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| I
2:47 in the morning. I’m mixing the condensation from my third free beer with the sweat that’s caked on my forehead in an effort to cool down and maybe look less like I’ve been hacking through dense jungle. It’s another usual night in the crew bar, this time the Indian Independence Day party, and as I’m moving in time to “Jai Ho”, trying to figure out yet another innovative way to get the smell of smoke and unwashed fry cook out of my clothes, it strikes me that this scene has become, well, old hat. I can feel the thick scent of sweat and desperation that hangs extra heavy on a crowded night settling into the fake-leather benches like the dust that floats in the air on a football Sunday, the stuff you can from your perch on the couch back home. I can see the next few days stretching out ahead, the shows I’ll be playing, the places I’ll be seeing, and it’s finally gotten to the point where it seems stale, like the reeking jeans I’ve had since the beginning of this crazy ride. Everyone around here gets that feeling from time to time, and we just look at each other, shrug our shoulders in unison and say, “Ship life.”
I’ve had people on every ship insist, in a wide variety of accents and degrees of profanity, that ship life “isn’t real life”, that the months and years we spend out here on these tubs doesn’t count towards service time in adulthood. I generally disagree with that, on the grounds that a paycheck from a major multinational has a way of cementing reality, but on the other hand, there’s certainly some meat on that old chestnut. I’ve been at this for just about two years, and if one thing has struck me about reality on ships, it’s that everything that happens seems detached from my existence. I’ve been at sea for two Super Bowls, a Presidential campaign, and the death of Michael Jackson, and while it doesn’t seem like I’ve missed out on these major events, it does seem like I experienced them through a hazy filter. The day-to-day lives of the folks back home, what the dog did to the couch today, it all seems remote, like it’s happening on the space station. Or maybe it’s me that’s been in space all this time, and I’m going to have to re-learn basic stuff, like gravity and the way juice behaves in a straw. Maybe part of the reason why I’m leaving is because I miss the prosaic beauty of the mundane vibrations that move us in our circles, to our jobs and homes and bars and stadiums and around again. Maybe the grass is always greener, but there’s no real grass here, just green carpets and the fuzz on the unplayable mini-golf course. I miss grass, and begin jealous of other grass, and all the accompanying little things that are unquestionably more real than ship life.
And so, I’m done. I’m done with the unreality, done with the enclosed spaces, done with the quasi-martial condescension of the guys in the white uniforms, done with overcooked everything, done with Beck’s and Dos Equis and mixed drinks in plastic cups. I’m done with never seeing the places I visit at night, done with four-hour glimpses of cities, done with in-port manning, done with tenders, done with interminable lines of griping tourists, done with a new currency and a new language every day, done with tourist maps and jewelry shop ads and a freakin’ McDonalds on every corner. I’m done with cabin inspections, done with coast guard drills, done with endless memorization of how many fat Americans fit in a lifeboat, done with wearing a lifejacket while walking up ten flights. I’m done with the bureaucracy, done with ILOs, done with needing permission to print a page. But most of all, and I never thought I’d say this: I’m done with the gig.
II
Flash back with me, if you will, to New Years Eve, 2007. I’d been on my first ship, the good ol’ Sapphire, for about two months at this point. Do you know what I did, every single night, almost without fail? I read music. I was challenged to learn and perfect a new set of tunes with a different singer or instrumentalist or comedian or chainsaw-juggling lunatic with one rehearsal, if that, and then showtime. That was what I signed up for: a musical challenge, something to hone my reading chops and hold me to a high standard of performance over long periods of time. The key word in all of this is challenge; I know how to read music, but I’d never really worked with singers, much less a whole cast and company, on any regular basis. In my first year and a half or so on ships, I played with dozens of singers, improvised play-ons and play-offs for MCs, even did some arranging work. It was fun, it was exhilarating, and it was challenging.
I’m using past tense here because it’s not that way anymore. Over my last two contracts, I’ve read exactly three new shows. My job right now is a glorified lounge band, the kind that Jake and Elwood found their keyboard player plowing away with at the Holiday Inn, with fuchsia shag carpet draped over the piano. Six nights out of ten, I play neutered dance music, “ballroom” dance, for the paltry half-dozen devotees of the rhumba and the slow waltz and Glenn freakin’ Miller. I play this pap out of two huge volumes of elementary band arrangements, the kind of stuff that high school band directors give to their after-school jazz groups, and I’ve played all of these charts so many times, I barely have to look at the music anymore. This all goes down in the lounges of the ship, with the whirring of blenders and ringing of phones, and having to pull teeth from the inevitably sparse crowds to even get the old codgers to get out on the floor, god forbid they shouldn’t sprain a hip. Nothing can be played too fast, nothing can be played for too long, lest the dancers get bored; and get bored they do, too.
