing from many of the other crew on board.  But I knew that they were simply jealous, wishing that they could be the ones walking around the ship arm in arm with this famous therapist.   

Dr. Ruth often pulled me along the corridors as the speed with which she took her tiny strides outpaced my normal walking pace.  She stopped every few seconds, generously accommodating every photo or autograph request while handing out bright yellow key chains that stated “Sex for Dummies” to every single person she came in contact with, both guests and crew members.   

On the final morning of her voyage, I brought Dr. Ruth through the immigration inspection on board the ship, having to convince her that it was acceptable for her to cut the line and proceed directly to the front.  As we passed the hundreds of waiting guests, she greeted every single one of them in her delightful voice, leaving smiles on the faces of all these people who would ordinarily have been quite upset in the midst of their long wait.  She tugged my arm, shouted “Derek, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go” and then she would stop to chat or sign her name.  This repeated itself several times before we finally arrived in front of the immigration officer.   

And then she handed over her passport and announced as loud as ever, “I am Dr. Ruth, nice to meet you” causing everyone in the room, including the officer, to crack a smile. 

Moments before she walked off the ship, Dr. Ruth gave me her business card and asked to have a photograph taken together with me.  She then gave me her home telephone number and told me to contact her the next time I was in Manhattan so that we could meet for lunch. 

I’ve been to New York City several times since but I have never called. 

So here I am today, another day at sea on the Atlantic Ocean, one that began exactly the same as all of the previous hundreds I have been a part of.  The morning hours passed by slowly as I communicated with tour operators about our upcoming calls to Southampton and Hamburg, organizing tours to Stonehenge, London and Berlin.     

After lunch I walked back up to my office, wondering what kind of emails I would have to answer and what problems I would have to resolve.  Dreading the upcoming afternoon hours, I rested my hand on the doorknob before entering.     

“Derek!” I suddenly heard.  And there she was again, Dr. Ruth Westheimer, psychosexual expert, there to save the day one more time.  

As we are three days into our westward transatlantic crossing, there is little difference now between the days. Just to provide a glimpse into this repetitive daily routine, I have outlined a typical day as a Tour Manager on the Queen Mary 2 during a transatlantic crossing from Southampton, UK to New York City (or vice versa):

5:45am – the automatic porthole washer begins its high-pressure spraying and cleaning of my porthole, providing the first indication that the start of the work day is in fact near

7:45am – 8:30am – my alarm sounds and out of bed I rise; I trip over the ledge that leads into the bathroom, take a shower and dress myself in my white officer’s uniform

8:31am – begin the walk out of my cabin, along the corridor, down three flights on the ‘A’ crew stairwell to Deck 1, along the main crew corridor that runs the entire length of the ship, passing doors and other stairwells and crew cabins and a few offices until I reach the guest ‘B’ stairwell, which I take to Deck 2, and then proceed to walk from the starboard side of the ship to the port side, turn left in front of the main theatre and in another thirty feet, arrive at my office

8:37am – check my emails – read through the night reports of all the fights, rowdy passengers (and rowdy crew) and any other incidents that needed to be reported – answer a few of the important emails (i.e. the Food & Beverage Manager asking how many guests will be off the ship in New York over the lunch period or a tour operator asking me to confirm that we will not sell any more transfers to JFK because the bus is now full)

8:42am – proceed back down to Deck 1 and to the Officer’s Mess to get a cup of green tea

8:50am – back in the office, answering some more emails (such as when the Crew Office asks for the original receipt from the medical exam I had to undergo in order to join the ship so that they can reimburse me or the tour operator in Hamburg asking how many shuttle buses into the city I will need for our call on the 30th of July)

9:00am – walk across the Grand Lobby outside of my office to the ‘other office’ of our department where my team works; we huddle, I bark out the game plan and then we clap hands and fall into formation. For them this means the start of our opening hours where guests line up to ask us strange and silly questions; for me this means another cup of green tea

9:06am – I sit in my office and do some work, email questions to tour operators, update invoices, prepare reports, create tour booking forms, etc

