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...