Last week I wrote about a great line from essay writer David Rakoff. That made me think about the humorous essays we had to write in my copywriting class last semester. I didn't hate mine, so I'm going to post it here.
When I was ten I wanted my mother to
buy a minivan so badly I left copies of Consumer Digest on her pillow with the
best valued Dodge and Ford minivans circled in red. The idea that you could
have individual seats, like armchairs, in a car was unreal. Who would not want
to drive around in a portable living room?
But by the time I was sixteen and
received my mother’s station wagon as my very own to drive, I was glad she had
never caved to my demands. Minivans were way lame; station wagons were, well
ok, also lame, but they got better gas mileage.
By the time I was a senior in college I
had a similar view of Carnival cruises. The excitement of eating essentially
freeze-dried food, participating in family bingo night, and shaking my hips to
a boat- wide Macarena dance party led by some poor soul dressed up as Smokey
the Smokestack had lost most of its appeal.
However, that spring I agreed to a six -day
seven- night Caribbean jaunt aboard the Carnival Valor. Time was running out to
be an irresponsible college kid participated in wet t-shirt contests, got
matching tattoos at 4 a.m, and downed SoCo lime shots until you threw up in the
back of a cab that was blasting Juanes and probably in the process of dropping
you off at a Mexican brothel where you would spend the rest of your life as the
mistress of someone named Papa Pepe.
Or just fruity drinks in tacky souvenir
glasses, sandy beaches, and sunburns. This is where it seemed to be heading when
we finally made it past the check- in line, complete with the obligatory group
photo in front of a backdrop of the sun setting over palm trees. We boarded the
ship to find large groups of people with actual red necks riding the gold
plated elevators that shot up from the lounge where a man in a tux was playing
Top 40 hits on an electric piano. There were waiters in khaki shorts offering
strawberry daiquiris in, you guessed it, tacky souvenir glasses. By the way,
these are not free; they are approximately $20 each. It was like OZ gone wrong.
That’s basically what my friend Laura shouted to the entire deck, “Oh my God
it’s like we’re stuck in a tiny city!” If only she knew how tiny.
We struggled down five flights of
stairs to the steerage deck where we found the room four of us would be
sharing. If this had been the Titanic we would have been goners. The door
clicked open and we peered eagerly around the corner and into a ten by ten
square box with two beds. How weird, we thought, how could the front desk have
forgotten to give us keys to the second room? So we traipsed back upstairs to
customer service where we were told, “No, no, you are booked one room only. The
beds, they come from ceiling, you see?” And so they did. Had we been monks
perhaps there would have been enough free room but we had STUFF.
We decided to get a little fresh air.
We walked up stairs carpeted in giant bald eagles. Stars and stripes served as
a wallpaper border. We entered the Bronx Bar and passed through it to the
Lincoln Dining room, past the One Small Step dance club, and ended up face to
face with a giant tiled mosaic of Rosie the Riveter. Good Lord the boat was
America themed.
So what do you do if you are stuck on a
cruise ship that is decorated like the 4th of July on crack, sleeping in
ostensibly a bomb shelter, a little snobby about muscle tees and jorts, and
seated every night at a dinner table with four thirty year old UF grads
reliving their college years in a big way?
Well, you have possibly the best week
of your life of course. There is nothing to do but roll with it.
There were, of course, tense moments.
There was the time Meghan had had just about enough of our other friend’s daily
rendition of the same one line of “Sexy Can I?” and yelled at her, “THERE ARE
OTHER PEOPLE IN THE ROOM!” And the time we lost a guest named Tamika and urgent
calls were sent out over the loudspeaker until it was discovered she hadn’t
been left at port, only avoiding her husband by sleeping in another guest’s
bed.
I began to think of the Valor as a
sorority or church congregation; there was a special bond between its members formed
by experiencing something that could only be understood by having been there.
The ship activity pamphlet was our bible, Matt- the hot British cruise
director- both our president and preacher, and red and blue our colors- because
not only are those America’s colors, but also the colors of the hallmark
Carnival smokestacks.
When we were docked and exploring a
port, other ship members would recognize us by the Carnival issue towels we
carried. “Hey, are you guys on the Valor too?”
“Yeah, yeah we are!”
“Do you want to see how the giant snake
tattoo on my arm moves when I flex my bicep?”
“Yeah, yeah we do!”
If they were on the Valor, they were
one of us and we loved them for it. We started recognizing the same people
around the boat each night and making friends. There was the twelve year old
Swede with beaded dreadlocks, the sixty year old who wore a pink sequined tube
dress every night, and the boy who told my friend her feet were beautiful, led
her off for some romantic star gazing and then made her cry because he wouldn’t
kiss her. He respected her too much for that. Or something.
And of course there were the men (boys)
with whom we shared dinner each night: Rob, Andrew, Jordan, and Luke. They were
quite a group; two had already been divorced, one had his engagement broken off
when his girlfriend was deported and they all showed up each night, sunburned
and drunk, in Hawaiian shirts and immediately poured a tall glass of whiskey
and water.
Meghan developed a serious crush on
Rob. So serious that she tried to extend their relationship past spring break.
But he was thirty, divorced, and working in finance ten states away. It was
clear the differences were too great. Although there may have been more to
bring them together than the fact they were both on the same floating object in
the middle of the ocean, my guess is that that was a big part of it. Life on a
cruise ship doesn’t translate to the real world.
It’s more like falling down the rabbit
hole in Alice in Wonderland where nothing happened as it should and everything
was turned upside down. Laura does not usually get hickies so bad she has to
wear a scarf with her bathing suit, and we do not usually meet teenagers asking
us to help them hotbox their bathroom with weed from Belize. For further proof,
each clock on the ship told a different time that seemed to be in no logical
relation to any other. But, unlike Alice, there was no rabbit rushing around
with a broken time piece to point this out. It just was what it was. And what
it was was absolutely amazing. Book your tickets now.