Cruise ship ballroom dancers are a pushy, severe, stiff group of invariably fifty-plus married couples who, lacking the rhythm to dance in the horribly unstructured environment of “other” dance idioms, require specific tempos to each minutely different style, and god help you if your cha-cha is over 120 bpm. They tend to travel in packs, the better to gang up on the band and commandeer their setlist, to the exclusion of the relatively innocent casual dancers. There’s the rhumba, e.g. “Spanish Eyes”, the cha-cha, e.g. “Tea for Two”, the foxtrot, e.g. “Satin Doll”, the waltz, e.g. “Tennessee Waltz”, and who could forget the tango, e.g. “La Comparsita”. If I ever hear any of these tunes in a public place, I will either run screaming for the exit or curl into a fetal position with my hands over my ears. This is the cheesiest, most gutless, boring music I’ve ever had the misfortune to be required to play, and I’m quite glad to be having done with it.
Now, before I make it sound like I’m crying in my beer over having to play music every night on real pianos with good musicians in interesting places for money, let me just say that even ballroom music can be fun. Given a capable, adaptable group of musicians, like most of my groups have been, medleys can spring up from nowhere, key changes can happen, requests can be played by ear; all this stuff is great, and I dig the hell out of it. But it’s not challenging. The main selling point of the job, not only for me, but probably for most of the guys in these groups, is gone, and the worst part is seeing what’s replaced the beloved cabaret acts in the main theatre.
Used to be, a singer-and-dancer production show would run for one night, two shows. Ditto the cabaret acts, or guest ents, as well call them. Now, because the company realized that a few dozen passengers might miss their pricey, rhinestone-studded show ponies, the production shows are stretched over two nights, three shows, so nobody should miss the colossally embarrassing “Rock Me Amadeus” adaptation. A ship has anywhere from three to five production shows running, depending on the cruise length, and so on a ten-day run like this one, eight out of ten nights are filled with production shows. Worse yet, maybe two of those per ship use the band, and even then the band is playing along to pre-recorded tracks for every part; like playing music inside a glove. The newer shows all eschew the live musicians in favor of the aforementioned tracks, and so the stage can be packed fuller of garish setpieces and giggling chorus girls, while the singers belt along with the robots. This is glorified karaoke on a grand scale, people, and god forbid if this ever catches on with the Broadway crowd. This is the reason I’m leaving in a nutshell: the human has been replaced with the robotic. Instead of professional entertainers coming onboard to work with professional musicians, for your cruise dollar you will get canned tracks and repetition.
And while we’re talking about corporate streamlining, in my time on ships I’ve seen the permanent cutting of a showband sax player, a lounge band, and two solo pianists from every ship’s allotment of musicians. Not surprisingly, this has meant more work for everyone concerned, which would still have been OK if the now-vacant cabins could have been allocated at the discretion of the bandmaster, but no: not only are all those people fired, but the empty cabins are now “fleet cabins”, which means that instead of a musician getting his own space, heaven forefend, the junior second officer can now have his sister-in-law cruise for free, with her own cabin. This smacks of what I’ve found is a broad culture of disrespect for musicians, both from the home office and the crew onboard; that just because we don’t work twelve hours a day we’re somehow leeching off the hard work of our fellow crew members. Feh! The easy, snippy response is to simply reply that any musician could be a buffet attendant or cabin steward or shop clerk in a matter of five minutes to change pants, and perhaps sir would like to take a year to lock sir’s self in a room with a sax and see if sir can play a horn after that. But I digress. Suffice to say that I’m done. I don’t feel challenged by my job, I don’t feel valued by the company, and I don’t feel respected by my coworkers. It doesn’t take a musician to feel that those are grounds for moving on.
