Cruisin' with Jews

A frosty Sunday morning in Portland. 34 degrees and clear. I walk around the neighborhood with my dog. It is very quiet - most folks are probably still in bed.

Dylan and I arrived home last night, tired from 12 hours of travelling. It was a fine vacation, full of indulgence and a few genuine laughs.

The first day, in Pasadena, I spent in bed, coughing, sniffling, sleeping, and blowing my nose. It must have been time well spent, since I felt noticeably better the next day, when we drove to San Diego.

The check-in process at the cruise terminal went quickly, and there we were, on board a 12 story floating hotel with 1800 guests and 800 staff. As we enjoyed our first drink, the ship pulled out of the harbor and San Diego shrank into a line of twinkling lights. There were 14 in our group, covering all major age categories from 12 to 95.

We spent two days at sea, getting familiar with the ship layout and giving in to the enforced over-eating, before arriving in Puerto Vallarta early the third morning. This period was the final run-up to Christmas, and the incessant Christmas music on the loud-speakers was really getting to me. After all, when you're hearing 'Jingle Bell Rock' for the 5th time in one day, while trying to read and enjoy the sun on the pool deck, one's teeth begin to grind.

The morning after Christmas, I was out on deck, and 'White Christmas' started playing again. I marched down to the Main Desk and reminded them that it was time to change the music. The lady there shrugged helplessly, and it was not until the next day that I realized that we had finally returned to the classic Ship music: Bob Marley, the Beach Boys, and 'Margaritaville'. What a relief.

In Puerto Vallarta, Karen, Dylan and I had signed up for a shore excursion, and were led thru the process of getting off the boat and connected with the group. We were driven in a bus to a country hamlet north of town. As we headed out, the bus-guy-with-the-mike said, "on your right, you see the US embassy." It was a Wal*Mart. I liked that.

A bit later, after we hit the boonies, he said we were about to pass an exclusive condo community, where they specialize in aroma therapy. It was a prison. Mexican humor.

We parked at what looked suspiciously like a tourist-trap (later confirmed) where, after a brief orientation, we headed out for a morning hike in the Sierra Madre foothills surrounding the town.

It was actually somewhat strenuous at the outset, climbing a steep hillside. The guide was a 'rah-rah' kind of tour leader, and Karen detested his enthusiasm. The trail wound up to and around a ridge, with more ups and downs. At one point, we had a brief view of a lovely valley, but the leader pressed us onward. He was pretty good about pointing out the local medicinal plants and trees, which was interesting, and seemed to know his stuff, then hurried us along.

After an hour or so of hiking, we descended steeply into a lush river valley, where we had a few minutes to dangle our feet in a pretty enclosure of warm, volcanic-heated water, before walking back, along the river, to a truck which took us back to the tourist-trap. It was a nice hike - great to stretch those leg muscles, walk thru the dense foliage, and breath the clean air.

The guide had urged us to keep up a brisk pace on the hike, saying that we'd probably have 10 minutes before getting back on the bus to return to the cruise terminal, but those 10 minutes extended into a couple of hours. They did have a cantina there, with real mexican ladies making real mexican tortillas, and the lunch that was served us was actually terrific: imagine four delicious chicken tacos, with peppers, homemade salsas, guacamole, and beans, plus two cokes (Karen and Dylan) and two beers (me) - all for $5.

After that nice lunch, we obviously had plenty of time to visit the many craft and trinket booths. Karen bought some cool stuff while Dylan moped (he didn't enjoy the hike) and I listened to the three-man mariachi band hoping to get some tips. It was two young guys (guitar and bass) and an older guy (alto sax) - a somewhat unusual combination. Their first couple of tunes were standard mexican cliches, but I couldn't help noticing that the sax player was contributing some very creative and thoughtful licks - quite a bit more musically sophisticated than what the others were playing.

They took a break and, after a short pause, the sax player picked up his horn and, seemingly out of nowhere, played, as a solo, the lovely old jazz standard "Poor Butterfly." It was gorgeous and moving, and I doubt anyone there appreciated it as I did. I was happy to deposit a couple of bucks in the tip jar, before they nodded and moved on. This was a real unexpected pleasure.

