Not Since Carrie

Alright, I just heard something that I wanted to, nay - NEEDED! - to share with all (5) of you. I just read that Julie Taymor (who won a Tony for directing the exquisite Broadway production of the Lion King) will be directing and writing the book for a Spider Man musical, whose score will be provided by Bono and the Edge of U2. I just saw the open casting call notice.

My Spidey Sense is tingling...

*******

I smell...

******

a BOMB!!!!!


Anyone else who thinks this is a bad idea, raise your hands.

Lappy gone nappy :(

I may not publish anything more for a while as my laptop has gone to Apple Heaven. I have not as yet tried a witch doctor, but I am hoping for a Lazarus-type recovery.

Quickly, things on the ms Big Zed are good. Europe is still nice. Barcelona is still amazing. Band is still the best in the fleet (Brady, I know you're grinding your teeth right now, but if you just face the facts, you'll be much happier inside). I still don't have a boyfriend, but life goes on. Music is still fun. And above all: I am still super awesome.

:)

See you real soon.

It's Hard Out Here For A Pimp

Some pursuits are nobler than others. I think it is infinitely more important to find a cure for cancer or AIDS than to discover a drug to give you a hard-on. (There are those who obviously don’t agree with me, and maybe in 40 – ok, 20 – years, I won’t agree with me either.) I think the New York Times Crossword is better than Sudoku, which is better than the Junior Jumble, which is better than Tic Tac Toe. I think the Theatre is better than the Cinema, which is better than HBO, which is better than network TV. And everything is better than dinner theatre. Except cruise ships. Or at least that’s what I used to think.

Cruise ship musicians are given a bad rap. We’re thought to be burnt-out bitter old hacks desperate for work. Cruise ships are like the last refuge for the damned. There’s an old story about an entertainer going to meet with the band leader and finding out that no one in the band reads music except for the drummer. “How can this be?” he asks. The leader replies: “ He’s not our regular drummer”. Ba dum bum. (My favorite drummer joke: What did the drummer get on his IQ test? Drool!!!! Ah, I slay me.)

This is what my job entails: the main part is to play for the guest entertainers. These are solo acts of all varieties who travel from ship to ship and stay anywhere from one cruise to an entire season (there was a magician aboard my ship who had been here off and on for 3 years!) If they’re new to us, we may get their music a couple of days in advance, or we may not. The morning of the show, we rehearse 90 minutes for a 60 minute show (We try to get a rehearsal in early so we can have more port time. But then again, we’re usually up drinking until 3 in the morning, so not too too early please thank you). If we’re lucky, we get charts that are legible, clean and clear in playable keys without too many technical demands. Sometimes, we get photocopies of photocopies of mimeographs of hieroglyphs with 10 years of un-erased pencil marks, mismatching measures numbers (or none at all), confusing cuts, no tempo marking, no feel marking (is it disco or a cha-cha?) in P flat minor, and an entertainer who has no idea how to rehearse. Once I played for a giant untalented jerk with such illegible charts who kept telling us to “just feel it”. Every time I asked him a question about what he wanted, (because we all had conflicting information and markings), he would throw up his hands in frustration and say “I don’t care! Whatever you want!” He was abusive and insulting because we didn’t have an intimate knowledge of his particular style of music, and he just thought all decent musicians knew how to play this. I ended up yelling at him. If I ever see him again, (which is doubtful, since he didn’t have any gigs lined up) I will yell at him again. I’m almost yelling right now. I hate him. (PF, you SOB, you know who you are). Sometimes, I’ve gotten charts that are so difficult that it would require about a week of intense practice. Occasionally, guitarists, bassists and drummers will get 10-page piano charts, because the arranger was too lazy to write out separate parts. (Pianists can turn pages. The aforementioned musicians have a much harder time of it.) We play for classical pianists and violinists, Elvis imitators, jugglers, banjo players, opera singers, Broadway singers, soul singers and salsa singers. We have to be able to sight-read the music, adapt it to our instruments, play in every conceivable style, and please the sometimes-cranky sometimes-demanding sometimes-incompetent guest entertainer (although most are really nice, are talented and gracious). AND we have to perform it twice that night without making mistakes, lest we catch hell from the act or the cruise director. (I once did a show with a lousy musician who was impossible to follow. He went to the cruise director after rehearsal and bitched about the drummer for 20 minutes [The drummer was fine]. We had to practice an additional hour and a half [after an initial 2 hour rehearsal] because King Shit Of Turd Island couldn’t play a 3/8 bar. Tabarnaq’!) Oh, and since we’re musicians, we should actually try to make music, as opposed to sounding like unprepared robot hacks.

The rest of the time, I play and sing in a cover band. Not a regular cover band, mind you, where we play one style or artist. (A la "Björn Again"). No, we play music from the past 70 years of hits in every conceivable style! In The Mood, Strangers in the Night, Tennessee Waltz, Rock Around the Clock, Dancing In The Street, Sweet Caroline, Mustang Sally, Superstition, YMCA, Don’t Rock The Jukebox, Living La Vida Loca, It’s Hard Out Here For A Pimp, Soldier Boy… Ok, those last two are lies. But nevertheless, I think my point has been made. We play in a lounge, or by the pool, or on deck. Sometimes people dance. Most of the time they don't. We also occasionally have to play jazz sets. And we take requests! On top of all that, I am called upon once in a while to play a classical concert. So I gots to keep my chops up too for all the Beethoven, Ravel and Rachmaninoff. Could a hack do all this crap?

Now, my absolutely favoritest part of my job is playing pool music. I loves me my pool music! I can’t get enough of playing pool music! Please, could I play some pool music now? I love playing pool music because there’s nothing 70-year old sun-bathing Patricia-Cornwell-reading Mai-Tai-drinking people want more than to hear an 8-piece rock band play Mony Mony or Turn The Beat Around. They love having their peace and quiet disturbed. They never tell us to turn it the hell down. They never come up to us and tell us to play some Frank Sinatra, or to not play at all. And the acoustics are amazing. It sounds like we’re playing in a pool. I love that. It doesn’t make us sound like a bunch of hacks in the least.

Truth be told, there are indeed hacks on ships. Whereas I have been tremendously fortunate to have worked with mostly wonderful musicians (including my current band. We rock!), I have occasionally encountered true and utter mediocrity. Bad musicians are either little brats fresh out of school and have absolutely no frickin’ clue what they’re doing (they aren’t hacks yet, but they certainly are future hacks), or they’re guys (and they usually are men) who’ve been around for thousands of years and just don’t give a crap anymore. But most are good solid musicians (including young ‘uns and old ‘uns) who can play just about anything you can throw at them

I love my job. I say that without sarcasm or reservation. I really love what I do. I have seen 25% of the world (according to the “Where Have I Been In The World” application on Facebook) and I plan to see a great deal more. I have become a much better and more versatile musician in the past 3 years, and I wouldn’t have thought to acquire these new skills if I hadn’t been forced to. (It’s sink or swim here on the Seven Seas – so to speak. I had never really played jazz or pop before, having come from a classical and musical theatre background). I occasionally get tired of the lack of respect and sometimes utter disdain that comes with the job though. Let me give you an example before I take my leave.

