Captain’s Blog 2018 – Page 2

Captain’s Log-Day 4. The Cuban Missus Crisis.

Traveling with the Ancient.

Without having to raft the 90 miles back to Miami, we are in the middle of the Ocean back to Miami. Although my Mom drove me nuts with the continual loss and subsequent finding of her sunglasses, I will not be seeking asylum just yet. My mom almost stayed behind in Cuba, when the Navy tried to recruit her to help them interrogate terrorists at Guantanamo Bay Prison in an operation they dubbed Abu Gab; in which my mother would torture the various terrorists by telling them what each tenant of her Senior Living Complex had for dinner for the past 4 years. Frankly, I’ve been subjected to this slowly a la Chinese Water Torture-style slowly over the past 4 years and have confessed to things I’m innocent of just to not hear about Evelyn’s overcooked tilapia for the 1000th time.

We spent the day on the ship, as we had enough of Havana. Havana is like visiting Lola at the Copa, Copacabana, but that was 30 years ago, when they used to have a show. She sits in the dress she used to wear with faded flowers in her hair. While there are many vibrant things about Havana like the old cars, sections of the city look like we actually won in the Bay of Pigs Invasion. Either that or there was a major fire at the Cohiba Factory. As most workers make a Cuban Peso a day and, as I mentioned, it costs a peso to use the bano, it’s ironic that we couldn’t flush communism out of Cuba.

On another sad note, the Ancient has declared that this will be her last trip. I’m pretty sure that she’ll still want to cruise, but probably won’t get off the ship on future voyages. I do have an unexpected new travel partner though in my mom’s walker. Her tricked out walker was somehow filmed in the foreground of every evening show performance that they televise into the cabin. It does a great rhumba, had the run of the craps table, and was the life of the White Night Party. It’s either bring that or try to do a reunion special with Janet Reno and Elian Gonzalez.

Finally, as I cross back to our fortunate lives in the US of A, I am thinking of the late great Mrs. Toralbles, who as a baby, fled to America with her family for a better life. More than rum, more than cigars, more than mojitos, she was the best thing to come out of Cuba.

Hasta Luego, until Scotland in a few weeks!

Captain’s Log-Day 1. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

We are off and the disparity of our travel begins. Mr. Golden Underwear will be traveling 1st Class in a fully flat sleeper seat attributing his need to be in First Class to his clotting disorder rather than admitting his version of the mile-high club is to be swaddled in airplane blankets. Meanwhile, I’ll be traveling in veal class where I expect to lose circulation in my right leg somewhere near crossing the Greenwich Time Zone. Our trip preparation also reflects this class difference. While I packed us as if we we were actually going to the New World with steamer trunks not forgetting to pack provisions and essentials that might allow us to start a new life abroad, Scott packed his computer. While I did about 7452 things today multitasking since 6 am finishing work, ensuring that lists for Quake’s and our home care are done, and ensuring that I hadn’t inadvertently packed a neighbor’s child in our sizable luggage, Mr. Golden Underwear picked up sandwiches for our inflight dinner and then readied himself for his fully extended bed in the sky by taking a nap, while I stressed and toiled. Mr. Golden Undies then reflected on how his sandwich was unnecessary, since Flight attendants would be feeding him grapes by hand along with dinner in his fare class level. He took it anyway feeling like he could provide entertainment for his fellow 1st class travelers prior to landing by throwing the sandwich into veal class to watch us fight for it like gladiators in the Holy Roman Empire. Well, we are boarding soon. Mr. Golden Underwear has been trying to push me across the velvet ropes into my respective lesser boarding group. He’s assured me that he will turn me into the Air Marshall’s, if I attempt to visit him in his luxury bubble in 1st or dare to use their royal bidet. Will look forward to our 1st post from Paris. Bye from now from my seat inside the overhead bin!

