Thursday, October 29, 2009. Last Day At Sea. What Do We Do? I took my last breakfast in Cagney's--there won't be time tomorrow. Poached eggs and crab cakes Benedict. Delicious. With the exception of a short time when Carnival was creating breakfast specials of incredible imagination in its dining rooms, I've never had better breakfasts at sea than in Cagney's.
I got a weird call from the consistently unhelpful group coordinator. She said that she had all the luggage tags for the members of my group, and that I could come down and pick them up anytime I wanted. Why? So I could distribute them to all thirty-three rooms, she said. I've never had to do that, I told her. Can't they do it? No, she said. Why? Just can't. I think cruise lines are actually making it difficult for people to travel as groups, and here's an example of how.
I had not lunched in the main dining room even once during this cruise, so I figured I'd better do it. At lunch on a cruise ship, it's a nice tradition to sit with others at a large table. You meet folks you would otherwise not encounter, often from all over the place. For some reason, the hostess led me to a four-top, with a single lady already there. That's something I prefer not to do at our Eat Club dinners. While you can mix people at a table of six or more, two unacquainted couples--let singles--find it uncomfortable to be seated together at a table for four.
But we tried. She was from northern England, and retired. What did you do, I asked. "I was in education," she said. "And of all the people I've dined with in all the cruise ships--and that's a lot of them--you are the first person who has ever asked me what I did for a living!" I wasn't sure if she was miffed or pleased by this. What was very clear was how she felt about the ship. "I don't like it at all," she said. "The colors and the design are so bright and chaotic. And from the moment you're on board they're trying to sell you something. These announcements all days along about all the sales and shops and casinos and bars! I didn't pay for a cruise to be made into a target for advertising!"
She had a very good point. I expected that sort of thing from cruise ships, and tune out most of what I hear and most of the flyers that get stuffed in my mailbox. "It's such a waste of paper!" she said, and I agreed. Before we could carry this any farther, two people from western Pennsylvania were brought to the table. The conversation shifted to a ramble. I had a salad and a meatless pasta dish. Funny how often vegetarian dishes look like the best food on menus these days.
I get tingly on the last afternoon and evening of a cruise. I feel I must walk around and make sure I didn't miss anything. Fair skies and easy seas always seem to show up, inviting me (or us, when Mary Ann is here) to head to the upper decks to watch the sunset. It's always windy. Tonight, the winds are approaching gale force, kicking up at times over forty miles per. These made for a good deal of rocking and rolling on the ship, but that seemed to be settling down.
Thank goodness for that. At the rehearsal for the talent show, it was all I could do to stand in one place on the stage. The theatre is in the bow of the ship, and no place pitches in high seas more than that.
I showed up at six-thirty for the gig, wearing a tuxedo. Freestyle cruising means you can not only underdress but also overdress. My song demanded formal wear. I needed something to stand out among an unusually fine group of amateurs. A woman I'd seen in karaoke did a boffo version of "At Last." A broad-in-the-beam woman bumped and ground through "It's Raining Men," a song originally performed by a trio of female large loads. The ship allowed comedy acts (most ships don't). One fellow got up there and did ten minutes of ancient Henny Youngman-era jokes with such perfect timing that he had the audience gasping for breath. His best joke:
So a 102-year-old man goes to the doctor for a checkup. "I'm getting married!" he tells the doc. "Married? Tell me about the bride!" "She's twenty-five," the old guys says. "What? I'd better warn you: if you have sex, it may be fatal!" The old fellow shrugs his shoulders. "If she dies, she dies!"
My turn. The entire eight-piece band played behind me, and the saxophonist did a solo in the bridge. I didn't go off key. That's everything I want from this experience.
The talent show pre-empted the Martini Club, so it was off to the Tsar's Palace for our farewell dinner. Once again, we had to stretch the table to twelve. We had another few tables in there, too, filled with clusters of new-found Eat Club friends. And another deuce with a couple who showed up early and, not seeing me there (I was still onstage), got their own table. I begged them to join us, but they stayed where they were. Well, I tried.
On another cruise a few years ago, I remember what happened at about eleven on the last night. Everything shut down early. Nobody anywhere. No live music. Not much gambling. You could get a drink, but you'd feel the mood Sinatra conjured up in "One More For The Road." A very empty feeling, one I don't want to have again. I go up shortly after dinner, pack, read, watch TV, or something, and leave the job of closing the whole ship down to someone else.