Back at the boat dock, Dylan decided he'd seen enough of Mexico for one day, and returned to the ship. Karen and I grabbed a taxi and headed into Puerto Vallarta. We have been there twice before - once, I believe, even before we were married - certainly before Ben was born. I had the driver drop us off at the little zocolo in front of the cathedral, and instantly remembered having been there, many years before, eating an ice cream by the large iron bandstand in the center of the square.

The two of us browsed around the neighborhood, without any particular goal. It was hot but not humid, and great to be there, surrounded by the many sights of a mexican town. As we crossed the foot-bridge over the river, we spotted Karen's aunt and cousin strolling towards us. It was nice to see familiar faces, and we spent the rest of the afternoon with them, the four of us enjoying the archeological museum and shops on the island (which was certainly not that developed and pleasant 20 years ago). Eventually, it was Happy Hour and we found a quiet, riverside bar, where Rion and I had mango margaritas. It was genuinely splendid being there.

Soon, though, it was time to head back to the ship. We found the bus stop, then the correct bus, as it made its way thru the very noisy, crowded streets. So, it cost Karen and me $9 to take a cab from the ship into town, and the four of us about $2 to take the bus back.

A half-hour later, we were back in Luxury Land, watching the golden glow of the late afternoon sun on the hills behind town, and get ready for yet another massive dinner, with the rest of the cruise community. Nice day.

The next morning, we woke up docked at Mazatlan. It's always amazing how this happens. Rion and I were up early, and felt ready to get going into town. I left Karen a note, saying that we would try to be at the Plaza Machado at noon, then the two of us headed off.

It was early morning in a real working mexican city. Our immediate goal was the looming Pacifico brewery, to see if we could get in a tour. It was a long walk, but pleasant, and we eventually approached a line of American tourists, by the door. Alas, we were informed that their rules prohibited shorts, backpacks, and several other things that we had with us, so no tour for us. Rion was disappointed, since this was one of his goals for the day.

Instead, we headed into the old part of town, to the large public market, which was by then humming with morning business. The fruit and vegetable stands were colorful and attractive, but I was there to see meat, and I was not disappointed. There were entire carcasses, in various stages of dismemberment. There were skinned cow heads, pig heads, and piles of animal parts that I could not recognize. There is nothing in the world like a Mexican meat market. I took some photos, but haven't yet had the stomach to view them.

The cathedral was just a couple of blocks away and we headed there, although I was certain that we would not be permitted to enter, dressed casually as we were. Surprisingly, I was only admonished to remove my cap, and we joined the throngs of worshipers and tourists, inside the cavernous, lavishly decorated church. Mexico never fails to surprise: shorts were OK in God's house, but not in the brewery.

The morning was advancing. We found the Plaza Machado, surrounded by restored 19-century buildings, with ornate metal-work. One of the guidebooks I had consulted recommended it as nice place to sit.

It was just a few blocks to the ocean, and on the way there, there was supposed to be an Archeological museum. It was, alas, closed, but we did check out an adjacent art-gallery, with a small, curious, exhibit of mostly-modern stuff, many pieces with religious symbols (after all, this was Mexico).

A nearby Internet cafe provided a chance to check email and dash off short notes to various family and friends back home. It was just over a dollar for an hour of time - a real bargain after using the .55/minute ship Internet.

Back at the Plaza Machado, I pulled out my book and spent a quiet 45 minutes reading and people-watching, before I was joined by a bunch of family members, including Karen and Dylan.
Enough of us were hungry to make lunch a priority, so we headed back to the waterfront, where we found outdoor seating at 'El Shrimp Bucket' (est. 1963). It was a gorgeous day, and we savored the breeze, the ocean views, and the wonderful ceviche, fish tacos, tortilla soup, and several beers.

Dylan and Leah headed to the beach, while Karen and I did a little more sightseeing before returning to the beach. We played there in the waves and sand for a while, but soon it was time to head back to the ship. We hailed a passing tourist-truck, negotiated a price ($5) and he drove us back to the terminal.

A great day in Mazatlan. We had been there many years ago, but had, inexplicably, never seen the old part of town. This was turning into a great vacation.