Once, I was playing solo piano at a big event on the ship. One of the bigwig officers who I would generally call my friend came up to me and started banging away on the piano. I stopped playing told him that I didn’t go into his office and start banging away on his computer keyboard when he was working. He then said that what he did was work, and what I did wasn’t really. I was just playing around. He then said he wished he had my job. Playing 3 hours a day and getting paid good money for it. Man, I had it easy…

I. Got. Mad.

I. Got. Really. Mad.

I. Got. Really. Really. Mad.

But. I kept my cool. I told him he couldn’t possibly do my job, but I could certainly do his (it would take me about a year of training I reckon – I told him). I asked him if he had taken officer lessons from the time that he was 6, or if he had practiced being an officer for at least 6 hours a day from the ages of 15 to 23 to keep up with all the other officers, all the while taking a full course load in school, and sacrificing things like baseball and playtime with his friends. He said of course not. Aha, I said. That’s what it took to get me where I am today (wherever the hell that may be). And unless he had, he was ill equipped to make a mockery of my craft and profession. He laughed an awkward laugh, and I laughed an awkward laugh. We parted as friends, but it was never the same. Pity. At least he doesn’t bang away when I play any more. How Wude!!

I probably shouldn’t have pushed it as far as I did, because I am generally quite humble (What!? I hear you all say) about what I do. I don’t think it’s extraordinary. But it took a hell of a lot of work to get to this level. And a lot of maintenance. And a lot of sacrifice. I’m the first to admit I still have a lot to learn, and I’m eager to learn.

But ain’t nobody gonna call me a hack.

Oh no you di’nt.

If They Ever Put A Bullet Through Your Brain, I'll Complain

I have whopping 380 friends on Facebook. I know for you young turks, that’s nothing. What a laugh! I’ve got over a thousand! But for an old poop like me, 380 are a lot to keep up with. Now, let’s start categorizing them, shall we. About 10 are family – (my parents have Facebook pages. That way, they can feel like they know what’s going on in my life, and I never have to actually talk to them! Just kidding, Mom). About 60 are friends I went to school with. Another 50 or so are former high school students of mine. (It’s quite heart-warming yet disconcerting to get a friend request from someone you last saw when they were a gawky teenager, to find 6 to 10 years later that they’ve matured into a responsible intelligent adult. And then there’s the creepiness factor when they end up being pretty cute too. Not that I’ve noticed.) Close to 50 are university friends (or friends from that era. I spent nearly 6 years in college. And no, I still don’t have a degree. Don’t go there), and another 20 are friends of mine from my theatre days in Albuquerque. That’s a total of 190, or half of my friends. (These numbers are all guesstimates. If you’re a Facebook friend of mine, don’t be wasting your time by looking through my friends list and coming up with alternate figures. I won’t be changing my blog.) The other half, another 190, are people I have met in the past 3 years while sailing the Seven Seas. (I had ventured a guess in a previous blog that 1/3 of my Facebook buddies were from ships. But when I got to thinking about it, I realized it was a higher percentage.) Now, how many of them do I actually keep in touch with? Well, that’s another matter.

I received an email today from a former shipmate Tom (with whom I keep in touch) which got me thinking. (I found out today as well that Tom actually reads this blog, so I decided to give him a shout out. “Hi Tom”. If anyone else reading this wants to get mentioned, just tell me. I have absolutely no integrity. I am a cheap floozy.) He wondered why he wasn’t in contact with more former shipmates. That made me wonder why I wasn’t in contact with more former shipmates. When you board a ship, you instantly make about 200 friends. If you go to the OB your first night, everyone buys you drinks and wants to know about the most intimate details of your life. You work and live with the same people everyday for 3-6 months, and you get to know them really well. You pass people in the halls, whose name you might not know, but you always muster a hearty hello. After all, you’re all in the same boat. Literally. (I swore to God I would never ever never ever use that particular expression. Well…there it is.) Maybe for the first time in your life, you’re meeting people from all over the world: Indonesia, the Philippines, Serbia, Romania, Poland, Russia, Hungary, England, Australia etc... Lots and lots of nations!

But. One can’t afford to get too close. Why? Well, ship friendships are generally instantly made, tremendously intense, and very short-lived. They have to be, by necessity. Your contract is 4 months, so is your roommate’s. But. He’s already halfway through when you arrive. You might meet someone that you have lunch and dinner with every day. You go out in port together. You explore strange new lands and fascinating new cultures, and probably get into a little bit of trouble (I have so many stories about my 37th birthday in Puerto Rico. I unfortunately can only remember half of them. But there’s video!). But. You leave a month after she gets here, and never see her again. Sometimes, you meet someone who normally, you wouldn’t search out as a friend; maybe you have too little in common, or they have a completely different personality, or they are much younger or older. But. Because you live in an atmosphere of constant and sometimes overwhelming camaraderie, everyone becomes your instant best friend. And then they leave to go back to Indonesia or Serbia or Australia, and you have to move on to your next instant best friend. Of course, you might meet up with them again on another contract. Things just usually pick up from whence they left off. And then they go again. Repeat times hundreds and hundreds. It’s actually quite hard on the soul sometimes.

I have met some wonderful, wonderful people on ships. And it would be great to be able to keep in touch with all of them. However it’s simply not practical. I think this contract will be hardest, because I actually have met many kindred spirits. (Joy [Oy] is leaving in about 2 weeks, and I will miss her tremendously – the J-club will be Joy-less!) Some of us are already planning to meet up in the winter, and I will go and visit Jenny (if she lets me in) when I’m in Toronto, and Tom in New York (Tom – the brilliant little shit that he is [and a fine sax player to boot] – is doing a Master’s/PHD at Columbia in some environmental engineering thing - sustainable resources blah blah blah… I hope he has a comfortable couch.) I email probably about 20 ship friends on a semi-regular basis. Which is a lot of people to keep up with. I’m not even sure how I came to choose those particular people. For the most part, I am content to spy on the rest through their Facebook updates, and occasionally look at their newly posted pictures. Visual confirmation that their life’s adventures continue on without me, and mine without them. But. What an adventure it’s turning out to be.

Where you Going? Barcelona...

Oh...
Don't get up.

Apparently, Barcelona is one of the gayest cities in Europe. I’ll have to take Europe’s word for it though; frankly, I haven’t seen any evidence of it. (Granted, I haven’t really been looking too hard.) This may be because, unlike cities like New York, San Francisco, Toronto and Montreal, there is no real gay area with a concentration of gay bars, gay cafes, gay hotels, gay saunas and gay gays. Things are spread out all over the place. I generally much prefer this to the “Gay Village” kind of idea. (I hate ghettos of any type. Although I realise a need to be with ‘your own people’, there is a real danger that when your job, house and friends are all concentrated within the same 6-block radius, you lose touch with reality. How do I know? I live ON A SHIP. Welcome to my surreal life.) However, In Barcelona, it might help. Because it’s damn near impossible to tell who the hell is gay. When you’re fishing for bass, it’s a little disappointing when you catch a perch. And why is Shipbound’s gay-dar all out of whack, you may ask?

