Jan 21 2010 off of Baja California

Where to begin? We are in about six foot seas, and though it was sunny and rough this morning, it’s now very grey and ominous. It’s raining and the deck is really pitching. We’re sailing into the storm system that’s pounding California.

The seas are rough enough that last night the crew stacked the chairs and lounges and tied some down. The pools have been drained, and the stage show was cancelled last night because one of the dancers fell and was injured. Barf bags have appeared in racks at the elevators, and earlier today a glass overturned here in the stateroom. The Captain got on the PA this afternoon to tell us that it’s too rough to put on a harbor pilot in San Diego, so he will, as he put it, “come into the harbor as if we are hitting the Number 3 wire on an aircraft carrier” by plowing through the harbor entrance at full speed to counteract the swells at 0530.It’s pretty cool, actually.

Outide of tidal data that I can pull off of my gps, though, good weather info is hard to come by. The stuff coming from the bridge is computerized and some of it is very wrong, and I don’t know if I should trust anything else. It’s probably in the low 60s outside. There are force I gale winds coming across the bow, which accounts for the swells running perpendicular to our course. It’s fun to watch people stagger back and forth across the hallways, a little less so to do it myself.

I’m dreading going back to work. I really want to work. I love my profession. I miss working, but I don’t miss the environment that I’ve been in, and the more I analyze it, the more dysfunctional it appears, much to my dismay. But there is no time to rest or even recover from this trip. Friday I leave the boat and fly to Sac, find my car and drive home to wash clothes before leaving Sat morning for Railtown, home Sat night then off to training on Sunday afternoon.

Jan 17 2010 off the Mexican Coast

Tonight is the first night of a waxing moon off to the NW, a roughly northern NE wind, and about three foot swells. Here at 2215, the swells are starting to rock the boat some. I’ll enjoy it if it gets a bit worse as the night progresses. Early this morning, we did some definite rockin’ and rollin’ and the captain put out a stablizer of some sort. Even so, waves were spraying over the rail and I got drenched while doing laps at 0715. At the pier later in the day I looked up and it seems like about 25 feet to the rail from the waterline. Looking down it only seems like about ten feet, very deceptive. It was pretty cool to hang at the rail and watch the waves break. The boat was mostly crossing the waves at about a 75 degree angle, and there was lots of spray and displacement in both dimensions. In the midst of all this, I briefly saw a whale, and a few minutes later, a school of dolphins. Very cool! The other fun thing was watching people walking. A lot of people like to do morning laps, but today people seemed to mysteriously disappear indoors when they got to the wet side of the deck. If they weren’t being sprayed directly, they were being dripped on from the lifeboats or the deck above, and I have to admit that my walk wasn’t nearly as much fun after I got soaked.

We put in today to Hualtico, a pretty white sand beach in a small bay ringed with cliffs where the scrub is being rapidly replaced by condos with Century 21 signs. Such a shame.

But we took a cab into Santa Cruz, a few miles inland, and it sort of changes my overall dislike of Mexico. It’s a pretty little town with a central plaza with lovely flowers and nice shade trees. Concrete and plaster buildings with the usual hotels, cafes, craft shops and a Catholic Church. It’s a bit rundown like many Mexican towns, but clean and peaceful. There are the usual assortment of very aggressive shills (we got hit up by a cab driver as we were exiting a cab, fer cryin’ out loud!), but “gracias, no” seems to take care of it most of the time. The most persistent ones were selling silver, or something similar to it that they called silver.

We walked out of the tourista area into a neighborhood, and people were actually quite friendly. Karen bought some Mexican toothpaste at a Farmacia, and I wonder if she doesn’t now have to rinse with Mexican water. At a taqueria on another block, a chimney was putting out a LOT of white smoke, enough to announce a new Pope actually, and it filled the air with a wonderful smell of chicken, but it must be annoying to the people living in the area. It looked like it filled up their apartments as well. Lots of small cars, but even more small motorcycles, often with three people riding by. Seems crazy to me, but what do I know?