III
These past two years have been the time of my life. I’ve had so much fun, I’ve had to redefine what the word means for me. Playing music is fun; playing music with consistently great musicians on Yamaha baby grands for a steady paycheck is fun. Hanging out in bars is fun; hanging out in bars where the faces change every couple weeks and drinks are cheap and the women have interesting accents is fun. Exploring a city is fun; exploring nearly every major coastal city from Sydney to St. Petersburg is fun. Eating is fun; trying new and different and often wacky foods in places far-flung and foreign is fun. Speaking English is fun; learning a new battery of niceties in a dozen languages is fun. I’m funned out, I suppose. I’m a fun junkie and I’m ready for some real life rehab, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t miss this.
I’m going to miss the ocean. I’ve almost taken it for granted that whenever I feel like it, I can step out onto the deck and get a snootful of the clearest, crispest air on the planet, often with a little spray to boot. I’m going to miss the endlessness of it, the sense of being utterly without borders that only comes from the open sea. I’m going to miss the perfect glass calm just as much as the elemental power of the chop. The sunsets and sunrises out here don’t stop for rooftops or mountains or anything at all, they just blaze away until they’re extinguished by the water. I’m going to be at a loss for shades of blue without the infinite variation of the planet’s waters; is this crayon Pacific blue or Baltic blue or Caribbean blue? I’m going to miss the little lights on the horizon at night, the only signs of life in the total oceanic dark that prove this is still Earth and not the river Styx. It’s staggeringly beautiful and powerful and humbling, and there’s really nothing else like it.
I’m going to miss the travel. Waking up to a new skyline every day is every bit as exciting as it sounds, even if the order recycles every couple weeks. I’m going to miss wandering for hours around backstreets that I probably shouldn’t be wandering around, in search of a place that might not exist, but I’ve heard it’s pretty cool. There are little hidden treasures in every city and every shanty-town container port that are worth seeing or doing or having done to you. I’m going to miss taking trains to the next town over, even if it’s just a run-of-the-mill suburb, because trains are cool and I want them for my country. I’m going to miss being a stranger and a foreigner and a goddam tourist, and I’m going to miss the adventurous feeling of not going along with the rest of the goddam tourists and exploring solo.
I’m going to miss the crew bar. Yes, the music is awful. Yes, it reeks of cheap Asian cigarettes and stale Filipino beer. But it’s the place where everybody knows your name, and even if you can’t hear it over the Eurotrash thump it’s still nice to know. I’m going to miss the cheap drinks and expensive water, the uncooperative jukeboxes, the decrepit dartboards, the squeaky foosball tables. I’ll miss the odd little pockets of languages that develop; the Macedonian corner, the Russian colony. I might even miss sticking to the dance floor, although I’ll get back to you on that once I find my other shoe. Of course, I’ll miss the endless variety of international female talent, with their broken English and invariably excellent dancing. It certainly was nice to have a place where all I had to say was, “The usual.”
I’m going to miss the music. I just spent a solid thousand words on why I’m no longer inspired by the playing, but it’s incredibly addicting to play every single night for a captive audience, no matter how fuzzy their hearing aids. I’m going to miss locking in with a bassist and drummer over the course of a few months, and unearthing a perfect groove every now and then out of thin air. I’m going to miss the jam nights in the crew bar, the sweaty sets on the open deck, the stuffy formal receptions, the buffoonish Dixieland sets; pretty much everything except the aforementioned ballroom business. Having someone tune your piano for you while you’re out enjoying ports is also quite nice, as is someone polishing the finish to a high shine. It goes without saying that a musician loves music, but there it is.
And that, as they say, is that. I’ve said my peace, and I’m going to leave it at a nice concise 3000 words. Those of you who have skipped to the end to read a tidy little wrap-up line will sadly be sorely disappointed, but, just to prove I’m always looking out for my devoted-if-impatient readers, try this on for size. It’s like the song goes: “And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.” I’ve put two years of my prime and a chunk of soul into this gig, and I’ve gotten the time of my life out of it. I’m taking with me an extended network of friends to call on and couches to crash on, spread over six of seven continents. I’ve got photos and souvenirs and scars to carry with me wherever I wander next, and a mug full of random coins and currency should I ever need to bribe someone in, say, Thailand. And of course, I’ve still got this little space, where you can read all about it. Thanks for reading, everyone. Shieh-shieh, arigato, merci, danke, grazie, gracias, obrigado, todah, takk, djenkuyeh, spasiba. Peace, let’s go home.
