On insidiously changing courses

My mother tells me that my father chose my name mostly for the way it looks. This may be a difficult concept for Westerners to fully understand, accustomed as we are to a phonetic alphabet that places less emphasis on aesthetic appearance, but in China, with our pictographic characters, the notion is more common than naming a child after his grandparents.

My name in Chinese consists of three characters - my family name (Zhang), and the two characters of my given name (Ying, and Zhi). Of the two in my given name, Ying is arguably the prettier. It's a character of interesting complexity, stitched together using five simpler words, and at sixteen strokes to complete is one of the "longer" characters in common usage. It's a weighty word, a dense word both to look at and to contemplate, meaning roughly "to win," and in this manner it assumes a certain prestige as well. Its appearance brings to mind lofty towers and pagodas, places at once of wealth and contemplation, worthy of both great consideration and great respect.

The other character in my name, Zhi, is startling by sheer contrast. Weighing in at a mere two strokes, it's one of the LEAST complex words in the Chinese language. Where Ying has density and weight, a sense of stolid purpose, Zhi is airy and meandering, like the path a leaf might make as it drifts to earth upon swirling eddies. The word is, for lack of a better term, a preposition, in certain phrases may also be used in a form approximated by the word "which," and by itself very roughly translates into, "everything." It is thus, in its own way, both extremely powerful and extremely flexible - something belied by its simple appearance.

I don't know if my father had all this in mind when he picked those words - the peculiar balance between weight and weightlessness, between grounded solidarity and meandering flexibility, between having purpose and seeking it, and between two words that, at a glance, sit at opposite poles. I certainly doubt he thought that my personality and my life would become defined, in its way, by these dual modes, this peculiar balance between active participation and passive observation. It's not hard, however to infer what he wanted: the combination of the two words becomes a phrase that roughly translates into "Conqueror of All." Whatever ambitions he may have had for his own life, what he had for mine is obvious.

To my father's eternal dismay, I haven't been nearly as ambitious as he would have liked. I wonder how many children really are. Although it was arguably ambitious to decide on medicine as a career, I suspect that was just a way I sought to win his approval, and through it a certain sense of pride for myself as well. At some point in high school, rather typically, I guess I decided that my sense of self-worth wasn't dependent upon my parents' approval. Since then, even though I was very firm about my decision to go into acting, I think my life has actually followed a meandering sort of path. Even when I thought I had a set destination, I was really just following where unseen currents were pushing me. The search for meaning in a possibly absurd universe is like that, I suppose.

And now, now I'm finding myself directionless for the first time. I'm no longer sure that acting is for me, but I don't know that I want to go back to engineering either. Worse still, I'm not even sure that writing is necessarily my future, despite its ubiquitous presence in my life up to this point. This lack of focus is starting to taint all the other aspects of my life, and it's driving me to distraction. We'll note here that even my writing is losing its natural spark, that shimmering sheen of sly, understated humor that makes it such a pleasure for everyone to read.

I feel like I'm standing at a crossroads, and every part of my life is on hold until I can decide which fork I want to take. A pessimist would argue that it doesn't really matter - they all lead to the same place in the end, right? That's true enough, but some roads are arguably more scenic and interesting than others, and I'd like to be able to look back on my meandering path through Destiny's garden and claim that I lived a life worth the prodigious gifts given to me. I'm actually only half-joking there. If I weren't so damn smart, I'd probably be happy doing menial labor for the rest of my life. I think I'd be fine with whatever the world puts right in front of me, and even if I weren't fine I certainly wouldn't be inclined to examine it too closely. Or from too great a distance, rather, as I reconcile my sense of self-worth with the notion that there may not be a big picture after all. Unfortunately, I AM a goddamn borderline genius, and with that intelligence comes the certainty that I'm meant to do more with my life. And also the nagging fear that I might be smart enough to recognize the problem, but not smart enough to really do anything worthwhile about it.

Ha. I guess I do have that ambition after all. I'd like to make a lasting impact, intellectual and emotional, on people. On numerous people. Millions, in fact. I just don't know that I'm smart or creative or talented enough to do so. I think I am, in fact, afraid to even really try.

Aha! And here we discover the true nature of this existential crisis I've been having for the past month or so, and, with the aid of much self-indulgent whining, decide to do something about it. Although I feel like we've visited this topic before...you'd think it would get tedious by now, these iterations of my inanity.

On a dearth of amenities

I've made no mention of the fact, but my computer abruptly died about a month ago, which has contributed a great deal not only to my recent absence of posts, but also to my inability to finish uploading the rest of my travelogue and the pictures I took while in Venice.

You'd think that I'd be in a rush to get my computer repaired as soon as possible, as losing the use of the computer, for a technology nerd like me, is somewhat akin to getting my right arm cut off. Well, as it turns out, losing this particular computer is less like losing a limb and more like losing my left testicle. It was exceedingly painful at the time, but over the course of a few weeks it's become more of an annoyance than a real handicap. I haven't been able to watch my Naruto, so downloading a whole host of them when I finally do get my computer back up will be sort of irritating. I also haven't been able to write via computer, but I have no lack of paper or use of my hands. Other than those, it hasn't been as utterly agonizing as one would imagine.

Of course, it helps that I can sort of steal Kevin's computer for use at any given time, and that I have a certain degree of computer access at work. Even so, I'm finding it quite refreshing to learn that I'm not as utterly dependent upon my computer as I led myself to believe some years ago. It's almost like discovering my moorings have been cut, but rather than panicking at being castaway I'm enjoying the freedom of being able to sail away.

I take an aside to note that a life-and-death sailing metaphor is probably not entirely appropriate for a computer mishap.

Anyway, I'll probably endeavor to enact repairs at some point, but I'm finding it increasingly likely that I'll just assemble a new one. This old computer was about five years old, which any geek can tell you is positively ancient by computing standards, and with the release of Intel's new Core i7 I'm finding a certain amount of glee at the proposition of a computing powerhouse with six gigs of memory.

That's right, gentlemen. We can rebuild him. Faster, stronger, smarter. We have this capability.

Just maybe not QUITE the money right now.

On bittersweet moments

I imagine there are a gazillion of these out there, but I'm going to jump on the bandwagon and express the sheer elation I felt last night when I realized that Barack Obama had won the presidency. I had just gotten out of dinner with some friends and was making my way toward a friend's bar when I heard the cheers ringing up and down the streets, the cars honking their horns, the music suddenly blaring from open windows, and I felt a surge of sheer joy like nothing I've experienced in months. Possibly years. XES was utterly packed when I went inside, and although crowds like that usually make me intensely uncomfortable I felt utterly at home, bathed in the electrifying sense of enthusiasm and optimism. Hope. I've never cheered for something as much or as loudly as I did when Obama made his speech, and when he was done half the bar was misty-eyed or outright crying.

After such an evening, only a cynic would wake up thinking that good things only happen in isolation. Well, I've certainly been telling my friends that living in New York is slowly but surely turning my heart into a shriveled plum of bitterness. When I woke up this morning, despite all my hopes the previous evening, I had this horrifying certainty that Proposition 8 would pass. Thus, when I learned that it had, it felt less like a punch in the face than a screwdriver twisting just a few more turns in my gut. The Lord giveth with one hand and taketh away with the other, as they say.

As disheartened as I am about Proposition 8, however, I find myself unwilling to condemn the people who voted yes for it. I'm frustrated and a bit heartsick, but not despairing, because I believe the people who voted to deny us this equal right did so from a place of fear. Fear that we, somehow, represent a threat to their own security, to the things that they themselves hold dear, to their families and their loved ones. The majority of them don't act out of malice, but out of ignorance, insecurity, and even misguided good intent. That fear can be alleviated by understanding, and I honestly believe that with time and effort understanding can come to even the most bull-headed of men.

As disheartened as I am about Proposition 8, I continue to believe in the progress we're making. California had banned gay marriage with an overwhelming majority vote a scant 8 years ago - less than a third my current lifespan. Today, it managed to do it again only by a scant 2% margin. What will the social climate be in eight more years, I wonder? What further progress will we have made? What effect will Barack Obama's presidency have had in those eight years? The Bush administration has made a ruin of our country, and still we manage to move from a landslide victory for intolerance to Proposition 8 barely squeaking by. If Obama proves to be the harbinger for change, the spearhead of hope that he has made himself out to be, what can we expect from the next eight years?