It was in the mid 80s today, pretty warm, but even this short distance inland it was less humid and the air actually felt pretty nice. Sitting under the shade trees in the plaza was really pleasant. There was a crippled pigeon, though, hobbling around on one normal foot, one leg without a foot. He or she seemed to mostly be doing all right.

The Catholic Church surprised me. It was only built and consecrated in 2000, and there’s no indication of whatever prior Church was there. On the other hand, it was next door to the Hotel Flamboyant (insert whatever joke you want here.)

In the Hualtico Crafts Museum were two men working looms to create wall hangings. One of them spoke pretty good English, and when I mentioned I was from California, he told me that he had worked as a farm laborer near Stockton (peaches, cherries) and Fresno (grapes.) He had also worked for a Japanese manufacturing company in Chicago, of all places, but much preferred life here. It was fun to watch him at the loom. Whatever pattern he was working on must have been something he’s done before, because he was building a diamond shape mostly by feel while he talked with me. The other man was studying a pattern and counting strands of wool, but both were very quick with the loom and bobbins, and it was interesting to watch them work. I’ve seen people weaving in several house museums, and they are obviously amateurs because these people were a lot faster and more confident than the other weavers I’ve seen. It was almost, but not quite enough to make me want to buy something, but I just cant come up with any good reason to have this material. I would like a hammock, but I’ve no place to hang one.

Last night I had dinner in the Pinnacle, which is the upscale eating establishment on the ship. It was quite good, with broiled vegetables and a pear gaspacho that was just right, but Keith (the most uninteresting man in the world) and his mentor, Joe, were across the room, so I had yet another chance to listen to Keith’s B.S. with a new wait staff. Keith, of course, likes to tell wait staff that he worked his way through college as a chef in a four star restaurant, and he badgers the wine steward to show his in-depth knowledge of wine. The new quip at this dinner was when he told the waiter that his wife knows that, if there’s a problem that he [Keith] can’t handle, then it can’t be handled. Sheesh!

After he and Joe left, I got a chance to chat with my waiter, who comes from Istanbul on a seven month contract. He’s the first person I’ve ever talked to about Turkey who has ever gotten me interested in visiting there. According to him, it’s very green and verdant and quite a lovely place.

I chatted with another waiter from Indonesia this morning. He’s always wanted to work in a fine restaurant, and is seven weeks in to this job, and having the time of his life. I never know how much to believe these guys. They are under strict orders never to complain or really provide much detail about their jobs. I’m always impressed by the discipline they seem to have in keeping their game face on.

Speaking of staff, I stumbled on a another midnight basketball game the other night, between Filipino hotel staff and Indonesian restaurant staff. It was all apparently in good fun, but very passionate. Everyone I see being very professional during the day has a different off-duty face and body language, and it must be quite a treat to be able to let loose like this.

In the morning, we put in at Acapulco, which I heartily dislike, but I’m going on a bus excursion to some ruins tomorrow for something that is promised to be archaeological in nature. Hopefully it will keep me away from the most aggressive shills for crap, and it’s an hour from port, so it’ll get me away from Acapulco, which is filthy, shabby and ugly. Most of the old farts will either go to cliff diving or some such nonsense, so it should be a good day. In the meantime, it’s time for sleep.

Jan 13 2010 Panama Crossing

Crossed through the Canal today, and it was quite lovely compared to doing this in 2001. It was about ten degrees cooler, and there was a breeze, quite different than the last time I was here.

The crossing also seemed faster than in 01. Maybe there are fewer ships due to the global recession. Maybe I’m wrong. But last time, it took the entire day to make the crossing—we had dinner off of Panama City. This time we were several miles out before the sun set. No matter.

The Canal is, of course, one of the great engineering achievements of the world, and though a lot has been modernized, and new locks are being built that will handle larger ships (they’re being built in a place where we cannot see them), what we see today is very similar to what people have been seeing and sailing through for nearly a century. The lock doors are original. Much of the concrete is original. The electric donkeys are much different than they were, but they are recognizable.