It might be the understatement of the century to say that fashion in Europe is different than in North America. Men who dress in a way that I would immediately identify as gay in the States or Canada merely look ‘European’: Capri pants (which is the most horrific trend EVER), tight t-shirts with random glued-on sequins and English nonsense words in bizarre fonts, (“Happy Cherry Lacrosse”), funny coloured Converse-like canvas runners with ‘Urban’ patterns, and big ugly giant sunglasses with “BeDazzled” hinges. Also, every dummy in every window of every Mens Store features Europe’s latest trend – the Sleeveless Shirt. Sleeveless shirts are popular with everyone, from the hip young dude to the fat old Grandpa. (I don’t mind this trend so much, now that I have newly developed biceps.) These aren’t tank tops or wife beaters, but plaid button shirts with the sleeves artfully ripped off. Kinda like the look Bill Bixby used to sport when he changed back from being Lou Ferrigno (am I dating myself?) Oh, and let’s not forget the super-plucked eyebrows – even the staunchest of men look like Edith Piaf. Par example, there were these two young drunkdrunkdrunk Venetian ‘bois’ who caroused with us one night in our favourite after-hours joint, who immediately identified us as Americans (despite the fact that the band is comprised of 3 Canadians, a Czech, a Hungarian, an Aussie, a Brazilian and one lone American – who’s from Oregon so he’s almost Canadian) and asked us we knew Quentin Tarantino. I know, I know - What!? They were the gayest things I have ever seen. But they kept talking about girls and sex and sex with girls and Pulp Fiction and straight stuff like that, so who knows…? Oh, they had mullets. Unfortunately, the mullet and variations thereof are back in style here. I pray every day to Vidal Sassoon that that particular coif never crosses the pond. And just to make things difficult for us single guys, the gay men tend to look straight. Especially in Barcelona. Or at least I assume (…makes an ass…) the straight-looking ones are gay, cause SOMEONE has to be.

Despite my lack of hunky Spanish boyfriends, I love Barcelona. Once a month, we have 3 days in the city, and it provides a great opportunity to get off the ship in the evening and enjoy the local nightlife. And, man, is there nightlife in Barcelona. Last month, a group of about 40 of us went down to this beach where there are a bunch of clubs. Things were kinda dead because it was only 1 in the morning, and everyone knows that Barcelona only comes alive after 3. The club we went into was enormous and gorgeous. Very nouveau-minimalist, with subtle pastel coloured neon lights under the bars and these pseudo-mid-century modern divans along the walls. Classy and clean. However, the beer was about 8 euros a bottle (13 dollars, for the uninitiated). I was unwilling to pay such a steep price, because, as it has been previously established in these very pages, I am one of the cheapest people in the world. Fortunately, another of Barcelona’s many charms is those guys who walk down the streets with backpacks and sell illegal street beer for 1 Euro a can. Mmmmm, street beer… So Drummer Dom, Sax Chris, Bass Jérôme, Bongo Adam, Aussie Chef Troy, a couple of others and I each buy a few brewskis (or since we’re in Barcelona, “brewthkith”) and stand on the corner and watch the girls go by (And boys…). It was a fun night with some great guys. But I was feeling a little antsy, and needed to go a-wandering. So I bid good-bye to my friends and at 2 in the morning, went off on my own.

I never once felt uncomfortable or endangered. Barcelona feels extremely safe and people are very friendly. (Just HOW friendly is a tale for another time. Heh heh heh). It took me about a half an hour to walk to La Rambla, which is a wide pedestrian boulevard, similar to the Champs Elysées. (There is indeed an Arc De Triomphe in Barcelona, but not at the end of La Rambla). It was full of life and partying; locals and idiot tourists like me, artists doing crappy pastels sketches, fake statues that come to life for a couple of Euros, guys selling illegal street beer, and very aggressive hookers. (I actually had to shake a couple of the lovely ladies off my arms.) Over-priced bars and over-priced tapas joints line the street. There is also an impressive amount of cheap drunk food available, which is always my benchmark for a good city (Montreal has the best cheap drunk food in the world. How many smoked meats at the Main have I had? Or 99 cent pizza? Or a falafel at Fattouch (or was it Fattouche?) Or poutine? Is it any wonder I used to be 270 pounds?) I had a really good sandwich that I bought from a woman on the street who had questionable hygiene. But for only 2 Euros, I was willing to risk salmonella. The baguette was fresh and crunchy, the chorizo was spicy and savoury and the cheese was tangy and creamy. And all ingredients were plentiful. It may have been the second best sandwich I have ever eaten (The best sandwich I ever had was, believe it or not, on British Airways, flying from Rome to Montreal in April. It was amazing, with a fancy multi-grain bread, amazing cheese and some incredible pickle. Air Canada – take note!) And there were plenty of gay-looking young men, walking in big groups, with arms thrown lustily around each other’s shoulders. But this is Spain, and that type of behaviour is common amongst male friends. Ah, Spain…There seemed to be very little gayness at all on La Rambla (I lie. There is what I assume to be a gay sauna at the very end of the concourse. From it’s second story window, it proclaims to have a Turkish Sauna and Deep Massage. It also has a rainbow flag, flying proudly in the wind). I wasn’t looking for gayness, but it is nice to know once in a while that there are others like you. When I see a gay couple, be it male or female, walking down the street hand in hand, I think - Bitch has a boyfriend and I don’t? No no no, but seriously; I feel a little bit of solidarity. I feel that we have a common struggle, even though it doesn’t often feel like a struggle anymore. In Spain, as in Canada, gay marriage is legal. I have the exact same rights as every other Canadian, and it’s amazing. My ex rickyd and his fiancé Photi have “posted the banns” on Facebook! Sometimes on ships, I feel like I have to be a ‘spokesman’ for homosexuals everywhere, because not every culture is as liberal and as progressive’s as Canada’s (Hear that, U.S.A.!). But I felt at home in Barcelona. Because despite the fact that there isn’t necessarily a lot of overt homosexuality, I have no doubt I could have walked down La Rambla hand in hand with a guy, and nobody would have batted an eye. (It must be said, however, that I am not one for PDAs, so the point is basically moot). Hell, the next day, I saw a guy walking down La Rambla wearing nothing but a fanny pack and a big grin! Cops didn’t even look up.

I hadn’t intended to talk about all this. I wanted to talk about the great time I had the next afternoon when Erin (Jerin) and I walked around from Gaudi to Gaudi to Gaudi. No worries, I’ve got plenty of time and bandwidth. Barcelona is a beautiful clean city, with a fascinating history, a rich architectural heritage, an extensive if slightly confusing Metro, and a vibrant soul. No doubt many more words will be written for these pages about the city which feels like my home away from home.

A Good Story

Ok, CNN replayed the Ingrid Betancourt interview last night with Uncle Larry, and it wasn't as bad as I remembered. The quote which I attributed to him is, in fact, incorrect, as it not quite what he said. And in context, it wasn't as glib a statement as I had previously thought. However, the blog stands, because as my dear Mama always says; why let the truth get in the way of a good story? (Is that the proper use of the semi colon? I should know...)

Paging George Stroumboulopoulos...