I interrupt this Captain’s log for a public service announcement. While about 4 hours into flight, as I Netflixed without the chill, I looked up and saw an Asian man coming from the bathroom start to collapse, as his wife held him. I asked if they needed help & she said yes, so I jumped out of my chair looking for the call button. When I couldn’t find it, I ran up the aisles screaming for help without seeing a flight attendant. Finally, a woman jumped up and called on the phone, as they called for a dr. When I returned to my seat, the guy was totally unresponsive with his eyes not normal. Three doctors and 4 stewardesses worked on him with lights, blood pressure, and oxygen. He was out cold for at least 10 minutes. They dribbled orange juice into his mouth just as I thought we’d land in Newfoundland (the Paris of Greenland?). He was definitely hypoglycemic and came around after a 1/2 hour. So, just so everyone knows, on newer plans, the call button might be in the individual tv screens or just pick up a phone by the flight attendant chair. Of course, after it was all over about 30-45 minutes later, I walked to 1st class in case Mr. Golden Underwear heard my screams and was worried only to find him totally unresponsive sleeping blissfully away after his meal and hot towel.

Captain’s Log-Day 2. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

After unfolding my body from the overhead bin and having circulation return to my feet, I reunited with a well rested, Mr. Golden Underwear. After some sleep, we embarked upon sightseeing in gay Pariee, but must’ve signed up for the straight tours. We walked all over the Champs De Elyse to the Eiffel Tower, which surprisingly looks just like the one in Las Vegas, but without the free lardass buffet. Walking we met a gypsy woman, who happened to find a solid gold ring on the ground, after explaining that she can’t wear rings for religious reasons, she gave me the ring, then walked away. She quickly returned asking for a few Euros for a sandwich. Well, it must’ve been the lack of sleep, but I was the ultimate rube making Scott give her 10 Euros. You’d of thought I would’ve learned my lessons from Cher in the early 70s singing about gypsies, tramps, and thieves. I may also become the owner of a few stories of the Eiffel Tower, if my real estate transaction with that lovely Somalian Realtor goes through. Either way, I get to keep the complimentary selfie stick that came with the deal.

Next, as we are staying in a Starwood hotel and I am the Platinum Princess, I was given a free harbor cruise as an amenity, so I’m now financially up from the gypsy faux pas (while in Paris, screw up like the French) and am ahead 90 Euros on the free cruise. Best of all, we got it without having to listen to a timeshare presentation at Euro Disney.

On our walk, we past an exhibit in a museum in tribute to Dr. Louis Pasteur. In a banner behind Scott, it turns out Pasteur fought for safe milk not with a germ busting process, but with a mean upper left cut. Perhaps instead of Dr. Louis Pasteur perhaps the disease was actually fought by French favorite, Dr. Jerry Lewis Pasteur with a batch of flubber!

Captain’s Log-Day 3. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

Today, after a walk to the Grand Palais and Louvre, we went to visit my scoliotic cousin, Quasimodo at Notre Dame. While his name might ring some bells, I took the opportunity to pose for this Quasiphoto, as I’m at least 25 years away from a Dowager’s hump. Scott got in on the action growing a nice cyst on his cheek to have him become the hunchcheek of Notre Dame, as we simply naming his new growth, Chic’. After collapsing in our beautiful suite and not eating the macarons, as they pale next to macaroons, we headed to dinner at a famous bistro in St Germaine de Pais. I could pais on their food. Their Michelin star rating came from the rubbery texture of its steak. As we say in Paris, C’est La Vie!

Captain’s Log-Day 4. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

Today, was about dimensions-heights, increasing widths, and depths. The increasing widths will come from the French cuisine with today featuring all French foods appropriated for 70s key parties including crepes, quiche, French Onion Soup, Croquet Monseuirre, and Creme Brûlée. We only missed fondue, which like in “This Is Us’s” crockpot likely caused a few fromage flare ups. The creme brûlée was so awesome that instead of having a nightmare of falling through the ice to my death, I have a new fantasy of being in a giant vat and eating my way up before breaking through the caramelized surface. As for heights, we climbed to the top of the Arc De Triumph, which truly is a triumph for claustrophobic asthmatics. For those of you who think Scott has shrunken and is now living in my nautilus necklace, it’s actually the nauseating spiral staircases built for the height of its Commissioner, Napoleon. Our next height took us to the top of the Eiffel Tower for a guided tour with other Americans. Here’s where we hit our depth, as the former Cash Cab King and Queen, answered every question posed to the group by our tour guide on French history, architecture, and art. Despite the depth of our knowledge, we won nothing but the disdain of our fellow Americans, who couldn’t tell a French fry from a pomme frite. We ended the day storming Bastille to the Place de Vosges. I’m just thinking from inside the box when planning tomorrow, but from these dimensions of height x width x depth, I’m prepared to see Picasso’s cubism tomorrow and perhaps an annoying mime getting out of an imaginary box.