Chokepoints like this Canal, or an important pass over a mountain range capture the world’s attention on occasion. It’s hard to overestimate the strategic importance of this canal to both commerce and military needs. It’s also a place of tremendous history, including the crushing disappointment of the French efforts and the incredible industrial might and hubris of the USA in its progressive era. Completion of the Panama Canal is one of the reasons why the US became a world power. Contemplating the sheer size of Culebra cut is just astonishing, considering when it was created. Even today, the thought of moving so much earth in such a hot and humid place gives me pause. How could man ever have enough confidence and/or ego to do such a thing?

Even with the nice weather, it’s still bloody hot, and the sun is brutal. I’m happy to have sandal marks on my feet again, and a bit of a red glow (I tan in an odd way.) It was funny to watch people trying to cope with the sun today, looking for shade on open decks. The Captain opened up the bow deck, which is normally off-limits, and hundreds of people were lining the rail until we got through the first locks, then they bailed to the safety of the Lido deck, where windows and a roof keep the worst of the sun off of you, and air conditioning is nearby. The shady side of the boat was lined with people in lounges, butts of people leaning against the rails, and an incredible number of seemingly infirm people.

People who never should have been allowed to climb stairs were trying to navigate them, as well as climbing through watertight hatches with 12” high thresholds that normally aren’t open. Able-bodied people were trying to crowd around them with little regard for other people’s needs. On the other hand, what were these fossils thinking? One old lady had to be virtually carried down a stairwell by a very unhappy looking porter. A woman in a wheelchair insisted on being carried over two sea doors, had her wheelchair brought over, was placed in it, and then decided that she couldn’t seen anything from the deck anyway, and had to have her and the chair carried back after less than five minutes. I probably sound like a bigot here, but sheesh!

One reason that I could never live in the tropics is that I need some daily temperature change, and there is none apparent here. Thank goodness for the stiff, on-shore breeze we are feeling tonight. I see Costa Rican lights off the starboard beam, and being on the stern looking landward feels actually pretty nice. At least the wind is stiff enough to carry off the persperation. Mid-deck, the wind is still, due to the size of the boat. The air is sticky, but not too hot. It just doesn’t feel right however. Keep me in a more seasonal climate, please.

One person has asked why I write nothing about the nightlife. Tonight is the Lido pool party, with a band and old people dancing or doing a conga line. In the casino are slot and blackjack tournaments. A movie replaced the live show in the Rembrandt Theatre—this must be the entertainer’s night off. DJ Ray is playing a tribute to the rat pack in the Crow’s Nest lounge, and on the fantail is “Cigars Under the Stars.” If I was with someone, it might be different, but I’m not, so it ain’t. My cousin seems to be kissing a lot of client butt on this trip, which is okay, but I miss spending more time with her.

My night life is to go up to deck 14, above the ship’s lights, and look at stars. The ocean isn’t the best for this, especially tonight when the air is noticeably heavy, but Orion is up, Cassiopea, Sirius, Mars, and a few other things. Haven’t found the Dipper or Polaris, but these are strange skies to me.

I do wander around the decks with other people on them, and watch them conga dance and drink and chat about their nonsense. I ran in to two guys arguing tonight about Tiger Woods. Honestly, who cares? I’m getting a fair amount of exercise running up and down these stairs—the top is deck 14, my room is on deck six, the Library is on deck nine, I think.

Clocks going back another hour tonight, so I should have more time to ramble on, but really, this isn’t all that interesting, and I’m not writing as well as I wish I were these days. Time for sleep.

Orenjestad, Aruba, Mon Jan 11 10

We put into this dreadfully ugly port at dawn this morning. In the 18th century, the Spanish named this island one of the lesser Antilles, meaning “useless island.” Today tourism is probably 80-90% of the island’s economy, but through the years it has been based on salt, agriculture, grazing, gold, guano, and oil. Save for today’s oil refineries, which are diminishing, nothing but tourism has succeeded. To walk the streets of Orenjestad, well, the main street anyway, is to wander between trashy souvenirs, high-end shops selling Rolexes and diamonds, and casinos which are even uglier than US casinos, because they are invariably painted in bright, Dutch inspired colors. The chimes of the slot machines are the same, the cigarette smoke is the same, and the loss rate is the same or higher as Reno or the nearest Indian Casino in the United States. And although there is a lot of poverty here, having (and driving) a car seems to be more of a birthright than it is in LA. Intersections controlled by stop signs invariable have backups of 15-25 vehicles. This, oddly enough, makes it simpler to cross the road than it would otherwise be. Since the flow is so poor, it’s somewhat simple to walk between cars stuck in line.