TV sucks. Well, TV on ships sucks. Well, TV sucks on this ship. At the best of times, you can get TNT, TSN, TCM, CNN, and a bunch of closed circuit channels with bad quality video taped reruns of Murder She Wrote and Trading Spaces. (Let’s not forget the ship’s shopping channel “Buy diamonds and tanzanite but only from this cruise line’s approved store!” They’re always trying to sell you things.) Certain satellite signals don’t reach us here in Europe, so the only channels we get are TSN and CNN. Most sports bore me to tears, so news wins! I have to say that I find CNN quite interesting here because we get the non-North-American version with fascinating shows like Eye On Africa or Talk Asia. It’s good to know what is going on in the ROTW (rest of the world), and refreshing to get news with a perhaps-only-slightly-less American perspective. (Once a half hour, I can see a weather update for Yangon, Kuala Lumpur or Islamabad.) Plus, all the broadcasters speak English with a really classy accent. It’s like everyone is Christiane Amanpour. And we still get Wolf Blitzer and that hunky Anderson Cooper (Is he single? He comes from money, you know). The downside is that we still get Larry King.

I know, I know. Don’t be too hard on Ol’ Lar. I mean, Kathy Griffin likes him, so he can’t be that bad. (I always wondered if I was cool enough to be one of “her gays”. Yawn). And he’s fine when he interviews someone like Britney Spears’ bodyguard, or the finalists from American Idol, or a bunch of people who believe in UFOs. But he was granted an exclusive interview with Ingrid Betancourt. She’s a remarkable woman who was a Columbian presidential contender when six and a half years ago, she was kidnapped and has been held captive since. The Columbian government had secret agents infiltrate the guerrilla camps, and was able to set her and 14 other people free. There are still hundreds being held captive. The video of her and her fellow captives in the helicopter when they realize they’ve been set free is one of the most emotional and real things I have ever seen. She was reunited in France with her children and her husband. She is incredibly brave, well spoken, composed, and despite having spent close to 7 years where death was a daily possibility, she seems tremendously sane. I’m pretty much in tears just writing this.

Larry King? Did alarm bells not sound in anyone’s head? Didn’t someone realize that he was the most utterly inappropriate person to do this interview? Was Mary Hart unavailable? What about Elizabeth Hasselbeck? So I take a deep breath and ready myself. How bad could it be? After a remarkably glib introduction, the first question Larry asks is “How are you doing?” Fair enough. She answers that she is just trying to hang on, that it’s been very difficult readjusting and that she’s exhausted. And she seems exhausted. Physically, mentally and morally. She is doing this interview out of duty because she believes that she should do everything in her power to get the others freed. She truly is a remarkable person. So what does Larry reply? Larry replies, NO JOKE, Larry replies:

“Well, you look terrific!”


?


??


Did he…really say…that?


Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he did indeed. Because as Billy Crystal told us oh so many years ago on SNL “It’s better to rook good than to feel good. And Dahling. Yooou roooook Mahvelous!” OMFG! Where’s Dr. Kevorkian when you need him?


Too much? Did I cross the line? Whatever. If I’m ever kidnapped and held captive for 6 years and miraculously rescued, I’m getting George Stroumboulopoulos to interview me. And chances are, wherever I’m being held, the TV will be better than here.

Lava-leer. Volcano voyerism.

My current contract is a long one; seven months. The standard length for musicians is 3 to 4 months, but because we’re spending 6 months in the Mediterranean, the powers that be wanted to avoid flying people back and forth from North America. This suits me just fine. I have the best band on the seven seas and everybody gets along. (I’m not kidding. This is one shit hot group of musicians.) I’ve met some wonderful people (J-club – you know who you all are!), and, did I mention? – I’M IN THE FREAKIN’ MED! Today, I went to the Trevi fountain and the Parthenon. I’ve already seen the Coliseum, and I wasn’t worried about not seeing the Sistine Chapel because I’ll be here about 8 more times. Come November, Rome will bore me. In the past 2 months, I’ve seen (and touched!) the Acropolis in Athens, ridden up the side of a cliff on a donkey in Santorini, been to St. Peter’s on Sunday, strolled along the deserted streets of Venice at 2 in the morning, bought a $350 leather jacket in Kusadasi, bought a $60 dollar suit at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul, (I also did something I swore I would never do again. I smoked. Granted, it was a delightful cherry flavoured tobacco in a hookah. I felt sick afterwards, went back to the ship early and felt guilty for 3 days – I don’t consider this a slip in my smoking cessation. At least that’s what I tell myself so I can sleep at night), eaten the best. gelato. ever. in Nafplion, eaten the best. cannoli. ever. in Palermo, eaten the best. couscous. ever. in Casablanca, seen Stromboli erupt 5 times at night, and spent 3 days and 2 nights in my beloved Barcelona wandering around alone, drinking cheap beer on the beach, and taking in some Gaudi. I’m not trying to rub it in anyone’s face. But damn I’ve had fun. And I’ve still got 5 months left.


A word about the volcano Stromboli. (Stromboli is much like Old Faithful. It’s almost always erupting.) My mom wanted me to describe it, but I don’t know if I can. It was one of the most spectacular things I have ever seen, but I don’t think I have sufficient words. But I’ll try, dear readers, I’ll try. That evening, I had given a mini-recital with 2 guitarists (playing 20 minutes of classical music every 12 days at least makes me feel that all the years and years of piano lessons aren’t going to waste. Again – whatever lets me sleep at night…). Near the end of the recital, people started leaving in droves. (It was like speed dating where a bell rings and every one gets up and switches places, except that I didn’t get one single phone number.) I didn’t think I had played THAT badly, and was feeling slightly miffed when an audience member told me not to take it personally, but how did I suppose I could compete with a volcano? Hell, if I’d known, I’d’ve walked out too! So I rushed up to the top deck. It wasn’t what I’d expected. It was quite dark, and there was a big black mountain in the middle of the sea. Not so amazing. I was talking with Jesse, thinking this better get good soon, when we saw a little red glow emanate from the top of the mountain. Cool. Not COOOOOOOOOOL!, but cool nonetheless. (It was more cool went my uncle Mike, who is a forester, brought us back rocks from Mt. St. Helen’s a thousand or so years ago). More conversation, more glowing, more apathy. I was about to go away and get a drink when BOOM! Lava shot straight up in the air. 400 people on deck went instantly silent for about 10 seconds, and then we applauded. (Why did we do that? Was the volcano’s self-esteem really that low that it needed bucking up?). Erin (Jerin) had a group of kids up on deck. Now, we all know there’s nothing quite as jaded and world-weary as a group of twelve-year olds, but they were chattering away excitedly and incredulously. After about 5 minutes, it erupted again. And again. And again. And then a double eruption. Now, it wasn’t really like the dinosaur section in Fantasia with those crazy syncopated explosions. (But I admit, I did hum the opening bars of The Rite Of Spring). For crying out loud, there’s a fishing village on the island (the lava runs down only on one side of the mountain). But there’s something primal and mysterious about seeing molten lava.It really does shoot straight up in the air! It really does spit and spurt! The weird thing was, it made no noise. Or at least we couldn’t hear it (but we weren’t really that far away.) No boom, no bam no kapow! In some ways, the silence made it even more violent. I stood there for an hour enraptured, not saying much at all. What is there to say? The ship finally pulled away from the volcano, and we could see the glowing red crater in the distance. An unsettling reminder of the power Nature holds over us.