That, I think, is the true reason Barack Obama has so impressed upon me. I'm as aware as anyone that he is a politician, that he is not in support of gay marriage, that he isn't some paragon of perfection here to lead us to some mythic golden age. He has given us some grand promises, and I am perfectly aware that he probably won't be able to follow up on them all. I believe that he will try, however. I believe that he will make every effort to make good on his promises. In short, I believe that under all the politics he is a truly good man. And in my belief in him, I have found strength, hope, and a willingness to get out of my chair and work for that beautiful tomorrow. That is his gift, the gift of any great leader: the ability to inspire others to become more than they are.

He's inspired me. That is enough.

************

(As a post-script...I am never going to get the last of this goddamn travelogue transcribed!)

Travelogue, Day Nine: Sogginess in the heart of Italy

I'm really starting to wonder whether it's possible for me to visit mainland Italy without Mother Nature pissing on my head. Am I just dragging a giant storm cloud behind me as I travel? Is my ego large enough that my personal thunderstorms are continent-sized monstrosities? (Don't answer that.) Actually, in all fairness there have been only two previous stops marked by torrential downpours, but they represent fully half the ports we've made so far. That sort of makes it feel like this entire trip has been a big soggy mess.

If you haven't gathered already from previous posts, today was Rome. (I am assuming in this, by the way, that you've been keeping up with my previous blog entries in this travelogue). More concisely, it was Civitavecchia, which is the port closest to Rome at roughly an hour's drive away. As a result of this distance, we at Theatre at Sea planned an excursion for our passengers. We'd contacted a bus and tour company in Rome, offering a comparatively cheap ride from the Civitavecchia docks straight into the heart of Rome, as well as a tour of the major sites by bus for those interested parties. Confirming which passengers wanted Rome, which passengers wanted the full tour, and coordinating this with the ship has been a fairly major task over the last two or three days, and I'm rather pleased to say the whole thing didn't crash down around my ears like a house of cards built with Buicks. At least, not as a result of any miscalculation on our part.

I woke up at around 7:30 this morning, which anyone who knows me will recognize as the truly ungodly hour that it is for me. I had just enough time to shower and grab a quick bite to eat at The Bistro on Deck 6 before hopping down to (everybody now!) Reception on Deck 5. As an aside, the Crystal Serenity has the best oatmeal I have ever experienced. I think they grind up fairy wings and unicorn horns and sunshine dust and blend them into this puree of pure happiness, then sprinkle the mix onto the oatmeal. Eating fairies is delicious! Seriously, I don't what they put in there, because the oatmeal that my father made always tasted like lumpy glue, but I definitely sense pecans, bananas, and possibly cinnamon and brown sugar. There's also an entire array of fruits that you can put into your oatmeal, although I usually stick to the strawberries...and this is in The Bistro, which is like the ghetto of the Crystal Serenity dining experience. I think I need to hire someone to make me this oatmeal for breakfast, because it will ensure that I actually...ya know...eat breakfast. Maybe I'll be able to convince my future boyfriend to do this for me in exchange for...um...sex? Fuck, Sherry was right. I am such a girl.

There were quite a few people already waiting for me down at the reception area, so I went through the list of confirmed Rome passengers I made last night, checking everyone off. Things got pretty hectic pretty quickly as more people started arriving, including the actors, although I also noticed a few missing heads. There'd been a real concern recently about whether or not we'd have enough space on the bus for everyone, but fortunately (or not) more than a few people decided they didn't want to come into Rome. That struck me as pretty bizarre - I mean, this is ROME! How can you not want to go? What kind of weird dimension of frozen cynicism and black misanthropy would you have to come from to skip out on Rome? I guess once you get to a certain age and you've been there already, it's just more of the same? I dunno. I sincerely hope my heart isn't such a shriveled onion by the time I'm eighty that I can poo-poo a trip into Rome, 'cause I found everything pretty spectacular and I didn't get to see NEARLY all the sights that I wanted. Then again, I'm also cheerful and optimistic to an irritating degree, so maybe I'm not the best person to judge. I'm also getting ahead of myself. Suffice it to say the whole boarding process went off without a hitch.

The drive into Rome took a lot longer than expected, and about halfway through it started drizzling. Fortunately, I took one look at the steel wool sky this morning and decided to lug my umbrella along. The tour conductor we'd hired for this leg of the journey - a rather jovial woman in her mid-thirties who spoke only passable English - was very insistent upon giving us all a lengthy lecture about Civitavecchia sporadically interspersed with some bizarre jokes. For example, she apparently found it hilarious trying to teach us how to pronounce Civitavecchia (CHEE-vee-tuh-VEH-kee-uh!). She even got everyone reciting along, as though we were a shortbus full of second graders. I kind of wanted to yell, "Just because we're American doesn't mean we're grade schoolers!" but that assessment is, unfortunately, probably not entirely accurate. I eventually just phased her out and spent my time talking with Ron. Philip had almost convinced me last night to take the full Rome tour on the bus, but as Ron and I discussed the specifics of the trip it became apparent that I would want to explore the city on my own. We jotted down a quick guideline to the major sites I would want to see, and by the time we got done the bus was pulling into the outer reaches of Rome. Our tour guide pointed out the walls of the Vatican, then went on to brief us on how to avoid getting pickpocketed by gypsies. That one caught me by surprise, partially because she was so matter-of-fact about the whole thing. It felt kind of like someone just turned to me and said, "Oh, by the way, this is how you avoid getting mugged and raped should you head into the Bronx. Would you like another coffee?"

The bus eventually made its way to the Viale Washington, a street in Rome near the Piazza del Popolo specifically designed for tour buses. We'd upgraded at this point from drizzle to full-blown rain, although nothing as bad as what we got in Venice or Dubrovnik. Our local tour guide was already here; he boarded the bus to take charge of those people who wanted the full tour, while our Civitavecchia guide led the rest of us to the Spanish Steps. Owing to the rain, a number of our passengers decided to stay on the bus, but a surprising number opted to brave the hazards of chill and damp.

I snapped a few pictures of the Piazza del Popolo as we collectively shuffled through, trying not to get water on my digital camera while capturing the vastness of the square and the very unusual Egyptian mold of the monolith that stood in the center. There was a man dressed like an Egyptian sarcophagus standing in front of the monolith; he was outfitted in the King Tut regalia and covered from head to toe in a reflective gold cloth meant to simulate the coffin itself. For a long moment I mistook him for an actual monument and almost took a picture. I sort of regret that I didn't, actually. It was cute - the Italian version of the bronzed statue men in New York - and I wondered who came up with the idea first. Or whether they evolved in parallel, as certain human conventions seem to do.

It was a much longer walk from the Piazza del Popolo to the Spanish Steps than I'd imagined, and on the way our tour guide very insistently repeated when (4:50 pm!) and where (The Fountain at the bottom of the Spanish Steps!) we were to meet back up. The bus would also be waiting back at the Viale Washington at the end of the day, so there was that extra layer of security in case anyone got left behind. As we walked, the tour group started slowly stretching out, elongating like a piece of taffy with our guide at the front and our oldest (or least ambulatory) members pulling up the rear. I, being the youngest and most ambulatory person there, ran a few laps from the front to the back of the taffy pull, dodging pedestrians on the narrow sidewalks=, trying to make sure everyone knew how to get back. I was in horror that we would leave some seventy year-old grandmother smack in the middle of Rome to fend for herself. Although it occurs to me now that any of those seventy year-old grandmothers, with access to considerably more money and experience than I had, could probably fend for themselves far better than I could.

In any case, you can only stretch a piece of taffy so much, so about ten minutes into the walk the younger, more vigorous people had pulled well out of sight. I ended up just crossing my fingers, hoped that we wouldn't have anyone left behind at the end of the day, and, like any good gay man, decided to go shopping. To be fair, it wasn't so much a premeditated choice as the seizing of an opportunity that had presented itself. The street we were on happened to be lined with numerous shops, and as we walked I noticed a antiquities store that was having a going out of business sale. Since I'd yet to buy a present for Dave and Jordan's wedding, I dropped in and, after some browsing, plopped down a sizable sum for a sterling silver salt and pepper shaker set. In retrospect, that's pretty ridiculous, because a silver salt and pepper set would look pretty out of place on any modern tabletop, but dammit, they're wedding presents! From Rome! Sheer international novelty factor alone makes them cool!

Anyway, after buying the shakers, I made my way to the Spanish Steps, which was tall and wide and immensely theatrical. I was reminded of the scene from "The Talented Mr. Ripley," and even found myself looking around for that cafe where Tom spied on Meredith and Margo during their meeting. Additionally, and to my relief, the fountain at the bottom of the steps wasn't some enormous round monstrosity, which would make assembling the group at the end of the day that much easier. I shuttered a few pictures from both the bottom and the top of the steps, and on a whim looked into a church at the top. Rarely enough, picture-taking was allowed inside, so I took advantage and snapped a few shots of the more memorable shrines.