11:30am – waking up with drool across my cheek and desk, I go back over to the other office, help the girls out (my team is all female) by standing at the desk and getting yelled at because all the ship offers on Sunday is a Catholic Mass or because their toilet overflowed or because they were promised by their travel agent that they would have three complementary bottle of wine in their stateroom but only received two. On occasion a guest actually wants to book a transfer to the airport or a tour of Manhattan or Stonehenge or has a genuine inquiry regarding the disembarkation procedures upon arrival in New York or Southampton

12:00pm – the ‘other office’ closes and we finish up any unfinished morning business

12:15pm – Lunch time – the whole team walks down to the Officer’s Mess, picks up the menu and acts surprised that yet again there is nothing edible on it. And so we all eat salad and the occasional bread roll

1:00pm – we all take a break and I retreat to my cabin where I lie down in my bed, read a few pages of my book or watch a movie, although I am quite disappointed that the seven movie channels on board are still playing the exact same movies that they played when I was here last, six months ago. But nevertheless, I still rely on “A Few Good Men” and “Freedom Writers” to take my mind away from work for a few moments

2:30pm – I return to the office, answer some more emails and get another cup of green tea

3:00pm – the other office opens once again for the afternoon desk hours but I remain in my quiet refuge, listening to the psychotic tunes of the slot machines mixed together with the Motown songs piping into the lobby, and trying to send a few more emails, preparing for our next port and attempting to determine how many tours we should offer in German next time we are in Southampton considering that we will have 750 Germans on board

3:27pm (this time may vary) – at some point, or more likely at several points, throughout the afternoon, my phone rings and I am summoned to the other side to deal with an upset guest. They couldn’t find the transfer bus from the airport to the ship, they want to know why our bus to Newark arrives at 3pm when their flight is at 10pm and they demand compensation because the hotel room they stayed at in London as part of their pre-cruise package had a dirty sink. I listen, nod my head, think of how nice it would be to go on a safari in Africa or if I have enough clean socks to last me through the current voyage and then I inform them, with my most sincerely concerned face, that I will look into the situation and get back to them

5:00pm – the other office closes and I wander over to see how everything is going but also to join the team in eating chocolate stolen from the housekeeping office

5:15pm – we settle down to work, to send tour counts to the tour operators, to book private sedans, to send letters to the guests informing them where to meet on the morning of arrival into port for their tour of Manhattan with 45 minutes of free time at the Herald Square Macy’s

7:00pm – by this time we are usually finished with our work – I have sent all of my necessary emails, have prepared for the following day and have phoned back all of the complaining guests from the previous day to let them know that it is the weekend and as a result I have yet to receive feedback regarding their issue from our head office and so if they could kindly bear with me, I will definitely get back to them on Monday once I hear back from my superiors. And of course I appreciate their patience very much.

In all actuality, however, there was no email sent to my superiors. I already know what compensation I will give but if I give it too soon then word will spread fast among these gossiping guests and soon everyone will have a complaint and be seeking money. The old ‘it’s the weekend’ or ‘I am waiting to hear from my superiors’ trick, buys me necessary time so that I can phone them on the last day of the voyage and tell them that I have credited their account for 25% of the cost of their transfer or tour and that any further issues should be directed to our Guest Relations department shore side.

7:20pm – I am in the passenger gym, staring my workout on the cross-training machine – I had run from my office straight to my cabin, changed into proper gym-attire, grabbed my mp3 player and ran up 6 flights of stairs to reach the fancy gym on Deck 7

8:05pm – I finish my 45 minute intense workout – having always chosen the “Around the World” hill program on the cross-trainer in order to maximize the challenge

8:09pm – I quickly shower and change back into my uniform

8:31pm – I leave my cabin and walk down the stairs, along the main corridor and into the Officer’s Mess, arriving only 26 minutes before it closes

8:34pm – I dine, usually alone at this time, choosing to wind down from the day’s work and the gym in peace, not in the mood to engage in forced chatting while eating cannelloni and onion rings for the third straight night

9:00pm – Leaving the mess, I make my way up to the office, quickly check my emails to make sure that nothing urgent (such as suddenly not having enough buses for the next day’s tours or finding out that the Prince of Qatar suddenly wants a private limo for 7am the next morning) has been sent my way

9:20pm – I remove my uniform, change into normal clothes and once again lie down in my bed