To walk the back streets where people live, is hot, dirty, and unpleasant. Most of the buildings here are cinder block or poured concrete or something similar. Concrete walls surround each house, making each one seem oddly fortified, except for the worst houses where there is no yard, no setback. The streets are badly patched, dirty, and there are vehicles everywhere and sleeping dogs who ignore most of what goes on around them. In this tropical climate, windows and doors are often open, and the interior walls are also ugly, furniture sparse.

Many buildings are painted bright colors in the Dutch tradition, but with few exceptions, the architecture is decidedly NOT Dutch, and the bright colors seem ridiculous. If the idea is to brighten a barren landscape, everyone would gain far more just by picking up the trash and cutting down some of the weeds. I suspect that most Arubans don’t have much civic pride, and it doesn’t seem to be a priority for the town or state officials. Some people enjoy this as a vacation destination, and it may be cheap for those purposes, but it’s ugly and dirty, and I’d rather be somewhere else.
The Aruban language is either Dutch or Papiamento, but English is very much mixed in, perhaps in the style of Spanglish. Newspapers are in Dutch and Papiamento with some Spanish, but many ads are partially or wholly in English. This lets me find out about the tire sale that expired on 31 Dec., the chaos caused when someone hit a fireplug near the Parliament building, and the craziness of Hugo Chavez over there in Venezuela, who is screwing up the oil income for Aruba. Speaking of which, the only gas stations I’ve seen are Valero stations, which are partially owned by the Venezuelan government.
The historic museum is in an 18th century fort Zoutman. It’s very small (maybe a third of an acre?) and not terribly stout, made of a calcareous, cement like substance, using ocean sand and coral remnants that, and I’m thinking that if the British had used sledgehammers instead of cannon, they probably would have breached the fort. Apparently its main claim to fame was to resist a British attack in the 18th century, though later the Brits did capture the island and were assaulted by the Dutch. Even though the British won that battle, they probably popped up their heads, looked around at what they had defended, and left anyway. To this day, no one else has wanted Aruba, but the Nazis shelled the island to destroy the oil refineries.
It didn’t work.

But back to the museum. It makes no sense at all. There are artifacts in a reconstructed building that supposedly represents an early Aruban home, and the signing (unlike some other foreign museums I’ve visited) has literate and well written English translations, but each little vignette lacks context. A panel describes, for instance, the pre-historic period with almost no trace of human habitation save for spearpoints and saltpans, and sitting in front of them are two rather complex shells. Another panel describing early agriculture has a copper pot on a shelf.
Many of the artifacts are there to touch and examine, with apparently no security. It’s interesting to pick up and examine tools and things, but who in the world curates this stuff?

There are old nautical charts and maps on the walls with no explanation. Photos of apparently famous or significant people with no labeling. There are some English labels so that I can identify a scale, sheep shears, smelter pot, kitchen goods, an inkwell and other things that I recognize anyway, but WHAT IN THE WORLD TIES THESE TOGETHER???? I know that as an American, I’m not the primary audience, but when I look at the Dutch, Spanish and Papiamento texts, there doesn’t seem to be any additional information. Places like this make me think about my dream job of consulting with small museums on how to give them context for the visitor, to establish themes.
I know, all of this is very boring.

The Maasdam

I’m on the MS Maasdam, built in Italy in 1992. 10 decks, capacity for 1,258 passengers (though this cruise is not full, which is why I have a room to myself,) 101 feet wide, 720 feet long, draft 24.5 feet.