I took the underground from the Spanish Steps to the Ottavio stop, which was the subway stop nearest the Vatican. Nevertheless, it still ended up being a good twenty minutes walk down unfamiliar streets in weather that was growing increasingly chilly and damp. I briefly considered just buying a sweater at one of the shops nearby, but the cost of even a relatively cheap article ran a good 30 euro, which was considerably more than I wanted to spend on anything that wouldn't end up shimmering on my walls or desk. I ended up settling for a personal pizza (ordered in Italian! Yay me!) before trudging my way to St. Peter's Basilica.

The Piazza di San Pietro was impressive in its scale. My eyes were drawn to another of those ubiquitous Egyptian monoliths at the center of the circular square (hah!), to the facade of the St. Peter's Basilica that stood on its western edge, to the incredibly long line of people snaking its way around the perimeter, and to the truly remarkable attention to detail that marked the structures surrounding the piazza. The experience was dampened (hah again!) by the constant curtain of rain draped over the square, and after asking a nice couple to take my picture in front of the Basilica's exterior I contemplated getting in. The length of the line leading into the Basilica itself was substantial enough, and my time in Rome limited enough, that I wasted a goodly amount of this precious time agonizing over whether or not I wanted to wait in that very ungodly line. Neuroticism won out in the end, however, and I plunked myself behind an Asian couple. Thank god for oversized umbrellas (courtesy of Crystal Cruises!)

The line moved much more quickly than I thought it would, and in less than fifteen minutes I found myself inside the single most amazing structure I have ever visited. I am serious when I say the interior of St. Peter's Basilica easily outclasses every other piece of architecture I've ever seen. The place is sheerly astonishing, overwhelming in the degree of detail that graces every wall, and I could spend weeks, if not months, trying to capture all of the marvels inside with my itsy bitsy little camera. I can't compete with any of the resources available out there in describing the interior of the Basilica, but numerating everything that impressed me would be a task of weeks or months, and probably end up an unbearably dull read to boot. Let's just say that seeing the Pieta was an absolute treat, and that the baldacchino and the Cathedra Petri were stunning - positively, supernally, supremely stunning. I've never seen their like in all my life.

Of course, being the churlish cynic that I am, I also have to wonder how much time, effort, and money went into building this admittedly awesome building. Hell, how much time and effort went into carving any one of the sculptures housed inside the nave of the Basilica, that ultimately could have been better used elsewhere. My sense of art and history is appropriately awed by this cathedral, but my sense of humanity ultimately wonders at the opportunity cost of this extravagance. Perhaps that's hypocritical of me. What, after all, would be the opportunity cost of the evenings that I spend at XES, or the money that I pumped into an acting education that ultimately seems of little practical use. How many people could have lived better lives if I had given just a little of that money to charity instead of binging on Cosmos?

I'm not beneficent enough to follow that line of thought to its logical conclusion.

In the end, I spent about an hour and a half basking in the sheer artistic richness of St. Peter's Basilica. I left only with a very great reluctance, in the knowledge that my time in Rome was severely limited and that I still had much to see.

I made a general motion toward the southeast after I left the Piazza di San Pietro, as the Piazza Navona was my next stop on the agenda. It was starting to rain harder at this point, but the Ponte Vittorio was only a short distance away from the Piazza, and led naturally into the Corso Vittorio, which crossed south of the Piazza Navona. The Ponte Vittorio, by the way, is a bridge that crosses the Tiber river, which divides the city into eastern and western halves. The bridge is flanked by a pair of winged bronze sculptures, with additional statues on either side lining the bridge. It's visually very impressive, which is considerably more than I could say for the Tiber River itself, which looked like a scuzzy green swamp. For a city with such incredible art and architecture, they sure chose to straddle a remarkably crappy river. The New River in Radford is more awe-inspiring than the Tiber, which, unfortunately, is a little like saying a triceratops produces a better mound of dung than a rhino.

Okay, I'm done making fun of the Tiber now.

It actually ended up being a much longer walk along the Corso Vittorio than I'd thought, but fortunately for me, and against all odds, I ran into Ron and Norm in the Piazza San Pantaleo, which was apparently just south of the Piazza Navona, but which, by some quirkly twist of non-Euclidean geometry, just refused to direct me there when I attempted to head north. There must be localized time-space anomalies in Rome. Although they'd seen the Piazza Navona already, Ron and Norm were just sort of strolling around and graciously offered to take me where I needed to go. We chatted fairly amiably as we made our unnecessarily circuitous way north, and before I knew it I found myself in a long, relatively narrow plaza decorated with yet another of those monoliths. I'm sort of kicking myself for not asking about those, actually, because they seemed to be cropping up everywhere.

Anyway, the Piazza Navona was very pretty and refreshingly open after the half-hour or so I spent walking along the crowded, almost claustrophobic streets. I took a picture against the Fountain of Neptune, but unfortunately the Fountain of Four, located at the base of that most conspicuous obelisk, was closed for renovations. I was only able to catch a pale glimpse of what it might have looked like in full bloom, as it were. It would have undoubtedly been magnificent. Ah well, I was in a hurry anyway - Ron and Norm pushed me along a side street toward our next destination, the Pantheon.

There was yet another of those ubiquitous obelisks in front of the Pantheon, which is a sort of massively button-shaped building with a ostensibly Grecian front facade. The Pantheon dates back to (ahar) the days of the Holy Roman Empire, and in modern times serves as a terrific respite from sudden downpours. The inside of the building, which is essentially a single, large, round room lined on all sides by statuary of various saints (or maybe they were Roman gods. I should've taken a better look. Bad G! Bad! You're a terrible tourist!) The most striking aspect of the temple, however, was the enormous hole in the temple dome, which, although permitted rain to freely pour into the building's interior, also enabled a streak of light to cascade into the room like God's own spotlight. It's unfortunate that it was raining so, because the effect must be nothing less than divine on a sunny day.

I do have a confession to make here. I had no idea Raphael was buried in the Pantheon. I'm whipping myself right now.

Ron and Norm decided to stay at the Pantheon to look around, but I had to bid a hasty exit as I still had Trevi Fountain, the Roman Forums, and the Colisseum to visit before (everyone now!) 4:50 pm. I only had about an hour and a half in which to do this, but fortunately all three locations were relatively close to each other. More Roman streets, more twists and turns, more tourists, more G wondering whether or not he's going to get lost and trapped in Rome, and then suddenly voila! The Trevi Fountain.

I bought a cone of cherry gelato and took a picture next to the fountain, which was extremely impressive and beautiful and well carved. There is, however, something visually odd about visiting a fountain in the rain. You're holding an umbrella, with water sluicing down all around you, watching water sluice down something else. Something about that just seems patently absurd. Perhaps as a result of this absurdity and my own sense of urgency, I forgot to toss a coin into the fountain. No wish for me! Oh well - I was running pretty low on funds at this point anyway.

It was a long walk to the Roman Forums, although along the way I passed by a very large administrative building whose name now escapes me. Atop two flights of marble stairs, however, burned an eternal flame guarded by a pair of soldiers, and the look was striking enough that I had several pictures taken. I'm particularly gratified here because I overheard a couple talking and was able to exercise my somewhat stilted French. I think my grammar was excessively formal because the guy made fun of me...in a friendly sort of way. As to the Roman Forums themselves, they were far too vast and sprawling for me to be able to spare more than a cursory look at them as I made my way to the Colosseum. It might have been fun to be able to spend some more time wandering around the ruins, but I think after Pompeii I'm all ruined out.

The Colosseum itself was extremely majestic, and I was gratified yet again in asking a Chinese tourist group to take my picture. That makes four different languages that I used today, all for the purposes of having my picture taken. I'm so international! Unfortunately, being international apparently doesn't necessarily mean being prepared, because I arrived at the Colosseum with only about 30 minutes to spare and about five Euros in my pocket. Guess what? It costs eleven Euro to get in.

Fuck!

I wasted a good ten minutes trying to decide whether or not I had the time to go withdraw some funds from a nearby ATM, then come running back to stand in line. This very cute tour guide with spiky blond hair and a pair of the bluest eyes I've ever seen overheard me asking for an ATM. He suggested the guided tour, as they accepted US dollars, and intimated that he could give me a tour of his apartment afterward. (Yeah, okay, I made up that last part.) Unfortunately, the tour was also 40 minutes long and I only had about 15 minutes left at this point. Spending $30 for a 15 minute tour was a bit too much for me to stomach, as Florence is still to come tomorrow and my trip funds are getting very short (damn you, Venetian masks!) Alas, with wrenching disappointment I had to walk away from my beautiful blue-eyed tour guide and any pictures of the Colosseum interior.