9:22pm – I open my book
9:24pm – I close my book
9:24pm – I water the bamboo plants on my windowsill that have been there since the ship came into existence in 2004
9:25pm – I lie back down
9:26pm – I stare at the wall
9:43pm – I get up and turn on some music, usually staring with “Nobody Left to Run With Anymore” by the Allman Brothers.
9:50pm – I turn off the music and turn on the television
9:51pm – I brush my teeth and take out my contact lenses
9:54pm – I set the time on my phone one hour forward or one hour back depending on which direction across the ocean we are headed; I set the alarm
9:55pm – I take a swig of Crystal Geyser Spring Water and turn off the lights

9:55pm – 5:45am – I wake up many times throughout the night, my brain confused and unable to determine if and how much it should be sleeping as I have now been on board for 11 nights and have already had 9 time changes

***I will actually break from the norm today. Dinner in the mess will be replaced by ‘Gurkha Curry Night’, a biweekly event in which the Nepali security team cooks and serves a feast of curries for the officers and other select crew to enjoy. It is a most welcome evening by all in attendance, offering the tastiest food that we could possibly eat on board, accompanied by wine and beer, Nepali music and traditional dance performances by the sari-clad female security officers. I remember the last time I attended, some time in February, when the International Hostess accidentally dumped a full glass of red wine all over me as I was putting a spoonful of vegetable curry into my mouth, hence the reason why I only have three sets of uniforms now, not the four I originally received.

Two days ago we were in Cherbourg, France. Unfortunately, I did not get farther than 100 metres away from the ship, with work keeping me busy during this hectic day. We had 500 guests disembark the ship, 600 guests embark the ship and 2000 in the midst of a 2 day voyage from Southampton back to Southampton.

We also had a British Coast Guard boat drill for the crew in which I had to participate. A mock fire, along with massive mock casualities and several decks worth of mock damage made for a long morning. It was quite a drill, with new fires and new explosions and new injuries being fabricated every few minutes. Even the mayor of Cherbourg had to stand waiting on the pierside for almost two hours, unable to board the ship in the midst of our drill and therefore unable to conduct the special “Welcome Ceremony” he had planned for the past several months. But come on, hey Mr. Mayor, we have a drill to do.

And then only one hour after the boat drill finally concluded, there was a bomb threat in the terminal building on the pier as there was a suspicious package behind some desks. I was in the terminal building at the time and suddenly the French authorities were jumping over tables, grabbing arms and yelling out in French. Nobody moved until our French speaking receptionist translated the message to the crowd. We were rushed us out of the building and into the parking lot, where about 100 guests and crew remained standing for about an hour.

But it turned out, as many things do, to be a piece of luggage from Mr. Smithson in cabin #4093. Silly him, he simply forgot to take it onboard after checking in for his cruise. But even sillier him, because when he was escorted outside to claim this bright red piece of luggage, he had neglected to bring the key to open it up so that the authorities could properly examine it.

As a result, Mr. Smithson had to go all the way across the shiny lobby of the terminal building, up two flights of wooden stairs, through the security screening, have his passport stamped at the immigration desk, proceed down the long hall of the upper floor of the terminal building, then along the gangway that led to Deck 2, up the elevator to Deck 4 (apparently he was too lazy for the stairs), down the starboard side corridor and finally to his cabin to retrieve the key. And then he had to follow the exact same route in reverse, as we 100 people remained standing outside, until he eventually unlocked his bright red piece of luggage and showed everyone his underwear and wife’s collection of nightgowns.

Mr. Smithson walked away amused and we re-entered the terminal building.

There are 7 dogs and 4 long-haired domestic cats on board this week.

Yesterday we were in Southampton again.  As we had 2000 guests to disembark and since I am responsible for disembarking them in an orderly and timely fashion, I was most pleasantly surprised when, at 9:00am, we made the final call for guests to disembark. Once all the guests have been called off the ship to collect their luggage, we are free and can return to the ship. My staff then usually goes into town to shop for a few hours and I usually do some work and take a nap. But since we finished so early yesterday (normally we do not make a final call until 10:30am), I went into the centre of Southampton as well, taking the crew shuttle that runs back and forth from the pier into town every 30 minutes.