(PS, there’s a whole mess of best-of lists still to come. Stay tuned, go football!)
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| Privyet and howdy, readerinos, and welcome to the end of days. Or at least, the beginning of the end. All of a sudden, it seems that this contract is drawing to a close faster than a speeding garden slug, and with my remaining time, I have certain resolutions to uphold to myself. I intend to live every port to its fullest (except St. Petersburg; more on that later). I intend to complain with wit and verve about minor inconveniences, like the sudden profusion of gym-going, youthful passengers. What’s that about?! Finally, I intend to write a detailed, two-part essay about why this is my last contract, followed by a paragraph or two of small type in which I absolve myself of any responsibility for the above comments. Three cruises to go—30 days to live ship life to its fullest. Now where’d I put my beer?
Speaking of living ship life to its fullest, the second of the season’s three Copenhagen overnights provided yet another whirlwind adventure (l do seem to love that phrase), starting in the bright lights of downtown and ending in the sleepy suburbs at dawn. The Emerald was docked a few berths away from our sister-in-profit, the Grand, and many of the usual suspects were drawn to an opportunity to spend a night on a different ship, to see old friends from previous contracts and presumably to repay and/or collect on old debts, which would explain why my roommate was caressing that lead pipe all week. Anyway, since I had already settled my business with the loan sharks on the Grand, I decided to visit a local blues club called Mojo that came highly recommended by several trustworthy parties, as well as few less-reputable sorts, which is really exactly the sort of things one looks for in a blues club. Mojo is cozy (read: small), lacks air conditioning, and the jukebox is a laptop with iTunes. But, on the upside, it’s got Tuborg Classic on tap, hot bartenders, and a great band that was kind enough to let me sit in. (These guys are really good, check ‘em out: www.myspace.com/darvilleduo.) I think that was the first sit-in I’ve done in all my time at sea, which isn’t all that surprising considering that by the time our ship tends to leave port, most musicians are just smashing their alarm clocks to start the day.
When I got back to the Emerald, I heard the sounds of still-lively revelers coming from the crew bar, and, thirsty after a long walk, I decided to see if I could mooch a quick sip. Instead, I was convinced by a group of well-lubricated friends to head back to the gangway and out into the Copenhagen dawn to forage for that one oasis of late-night comfort and supply: a 7-Eleven. Well, the area around the cruise terminal isn’t exactly jumpin’ at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday; in fact, we found ourselves wandering up and down blocks like zombies, shuffling shoes on the pavement in search of more beer, or some chips, or braaaaaaains, but preferably beer and chips. At long last, a good mile from the ship, we found an open 7-Eleven that fulfilled our wildest hopes and dreams: there were taquitos, still warm from the greasy grill tray, Heineken 40s, and best of all, Doritos. But not just any Doritos, oh no: you might know them as Cool Ranch, but to the Danes they are (fanfare please)…Cool American. That’s right, we Americans are so liked and respected we have an artificial corn-chip coating in our honor. I was so proud, I clutched the bag to my chest, crushing many of the larger chips but imbuing the survivors with love. We loitered on a public bench in a manner that would likely get noticed by American police, but thanks to the sane Danes and their relaxed open-container laws, we enjoyed our hard-won bounty in peace as the sun rose over the city. It was an idyllic scene, until one of our group dropped his sandwich and ran like hell for the nearest public loo.
It’s all pretty epic, this overnight business. I remember on another ship, when we used to have overnights in St. Petersburg, things would get pretty crazy as well. We would spend the days leading up to the big night writing out club names in Cyrillic and seeing who could get time off work the next day to catch up on sleep. It all seems so long ago. It is in the spirit of those bygone times of magic and innocence that I wish to make the following statement to the Russian immigration authorities, who I’m told are great fans of this page: NOBODY HAS SWINE FLU. LET US THE HELL OUT! Seriously! It’s been a month since the crew have been allowed out in Russia, and the local authority keeps us waiting every time until noon to advise on shore leave, which prevents us from signing up for morning tours, which prevents those of us with evening jobs from going out at all. This would never have happened if Putin was still alive.