I'm still kicking myself for not withdrawing more Euros this morning. And buying that pizza. I refuse to regret the salt and pepper shakers.

The remainder of the day was largely unimpressive. It was a long, wet walk back to the Viale Washington, where our bus was waiting, and more than a few passengers expressed dissatisfaction with our Rome tour due to the rain. Jesus Christ people...I mean, really? You're going to complain to your travel agent about the fucking WEATHER? I'm so sorry that I didn't bring my rain-seeding cannons for the express purpose of making sure that Rome (which, by the way, had been in a fucking DROUGHT for the last three months) remained sunny for your visit. The sheer sense of entitlement some people get while they're on vacation simply astonishes me. Actually, scratch that - the sheer sense of entitlement some people get, period, simply astonishes me. I realize that you paid some obscene sum to come on this cruise, but I would take it as a kindness if you realized that $5,000 is a rather piddly sum for me to exercise powers of divine intervention. And I certainly hope you'll forgive me if I'm not so banal as to exercise them for something so asinine as good weather on a goddamn cruise.

Pardon me if cruise passengers tend to push my buttons.

Anyway, I retreated to the Silk Road again because I really just didn't want to deal with the passengers any more today, and because the notion of spending another three hours eating dinner just wearied me. Tomorrow is Florence, which I'm really, really, oh so very much looking forward to, at least partially because I don't have to involve myself in passenger affairs for a fair while now that Rome is finally over and done with. Yay! Wait for me, oh Firenze, oh center of art and Renaissance magnificence!

Alright, this has been an excessively huge entry. I'm going to go grab some horror movies from the ship library and fall asleep watching some really, really crappy B-rated shit. Come back tomorrow, same G-time, same G-channel, same G-spo...yeah, okay, even I think that joke sucks.

Travelogue, Day Eight: Epic fail in matters of wardrobe and timing

I knew it! I knew it was a mistake not to get Rome information out to everyone last night. I even had this thought in the back of my head - "You know, G, it would probably be a good idea to confirm with everyone about Rome before you go to bed tonight." Unfortunately, that thought occurred roughly two seconds before my head hit the pillow and consequently dribbled out my ears. Actually, even that's not quite an excuse, because I had the thought again this morning before I left the ship. So really I can't attribute today's madness to anything except flat-out destructive self-sabotage.

Okay, okay, why don't we start at the beginning. (I notice, by the way, that I seem to follow this format quite often on this travelogue. I tend to start off with some sort of blanket statement, usually quite agitated, about the current state of things, then insist that I need to start from the beginning. Maybe I ought to just start at the beginning instead of ranting? Oh, but it's so much fun listening to myself verbally gesticulate in frothing madness!)

Anyway, today was Sorrento, which had several options as far as interesting sites to visit. However, I had already decided on Pompeii sometime last night, and after hearing my announcement Sumrall kindly lent me a few books about the area. I cheerfully glanced through them to make sure I knew how to get there, how to get back, approximately how much it would cost, and all the major sites I would want to visit once I was there. Ultimately, however, I think I knew in the back of my mind that I would want to cover the whole thing, if I could. Come the morning, as usual, I had a brief meeting with Philip, this time to call the bus company in Rome and confirm our tour for tomorrow. After the incident at the King's Palace in Morocco, Philip retains a certain amount of horror about people we need failing to show up at the appointed place and time.

ASIDE! The incident at the King's Palace in Morocco occurred about three years ago, during my first cruise with Theatre at Sea, when Jess was group director and I was office support. Specifically, on that particular cruise we were meant to have a tour of the King's Palace in Rabat - Philip had e-mailed a tour operator at the King's Palace for just this purpose, but didn't make final confirmation by phone. Well, when the ship docked in Casablanca, all 120 of our passengers boarded the four tour buses we'd chartered. They sat the three hours it took to get to Rabat, walked up to the King's palace...and nothing. No tour operator. No one to meet them. In Ron's words:

"There were only these two female tour attendants who were dressed like, I kid you not, a pair of prostitutes, and they had no idea who we were. Philip took one look at them and his jaw just dropped. He was completely flabbergasted. He turned to me and said, 'Well...we've hit rock bottom.'"

Having no idea where the tour conductor was or why they were in this situation, Ron took Philip aside and said, "Philip, our people are getting restless. You need to do something."

Philip's response, in typical Philip fashion: "Well, we could drive back to Casablanca and do some shopping, I suppose."

To which Ron replied, "Philip, these people have just sat three hours for a tour of the palace. We cannot just drive them back to Casablanca and go shopping. Now you get those two hookers over there and you pay to have them show us something, anything - the King's bathroom, if you have to - but these people need to see at least SOMETHING while they're here."

The day after, when I asked Jess via e-mail how things were going, she merely replied, "Don't ask about Morocco." Later, I received an e-mail from the central office explaining matters - apparently, the tour operator we had been in contact with misread our e-mail to him and thought he was to meet us at the pier in Casablanca. While our group was waiting for him at the King's Palace, he was waiting for us at the docks.

To this day, the Morocco Incident continues to live in infamy.

So, anyway, back to the main story - we confirmed with Rome about our tour tomorrow, so I don't anticipate having to rely on tour prostitutes showing us anyone's bathroom. I decided at this point that I was going to head ashore, since it was drawing on eleven and I knew it would take at least an hour each way to get to Pompeii by train. Somewhere in the back of my head I thought, "You know, you probably ought to get the info about Rome out to everybody." However, the sun was already high in the sky and the notion of folding and addressing three dozen letters struck me as a particularly onerous task. It would take a good hour at least, maybe two, and that meant I wouldn't make it into Pompeii until well past two. So yeah, I decided I'd get to the mailing when I got back - surely I'd be back by six at the latest, right? How large could a set of ruins really be? Yeah. Uh huh. Brilliant, G.

Back in my stateroom, I changed into something casual-cool and by my estimate modestly Sicilian - a simple white shirt with sleeves rolled up, pale khakis, and my brown leather flip-flops. Tote bag in hand, outfitted with snacks and a large bottle of water, I strolled off the ship and took the tender into Sorrento.

There's not a great deal I can say about Sorrento itself - it's a pretty sort of town, and I bought a bottle of blueberry Powerade in my halting Italian, which turned out to be unnecessary since the clerk spoke English. My attempt to withdraw a little bit of money was also forestalled by a woman who either didn't know how to operate an ATM or was trying to hack into the bank using her cell phone. I dunno - she was standing there for a good ten minutes with no cash to show for her troubles and a queue creeping some twenty-odd feet behind us. I for my part just gave up waiting (partially because I wasn't sure I wouldn't make an equally large fool of myself trying to operate an Italian ATM).

The train into Pompeii was breezy and quick, although inundated with a swarm of kids in the middle / high school age range. Considering that today is a weekday and I was riding the train around noon, I have no idea what they were all doing there. Don't kids go to school in Sicily? I eventually fished out my iPod and composed D&D encounters in my head while waiting for the Pompeii Scavi stop.

Now, on to Pompeii itself, since nobody really needs a recap of how I bought my tickets. My first impression of Pompeii was definitely one of age, that truly monumental sense of bygone eras pressing out of every cobblestone and brick. It's a feeling hard to describe - this strange mix of muted awe and wonder that slowly takes hold as you realize that you're walking on streets once bustling with people two thousand years ago.

The map of Pompeii the ticket office handed me broke the city down into major sites of interest, numbering them from 1 to 70. Being both neurotic and obsessive-compulsive, I decided that if I was to see everything in this amazing place, the most logical progression was to simply follow the numbers. By pure happenstance, I ran into Michael and his boyfriend, Darren, around number 5. They had already been in the city for quite some time and had wandered around rather haphazardly. They were looking for the brothel before leaving the city, as they wanted to drop by Capri before the ship left in the evening, but evidently I skimmed past that part while reading my guide books because I had no idea what they were talking about. Before we parted ways, however, they warned me that Pompeii was big. Really big. Big enough that I could easily spend the entire day there and not see everything. I accepted this bit of advice with grace, but inside I scoffed a bit - judging from what I'd already seen and based upon the scale of the map, I was sure I could see the entirety of the city. I mean, I'm young and I walk like a New Yorker. How bad could it be?

Ah, the springtime Pride of youth, once again raped in the face by the burly manhood of Experience.