My mother was thrilled when I went to Iceland 2 years ago. “It’s the land of fire and ice”, she kept saying. I managed to see neither, as it was summer and fairly mild in Reykjavík, and there are no volcanoes in the middle of the city. Besides, the ice part didn’t interest her so much (We’re from Montreal. We know from ice), but I think seeing a volcano erupt is probably on my Mom’s bucket list. I, on the other hand, had never really thought about it. But despite all the amazing things I've done so far, Stromboli has been the highlight. I'll never forget it.

In Ship News: It’s Canada Day, and there’s a party in the OB, with Poutine and music from the 49th parallel and Red balloons (which cost me 15 Euro (!)yesterday in Sicily.) Happy Canada Day!

How Shipbound Got His Cabin Back

I’m a nice guy. No, really, I’m not just saying that, I’m a very nice guy. I’m also fairly good-looking, extremely talented, and I have a disarming charm. (I don’t believe in false modesty.) I have an enormous number of faults too, but I won’t bother mentioning them here. Why ruin your imaginary portrait of me? But back to me being nice. I’m so nice, that I let my drummer Dom (who I love to death) use my cabin while his girlfriend Marisha (who I also love to death) was here for a week visiting. I stayed in his cabin with his roommate, Chris (who I love to death too), who didn’t mind living with his “boss” for a while. I know they would have done the same for me, and they’re 2 people I love very much (to death in fact), so it really wasn’t a big deal. So long as the sheets get changed. Aren’t I nice? So why don’t I have a boyfriend? Fuck, it sucks to be me.

All profane Avenue Q quotes aside, it got me thinking; what do people do who can’t get a cabin to themselves? I know a musician who is dating a dancer who, despite having been together for 2 years, still can’t get a cabin together. She rooms with another dancer, he rooms with another musician. He was lucky for a little while in one contract, when I managed to get him a cabin alone for a couple of months (Don’t ask how I did it. It involved a bit of subterfuge and a bottle of Jack. Granted, it was the ship’s smallest cabin. You had to open the door to change your shoes). There’s a couple on my current ship who are married – MARRIED - and can’t get a cabin to themselves. She was also lucky for a while because she didn’t have a roommate, but that changed this week. Another crewmember came to me last cruise, suggesting an illicit liaison. The first question out of her mouth was ”You have your own room, right? I was surprised that, despite having done 2 contracts together, she had no idea that I played for the Rainbow League. And I ain’t no switch hitter. Apparently, she had a history of barking up the completely wrong trees. We had a laugh about it. A week or so later.

One’s cabin can demonstrate how high up one is in the pecking order. I have been to the Hotel Manager’s cabin several times, (it’s not what you think…) and I am always surprised at how big it is. It’s bigger than my last apartment. In New York, it would rent for about $5000 a month. Easy. AND it has a balcony. AND a bathtub. (Ohhhhhhh a bathtub.) I am apparently high-ish up on the ladder, because I have a room with a double bed and a porthole. (Although I have no discernible power, and no one listens to what I say. Oh well…) A lot of people who don’t share a cabin still have twin bunk beds – which can make relationships challenging, but is useful at least as extra storage. Some of the crew down on B deck share a bathroom between cabins. Cabin location is key, too. On my first ship, my cabin was on the top deck, and I had a couch, a fridge, a DVD player and a picture window. I foolishly assumed (…makes an ass…) that all future accommodations would have similar amenities. Imagine my surprise (Zounds!) on my next contract where I had none of these things. (But I DID have a porthole! You should be happy with what you have! There are starving children in Africa without a porthole!) There are some crewmembers who have cabins in passenger areas or close to passenger areas. Now, fraternization with passengers is verboten, and I’m not saying this ever happens, because it doesn’t. Ever. I swear to God. But it would be fairly easy to sneak a passenger in and out to dance the horizontal tango without so much as a furtive glance. But this is all conjecture.

I have never had sex with a passenger (and if my parents are reading this, I’ve never had sex). But on my last contract, I had a close call. At least the other guy thought so. The ship was in port, and I was eating nachos in the Lido, which is possibly the un-sexiest food ever. There was this gentleman standing around, staring out the window, getting a glass of water, just loitering. He was probably close to 60, but he was in very good shape - very well built, and probably very nice. But he was wearing these little white shorts. With no underwear. I was NOT looking, but when someone is bouncing around in there, one can’t help but notice and think: EEEWWW!! Anyhow, I finished my nachos (remember; unsexy food) and made my way to the elevators back to my room. Who should appear 20 seconds later, but Bouncing Boy. (It should also be mentioned that he had shaved his head bald, and he had the bushiest eyebrows I have ever seen.) He gets on the elevator, we make small talk – nice weather, great cruise, music director hmmm – and he asks “You have your own cabin, right?”. Either I am tremendously naïve or just don’t pick up on clues, but at this point, I still have no idea he’s trying to make me another notch on his Depends. I responded “Yes, and I have a porthole” Make your own joke. Everyone else has. That’s when I start to clue in. Also, he hasn’t pressed his own elevator button, and is headed down to A deck, a crew area. Now, the gangway is on A deck, but midship, whereas I live in the front. So as we step off the elevator, and he looks sheepish and hopeful, the little 15 watt bulb in my head finally lights up, and I have a “eureka” moment. Not a happy one. So, I try to diffuse the situation and guide this gentleman to the gangway. I meant to say “You must be trying to get off the ship”. But instead I say, and get ready for this, “You’re looking to get off, right?”. Well, if I hadn’t been sure he wasn’t wearing underwear before, I certainly knew it now. I mumbled something about having to play for tea time (which was true), ran back to my room and left the guy with the eyebrows to his own devices. He had apparently made goo goo eyes (and other things!) at several other male crewmembers, and one evening over a couple of beers, we all had a good laugh. Poor guy. I wonder if he ever got laid.

By the time this contract ends in November, I will have lived in my current cabin for a total of 16 out of the past 24 months. I have added a few homey touches, such as a bamboo floor mat from Croatia, blue suction cup fish from Italy, a Canada umbrella hat used as a light fixture and dirty clothes on the floor. I’m sitting on my bed typing this right now, in fact. I miss my dogs, and being able to cook. But as much as anything else is, my cabin is my home. But only for now. (That makes 2 Avenue Q quotes!)

How Shipbound Bought his Leather Jacket

Six years ago, I became a vegetarian; primarily at first because my ex RD had decided to, and it made things easier. However, I became convinced that not only was it a healthier lifestyle, but I believed the way in which livestock in North America is raised and slaughtered to be inhumane. RD was actually a vegan for many years and remains a vegetarian (though he used to consume tuna like there was no tomorrow!), but I; I have fallen from grace. On ships, it is practically impossible to remain a vegetarian and consume enough non-animal protein to stay healthy. So I have taken to eating small portions of fish or chicken and once a week, I may indulge and have a steak. I was a lousy vegetarian anyway because I LOOOOOVE meat. My favourite dishes are all meat-eriffic: Butter Chicken, Goat Roti, Gnocchi with Bragiole and/or meatballs, BBQ Ribs, Curried Lamb. Mmmmmm, bacon. Ok enough. It’s 2:30 in the morning, and I don’t have room service for the next 2 days. Despite my reclaimed carnivorousness, I hadn’t recently entertained the idea of purchasing a leather jacket. If meat is murder, then leather and fur must be, well… really bad.