As long as we’re trapped on board for two days out of ten, though, I have to admit that things around here are pretty cool. Despite a preponderance of crappy wannabe-DJs prowling around the crew bar jukebox, even the usual smoky, noisy sweatbox seems friendly. If it wasn’t for an uptight, jumpy night security team, things might even get to be downright fun. But no matter, I have a fallback. Thanks to the illustrious trombone master Tom Potjunas, who travels with practically the Library of Congress on two terabyte hard drives, I now have enough music and movies to last me through a prolonged siege. And speaking of the band, the unofficial name for the group is now Gordon Hough and the Steves. We have three Steves, and they come in small, medium and large. Guitar-Steve is the short one, Drum-Steve is the skinny guy, and Trombone-Steve is the tree. We tell them apart by yelling insults and seeing who responds; trust me, it works.
A preview of coming attractions: more Copenhagen nuttiness, a verbose tome on exactly why this is my final contract, more nonsensical punctuation, dangling participles and general hacky stuff. Try to keep your enthusiasm in check, people, this wild cheering and shouting is most unbecoming. I’ll be back in no time flat. Stay tuned, go Browns training camp!
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| It was about 3 a.m. in a dank cellar bar somewhere in Copenhagen. I had just finished heroically representing American interests abroad in an epic beer-pong throwdown with a couple uppity Danes, when it finally happened: I had, at long last, gotten “Wonderful Copenhagen” out of my head. And all it took was a legendary night of coincidences, dumb luck and absinthe. That’s what I get for giving short shrift to CPH in this space to date, but rest assure that I intend to remedy the issue presently. But first, at the risk of temping the vengeful Danish gods further, a couple quick detours. Then, I promise, I will heap such praise on the Danish capital as to embarrass Hans Christian Andersen himself and make the Little Mermaid blush. Off we go!
When I last checked in, things were looking a bit grim around the crew areas of Emerald Princess. There was a dastardly flu bug about, and everyone had one eye on their internal temperature and the other on the crew message board for more bad news. But, things have taken a more positive turn. While it’s true that we’re still not allowed to have any crew-club activities, the bar has re-opened, which has seriously relaxed the jumpier elements among us, and provided an important forum for everyone to bitch about the dumb American passengers (seriously, this is what we talk about). On the other hand, the Russian authorities are still, well, Russian, and another St. Petersburg has come and gone without shore leave. We were gonna try making a break for it, but Zombie Lenin is a surprisingly good sprinter. Major bummer, but no more gloom and doom from me; thanks to a brand new port and a new introduction to an old one, things are just peachy.
I have to admit, I have certain reservations about setting foot in Germany. Among them are the insistence on the artistic merits of David Hasselhoff and the preponderance of cabbage and entrail-casing sausage in the local cuisine, not to mention the whole unpleasant business with 80’s new-wave band Kraftwerk. But much as I had to do when entering Poland, it became necessary to put history aside and embrace the place as it stands right now. Warnemunde, a cozy little seaside resort for the larger city of Rostock, is pictured alongside the words “quaint” and “endearing” in Farfel’s New Dictshunery of the Enrish Lanwidge. It has everything you would expect in a little German town, what with the sausage stands, incredibly blond populace, and oh-mein-gott beer. I mean, this is the sort of beer that you write drinking songs about, and I intend to learn a few on the next visit to speil mit mein accordion. What’s more, the ship docks nearly adjacent to the local train stop, so it’s a piece of black forest cake to get to Rostock, the medieval capital of Loubeck, or even Berlin, if you’re feeling adventurous. Or, if you’re easily distracted, there’s a little bar by the ticket kiosk that makes this concoction with liquor-soaked strawberries and dark beer, and the taste of it is enough to root even the hardiest traveler to the table, and soon to the floor. Speaking of distractions, Warnemunde is also the main beach area for summer escapees, and believe me when I say it is a blind man who is not distracted by the bevy of blond beauties at the beach. Best of all, the ship is docked until 10 pm, which allows for plenty of time to sample all the local goodies. So, ja, Warnemunde ist der schnitzel.