I walked around aimlessly for about an hour, then bought some blueberries, had a much needed meal of Indian food at Namaste Kerala and then walked back to the ship. I was away from the ship for about 3.5 hours, quite possibly a record length of time. I even brought some take away Indian food back to the ship for dinner, much preferring the Paneer Makhani curry of Namaste Kerala to the offerings on the menu in the officer’s mess.

Time to continue working…we are on our way back to New York, arriving on the 22nd.  It’s foggy outside today.

I am exhausted. Not because of having a lot of work to do, but due to the inability to sleep. The first three nights involved the constant blasting of the fog horns from the navigational bridge every two minutes, all night, as is required in such weather conditions. My cabin happens to be on Deck 4 and towards the front of the ship, and so this location not so far away from the bridge, has put the fog horn practically right outside of my small porthole.
And so, I have been forced to watch “The Life of Brian”, “Ratatouille” and “Ocean’s Thirteen” over and over and over again, not to mention that “Ratatouille” was in French and “Ocean’s Thirteen” was in German.

We dropped off 2000 passengers today in Southampton and picked up another 2000, a group of guests that will only be with us for a short two-day voyage. Tomorrow we are in Cherbourg, France and the next day we are already back in Southampton. This crowd is a ‘different’ kind of crowd; the kind that asks for additional bathrobes to steal before they even unpacked their luggage. Not one person was sitting in the lobby listening to our four piece orchestra at any point during the entire afternoon. Nobody came to us to book any tours for tomorrow in France, out of 2000 guests we have 85 people heading to places such as the Normandy Landing Beaches, Bayeux Tapestry and Gardens of Cherbourg.

We also have a British Coast Guard boat drill tomorrow at 10am, an event that puts extreme fear into every crew member as the ship’s permission to sail depends on our performance. Significant incorrect answers to the Coast Guard’s questioning could theoretically put them in a position where they would stop the ship for sailing, finding the crew too incompetent. This never happens of course, or at least not on the major cruise lines, but the fear is always there.

But I’m prepared, after all I just finished my third ‘new crew’ training session yesterday, where we had to memorize – sea anchor, food, water, fishing gear, hand pump, sponges, thermal protective suit, hand flares, smoke flares, rocket flares, mirror, knife & rope – everything found in a life boat. But then we are reminded that the life boats are for the guests and that the crew is assigned only to the life rafts. We then practiced using fire extinguishers on the back deck, shooting water, CO2, dry powder and foam onto cardboard flames. In only thirty minutes I became, once again, a certified seaman and a firefighter.

And so tomorrow, as soon as the eight blasts on the ship’s horn are heard, I shall don my lifejacket and yellow baseball cap, run up to “Muster Control” and man the control center for the drill. The phones ring, people are checking in, people are lost, people are missing lifejackets or children, heart attacks are happening, fires are starting, mass casualties are suffered. It is all a drill of course, but everything is thrown in our direction and we must deal with it all properly or fail.

On a side note, for the past six days I have had to wear the same uniform upon discovering that little has changed in the world of crew laundry services. I sent three sets of uniforms to be dry cleaned on my first day on board. Two came back dirtier than when I had sent them, with stains of varying colors suddenly plastered all over the sleeves, pockets and collar. The last set had magically lost four of its six buttons, a situation that would take 3-4 days to rectify for sure. And most likely in the process of re-sewing the buttons back on, some more stains will present themselves and I will have to repeat the process again. Usually, during any given contract, I have one complete uniform that is circulating constantly between the laundry men, iron man and sewing woman.

I am also starving all the time, something that happens, not only to me, but to many of us working on ships. My meals are not small – I usually eat an appetizer, salad, two main courses and a desert with names such as Cassis Champagne Mousse with Fresh Wildberry Sauce. But there is something in the food, something I cannot say for certain, but which mysteriously acts very similarly to laxatives. Some crew member on some ship for some cruise line once started the rumor that food on board ships was laced with laxatives to aid in not only the digestive processes, but to help ensure that the plumbing pipes are not worked too hard. Anyway, whatever is the source, I AM STARVING, and it appears that I will soon have to restart my old nightly routine of sneaking into the officer’s mess late at night to retrieve enough mini-boxes of cereal to fill a bucket.

