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!