And now, the main event. Overnights are always an adventure for us ship people. There’s a lot of planning that goes into one of these nights, who’s rolling with who, where they’re going and how they’re going to get there, who’s got the inside info or some local connection, and how to avoid running afoul of the law. I’ve always felt that the overnight is essential to understanding a port, because every city has a seedy underbelly that one really has to get soiled by in order to understand the place. This particular overnight had the additional distinction of falling on the first weekend of the Copenhagen Jazz Festival, which made my night pretty straightforward: find music, dig, find way back. Ok, sounds easy, let’s give it a shot. Turns out the Copenhagen Jazz House of all places failed to book a live act for Saturday night, which I found pretty surprising, but me and the gang were given directions to another joint a few blocks away. It was a lovely early summer night, and as we were walking along, what should we see but a small basement bar specializing in that most literate of intoxicants, absinthe.
Now, my knowledge of this oft-misunderstood green goo was certainly lacking, but little did I know how little I knew. About an hour’s worth of “education” later, I now feel much more at home with the green fairy, and I can really see what all those artists liked about the stuff, even if it did cause them to eventually go insane. Now sporting glowing green wings, we found La Fontaine, a cozy little room not much bigger than my old stomping grounds, Dick’s Den, and only about three times as expensive. The music was as hot as the temperature, which is saying something, because packing 100 sweaty Norse jazz fans into a small enclosure doesn’t make for cool breezes. The good news, however, is that I was able to escape with my very own souvenir T-shirt, which I will proudly display as soon as I clean the beer stains out of it.
After a few tunes, the band closed out the set, and now quite ready for anything frosty, we stumbled into an Australian expat bar, complete with murals of kangaroos and apparently legendary Aussie athletes, and also thankfully complete with a full selection of tasty Aussie beer. As I was enjoying a Crown Lager, I felt a tap on the shoulder and a Danish-sounding “American?” I responded in the bar-friendly affirmative, and that’s how I entered my first international beer pong mini-tournament. I am proud to say that Uncle Sam’s pride is intact, because after a scalding four-cup victory, my Danish opponents tipped their hats to superior American firepower, or, depending on whom you ask, stumbled drunkenly out of the bar. Either way, I felt proud to have flown the stars and stripes in victory on July 4. As I always say: America—f*** yeah!
Only a few more days until I get another shot at the Danish night, and now that I have a good idea of what to expect, I think there is considerably more awesomeness in store. Stay tuned, go go gadget golem!
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| It was about 3 a.m. in a dank cellar bar somewhere in Copenhagen. I had just finished heroically representing American interests abroad in an epic beer-pong throwdown with a couple uppity Danes, when it finally happened: I had, at long last, gotten “Wonderful Copenhagen” out of my head. And all it took was a legendary night of coincidences, dumb luck and absinthe. That’s what I get for giving short shrift to CPH in this space to date, but rest assure that I intend to remedy the issue presently. But first, at the risk of temping the vengeful Danish gods further, a couple quick detours. Then, I promise, I will heap such praise on the Danish capital as to embarrass Hans Christian Andersen himself and make the Little Mermaid blush. Off we go!
When I last checked in, things were looking a bit grim around the crew areas of Emerald Princess. There was a dastardly flu bug about, and everyone had one eye on their internal temperature and the other on the crew message board for more bad news. But, things have taken a more positive turn. While it’s true that we’re still not allowed to have any crew-club activities, the bar has re-opened, which has seriously relaxed the jumpier elements among us, and provided an important forum for everyone to bitch about the dumb American passengers (seriously, this is what we talk about). On the other hand, the Russian authorities are still, well, Russian, and another St. Petersburg has come and gone without shore leave. We were gonna try making a break for it, but Zombie Lenin is a surprisingly good sprinter. Major bummer, but no more gloom and doom from me; thanks to a brand new port and a new introduction to an old one, things are just peachy.
I have to admit, I have certain reservations about setting foot in Germany. Among them are the insistence on the artistic merits of David Hasselhoff and the preponderance of cabbage and entrail-casing sausage in the local cuisine, not to mention the whole unpleasant business with 80’s new-wave band Kraftwerk. But much as I had to do when entering Poland, it became necessary to put history aside and embrace the place as it stands right now. Warnemunde, a cozy little seaside resort for the larger city of Rostock, is pictured alongside the words “quaint” and “endearing” in Farfel’s New Dictshunery of the Enrish Lanwidge. It has everything you would expect in a little German town, what with the sausage stands, incredibly blond populace, and oh-mein-gott beer. I mean, this is the sort of beer that you write drinking songs about, and I intend to learn a few on the next visit to speil mit mein accordion. What’s more, the ship docks nearly adjacent to the local train stop, so it’s a piece of black forest cake to get to Rostock, the medieval capital of Loubeck, or even Berlin, if you’re feeling adventurous. Or, if you’re easily distracted, there’s a little bar by the ticket kiosk that makes this concoction with liquor-soaked strawberries and dark beer, and the taste of it is enough to root even the hardiest traveler to the table, and soon to the floor. Speaking of distractions, Warnemunde is also the main beach area for summer escapees, and believe me when I say it is a blind man who is not distracted by the bevy of blond beauties at the beach. Best of all, the ship is docked until 10 pm, which allows for plenty of time to sample all the local goodies. So, ja, Warnemunde ist der schnitzel.