Last week, the ms Big Zed was in Kusadasi, Turkey and I went out shopping with Jenny and Jesse (The 4th member of the ‘J’ club, Joy, didn’t wanna come, so we temporarily removed the ‘J’ from her name and called her “Oy” for a week. Our friend Erin who accompanied us on our evening in Venice was granted Oy’s ‘J’, and thus dubbed “Jerin”. This all must seem quite silly, but it’s great fun). The order of the day was to find Jesse a suit and suit accessories. When the ship was here last month, I bought 4 shirts, 2 ties and a sweater for about 50 bucks, and I had seen a little mall with 5 suit stores. So since I can obviously sniff a bargain out anywhere, I was appointed to lead our intrepid little triumvirate. Well, Kusadasi is a little confusing, and since it has already been determined in these very pages that my super power is the ability to get lost, it took us about an hour and a half to find that damn mall. (We did come across a “Pizza Pizza”, a Canadian chain, which proclaimed on its sign, in English, to be ‘proudly Turkish’.) However, we were having a wonderful time, and there was gelato to be had, so it all worked out. We eventually found the mall, and went to a wonderful store where a wonderful saleswoman served us some wonderful apple tea. Jesse bought a great suit and some shirts and ties. I bought a gorgeous tie (for 7 Euros) and Jenny bought a little sun dress at another store. When we get back to Kusadasi next month, I intend to go to the same store and buy another suit. They were that nice.

So we were walking back to the ship, a little tired and a little hungry. Leather goods are ubiquitous here. The quality is sometimes questionable, and the designs are frequently dated to say the least; there were at least 4 or 5 shops that had jackets that Cher would have rejected during her “Half-Breed” days. Sales people are pushy here too, and repeated calls of 'My friend come spend your money here I’ll give you a good deal’ don’t really inspire me to part with my hard earned dinero (I am one of the cheapest people you’ll ever meet. Hell, I cut my own hair for 10 years just to save a few bucks!) But we passed a more reputable shop, and I saw this great black biker jacket. ("Thank you! I saw it in a window, and I couldn't resist it!"). So on a whim, and NOT AT ALL intending to buy anything, we went in. Well, they didn’t have that jacket in my size. (Turkey tip number 2: Try EVERYTHING on. Sizes on labels mean nothing. I have Medium shirts that I swim in and Large shirts I can’t button up over my pecs [or rather – pec-lets. They’re getting there…] For Turkey tip # 1, please refer to a previous blog entry). (Another amusing side note: When I was in Istanbul looking at shirts, the vendor told me it was possible to ‘taste’ them. It took me about a minute to figure out he meant ‘try’. But I digress.) . The salesman offered the 3 of us apple tea, which we have learned to accept graciously at this point. (Though by this point, I had had so much apple tea, that my teeth were floating). He brought out about 15 jackets that, as I said, I had NO intention to buy. Some were too small, some were too big, some were too too... y’know. But most importantly, they were all leather. I’m a nominal vegetarian, or at least I try to be. I have canvas running shoes. PETA sends me address labels every so often, though I’ve never joined. I shouldn’t be buying leather. Jenny, however, has fallen in love with this long tan jacket with a fox collar that she looks adorable in. It is, unfortunately, one size too small. No Sale. Jesse is trying on stuff, but he’s just bought a suit and shoes, so he’s spent enough money for one day. No Sale. We were just about to leave – we’d finished the tea – when the salesman brings out this dark reddish-brown jacket. I love the colour, I love the cut, but, and I repeat, I HAD NO INTENTION OF BUYING ANYTHING. But what the hell, I try it on.

The ‘J’ club gasps.

I. Look. Amazing. This jacket was made for me. There were cows born merely for the purpose of dying to give up their hide so I could look this good in this jacket. I get a pit in the bottom of my stomach. I can’t buy this. I’m going to throw up. I look at the price tag. 800 Turkish Liras (which is really 800 million Turkish Liras, but they drop the million part to make purchases seem less jaw-dropping). 400 Euros. About 660 American dollars. Oh thank God, it’s too freakin’ expensive, let’s get the hell out of here. No, this is Turkey, they expect you to bargain. I’m sorry I love it but it’s too much thank you for the tea no no we’ll give you a special price my friend 500 dollars. Jenny, getting into the spirit of things, yells out “300 dollars!” And the price war had begun.

When all is said and done, the absolute lowest they could go, the “you’re-killing-me-and- taking-food-away-from-my-family’s-table” price was $350. I thought I was going to throw up. (Jesse, ever the gentleman, said that if I bought it and threw up, he’d buy it from me). We pooled our money, which was 200 US dollars, 60 Euros, and 60 million Turkish Lira. They offered us more apple tea (Oh God no. Thank you, but oh God no), put my purchase in a big thick dark brown plastic bag that matched my jacket, and told us to come back any time.

I didn’t throw up. Jenny suggested that I sleep in the jacket the first night, as an inauguration. I tried, but after about 20 minutes, it got just too damn hot. I did a little catwalk around the OB in it though (Officer’s Bar for the uninitiated). I wore it out for our late Venice stroll a couple of nights later – there was a slight nip in the air – and it felt and smelled and looked great. I wore it with a cute t-shirt I bought in Barcelona (3 Euros) and my new Levis 501s (10 Euros – the same ones I mentioned in my last post). It now hangs in my closet, the single most expensive thing I have ever bought for myself. (The cars don’t count, they weren’t just for me. And the suit that I got at Bloomie’s when RD and I were in NYC 11 years ago was $250, but it was half price). I’m still stunned I was so impulsive. And I still feel a little guilty a full week later.

But Damn! I look good.

Greece 2 Is The Word!

Hey, it’s even funnier the second time!

So I finally got to the Acropolis last week with Jenny and Bruce. All that lovely debris. (Quoting “Ah Paris” always makes me think of my friend Michael, because when we met for the first time at an audition 19 years ago[!!!!] he sang that song. And I know he’ll be reading this so “Hi Michael!”) It was amazing, surreal, and awe-inspiring, even though it’s almost completely covered in scaffolding. It’s odd to think that after its days as a temple to the goddess Athena, it was used as a cathedral and later as a mosque. I guess multi-taking isn’t a 21st century invention.

When my ex RD and I were in New Mexico and walking around the ruins at Chaco Canyon, he said he felt an almost palpable human presence – like we were intruding in someone’s home and any minute, they could walk through the door. That’s what the Acropolis felt like to me. It was very eerie. Even walking up the ancient hillside road, treading along the same path as Athenians had trod thousands of years before me, I almost felt guilty. There were signs everywhere that asked the tourists not to touch the marble. However, I found my right hand inexplicably and without conscious thought leaving the pocket of my Levis 501s (which I bought at a flea market in Civitavecchia for 10 Euros) and reaching out to stroke the ancient walls. I didn’t tell the friends I was with I did this. (Although I guess they’ll know now, if they read this. Besides, we all know those signs don’t apply to me.). And there it was. The connection with Greece that I had been searching for ever since I came. It was almost as if Athena herself had willed my outstretched hand to that wall, knowing the energy and the power I would sense. It was tremendous. However, with about 2000 other interlopers parading around as if it was their God-given right to touch the marble, I soon became angry. Who did these people think they were? This is my sacred place! This is my Goddess-temple/cathedral/mosque/tourist attraction! Begone ye wicked overweight American tourists complaining of your weak dollar and over priced bottled water, else the wrath of Zeus fall on your baseball-capped heads!