Last night I finally went to the ‘Wardy’ aka ‘Wardroom’ aka ‘Officer’s Bar’. My entire team went and we had a couple of drinks in the dark, smoky room. Krystyna, the Ukrainian bartender, served us whiskey/gingers and pineapple/rums as the British officer’s sang drunikedly in the back corner, the Canadian youth staff were climbing all over the tables and chairs as if they were children themselves, the Sanitation officer was there as were the nurses and the Captain’s Secretary. Actually, the Captain himself came down for a visit, stopping along the way to shake hands, smile and wave to us simple folk as if he were the Dalai Lama. Some crew look like they want to drop to their knees and prostrate before this master of the vessel while others just bow while trying their hardest not to make any eye contact.

I stayed in the bar until 1am and then I returned to my cabin for a grand 4 hours of sleep. Today began at 5:45am and finished at 8:30pm as I worked in my office, supervised the disembarkation while standing in the luggage hall of the Southampton terminal building for four hours, had meetings with our UK bosses, paged the Chief Systems Officers a few dozen times as our tour booking system continued to crash repeatedly throughout the day and was forced to move into another temporary cabin (as the technical department needed their cabin back) until the 16th. I ate spinach quiche for lunch and pan-seared haddock for dinner.

Tomorrow we arrive in Cherbourg at 7am and we have to move the clocks forward another hour (the 5th time in 6 days) tonight. From the comfort of my large, mini-suite passenger cabin (which I can enjoy for the next two days!), I shall lie down and hopefully enjoy a full night’s sleep for the first time since being on board.

From the Atlantic – en route from NYC to Southampton, UK 

Despite my slight hesitation in the parking lot of the pier in Red Hook, Brooklyn moments before reaching the ship, I followed through in the end, finding myself walking right back up the same gangway I had so eagerly run down five months earlier.  And there I was, once again a part of the 1268 crew members from over 50 countries prepared to spend 10 – 16 hours a day serving 2659 vacationing guests on board the famous Queen Mary 2. 

All around me cages full of luggage were whisked into the elevators, pallets of lamb and bananas and napkins were brought on board, the floors were being mopped, the toilets scrubbed, the dining rooms being set up.  On such days when a voyage finishes and a new one is about to begin, the pace is dizzyingly frantic, with every crew member part of an incredible machine that must serve everyone breakfast at 6am, send 5000 pieces of luggage ashore, disembark all of the guests in an orderly fashion, clean the entire ship and all the cabins, embark another 2600 guests only 30 minutes after the last guest from the previous voyage walked off the ship and complete the entire process in reverse. 

There are two crew members who work non-stop practically every voyage, as they have the sole responsibility for serving our highest, and most demanding, VIPs, those special guests who live on the topmost deck, with the most impressive views, guests who are served only the finest and most elegantly prepared food, sleep on the fluffiest of first class pillows and require constant pampering.  They wear their expensive Queen Mary 2 sweaters, show off their freshly styled hair-dos and bark at the staff when things do not go their way.  On this voyage there are five of them and their names are ‘Boycie’, ‘Magee’, ‘Belle’, ‘Ganesh’ and ‘Maple.’  They are not American, British or German but are, in order of their names, a Pug, Yorkshire Terrier, Border Collie, Beagle and Shitzu.  This is the Queen Mary 2 after all, and there is no other ship like it.   

As for my return, it was a relatively easy transition, taking only a couple of minutes for me to recognize dozens and be recognized by dozens of others.  Unfortunately, I did not remember most of their names.  As photographers, salon staff, housekeepers, receptionists and social staff approached me with a “Welcome back, Derek” I could only reply with a “Good to see you…” and a pause.  Had they not mentioned my name I simply would not have had to mention theirs.  But as they did somehow remember mine, I was forced to steal a lightning quick glance at their chests in order to read the name off of their name tags.  It is an art indeed, to stare ever so subtly in the midst of a conversation while limiting the length of the necessary pause.  But it was only my first day back and I must admit that I failed miserably in this aspect, my stares more than obvious and now bound to cause much irreparable insult.   