And now, the main event. Overnights are always an adventure for us ship people. There’s a lot of planning that goes into one of these nights, who’s rolling with who, where they’re going and how they’re going to get there, who’s got the inside info or some local connection, and how to avoid running afoul of the law. I’ve always felt that the overnight is essential to understanding a port, because every city has a seedy underbelly that one really has to get soiled by in order to understand the place. This particular overnight had the additional distinction of falling on the first weekend of the Copenhagen Jazz Festival, which made my night pretty straightforward: find music, dig, find way back. Ok, sounds easy, let’s give it a shot. Turns out the Copenhagen Jazz House of all places failed to book a live act for Saturday night, which I found pretty surprising, but me and the gang were given directions to another joint a few blocks away. It was a lovely early summer night, and as we were walking along, what should we see but a small basement bar specializing in that most literate of intoxicants, absinthe.
Now, my knowledge of this oft-misunderstood green goo was certainly lacking, but little did I know how little I knew. About an hour’s worth of “education” later, I now feel much more at home with the green fairy, and I can really see what all those artists liked about the stuff, even if it did cause them to eventually go insane. Now sporting glowing green wings, we found La Fontaine, a cozy little room not much bigger than my old stomping grounds, Dick’s Den, and only about three times as expensive. The music was as hot as the temperature, which is saying something, because packing 100 sweaty Norse jazz fans into a small enclosure doesn’t make for cool breezes. The good news, however, is that I was able to escape with my very own souvenir T-shirt, which I will proudly display as soon as I clean the beer stains out of it.
After a few tunes, the band closed out the set, and now quite ready for anything frosty, we stumbled into an Australian expat bar, complete with murals of kangaroos and apparently legendary Aussie athletes, and also thankfully complete with a full selection of tasty Aussie beer. As I was enjoying a Crown Lager, I felt a tap on the shoulder and a Danish-sounding “American?” I responded in the bar-friendly affirmative, and that’s how I entered my first international beer pong mini-tournament. I am proud to say that Uncle Sam’s pride is intact, because after a scalding four-cup victory, my Danish opponents tipped their hats to superior American firepower, or, depending on whom you ask, stumbled drunkenly out of the bar. Either way, I felt proud to have flown the stars and stripes in victory on July 4. As I always say: America—f*** yeah!
Only a few more days until I get another shot at the Danish night, and now that I have a good idea of what to expect, I think there is considerably more awesomeness in store. Stay tuned, go go gadget golem!
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| I think we all saw this coming. I’ve spilt gallons of virtual ink on the evils of shipboard sickness, most notably dealing with the thrice-accursed Norovirus, but given what’s been in the news, it was only a matter of time until the epic swine flu saga touched the cruise ship industry. At least, we think it has, maybe: there are a bunch of crew members sick with the flu (no passengers, thank Dog), and given that all crew are vaccinated against the normal flu, things would seem to point in that porcine direction. Naturally, we can’t come right out and say swine flu, because to do so would cause mass hysteria and conversion to Conservative Judaism, which, if I understand my cronies in the shops, would mean lower commission rates for all, and we can’t have that. This is a business, people, and I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that pandemics are bad for business. Unless your business is stands to profit from pandemics, in which case, bully for you. But for us ship folk, things have taken a turn for the weird.