I’ve calmed down since. I feel bad that I touched the marble. It was selfish of me, and my acidic oily fingertips have probably now caused that wall to disintegrate. But it allowed me a connection, a window in the soul of an ancient land and people that I have for so long yearned to see and discover.

This marvelous day ended on a very amusing note. We saw the Changing Of The Guard in Syntagma Square in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Although I know it is to be a solemn event, I couldn’t help but giggle uncontrollably. It was unmistakably like John Cleese and his Ministry of Funny Walks. It was time to go back to the ship.

Venice at Night, Sailor's Delight

How in love am I with Venice right now? UhMuhGud.

Here on the ms Big Zed, we are fortunate to have overnight dockings in not only Venice, but Barcelona and Istanbul as well. It’s this sort of scheduling that makes for a happy, but tired and hung over crew. (I would like to state right here right now for the record that the rumours of my excessive alcohol consumption have been greatly exaggerated. Yes, yes, yes, I play it up a bit – and frankly am a little hung over right now because I’m on a detox and had 4 beers last night – but I don’t drink every day and very rarely drink to intoxication.) Istanbul and Barcelona tend to be more popular overnight ports because there is a vibrant nightlife scene, with clubs and discos aplenty. Venice seems like the Toronto of Italy, in that they roll up the sidewalks (or rather, canals) at 1 am. However, as reported in an earlier instalment, we have discovered a Venetian pub that has allowed us to revel past our bedtimes. (And before all you Torontonians get indignant on my ass, IknowIknowIknow the city’s changed open til2 partypartyparty. Yaaaaaawwwn). So 2 nights ago, most of my band mates left at midnight, while Jenny, Erin and I waited for Jesse to be done his shift. The plan was to walk to St. Marco’s to see it at night in the moonlight, without the crushing throngs of tourists normally found strewn amongst the pigeons. (The pigeons in Venice are fearless and vicious. There’s a tradition – if that’s the best word – of holding grain in one’s hand and having 10 000 pigeons dive bomb you and land all over your body. Flying rats, that’s all they are.). But earlier that day, I had been out with Jesse, and we ended up walking to St. Marco’s and back. It was a great afternoon, because he had never been to Venice and there always seems to be an amazing moment – and you can pinpoint it – when you can see when someone fall in love with the city. When you leave the dock, you have to walk about 15 minutes through a ship yard and over a big ugly bridge to get to Piazzelle Roma, which is a bus station. It’s just a typical urban industrial area that gets you thinking, “I hope THIS isn’t Venice”. However, right around the corner is a little set of stairs and a small footbridge and BAM! Venice. That’s the moment. But I digress. (As I tend to do…)

The 4 of us left at 1:30 am and decided not to walk all the way to St. Marco’s. So, we just walked around, ostensibly trying to find this little afterhours bar, but really just soaking in the magic of Venice at night. I think the most remarkable thing is that it’s absolutely silent. There are no cars, no late night revelry, no people walking around (or very few, and they seem to be mostly tourists) and you can stand stock-still and hear only the faint gurgling of the canals. It’s breathtaking. The city at night is stunning. All these narrow laneways and passages are quite well lit, so one never feels ill at ease. Every turn seems to offer a new surprise, both spectacular and mundane. For example, on garbage day, Venetians in upper floor apartments will lower a white shopping bag of trash from their windows on a piece of twine, and leave it hanging in mid-air. Or we saw 2 giant rats the size of footballs scurrying along a wall, and one jumped into the canal and started to swim towards us. Man, those little buggers go fast! The crumbling plaster and brick houses seem even more beautiful, if such a thing is even possible. The flowers in the window boxes almost seem lit from inside. The countless little bridges seem like mystical gateways into other dimensions. We walked around for a couple of hours, silent sometimes for minutes at a time, content to be in each other’s company and sharing a magical experience.

We never made it to the bar. Next time. Maybe.

Death is the new 40

In January, I went to see a friend’s concert in Montreal. The stage manager was a former student of mine, who had been a delightful teenager, and had turned into a delightful adult. It was her birthday (23 or 24) and I joined in the festivities. (I guarantee you that when she woke up that morning, she never thought she’d be spending her b-day getting sloshed with her high school choir teacher!). I ended up talking to this guy who was in the show. He was funny, polite, charming and very well spoken. I assumed (and never assume, cause it makes an …) he was in his early to mid 20’s. Well, we ended up talking about Facebook (doesn’t everybody?). I mentioned that since my 20th high school reunion was coming up, it was great to get back in touch with some old friends. He looked quizzically at me and asked me what year I graduated. I said 1988. He paused meaningfully, and replied with a guilty smirk “I was born in 1988”. Daddy felt a little old that night. Apparently, 37 is the new 50.

Am I old? Despite the popularity of such adages as “You’re only as old as you feel” and “He’s young at heart”, they’re all fallacies. People can be surprised by your age – without false modesty, people often guess my age as 6 – 10 years younger – but when all is said and done, 37 is still 37 and always will be. Until next March, when it’s 38.

I bring this up because I realized recently that most of my friends on board are on average at least 10 years younger than me. True, there are exceptions, but most of my current posse wasn’t born yet when “Synchronicity” was released. It’s never bothered any of the involved parties, so why ruminate on the subject?

A lot of crew on ship tend to be young. Kids out of college, young turks on a summer job, getting paid to travel and see the wonders of the world (from the Dardanelles to the mountains of Peru). Life is a big fun party. Beer and hooch in the crew bar is cheap and plentiful, everyone is a little looser, you meet people from all over the world – it’s really a great job. But those of us in our 30’s or so usually come on ships because we need to find ourselves. I’ve met divorcés and divorcées, a psychologist, a couple of lawyers, at least 3 ex-ministers and most recently, a clown (no joke). It might seem like an odd place for introspection, but in some ways it’s perfect. When I started on ships 3 years ago, no one knew who I was. I was a clean slate. I could have been anyone. More importantly, I could have chosen to be anyone. I chose to be myself. A 37 year old overweight divorcé with 3 dogs. People liked me. (Well, most did. I’ve been branded as ‘difficult to work with’ by a couple of people who shall remain nameless and hopefully, away from me.) I would venture a guess that about 1/3 of my 345 Facebook friends are ship folk. And I look and feel better than I ever have. I quit smoking, I’ve been taking care of my skin. I run 3 miles a day, I work out (you should see my guns!), I eat well, AND I have managed to sample gelato in every European city I have thus far visited. Best of all. I fit in - in some ways for the first time in my life. I fit in with these whippersnappers who don’t remember “Manimal” or “Kid Creole and the Coconuts” or Rubik Cubes or leg warmers or the Reagan years. And I’m having a blast.

I do my best to keep up with the Joneses. I go out a bit more than I would. Have a drink more than I should. I act a little crazier, I’m a little more spontaneous. And at this point in my 37 years, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Life is good. No, life is great.

When in Turkey...