Suffice it to say, two hours later I was only halfway through the 20's, feeling a bit light-headed with the pounding I was getting from the sun, and cursing the ancient Pompeiians for not discovering how to pave their streets with asphalt. Already I had slipped, tripped, or stumbled a good dozen-odd times on the cobblestones, and I was getting sincerely afraid that my sandal straps would give before I got home, forcing me to limp barefooted through the rest of the ruins. On the bright side, however, I was snapping pictures like a madman. My family back home will be terribly gratified to know that I've finally satisfied that Asian stereotype, and that while I was at it I riced out a Toyota Camry and opened a dry-cleaner just outside Pompeii city limits.

I could probably write a book about everything I saw in Pompeii, but rather than bore you with the details I'm going to focus on just three things that seemed particularly significant to me while I was there. The first are the plaster casts of the victims, which are distributed in three locations around the city. Although they're all kept under sealed glass, visitors are allowed to examine them very closely, and in so doing I found myself deeply unsettled. All of the casts show the victims in twisted, contorted positions. There's one of a man with his arms raised, trying to ward himself from the rain of burning ash, and even in the rough plaster the agony on his face is clearly recognizable. Another toward the southern end of the city reveals parents huddled over the body of their child in a futile effort to protect him. A third - one of the really famous ones - shows a dog curled in on itself, in that position dog owners would recognize as one of pain and fright. On more than one cast, the plaster has begun to peel away, revealing yellowed bone underneath and really driving home the realization that these were all people, once. People who died horribly, in terror, without understanding what was happening to them or why, as the skies turned black and belched fire onto their city. It's a sobering thought.

On a lighter note, the second item of particular interest I found was the Lupanar, the aforementioned brothel that Michael and Darren was trying to find. Of all the sites in Pompeii, this was the only one that had a line to get in! The inside of the Lupanar itself was rather spartan - the place consisted of maybe a half-dozen cubicle-sized rooms, each furnished with only a small stone bed maybe five feet long that looked vastly uncomfortable. The highlight of the place, however, were a series of frescoes - one above each cubicle - that depicted people having sex in positions ranging from rear penetration to spread-eagle for oral. It was hilarious! It was like you could go window shopping for suggestions while you were waiting for your...um...turn? Got bored of missionary? Here! Come into this room and try a slow fuck on your side! Of course, I took pictures of all the frescoes, although by this point I was getting a bit conscious of how many pictures I was taking. Considering that I really have no way of getting pictures off my camera on this ship, I'm basically limited to what my solitary 4 gig memory card could hold, and I've already clicked my way halfway through that. I'm going to be really, really annoyed if I run out of pictures halfway through Monte Carlo.

The third item of interest I found in the Villa of Mysteries, which is the home of a particularly wealthy patrician on the outskirts of Pompeii. Curiously, the path leading to this Villa led through a series of ancient graveyards and necropolises, which is pretty creepy when you think about it. The villa itself was very large and quite grand, and was one of the more intact structures in Pompeii. By virtue of this, in fact, one of the rooms in the villa had the most well-preserved frescoes in all of Pompeii, and they were beautiful. Their colors were saturated and rich, the images highly detailed. There were other buildings in various parts of Pompeii where you could see some partially-preserved wall decorations, and at least one house that retained a very well-kept image of Venus. At the Villa of Mysteries, however, you could really get a strong sense of what the city might have looked like, two thousand years ago. Based upon that glimpse, it must have been a stunning place.

In the end, Pompeii took me about six hours to traverse, and I only ended up managing sites 1 through 60 or so. I comfort myself with the notion that at least a few of those sites were just doors out of the city, but in truth I was so tired by the end of it I doubt I could have appreciated anything else. I also hadn't eaten in about eight hours, and given the amount of walking I had done the notion of cannibalism was getting more appealing by the minute. I ended up getting some carbonara from this little pizzeria just outside Pompeii, and I'm still feeling annoyed that I ate there. The place was clearly there to rip off tourists. Although the woman at the front counter assured me that everything was "made fresh!" I caught her pulling out a microwavable meal out of a freezer after I'd paid. The carbonara pretty much tasted like it too. It was also dripping with grease and had this unhealthy-looking bright yellow color generally reserved for cake and dandelions. It's particularly offensive when you think about the fact that Italy is so well known for its array of marvelous foods. I ate about half my carbonara before deciding that I could fish better food out of the Crystal Serenity's toilets.

I apologize if that's excessively gross to anyone here.

The train ride back to the ship was uneventful, but I didn't make it back to my stateroom until about 7:00 pm, and oh boy did my decision about Rome come back to haunt me. There were a good fourteen messages waiting for me (Oh yeah. I forgot to mention - I finally decided to give out my stateroom number, as I needed to know whether my tallies were correct as far as who was going on which shore excursion.) Naturally, all of them wanted to know the details about Rome - when we were leaving, where we were leaving from, when we were coming back, etc. There was also a message from Edna, indicating that Myrna was incredibly pissed off I hadn't gotten back to her with Rome details. Oops.

Well, I quickly sat down and rattled off the Rome newsletter, then jaunted downstairs to do some damage control in the dining room. I didn't quite get mobbed, but it felt a little like it with all the people calling my name from their tables. It was like a broken record - we're leaving tomorrow at nine am, down at reception on deck five. Yes, tomorrow at nine am, deck five. Reception on deck five, nine am. Myrna was indeed pissed ("I didn't have any messages about Rome. None, this entire day!") and I briefly entertained the notion of punching her in the face before fleeing in the opposite direction and diving off the ship. I settled for just reassuring her about Rome tomorrow and booking it out of there as soon as I was done.

I caught up with David in Silk Road, which was nice and reassuring. ("Well, I wasn't worried because it's not like we wouldn't see you at some point this evening, and I figured you'd definitely tell us before bed.") I ate a ton of sushi, which was fun and enlightening because the Silk Road sushi chefs all make the food right there in front of you. Now I know how rolls are made!

Rome is coming up tomorrow - the second of our Theatre at Sea shore excursions - and I do admit I'm getting a teeeeeeny bit anxious when I consider the possibility of there not being a bus waiting for us at the dock. I know we confirmed already, but I'm neurotic and obsessive, dammit! I like turning over these anxieties in my mind like a cow chewing a piece of cud.

At least we'll be docked in Rome. If we were going in by tender, I suspect more than one Theatre at Sea passenger will have gone overboard before the day's end.

Travelogue, Day Seven: Of geo caches, prickly pears, and long, long climbs

So I spent most of the day today with David and Sumrall wandering around in Taormina. I’d initially wandered into town alone, but bumped into them in one of Taormina’s main squares, and we decided to keep each other company.

What can I say about Taormina? Well, the sun finally decided to grace us with its presence, beaming down onto the island full blast, which resulted in some very grand, truly splendid vistas. There was, of course, yet another church filled with extremely intricate shrines. The novelty here, however, was the lack of a burly lesbian guard demanding that I stop taking pictures, so I snapshotted to my heart’s content. After the chapel, we attempted to get lunch at a local restaurant, but discovered they had no pizza. Honestly…wtf, mate? In Sicily, that’s like a Burger King declaring that they were out of burgers for the day. However, on our way out of the restaurant David introduced me to an interesting concept – geo caches.

Apparently, geo caches are sort of an international scavenger hunt. People take these little objects and hide them in various spots around the world, posting their locations into an international database with coordinates that show up on GPS devices (if you option for it, I presume). The objects are usually stored in some sort of Tupperware and range from pieces of pottery and little bits of artwork to paperclips and pens, to more exotic objects (I didn’t ask, but what would be exotic? Nipple tassels? Cock rings? A full set of Liza Minelli CD’s?). Also in said Tupperware are logs where you can enter your name and, presumably, some sort of ID number indicating that you’ve “retrieved” the cache. You leave the Tupperware for some other enterprising geo cache hunter to find, of course. All of the caches are ranked according to accessibility and obviousness. One might be easy to find, but stuck halfway up the side of a mountain (4 for accessibility, 1 for obviousness), while another might be hidden deep inside a piece of shrubbery just alongside the road (1 for accessibility, but 4 for obviousness). A difficulty of 5 in either situation indicates that special equipment would be needed, such as scuba tanks or mountain-climbing gear. As an additional bit of niftiness, some geo caches contain little tracking devices, which you then pick up and carry with you to another location (presumably another geo cache), and deposit there for someone else to pick up. The owners of those devices can then watch their little bugs travel around the world and live vicariously through the experience (kind of like the Travelocity gnome, I guess.) Some people pick these up as is convenient, while others actively hunt them down as a hobby. David, as I came to understand, had discovered hundreds of these little objects.

