THIS JUST IN
Ahoy, there's bingo in the lifeboats!
And all of this set to surround sound: elevator music, chamber music, disco music, steel bands. “Tiny Bubbles” to “Good Vibrations,” plus the ever-performing admiral’s singers and dancers! If our ship sank, we’d be playing jackpot bingo in the lifeboats with fiddlers alongside on aqua bikes.
Sweetie Pie and I were three hours south of Ft. Lauderdale, steaming for the Bahamas, when I found Mecca – a luxurious sofa alongside a picture window in a quiet corner of Deck 11. The afternoon sun, white above a deep cobalt sea. Ship rising and falling to the long roll of the ocean. And me with book in one hand, Irish coffee in the other, and the solid feeling that I deserved it all.
Then KABOOM, KABOOM, KABOOM! Collision at sea? No! A mime in pancake makeup had switched on giant speakers and begun juggling. I fled through a casino, past two swimming pools, across an arcade, and then happened upon the quiet, nearly empty midship atrium with “Neptune’s Piazza” over the entrance. Soft music wafted. This will work! I eased into a chair, put down my Irish and heard, “Attention ladies and gentlemen, our art auction begins in the atrium in 10 minutes.”
The quiet piazza erupted. Tuxedoed stewards hauled in grandly framed paintings, which we learned were reproductions of the world’s finest art. Art to catch the eye, sooth the soul, and if you buy two, you get a third free. Who could read in the same room with 50 copies of Cézanne’s Fruit Bowl? I fled again.
Two decks higher, I happened upon the conference center. Not a soul around. An island of solitude, this thickly carpeted sanctuary with comfy chairs, ocean view, book shelves, heavy brass table lamps – the kind of place where librarians go when they die. I sat down, opened my book, sipped my Irish, and nearly dozed off before I heard, “Attention ladies and gentlemen! The estate jewelry bazaar begins on the half hour in the conference center.” Discovered! Next voyage, I’m bringing a ski mask.
People flocked in and someone with the requisite hand mike spread out jewelry on velvet trays at the front table while telling us of today’s special treat. “Welcome to our Jacqueline Kennedy jewelry event! Pieces of jewelry from the estate of Jacqueline Kennedy. Well, not the exact same jewelry of course, they’re in the JFK Library. But certified replicas.” (Hey, these copies aren’t phony!) “And today you get preferential pricing.” I considered checking myself into the ship’s medical center but suspected the Admirals’ All Star Dancers would be performing in the ER.
When we were within three cheeseburgers of Antigua, our first stop, someone yelled, “Landfall!” Those going ashore hurried to finish their chicken Kiev, poached salmon, veal and artichoke dumplings, and a last helping of skewered shrimp. All shared the giddy feeling of being able to eat whatever you wanted whenever you wanted it. You had to admire the can-do attitude in the dining rooms. Peach cobblers were polished off as the gangplanks were lowered.
A half hour later, our open-air Range Rover banged and clanged through the streets of Antigua, and I noted that the natives had difficulty with naming things. Signs read Crab Hole Liquors, The Red Octopus B&B, and Betty’s Last Hope Hardware. Beyond it was Sexy Eddy’s Auto Body. At one corner, an arrow pointed to No Such Beach. There also was a sign reading Sex Spa. I asked our driver if sex meant the same thing in Antigua.
Long ago, when Antigua had snakes up to its commode lids, the islanders imported mongooses as the solution. Now the snakes are gone along with the chickens, ducks and household pets. However, the mongoose proliferation is reflected in such staples as mongoose Nicosia, mongoose primavera with garlic (a favorite), Scandinavian mongoose, and a popular Chinese take-away, mongoose gai pan.
As we rattled along, our driver, Raymond, regaled us with informative observations along the lines of “That stone structure ahead is called a stone structure.” Eventually we stopped for photos in a sugar cane field that, according to Raymond’s yellowing note pad, was “a lush tropical rain forest.”
Back on board our floating food court, starved passengers who hadn’t had a bite in two hours made for the buffet tables and the anchor was weighed to the tune of “Red, Red Wine.” The ship’s diesels came to life and our vessel, half steel and half havarti cheese with herbs, ploughed toward Barbados, with me, my book and my Irish in a laundry room.
Fred Gehrung is a freelance writer who lives in the Marina. He has written features and humor for newspapers, including the Chicago Tribune, USA Today, The Boston Globe, and The New York Times. E-mail: [email protected]