I’ve been on larger ships and a bit more opulent, but this is still a little too elegant for my tastes. Holland-America is a mid-upper class line, I think, well above Princess and Carnival, probably not as highbrow as Cunard. In cruise ship terms, this is a somewhat older vessel, 18 years old. There are a few things that seem to show some wear and tiredness, but it’s in pretty good repair.

Cruise ships astound me. The point isn’t of course, to sail the seas, but to be a high end hotel and just happens to float and can suck money from your wallet. The cruising aspect is important, but equally so is the casino, the shops, the entertainment and food. Cruise ships are schizophrenic. They want to play up the nautical aspect but at the same time minimize any discomfort from it.

Rocking is kept to a minimum with some counterbalancing mechanism. Plexiglas shields and enclosures save people from exposure to high winds and salt spray. Engine noise and exhaust are mitigated to the fullest extent possible. Fine art and antiques are found in common areas, largely overlooked by people on their way to Bingo or a cooking demonstration. I’ve seen 18th century paintings, found 18th and 19th century navigational instruments and pottery, and a 17th century cannon.

There is sort of a serf-master relationship between the lower level staff and passengers. The ship’s officers, of course, act in the quiet and efficient manner of officers and are largely invisible and glide past the passengers. The primarily Filipino hotel and restaurant staff are universally cheerful in the way that they have been specifically instructed to be. Each staff member you walk by, from room stewards to chefs to front desk staff, always greet each person who walks by, which must be a problem for them when a group approaches. Because of Karen, I’m identified in the passenger list as a Doctor, and my room steward constantly says “Good Morning Doctor! Good Afternoon Doctor! Good Evening Doctor!” Let’s hope that there are no medical emergencies in my proximity.

It’s somewhat unnerving, but I’m sure that if they did not act this way, someone would complain. I suppose that this experience of being sort of waited on hand and foot, it part of the experience that some people are drawn to, but it seems phony to me, and I’m always just a little uncomfortable with it.

We are waited on hand and foot only to the extent that the cruise allows you to be. Unlimited food is not really so, unless your limits happen to exactly coincide with the times that its available. Spa services and such are, of course, available by appointment only. Gambling goes on 24 hours, however, and I suppose that you can book excursions, future cruises, and similar things at any hour of the day or night. My major expense is internet access, but it would be so easy just to pull out my room card for drinks or goods, and go deeply in debt without really realizing it.

The Most (Un) Interesting Man in the World

One of my dinner companions is a person named Keith. He appears to be the quintessential nuevo-riche redneck ass who probably runs a contracting business, though from what I can tell, he only travels with his father-in-law. Close cropped hair with a touch of grey in the temples, tall and somewhat handsome, Keith is the travelling companion of “Uncle Joe” the millionaire. I’m not sure if I have enough bandwidth to explain it all, but Keith is better than anyone else at sucking everything from everyone in the room to fill his enormous ego.

Joe is a wealthy retired guy, from high-end contracting I believe. Keith and Joe are fast friends and have done a lot of travelling around S. America apparently. Keith has a story or solution for everything and insight that is both certain and invariably full of crap.

In Argentina, he and Joe masqueraded as diplomats to get special details on gems at a mine. The way to fight jetlag is to always stay on Pacific Time. The way to get thousands of dollars in free drinks on board ship is simply to act as a bar shill. Keith’s personality alone will guarantee success. The way to get out of trouble due to 9/11 is to rely on the guy you inevitably know at Alamo rentacar in Phoenix, and on and on and on…

But where it’s most difficult, at least for me to be around is to listen to his incessant prattle about wines. No one, and I mean no one knows wine and liquor like Keith. He loves to hear himself expound on it. He loves to harass wine stewards and wait staff by showing them that he knows more than them about anything in a glass, and in fact he claims to know more about the glass itself than anyone else as well.
Unfortunately, there are other people in this group who are wine pretenders, and they get wrapped up in this, hanging on his every word. It’s beyond the talk about what is fruity, more full-bodied, oaky, and that kind of nonsense. There’s a lot of talk about wine being so young it needs a nipple, fantastic Beringers that are never sold to the public, but Keith knows where to find it, or the mythically fantastic wine cellar at a Chinese restaurant in Hanford, of all places. Or of the cellar at Joe’s fabulous ranch in Temecula, with a wine cellar entrance behind a bookcase. Joe and his wife sold it five years ago, cellar and all, to simplify their lives.