The particular geo cache that we were looking for seemed to be hidden a mere four or five hundred from where the pizza-less pizza restaurant was located. As we followed David’s GPS tracker, however, it soon became apparent that the “mere” four or five hundred feet was virtually straight down. We had to follow this winding, looping path down the side of the mountain at something like a 50 degree incline, with David glued to his tracker and the rest of us looking for…something. I had no idea at this point what a geo cache actually looked like – in my inane sort of way, I was imagining this little oaken chest covered with gilt leafing, dusty and cracked with age, similar in its way to the Ark of the Covenant from Raiders of the Lost Ark. I’d heard the word “Tupperware” of course, but I think my image was much more romantic.

Anyway, as we continued winding down the hill, the city walls sort of fell away, the path opening to reveal a steep, rugged slope covered with dry grasses, tall trees, and cacti. The view was spectacular, overlooking the coastline below, and I could see the Crystal Serenity like a toy boat floating over the glittering water. The water down at the beach was that incredible blend of sea blue, turquoise, aquamarine, and cerulean you only see when the water is crystal clear, and even as high as we were I could see the shadows of large rocks underneath the surface. There were large bunches of cacti near us, their tips budding with orange and scarlet prickly pears, and that was a novelty to me. Sumrall informed me that prickly pears were often used to make jam, to which I promptly attempted to very carefully pick a prickly pear. At about the same time, she told me that heavy gloves are usually needed to pick them.

Well the rest of the cactus had giant needles! I figured I could avoid getting pricked if I was careful!

The results were pretty much what you’d expect. I ended up with a forest of tiny spines eating into my fingers like miniature drills, and no prickly pear for my efforts. Learning very quickly to leave the prickly pears alone, I continued down the path trying to pick the individual needles out of my hand while Sumrall looked on and simultaneously winced while trying not to laugh at me. By the time we’d caught up with David, he was already putting down his name into the geo cache. It was, unfortunately, plain blue Tupperware…but I can still dream. Yes I can.

The walk back to Taormina proper was a real hike. The hill seemed rather steeper than when were coming down, and the sun was beating me over the head with a big, flaming nerf bat. We definitely needed a break by the time we got back, so we tucked ourselves into the first pizzeria (with confirmed pizza!) that we found. I don’t even remember what sort of pizza I ordered – only that it was delicious with the liter of house wine we got.

After lunch, we wandered across town toward the Greek theatre, which I knew nothing about but which sounded interesting. I bought a print of Taormina that I thought would look nifty hanging on the wall, as well as (finally) a brown belt to go with my brown shoes. On a random note, the motif of Sicily is apparently a face with three legs running counter-clockwise around it, and it’s kind of freaky-looking. It’s also absolutely everywhere, wrought in porcelain or bronze in souvenir shops and printed on key chains and flags. I question its viability as a local symbol. It feels like Sicily is declaring en masse, “We produce really deformed babies!” (Thumbs up)

The Greek theatre was pretty stunning, and definitely looked its age. The thing was massively open-air, intimidating with it size. I can’t imagine what it must have been like trying to perform in that theatre. Actors back then must have had lungs like hot air balloons. There were also some very grand views of Taormina and the coastline from the edges of the theatre, as the entire structure stood on a cliff at the eastern edge of the city. I took some pretty splendid pictures, if I do say so myself.

David wanted to go back to the ship after we got done at the theatre, but I’d wanted to investigate the Fortress of the Saracens since coming into the city. Problem was, the fort stood at the peak of a mountain that rose imposingly into the Taormina sky – a climb of several hundred feet at least. We had less than an hour to get up to the fort, get back down, and march across the city to catch the last tender back to the ship. (And it was a long, long swim across the bay to where the Serenity was anchored.) Sumrall was game, but David opted out, citing little interest in old fortresses. So it was just the two of us. We nabbed some gelato for the sake of fortitude before trekking north toward the mountain.

The climb was rough. Really rough. The stairs zigzagged endlessly across the side of the mountain, and although the going wasn’t particularly steep, owing precisely to that zigzag pattern, it was very, very, very long and very, very, very high. There were also statues carved into the side of the mountain at every landing, depicting Jesus carrying the crucifix, and about a third of the way up that’s pretty much what the climb started to feel like. I’m not sure what sort of sadistic nun carved those images of the cross-bearing. Maybe she was trying to encourage climbers by reminding them of the trek Jesus made during his last hours, but I can’t say the notion of my climb being compared to a long and painful road leading to agonizing death was particularly cheering. Worse yet, I’d forgotten to bring water, and the pistachio gelato I’d eaten stuck to the inside of my mouth like a layer of warm sugar. I wasn’t really ready to turn back, but the decision to visit the Saracen castle was looking more ill-planned by the minute.

Well, we did make it to the top of the mountain, just a few dozen feet below the castle, and thankfully there was a water fountain waiting for us. Refreshed by a long swig of slightly stony-tasting water, we started the last few steps up to the Fortress of the Saracens and discovered in short order a locked gate barring the last thirty or so feet up.

Well that’s sort of like getting cock-slapped by a twelve-inch boner, isn’t it? Or would that be face-hugged by a nine-inch vulva? I don’t really know the appropriate form of that expression for a gay man. Let’s just say it sucked monstrous donkey dick and leave it at that.

Actually, I was a little too tired to be really upset, and there were certainly some incredible panoramas of Taormina and the seascape on our way up. I snapped a few pictures of the view, the fortress, and the locked gate, and we started our way back down. Not quite willing to admit defeat, however, I spread my arms and ran down the stairs two at a time, screaming, “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” as I went.

No, I’m not joking. Yes, people stared. No, I didn’t care.

We made the tender, got back to the ship, and watched the terrific fifth show of our cruise: Susan, Richard, Betsy, and Lee Roy put up a series of showtunes and dancing for everyone. I finally got some pictures of myself with the cast, then drifted off to the Silk Road to have some Asian cuisine with David, Sumrall, Sherry, and Rita. I think I might just make an umbrella declaration that every bit of food I’ve had on this trip so far has been incredible, and stop talking about it. God knows I’m going to make myself jealous in the future if I ever come back and re-read this blog.

Tomorrow is Sorrento, which also starts our three-day block without any shows. That’s actually very fortunate, because not only do I have the Rome transfer to worry about, but it means that I have time to work on the programs without feeling like I’m running perpetually late. Wootness!

Anyhoo, I’m pretty exhausted right now – climbing that mountain takes a lot out of you – so this is G, last survivor of the Taormina excursion, signing off.

Travelogue, Day Six: Two shows and a karaoke night

There’s not much to say about today. At sea days are kind of boring, from a blogging perspective.

Well, I decided to do some aerobic work in the morning, just to help stretch myself out a little, so I went up to the treadmills and tried my standard circuit training - minute and a half of heaving running at a near spring, minute and a half of light jogging, cycled for about half an hour. That usually puts me into the three/ three and a half mile range by the time I’m done, and it’s a pretty decent workout (especially considering I’m not terribly fit aerobically). Well, about a third of the way in, I was wiping some sweat out of my eyes and completely misjudged the length of the treadmill. I slipped, fell onto the track, and was pretty much carried on my ass off the treadmill and onto the floor. Most of the people in the gym missed it, but Richard happened to be next to me and gave me a thumbs up for my efforts. Nice G. A springtime ballerina I am not.

Today also happened to be a two-show day, with Laurence doing his show in the morning and Brian doing his show in the evening. (That’s Laurence Luckinbill and Brian Bedford, in case you need a recap). I’d been slightly worried up to this point, because although musical numbers are very popular with the old crowd on board, I wasn’t sure how well a straight performance would go over with them.

Oh, I have to tangent here – I’d mentioned before how I thought there wouldn’t’ be anyone on board remotely close to my age, right? Well, I was totally wrong. Somehow I’d managed to completely forget about the crew, the majority of whom are young, and of course the ship company consists mostly of younger men and women. What rather surprised me, however, was that even among the passengers there seems to be a sizable spread of younger folks. Of course most of them are well into their sixties, seventies, and eighties, but there are actually a fair number of people here who are under forty. There’s one couple who can’t be more than thirty, who are on their honeymoon. David and Sumrall are both around my age, and there are more than few passengers who brought their children or grandchildren along. The mix on even luxury cruises is much more varied than I’d imagined.

I’m glad I cleared that up.

Back to the matter at hand, both Larry’s show and Brian’s show were great successes. Larry was tremendously powerful and extremely engaging in “Lyndon,” and Brian was a delight to watch and listen to in “Ever Yours, Oscar.” I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I certainly wasn’t expecting what they gave me, and I’m glad. My worries were largely unfounded, as both shows were packed, and the applause at the end of both was uproarious. Richard popped over after the show to congratulate me on my Grade A spill in the gym this morning, which was both funny and rather embarrassing. You know, I think I have a slight crush on Richard. He’s got to be at least in his forties, but the man’s in great shape and looks terrific. Too bad he’s a) straight and b) effectively married to Susan. You know, it occurs to me I probably shouldn’t be mentioning this in public. It’s almost certain to bite me in the ass later.