The next morning, we were docked at Cabo San Lucas. However, due to engine trouble on the boat, they had drastically shortened our time ashore to a measly 4 hours. Karen and I walked very slowly with Sylvia, Karen's 95 year-old Mom, and didn't cover a lot of ground before we all headed back. Dylan, however, spent the morning sleeping late and watching TV in his room, which makes my son able to truthfully state that he's probably the only American who has visited Cabo San Lucas twice, without ever actually seeing it (the first time we were there, 19 years ago, he was still a fetus).

After leaving Cabo at mid-day on Thursday, we had the rest of that day and all day Friday on the boat, slowly making our way back to San Diego, where we docked early Saturday morning (was that just yesterday?). There were the usual dinners, chance encounters with family members, spectacular sunsets, cheesy ship activities (our family team was 2nd in the final, fiercely-competitive Team Trivia challenge), and simple lie-in-the-sun-and-do-nothing on the Aft pool deck.

Cruising is certainly a comfortable, odd way to spend a vacation. It's absurd, articifical, and horribly wasteful in terms of food and energy. In the future, people may look back on this institution, and shake their heads in total bewilderment. It would only increase that sense of unreality if they were to witness, on the next-t0-last-night, the Parade of Baked Alaskas, each with a lit sparkler.

Saturday morning, the process to get off the boat went very quickly, and the Customs folks simply collected our standard one-per-family form before waving us thru - no passport check or anything resembling identity-verification. We got back to where we parked the cars, drove to Pasadena, and, an hour later, Karen drove Dylan and me to the Burbank airport. She is staying there, helping her Mom, until tomorrow afternoon.

Dylan and I got home around 8:30 pm, and the dog was overjoyed at our return. After a couple of hours, Dylan announced he was heading off, and I don't expect to see him until tomorrow afternoon (just talked to him on the phone).

Today, I have had the entire place to myself (and the dog). We took two walks in the neighborhood, I did a little cooking and a lot of laundry and reading. It's New Years Eve, and the plans we had to get together with friends fell thru, so it's pretty quiet. I have to go to the airport in an hour, to pick up my neice, Leah, then return home for a quiet, solo evening.

So, having completed my third cruise, how do I feel about it? I admit that I've always been pleased to talk disparagingly about this form of vacation, as totally artificial, self-indulgent, and resource-wasteful. It is all these things, but, I have to say, it was a fun week, with a lot of laughs, great sights (both sailing and at the ports-of-call), and family fun.

However, one of my long-standing fantasies was shattered. I have always thought that being the piano-player on a cruise-ship would be a great life. You get to play for people who have been drinking for days and enjoy the air and sights of ocean travel. What could be better?

Well, one night toward the end of the cruise, Dylan and I found ourselves in one of the lavish lounges around 10:30 pm. It was mostly deserted, except for the piano-player, who was pounding out Beatle songs. Soon, he took a break, stepped away from the (digital) piano, turned on the recorded music, and walked off. I approached and asked if I could play a little, and he said (with a thick Russian accent) 'sure.' I played a few bars of 'Cheek to Cheek', and he came over.

"This piano is shit," he sneered, "I hate it." This was my opportunity to find out how wonderful his job was, so I asked a few questions. Turns out that he has to play 5 hours a day, mostly in that one lounge. He repeated that he hated this piano, that it sounded awful. I asked him if he was free to play whatever he wanted, and he said 'yes', but that the guests always asked him to play the same five tunes, the most-frequent being 'As Time Goes By.' "I hate it," he said, again and again.

I asked him how often he got off the boat and he looked at me as if I was crazy. After a little more of this, we left him, an angry, frustrated prisoner of the cruise-line. It was a revelation.

The next night, Karen and I strolled past the midnight dessert buffet (an amazing assortment of goodies, with chocolate fountains, ice sculptures, butter sculptures, etc). Over in the corner, I saw the same piano player, at another electronic keyboard. He played 'Killing Me Softly with his Song', and the sound quality was awful. Then, there was a fanfare, and the announcer made a big announcement, about all the chefs and the goodies they had created, and how wonderful everything was. There was a smattering of applause, before the crowd returned to attacking the trays.

There was a brief pause, and then the piano-player launched into 'As Time Goes By.' Karen and I passed him on the way out. He and I made eye-contact and I know he recognized me from our chat the prior evening, as he nodded, as if to say "I know you understand what I'm going thru".

There was hopelessness on his face, as we left the area.


Time to head for the airport. Happy New Year, everybody.