Captain’s Log-Day 5. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

Today was all about Art-Shout out my Waldwick Art Teachers, Mrs. Michelson, Karen LeGere, and Mr. Zacco. After my own art dreams were dashed when I could only make art of the one subject I could draw, my Dachshund, Zeesa. I carved my muse in linoleum block, in copper, made her from pasta, drawn in craypas, and formed in clay, I became more of an art appreciator than an artist. Today, I saw many of the masterpieces from the game, Masterpiece. Although my college transcript reports that I got an A in Art History, I believe that I got the grade of the other Karen Kaplan at my school, as I never saw art in my 4 years at Binghamton unless you count some of my guy friends peeing their names in the snow. Anyway, today we went to the Picasso Museum. All morning, I felt like my nose was on my cheek, then I felt blue, before feeling like I just needed to think a bit more out of the box or cube. After that, Scott and I split up. No, we didn’t take on French lovers. He went to the Musee of des Armes (the Art of War?) and I went to the Musee d’ Orsay, which houses many of the masters with a focus on Impressionism. Waiting on line behind an obnoxious American women and her entitled daughters for 1/2 hour, I got into Impressionism, as they impressed me as all that’s wrong with America. If only they were more like a needle in a Monet haystack. As they say art is timeless, which I think is due to all the nudity. Sure, it’s rare to find someone in repose these days wearing a fig leaf, but had Renoir or Degas painted people wearing hoodies and falling down the asscrack jeans, they’d look back and be glad that they opted for well placed scarfs. Kim Kardashian (who never created anything) might be so angry that Vinny Van Gogh got more likes on this selfie that she might’ve cut her ass cheek off to keep up with him in the media. I also saw my 4th Statue of Liberty today (in the museum, in the Seine, in Nice, & the big green lady in NYC). Can you say knockoff? We ended the day in Montemarte, an artistic community, from back in the day that these museum guys were just making their 1st impressions. Then, off to Moulin Rouge, where we sang the ShopRite Can-Can sale song before making impressions in our pillows.

Captain’s Log-Day 6. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

Today was a travel day, as we left Paris for a short stint in Lisbon. As is pictured, Scott truly is Magellan and must’ve had mad pin the tail on the donkey skills as a boy, as he could’ve never have been in a place before and he’s say, “we have to go North, then West” and we would magically end up where we needed to go. When he was given a map of the metro, you’d think he was being given a Louis XIII gilded chair, he was so excited. Yet, we’d pop up out of a Metro station, walk a bit, and be exactly where we needed to be.

I recognize that the European me is pretty much the direct opposite of the NYC me in so many ways. In European cities, I stop to take pictures of buildings knowing in my heart that I’ll never look at these pics again, but they’ll make transferring to a new iPhone so much slower a year or 2 from now. At home, I walk by NYC landmarks with the same enthusiasm as passing a Sunoco Station. In Europe, I walk 8-9 miles a day. At home, I wish to win MegaMillions so I can hire someone to carry me around the city in a onesie snuggle suit on a cold day. In Europe, I take the metro. In NYC, I view the subway as if “Beneath the Planet of the Apes” is a real thing (no shout out to racist Roseanne). I’m a surface person all around. I even chose to drive over bridges vs tunnels, you damn dirty ape!