After the evening show, Sumrall invited me to join her, David, Sherry, and Rita over at Prego, one of the ship’s two alternate restaurants. That was a really incredible experience as well. Of course all the food on the ship has been incredible so far, but from Prego I had some really wonderful filet mignon, which was certainly comparable to the chateaubriand I’d had on the formal night. As an extra bit of niftiness, the photographer dropped by and took a picture of us all, which I’m looking forward to seeing on the morrow.

Since today was an at-sea day, there was karaoke again at the Pulse disco. It wasn’t nearly as crowded in there as it was last time, and David decided to join us this time, although he didn’t do any singing. I was encouraged, somewhat, by a pair of extremely exuberant and extremely bad singers from the ship’s officer ranks. I did a decent rendition of “Kryptonite”, tossed in a really weird duet of “All I Ask of You” with Sumrall, did the classic “Losing My Religion” (of course), and closed the evening with “Memory” from Cats, which I hadn’t really intended to sing but which somehow ended up getting turned in at some point during the evening. I did a lot better on Memory than I expected, which was encouraging. Rita actually joined in our karaoke night tonight, which was fun and endearing, because she really got into it. It’s also worth mentioning that although Rita has got to be nearing ninety, the woman outlasts me most evenings. I’m dragging my wimpy ass to bed around 10:30 or 11, and she’s still kicking it at half past two. I hope I’m that lively when I’m an octogenarian.

So yeah. That was today. I’d like to close with something funny or witty or remarkably insightful, but I’m stuffed full of extremely excellent food and all sung out on pop and showtunes. Tomorrow we land in Taormina, which is in Sicily, which brings to mind delicious pizza, sun-drenched villas, and throngs of olive-skinned boys with sensuous dark eyes. We’ll see how that goes.

Travelogue, Day Five: Rain, Poetry, and Introspective Musing in Croatia

Three cheers for getting drenched yet again. I really need to just start wearing my gym shoes when I head to port, because waiting two days for my only pair of brown or black shoes to dry is starting to get old.

So today was Dubrovnik, which is a nifty little port city in Croatia. I got up early and had an excellent, hearty, and nutritious breakfast of various fruits, banana-nut oatmeal, sausages, and a totally laden omelet – it should be mentioned that I’m milking this whole “free food” thing for all its worth, ‘cause God knows I don’t eat anything like this back at home. It’s probably another reason I’m looking forward to moving in with Kevin, because I think I’d like to be able to make myself breakfast (or any other meal, for that matter) in a form other than stale cereal or overcooked oatmeal.

At any rate, after breakfast, I noted the decidedly murky-looking sky outside and grabbed my umbrella (which is practically a pavilion in and of itself) on my way out. Myrna and Edna caught up with me as I was toward the free shuttle into town, so I chatted with them a bit as we drove. They’re really quite sweet, if rather demanding.

The newer areas of Dubrovnik actually remind me a little bit of various neighborhoods in Beijing and a few areas in Hong Kong. The streets are a little uneven and the traffic not well regulated, but that much is true in many areas of the world. I think it actually has something to do with the way the buildings are built, the style in which they’re constructed – I wonder if the city has had much British influence while it grew up.

The bus dropped us off just outside the Old City, which are surrounded by a set of extremely impressive-looking city walls. I would really rather not be the vanguard in any attack against those walls, particularly not with arrows and assorted other unpleasantries raining down on my head, because assaulting a twenty-foot tall, ten foot thick edifice of solid granite with swords and polearms seems like it’d be about as effective as chipping at a brick with a toothpick. Yes, I’m aware that siege engines were typically used in the medieval days, but Old Dubrovnik sits on a massive series of hills. Just getting a siege engine to sit upright would be a rather Sisyphean task.

Of course, with the walls being one of the principle attractions of the city, there were stairs going up almost as soon as I entered. I separated from Myrna and Edna there, deciding that the view from the top would be worth the tremendous climb and €6 admission fee. Turns out I wasn’t wrong. The view was VERY spectacular, although the climb was VERY tremendous. Quite different from how they would be in the US, the walls of Dubrovnik had virtually no guard rails, hand rails, or any real measure of idiot-protection. I could have easily climbed out over the walls and splattered myself against the rocks fifty feet below. I think I prefer it that way – I’m sure it helps keep the stupidity level of the Croatian gene pool rather low.

In a curious twist of coincidence, I met a trio of students from New York up in one of the turrets, and we exchanged pictures up top. It was edging from drizzle to out-and-out rain at this point, but it still wasn’t heavy enough for me to consider it an issue. After all, I had my Umbrella of Power! After a bit of consideration, I decided to continue along the walls and get some pictures of the coast, because the eastern end of the city stood along some cliffs and had a sweeping view of the ocean. In any case, I could always get some stairs back down when I felt ready, right?

Yeah, uh huh. What did we learn in grade school about assumptions? Right.

I did make it to the eastern wall of the city while the rain was still light and got some very foggy but atmospheric pictures of the coast. I was feeling decidedly poetic as I walked along the medieval stone walls, watching the iron gray ocean rippling its way into a haze of muffled white, merging with the sky in the misty distance. Owing possibly to the poetry of Dorothy Parker, I started composing a series of verses in my head, trying to figure out a way to tie in life, love, and the rhythmic waves of a restless sea in an aesthetically pleasing meter. Just as I was really waxing eloquent, however, the sky basically sharted on my head. The heavens split open and started dumping raindrops the size of quail eggs onto Dubrovnik. At the same time, a massive wind picked up off the sea, nearly sending me spinning around with my umbrella. It caught the rain that would have fallen outside the city and whipped them over the walls, so that not only were we pelted from above, but from below as well. Lightning sizzled in blazing arcs across the sky, and naturally I was standing on the highest spot in Dubrovnik with an umbrella the size of a radio tower and virtually no cover. What could I do? I sighed and kept walking, hoping to find some stairs back down into the city before my shoes got soaked again.

Fail. Epic fail. It turns out the city walls only have two places where you can get on or off. I had to walk halfway around the city walls, with rivers pouring down my back and around my feet. It was fortunate that I was wearing my brown shoes, because my black ones were still in recovery from Venice. It probably would have been more fortunate still if I was wearing my sandals, but with the rain and the wind I probably would have frozen my toes off.

So about forty five minutes after the rain started, I finally found some stairs back down into Dubrovnik proper. I found myself outside the Cathedral, and was able to sneak a few pictures of its luscious interior (with its multitudes of people. It’s astounding how bad weather seems to redouble the piety of the masses.) Continued wandering led me to some central avenues and thoroughfares, where I was able to find my way back to the gate. The rain had stopped by now, the sun carefully peeking out behind tattered clouds, and I was feeling brave enough to keep exploring the city. Avoiding the major roads this time, I decided to check out the narrower alleyways toward the northern end of the city, which were characterized by high walls and steep stairs up the hillside. About halfway up a particularly long, particularly steep set of stairs, I realized something - people live in Old Dubrovnik.

This had been obvious from the beginning, but somehow it hadn’t really registered as I was exploring the more touristy portions of Dubrovnik. People actually live there! There were little doors and balconies and windows leading into living rooms where people were having lunch in their underwear. There were lines stretched across alleyways, extending between two nearby buildings, with pink T-shirts and frilly underwear air-drying in the newly revealed sun. As I wandered up and down these narrow paths, I became acutely aware that I was passing right by people’s doorsteps, and it bothered me a little. I’m actually not sure why, because plenty of strangers walk by the front door to my building all the time. I think it had to do with the intimate, almost rustic nature of those Dubrovnik streets. I felt like I was violating the privacy of everyone who lived there with my tourist trappings, gawking at their way of life as though it were something alien and marvelous and novel. What’s so interesting about a guy watching television and eating fish, even if he’s doing it on the Croatian coastline rather than a New York apartment? Would he feel the same way about me if he were wandering by my Washington Heights apartment?

I did consider here what it would be like to live in Dubrovnik. What it would be like if I, say, decided to stay a summer there in a sort of exchange program. I tried to imagine myself stepping out of one of those worn oaken doors onto the cobblestone streets, looking out over those orange slate rooftops and thinking of them not as an attraction, but as home. It was a strange and anxious thought, but exciting at the same time. I was never much for exploring new places and learning new customs – I like having firm roots rather too much for such a thing, I think – but it would make for a good story. Ultimately, though, I can’t imagine it would be that different. Dubrovnik isn’t a third world country after all. Whatever I might do during the day, however I might work, I can’t imagine that the habits and trappings I carry with me would change so much. I’d still write, draw, read, and hang out with friends at the local bar. Admittedly, I probably wouldn’t be kissing too many guys while I was there, but you never know. Maybe Dubrovnik has a thriving gay community that I know nothing about.