Not to get too personal here, but if you have to go number 2 when in Turkey, make sure you've gone before you leave the ship. That's all I'm saying.

Greece Is The Word!

Ha! How clever am I! (Insert crickets chirping.) Anyhoo…

Ever since I can remember, I have been a hellenophile. (And Spell-check has just informed me that ‘hellenophile is not a word. Who cares.) In my grade 7 geography class with Mr. Cottam, I remember putting together this elaborate 2 poster board project on Greece. I went to several travel agencies and got brochures with colour pictures of beautiful beaches and sprawling hillside villages of white square houses. I consulted many encyclopaedias and travel books. I knew every Greek god and goddess and their super power (this is because of the “Deities and Demigods” handbook from Dungeons and Dragons. If you ever want to know how many hit points Zeus has, I’m your guy!) And this was waaaaaaay before the Internet. Kids today have it easy! I remember this project hanging at the back of the classroom for several months, and I would occasionally just go up to look at those pictures of Santorini, Crete, Mykonos, Athens, Olympia and Lesbos. (Ah, Lesbos. The word always made me titter. The word titter makes me titter. Especially in combination with the word Lesbos). Some day, I said. Some day. Fade to black.

Well, that some day was last month. I had already visited the Land Of My Ancestors, and was suitably impressed. I was charmed by Palermo, marvelled at Pisa, and amazed and enchanted by Venice. But what I really wanted to do was to see Athens. Luckily, my friend Photi (who is Greek) sent me a wonderfully informative and chatty email about what to see, where to go and what to look out for. I just wanted to walk around and get the lay of the land. So from the port of Piraeus, I walked 30 minutes to the train station, paid my 80 cents, boarded Athens’ very modern and quiet subway, and headed forth to my date with destiny!

I liked Athens. I had a very nice time walking around the Plaka, with it’s narrow winding streets and charming little stores and cafes. I saw Hadrian’s Arch and the Temple of the Olympian Zeus, which was quite remarkable. I walked through this big park and saw a really odd zoo with stray cats and turtles. I didn’t get to the Acropolis, but I figured that I’d be back. In short, I had a really good day.

But…

I kinda wanted some sort of mystical experience, an epiphany if you will. I expected to commune with Greece. But I didn’t. Maybe I was expecting too much. Maybe my hopes were too high. I felt a little defeated, deflated even. I was very melancholy for a little while.

However, a few days later, I rode a donkey up the side of a cliff to Santorini, and I was captivated by a picture postcard Greece, with its beautiful beaches and sprawling villages of white square houses. I was back in Athens yesterday, saw the Acropolis and was awe-struck. So, Greece, you haven’t let me down. It just took me a while to let my defences down.

In ship news: There was a crew party last night with free beer and pizza. There was a karaoke contest, a body building contest and a drag queen contest. I was tempted to enter all three…

The Slums of Venice

It’s safe to say that in Venice, all roads most assuredly do not lead to Rome, if you know what I mean. The streets and alleyways snake around, fold in on themselves, and end abruptly - either by running into a wall, or by falling off into a canal. There are countless narrow passageways with centuries-old buildings, the pastel-coloured cracked plaster exposing the ancient brick. Houses like that in North America would be condemned (or the exposed brick would be on the inside – how 1993!). In Venice, it’s awe-inspiring. It’s very easy to get lost. Or rather, it’s very difficult to get lost, but very easy to get temporarily misplaced. (Venice is not very big, and there are big yellow signs everywhere on the buildings telling you the big landmarks are, like St. Mark’s or the train station). Nevertheless, I saw countless groups of tourists today, huddled around a map, each member pointing in a different direction. At least 4 people came up to me and asked for directions. (One young lady, reading from her phrase book in apologetic Italian, asked me where the train station was, and I said back to her; “Sola? Perduta? Abbadonata?” She looked puzzled, and I told her in English to follow the signs.)

All this to say that I had about 4 hours to myself this afternoon before I had to be back on the ship for passenger boat drill, so I decided to purposefully get lost. My friend Steven has decided that getting lost is my super power, since I have a tremendously poor sense of direction. But I just wanted to find a Venice that had something other than 3 Euro bottled water or cheesy Pierette masks. Well, a turn down an alley here, a jaunt down a laneway there, and I found myself in what can only be described as the Venetian Projects. There were about 10 of these tacky and poorly built pre-fab complexes with bars on the windows (the first floor anyway), all facing onto this un-maintained court yard. There were graffiti tags from Italian street gangs (is graffiti an Italian word?) – one said “West Side”. (I’ll have to ask my sax player Chris what this represents. You see, in every picture we’ve taken of him, he is either flipping the bird, or is giving the “West Side” symbol – the one where you spread you fingers wide apart, but the middle ones are crossed, forming a “W”). The only thing that distinguished this from run-down neighbourhoods elsewhere in the world was that each of these buildings was built on pylons, and had a parking garage for motorboats. I’m not quite sure why I was so touched by this. It’s almost as if I finally realized that, for me, as much as Venice is Venice, for most Venetians, Venice is merely their home. A city with grocery stores and traffic and street people and schools and nice neighbourhoods and not-so-nice neighbourhoods. Some of the magic was lost, but it made me love it even more.

In ship news, a piece of scenery fell from the rafters about 5 minutes before a rehearsal was supposed to have begun, narrowly missing our beloved assistant stage manager by about 10 seconds. There were countless reasons why people should have been on stage at the time, but luckily, no one was. I have a show on that stage tonight. I’m not nervous.

UPDATE: show went fine, no one died. And I'm up too too late, yet again.

Cabina d'Amore! Baby, Cabina d'Amore!

Let me clear something up right off the bat. It's not "Life from a deck" but rather "Life from A deck" as opposed to B deck or C deck. I work on a cruise ship and I live on Deck A. I have no idea how often I will write here, or if it's just another one of my great ideas that start out with glorious and noble ambition, and end up forgotten and discarded like a one night stand's phone number. Suffice it to say that I want to keep some sort of log. Working on a cruise ship can be wonderfully rewarding; but it can also be a most frustrating, surreal and absurd exercise in futility.

Tonight, my band "plays the hits" for 4 hours. They are amazing. We love playing together, and we're tight tight tight. They're a dream! But more often than not, we outnumber the audience. It's difficult to belt out "Play That Funky Music White Boy" to an audience of seven 80 year-olds. Tonight might be a practice-in-front-of-the-crowd night where we'll try out some new or less familiar tunes. Maybe "Love Shack".

We found a great bar in Venice that was willing to stay open, shall we say, later than usually allowed to by law. It was the first night that all 8 of us went out all together. It's a party band, I'll give us that. Beer was cheap (or at least cheap by Venetian standards) and the company was delightful. I spent an hour chatting with a guy named Marco (who may or may not have been trying to pick me up...) who spoke only slightly more English than I speak Italian. However, after about 40 minutes, we realized we both spoke lousy German. So, imagine if you will, a trilingual conversation, in which neither party really fully comprehends anything being said, but are having one hell of a time. We bonded while singing "Che Gelida Manina" at the top of our lungs while the proprietors of the establishment shushed us repeatedly.

Tomorrow, Venice again, then Croatia. Then the magic of Istanbul for 2 days. Lots to tell...