Paris was certainly fantastic, but with few exceptions. It turns out the Hunchback of Notre Dame never had a hump, but was perpetually hunched over lighting up cigarette-after-cigarette like many of his countrymen. Pepe La Pew to all the smoking. I’m not sure if it’s the retaliation against Trump’s tariffs, but you’d think there has to be an embargo on ketchup in this country. They dole it out as infrequently as their warmth towards tourists, yet is a city that serves fries pretty much with every meal. However, I do give them credit, especially the men, that so many of them walk around with baguettes sticking out of their backpacks, while in the US we act like gluten is the second coming of Ted Bundy (I’ll avoid the bad cereal killer joke).

Anyway, we got Lisbon; which they call Lisboa. It’s fairly obnoxious that we don’t call countries and cities by the names they call themselves. It’s like meeting someone at work who says, “Call me Teddy” and we dumb Americans say, “Sure, Ed!”. We had dinner in a wine cellar that used to be a port winery. Beautiful city, but while we were in Rossio Square, we were asked 3 times if we wanted to buy Cocaine. Even European traveling me doesn’t follow those white lines.

Captain’s Log-Day 7. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

Slow day, as we boarded our ship for the next 10 days and left Lisbon for our next stop, Porto. With the average age of the passengers on this cruise being in the low 70s, we’re kind of feeling like we walked into a brochure for a community for active seniors. For some reason, one of the excursions is to be in a Colonial Penn Life Insurance Commercial with Alex Trebec. Instead of gathering around the piano bar, they hover round it in their electric scooters. 1/12th of the passengers have been on the ship, since Australia 92 days ago. We met one of these couples and the guy actually referenced his Fidelity portfolio, so they were basically a mirage in your 401K journey. As pictured, budding author, Scott Twomey, wants to write one of his novels that teem with ass violence on a future 2030 world cruise, but by then his protagonist, Jim Deacon, will be so worried about his prostate that he might not be able to tune up a few drug lords like in his first 2 novels. Our waiter from Croatia told us that this cruise is different, since the guests have manners. Dorothy, we aren’t on Carnival anymore!

Captain’s Log-Day 8. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

After 22 years of marriage and 27 together, Scott almost left me for his dream cone. She melted his heart by simply melting in the Porto sun. Porto is known as the city of bridges having a total of 8, while NYC is not known at all for having many more than 8. Interestingly, the home’s fronts are tiled just like this church. After getting tough port wine stains off of his front door, Mr. Clean became a national hero. We learned that both Cro Magnan and Neanderthal Man both hailed from Portugal, yet Portugal the Man hails from Alaska. Our DNA is only 12% different from those early men, yet with the average age of our fellow cruisers being near 75, some of them got alerted by Ancestry.com that Phil Neanderthal is likely a 2nd or 3rd cousin match to them (not to mention each being part of the sites data breach). Goodbye to Portugal, as we fight rough seas towards England and France. As with both Portugal the Country and Portugal the Man, I Feel It Still.

Captain’s Log-Day 9. Invasion of the Ugly Americans.

Traveling with Mr. Golden Underwear.

We are adrift on the North Atlantic with the Day at Sea. While I referred to my flight to Paris, as veal class, our day truly simulated that as we were confined to our small quarters and force fed until we couldn’t move sadly much like a baby calf. While not exactly milk fed, Scott did take a turn under the tap of the soft ice cream machine. When I called my mom, it dawned on me that our day schedule on the ship mirrors that of her independent/assisted living facility. Much like their residents, we have assistance with driving, meals, and housekeeping. We both have bingo-check ☑️. (Simulation pictured). We both have checkers-Bingo! Although we went to the gym, it may as well have been chair yoga, as it’s hard to keep your balance on a rocking ship. It’s like doing crunches with bed spins. While we passed on the line dancing lessons, trivia contests, and art lectures, somewhere in Boca Del Vista, there’s the cruise ship B Team teaching the Macarena and the Electric Slide to some Golden Girls. While we are certainly decades away from the everyday veal experience, aside from bailing on a performance of “Some Enchanted Evening” that my Mom would groove to, it was a pretty good relaxing day. However, I did order the veal weiner schnitzel for dinner to punctuate our lardass day.