A few posts ago, I mentioned in passing the quirks and idiosycracies of my boss, the illustrious Gordon Hough. Well, let me just say first off that this guy is the undisputed king of ship bandleaders. He has this boyish, jumpy enthusiasm for ballroom dance sets, which can become quite a drag without a source of levity, and Gordon has the unique ability to inject some life with his penchant for turning any tune into a polka, musical orthodoxy be damned. Incidentally, I’ve got some penance to do to the soul of Duke Ellington for what we did to “Take the A Train”. Unfortunately, after 22 years of perfect health aboard ships, Gordon has taken ill with the mysteriously flu-like affliction, leaving a gaping hole at the front of the band. In times like this, usually a senior member of the group will step up and take charge, and that’s precisely what didn’t happen. Instead, the onus has fallen on your humble typer. That’s right, kids, it’s Ari’s band now! For the last five days, I’ve been calling the tunes, directing the cuts, working the room from the microphone, and generally getting a taste of what it’s like at the top of the ship-musician totem. I’ve often been told that I’ve got a face for radio and a voice for a dentist’s waiting room, but now I finally get to put those skills into action. It really is quite enjoyable to address a throng of four to six elderly Asian ballroom dance enthusiasts, spurring them to new heights of cha-cha ecstasy. Calling the sets is less fun, although I get to exert my preference a bit, which means no more “Spanish Eyes” or “Satin Doll”. But what it really boils down to is this: if I had to do all this with the band on the fly, and also be a corporate representative, I think the music would start to lose a lot of flavor for me. It’s fun to fill in, but heavy lies the crown: Gordon can keep this gig.
This whole flu mess has also resulted in a totally unprecedented step to stop the spread of illness. I’ve been through a few nasty Noro outbreaks, but even then, the higher-ups wouldn’t have dares this: the closure of the source of all light and goodness aboard a ship, the one bastion of freedom and normalcy. Dog help us, they closed the crew bar! Engine room staff are clawing at the door like zombies for a beer, the smokers are irritable and dangerous, and worst of all, there’ a total lack of crappy Eurotrash techno music. It’s more than a man can stand, and it gets better. Mother Russia, in yet another example of her welcoming, open nature, has deemed the flu cases on board a public safety hazard and cancelled all crew shore leave for our overnight. Additionally, as I understand it, all passengers who disembark in St. Petersburg will have a temperature scan, followed by a questionnaire and some light punching, in order to ensure that they are not carrying a potentially dangerous smile. Us crew, meanwhile, have had to find ways to fill 48 hours on a ship with fewer than our usual complement of passengers, a closed bar, but still retaining our passenger area privileges. The inmates are now running the asylum, ladies and gentlemen. We are basically serving ourselves in the bars and restaurants, because we’ve already sucked all the booze out of the carpet in the hallway, and because it’s the only way certain functional alcoholics among us can get along. Also, since the weather has warmed up a bit, we’re lounging about the pool areas like a bunch of well-fed CPA’s and retired army officials. It’s all a bit surreal, really. I’ll be happy when I can once again hear the mellifluous sound of sandals lifting off a floor sticky with congealed cigarette smoke and bottom-shelf vodka.
Isn’t that all just a ray of sunshine? I know you’re all feeling a deep sense of empathy and human brotherhood from your work desks or Blackberry’s or wherever it is people read things on the net these days. I read things on the net in the comfort of my cabin, after I’ve cut and pasted the text from the website to a clipboard. I do this in order to save precious minutes on my internet card, and I’m mentioning this only as a sort of love note to unlimited wi-fi access. I think it’s pretty self-instructive that I don’t miss TV or driving, but I certainly do miss riding the open range of the interweb frontier. It’s a bit of point of contention among the crew as to who can find the best possible wi-fi spot in each port. I think I’ve won for this hip little joint here in Tallinn, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to drop heavy kroner in Norway or Denmark just for a quick surf. I’m not that addicted, I swear.
There’s some exciting stuff on the horizon in the next week: the gala re-opening of the crew bar, a new port of call in Warnemunde, Germany, and the Copenhagen Jazz Festival Overnight Extravaganza. That’s gonna be a doozy of a post once I’ve digested all that tasty experience, but here’s a little something from Helsinki that I thought was funny. So we’re docked near this little shoreside park, and it’s the first warm day of the season. All along the dock, the boatmen are having their season-opening gala, complete with booths selling army-fatigue highwaters, fishing tackle, and hats with slogans that are probably funny in Finnish. It’s your basic Canfield Fair-style get together, and what should be playing on the loudspeaker but Lynrd Skynrd? It just goes to show: hicks the world over love them some Skynrd. Stay tuned, go Cavs front office!
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