After a first day of wearing jeans and doing approximately 13 minutes of work I was forced to wake up at 7:30am this morning, put on my neatly pressed white officer’s uniform and attend the Hotel Manager’s meeting.  But as the senior officers spoke of the need for supervisors to train their teams how to deal with New Yorkers (who were deemed ‘pushier than normal’ and ‘not the kind of guests our crew are used to dealing with’), I wondered how fast the time would pass until I would be sitting in the final meeting of my contract.  

Following the meeting I proceeded to work steadily for a lengthy 9 minutes, during which time I hung up on one guest after forgetting the reason I had called.  I also wrote a letter that will be sent to 100 guests disembarking the ship in Cherbourg, France on the 15^th, telling them such intriguing things as ‘vacate your stateroom by 8:30am’ and ‘there will be a staff member outside the customs hall to direct you to your clearly marked motor coach.’     

The reason I stopped working after only 9 minutes was because of the two-hour mandatory training session that I had to attend, that all new or returning crew must attend each time they join the ship.  The Captain spoke first, explaining the rules and regulations regarding such topics as drug and alcohol use, sexual harassment and suicidal cabin mates; the Staff Captain talked about Safety at Sea, what to do if we see someone fall overboard and what fire extinguisher to use if we accidentally ignite the french fries; the Environmental Officer told us not to throw anything over board, adding in the words ‘including passengers’ at the end but receiving only a few nervous chuckles from the crowd; the Crew Doctor stressed the need to use condoms and to frequently wash our hands in order to avoid contracting a gastro-intestinal illness and vomiting all over the vessel; the Security Officer told us to keep an eye out for Osama and pirates and lost old ladies accidentally wandering into crew areas looking for the Medical Center.   

The Environmental Officer did attempt to redeem himself at the end, offering the following joke:  “If you see a guest about to throw something over the side of the ship, you must approach them and say ‘I am sorry but we are not allowed to do that.  However, I will be more than happy to take that from you and dispose of it properly.’  The guest will then hand over their baby…”  Unfortunately, there were no chuckles this time, with those of us experienced crew members in the group shaking our heads in understanding of how ‘ship life’ affects our brains.   

I am in my cabin now, just having finished watching Mr. Bean and eating some blueberries.  I am exhausted and ready for sleep but am constantly pondering the question I was asked so often today – “How does it feel to be back?” At this point I could only offer the standard reply of “Ask me in two months.”  I don’t know how I feel at the moment.  It is slightly pleasant here on board, I am not too busy with work (definitely aided by the fact that the person I am replacing is still on board until the end of this voyage), the atmosphere is positive and the spinach canelloni was actually not too bad tonight (although the baked cod I ordered yesterday was completely frozen).   

I am coughing.  As expected.   

I suffer from what is perhaps one of the most bizarre allergies known to mankind.  I appear to be allergic to none other than the USA itself, finding myself coughing my lungs out no matter where I am within the 50 states (I am not allergic to St. Thomas or America Samoa though).  It does not matter if I am in Boston, Miami or Austin, I cough and I cough often.  London, Delhi, Prague?  No coughing.  Santiago, Melbourne, Saigon?  No coughing there either.  New York, California?  A whole lot of coughing. 

Generally, the allergy attacks me within the first twenty-four hours of my crossing the border, whether by land, air or sea.  It then remains my incurable enemy until the moment I cross the border once again, on my way out of the country.  It is as precise as a Rolex, as certain as the nightly presence of the pad thai vendor at the corner of Khao Sao Road and Soi Rambutri in Bangkok.   

Pills and cough drops have proven powerless, therapeutic teas with exotic names completely useless.  Meditation (both sitting and walking), sauna sessions and simply pretending to be in a foreign country have brought absolutely no relief whatsoever and at times caused great embarrassment (usually when I pretend that southern Florida is actually Dhaka, Bangladesh – the people here just don’t appreciate a good tissue-less blowing of the nose).       

Anyway, for the time being I am ok with having this allergy, simply because I know that I will be leaving the country again soon, in 9 days from now.  When I walk back onto the Queen Mary 2 on July 8^th, the cough will undoubtedly remain, that is until our fine Captain maneuvers the vessel out under the Verranzano Bridge just after sunset and towards international waters.  By the time I wake up for work the following morning, my allergy will have once again vanished for no understandable reason.   