I’ve sampled some of these wines, in perhaps the worst waste of liquid since climate change began to melt glaciers. I have such an unsophisticated palate, and I’m not crazy about wine. They don’t all taste the same to me, but I can’t discern any advantage to something that costs $60-100 per bottle versus two buck Chuck. I suppose that there are subtle differences, some commonalities that might determine that some wines are better than others, but to spend thousands of dollars and months of life, to drive or fly or sail thousands of miles, to determine that the chemistry of certain kinds of lead crystal and methods of pour affect one’s experience, all of this seems perilously close to idolatry.

And Keith is insufferable, at least to me. Fortunately, I see him only at dinner.

Fort Lauderdale

The Flamingos on the roof of this hotel van kind of demonstrate the subtlety that is prevalent in Florida, at least the tiny part I've been in .
I'm actually here:

About seven blocks from the port.

The flights out here were about the smoothest and most peaceful I've been on in years. Mellow people, arriving early on both flights, TSA actually quite easy to get through, wow!

Well, the peaceful nature won't be carrying through on this trip. I've met most of the people I'm traveling with. In addition to my cousin, and Glen Worrell, who is now a very old man (I was a classmate of his oldest son in the gifted classes I was in during elementary and Jr. High back in the last millenium), there are some seemingly heavy drinkers and a rich guy. I'm not sure what to make of all this.

The first place several of us went to was "Wine Mart," which is sort of like a Costco for mostly wine. I'm not kidding. It's not Costco size quite, but about the size of a supermarket, with thousands of varieties of wines, some liquors and associated, and about four soft drink-type refrigerators used as cigar humidors. I counted 27 types of corkscrews, seven different attachments to put on the top of a wine bottle to make it pour better (?), and oh I don't know what else.

The sales guy seems to be a sort of Somalier. Karen and her hubby were trying to buy a case of different wines for the next two weeks, and he was happy to make suggestions. "Would you like more 'vanilla' or more 'apple'? Would you like more smoothness, or a bit of character? For Christmas, I served eighteen different wines at my house. This is the boujelais that I prefer."

Me, I know nothing about wine. I really wish I had brought my camera though, just because of the scope of this place. I really never knew that there were so many wines in the world.

But then on to dinner, meeting Uncle Joe and Keith. Who Joe is the uncle to, I'm unclear, but Keith is one of his daughter's husbands, and they like to travel all over the world on cruise ships. Joe is apparently "comfortable," owning something like seven companies, and for Christmas, he gave each of his children $4k each.

I don't know these people, and haven't seen Glen in several years, so I'm trying to keep my mouth shut mostly. Fortunately, I don't really have to say anything. All I have to do is add occasionally punctuation to the conversation. Still, Karen seems worried that I'm so quiet. Oh, there's no need for me to tell stories:

Joe and Keith have recently returned from a cruise to Argentina (and some other places) and spent most of the dinner (lubricated with Bourbon) telling a story about how, just for the hell of it, they decided to pretend that Joe was a diplomat and Keith was his security. They swear that this is true, but Keith carried a satchel that "could" have contained a weapon, they made demands including a wheelchair and to go through diplomatic passport control, etc. etc. and going into Argentina, they were taken seriously.

Then there are the detailed stories about which BBQ style is better (western, Kansas, southern, South American; who knows?) the joys of grass-fed versus corn-fed beef (this would be Argentinian vs. Omaha), which of about six kinds of bourbon I've never heard of works with which BBQ, and most incredibly, some suspicion that Karen is running a sex tour, apparently created by Joe's daughters. Really, no offense intended, but of all of the people in the world that I would NOT want to have an orgy with, this group is pretty close, if not at, the top of the list.

And with that unpleasant thought, I need to get some sleep.