At least I have a valid excuse for my more than frequent trips overseas.  It’s for my health of course!  Who in their right mind wants to deny me good health?  You can tell me it’s time I finally settle down, time to end the constant travels, but you certainly would not want me to suffer in the process.  Would you? 

Now that I think of it, I am also allergic to cats.  But only American cats.  Honestly.  When I am around my sister’s hissing ‘Sheba’ or my friend’s ugly ‘Patches’, my eyes instantly swell shut, my face inflates like a bag of Orville Redenbacher and my inner ear tickles so intensely as if I am the victim of some cruel interrogation technique.  Cats in other countries have no affect on me whatsoever.  I could hold them in my lap and lick their fur clean or even use them as a pillow and still I would resemble the non-inflated version of myself.           

What does all of this mean?  Is my body trying to tell me something?  I just may be destined to forever wander the planet, to be forced into exile by the unknown cause of my “spasmodic contraction of the thoracic cavity.”  Could I be so lucky?

Even my doctor friend is dumbfounded and unable to offer a reasonable explanation of my situation.  Although he did suggest a treatment that involved a game of Scrabble and some blueberry muffin tops, not surprising once I discovered that he actually studied to become a podiatrist.  

If anyone else out there has any suggestions, please let me know.  Maybe there is another baffled traveler in the world suffering from this strange disorder too.  It would be of great help to find the cure, not only to eliminate this annoying cough, but more importantly so that I can return to using tissues to blow my nose.

After thirty-six hours of hearing unmistakably American accents, eating unmistakably American food and finding both tissues and toilet paper in every bathroom, I have finally admitted that I am back in the USA.  It is always a strange and semi-torturous adjustment period for me, as I lament the end of another adventure while discovering with each passing year that the ‘comforts’ of home are not so ‘comforting’ anymore.   

I used to return from India or Southeast Asia and run straight into a boiling hot shower, often spending several minutes offering freshly plucked and sparkling clean hair strands to the gods of pipes and water boilers.  I prefer cold showers now.   

Although I have a car to drive, a washing machine to use and a street full of mega-stores and chain restaurants to visit, I see them as mere luxuries, no longer necessary now that I am perfectly content with walking until my feet are sore and washing my clothes in a bucket until my knuckles bleed.  Besides, the stores over here do not really sell me anything I particularly need and my stomach certainly has no objections to living off of freshly cooked, flavorful street food for all eternity.     

I know that this bitterness will pass of course.  It’s just that returning home always represents the reality of not being able to remain on the road forever (either due to financial or self-inflicted mental obstacles).  But I know the drill; the desire to explore does not merely disappear amid the conspiratorial attraction of all things American.  Instead, I will soon be hearing barely audible whispers, aiming to tempt me with their gentle tones of persuasion.  “Mozambique… Bolivia…Mongolia…Uganda” they will say, causing me to stumble and stutter and begin to wonder how long it will be until I am on the road again.  When I start to miss the vendors with baskets of cucumbers on their heads and the feel of grotesquely dirtied, partially torn, foul-smelling rupee bills, I will find safety in the realization that I have not lost my way.     

And because of that comforting thought, I am now ready to once again deal in clean, crisp dollar bills for the time being.  I am ready to purchase my cucumbers, not from a head, but from a supermarket.  My clothes will be clean when in public and I will resist the urge to eat my Bang Bang Chicken & Shrimp with my hands when visiting the local Cheesecake Factory.  My driving shall be in an orderly and safe manner and in a vehicle that has been deemed ‘road worthy’ by the proper automobile authorities.  I shall make my own tea, finally accepting that nobody sells fresh cups of it on my doorstep.  I offer my sincerest apologies to the Florida tri-rail conductor whom I tried to bribe for a first-class seat (he can still keep the dollar though).  And I will abandon my formation of a lobbying group whose intention was to replace the words ‘road’ and ‘street’ with the phrase ‘public toilet’ on every sign in the country.   

For all those who read this, you now have my word that I will do my best to re-adjust while being as little a nuisance as possible.     

But if you happen to see me burning my trash in the middle of the street or leading my goats on to the bus with me, please do not call the police.  A warm embrace and reminder of where I am shall suffice and I promise you, my goats and I will simply walk away.