Anyway, the sun was blazing full force by this point and I was starting to develop a headache, not to mention the fact that I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. I decided to just take the shuttle back to the Crystal Serenity, where I had a late afternoon snack and some ice cream with Ron and Norm. The evening show featured Donna and Lee Roy, which was fantastic and fun (particularly where Lee Roy did an impression of Ethel Merman), and I only had to spend a little time after dinner working, and that was mostly exchanging e-mails with Sherry.

Tomorrow is another at-sea day, which means some time spent catching up on work and figuring out the logistics of Rome. I’m not blogging as much about the work being done on the ship because a) it’s boring and b) it’s boring, so it should be a short blog day as well. I now return to my marshmallowy pillows with a pair of horror movies nabbed from the ship library.

Oh! Did I mention the ship library? It’s pretty neat – there’s a series of new book releases, international selections, some old favorites, and a very substantial DVD library. Not only do they have an excellent selection of horror movies, they’ve got (whispers) pooooorn! And not just regular porn either – they’ve got seriously gay porn. Unfortunately, the librarian kind of knows me by sight already, so I’m trying to decide if I can work up the nerve to check out something like, “Slick Fast and Furious” or “Sporty Gays.” Maybe I’ll wait until a day or so before the cruise ends, because I’m not sure I could stand her piercing gaze every time I went to check out another horror movie. Well, I mean…she must get guys who take out porn, right? This is a cruise ship! Half the entertainment cast has to be gay!

I’ve gotten fairly outgoing in the past year or so, but I’m not sure I’m daring enough to request “Wild Anal” just yet.

Travelogue, Day Four: Singing and dancing on the open seas.

Today was actually a really good day.

Well, most of the day was just work, but that’s rather better than fielding complaints. As I had planned, I woke up early and spent a little time in the gym. As is my norm for getting back to the gym after a long time of idleness, I only worked all the major muscles once, but worked them pretty hard. And, as is the norm for getting back to the gym after a long time of idleness, I’m sure I’m going to feel like a giant walking bruise tomorrow. Hrm. Maybe this whole “gym on board” thing wasn’t such a great idea after all.

I went to pick up Pat from the spa after my workout, but found out that she’d already left. Huh. Turns out she forgot I was coming to pick her up and ended up asking someone down in room service to push her back to her room. I’m actually feeling a bit for Betsy now – I also went to pick up Pat for the post-lunch show and ended up spending twenty minutes helping her put on makeup. She definitely needs a full-time escort – someone whose job is to take care of her, and not just an actor trying to double as a caretaker. Philip seriously needs to stop trying to cut corners with this one.

The show itself was terrific. Our cast got to show their stuff, and I thought they were all quite wonderful. Well, by our cast I’m referring to Lee Roy, Richard, Susan, Betsy, and Donna, since Laurence and Brian don’t do any performances until after Dubrovnik, and Lucie doesn’t do hers until Elba. I’ve been noticing this weird sort of totem pole among the actors, based upon this and past Theatre at Sea cruises, where actors with more “star” power seem to get by with just one show, while the others fill in our other performance days with additional singing and dancing. I can’t imagine it’s really a chore for these guys, because our audience absolutely adores them and gets to see more of them, but I still find it sort of…I don’t know…sort of strange and sort of irritating. Meh, maybe that’s just the Libra in me talking.

Oh! In more spectacular news, the dining situation seems to have sorted itself out. Philip apparently persuaded Leo to allow our Theatre at Sea section to have open seating, and people seem to have been able to fill the table space without leaving anyone out or ending up in a bad spot. I spent the better part of half an hour floating near Norm and Ron, muttering commentary about the seating while referring endlessly (and uselessly) to my seating notes. Since this was also the first of our formal nights, I think I just ended up looking like a fretful penguin in my tux while the waiters did all the actual work.

After it looked like everyone was happily seated, I finally took an empty seat and sat down to an excellent meal of chateaubriand with some remarkably lovely company. I got to know David, Sumrall, and Rita over dinner – David was rather miffed earlier about the Fenice Theatre debacle, since they didn’t find out about the time change until after getting back to the ship, but he was easily ready to let it slide by the time dinner rolled around. We had some great conversation, the contents of which are completely lost to my memory, and afterwards Sumrall and I decided to check out the evening karaoke.

Now that was a blast. The place was fairly empty at first, but even so I was really nervous about singing karaoke on board a ship where musical numbers were being shown on a daily basis. It didn’t help that there were a couple of very, very good singers in the crowd, Sumrall being among them, as well as a tall blond Norwegian guy who, despite a thick accent, managed to do an incredibly mean Elvis. Now that was a tough act to follow. A couple of drinks later, however, I ditched my reservations and sang my perennial karaoke favorite, “Losing My Religion.” I got a rousing round of applause for my effort, a declaration from Sumrall that she was very impressed with my voice, and that grand sensation feeling of having sung karaoke wearing a tuxedo.

Yessir, this penguin rocked out tonight.

Travelogue, Day Three: Day two in Venezia, in which G gaily murders everyone aboard.

Ohhhh…my god. The cruise has barely started and already I’m being assaulted by complaints. Jesus bloody Christ. In this particular case, the problem seems to be with seating. Four of our passengers don’t feel that their dining seats are satisfactory, and naturally I’m supposed to do something about that because clearly my “decision” to shuffle them off to a “corner” of the dining room where they were “separate” from the rest of the group was in very poor taste. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d gotten promoted to Dining Coordinator and Maitre D’ of the restaurant when I wasn’t looking. How silly of me. Ugh, and I’ve already spoken to Leo twice today trying to work out seating for the actors. I think he’s going to get palpitations every time he sees me for the rest of this cruise.

Actually, this whole day has been sort of an exercise in things that could go wrong. Sherry had mentioned that she didn’t think all of the people who’d planned to go to the Fenice theatre received our notice about the party being pushed to 2:00 pm. I had hoped to get a newsletter out about that this morning, but owing to a meeting with Philip I didn’t manage to get to it until well after 10:30 am. That, as it turned out later, was just a teeny bit too late for people to actually receive before leaving for Venice. Fuck me with a pumice scrub.

Okay, okay, let’s go about this in chronological order. After that meeting with Philip, I ran newsletters to everyone’s staterooms personally. Betsy had also asked me to just check in on Patricia, as she was going into Venice for the day, so I did that. Pat was in splendid form as usual, declaring in her matronly way that “I’m not even out of my nightshirt, darling. I was planning on just staying in, but thank you so much for calling me. You’re terribly kind.” She’s such an interesting lady. After all that, I headed out to Venice for the day.

The sky were even more dour than yesterday, with the clouds looking downright charcoal in color, and by the time the tender had reached the Piazza San Marco there was a respectable downpour. I, being adventurous and frolicsome, and in a show of sheer youthful bravado for all the aged individuals on the tender, stepped gaily out into the rain with my Crystal Cruises umbrella. They probably all just thought I was a fucking moron.

I ran into Betsy and Donna on the pier, and Betsy proclaimed (rather portentously) that she wanted to talk to me about Patricia because she was “a lot more to handle than I expected.” Swell. While I was busy digesting this bit of news, the rain suddenly intensified into a bonafide torrential downpour. I had to duck underneath a tree while still holding my umbrella, and even then my shoes were soaked through within minutes. It felt like God had decided to dump the Mediterranean onto Venice. I spent fifteen minutes just huddled underneath that tree, watching the water slowly drip through my umbrella, wondering whether I would be spending my afternoon there…waiting for Godot. I mean, for the rain to stop.

It never did.

Eventually I just bit the bullet and marched out into the rain. It actually got to be pretty funny, because everywhere people were huddled underneath archways and tucked onto porch steps, packing themselves in like rats on a high rock watching the tide come in. The Piazza San Marco was practically flooded. In some parts the water came up ankle-high – I found out later, however, that in some years, the water from the river itself rises to submerge practically all of San Marco island under a foot or more of water. I can’t imagine what it must be like owning a shop here.

I waffled around San Marco for a while, trying to figure out the best way to get to the Art Academy without getting even more drenched, then finally gave up and marched my ass to the alleyway north of the Piazza to find a nice mask shop. I then spent a very, very pleasant, terminally indecisive hour trying to figure out just how much money I could afford to blow on a Venetian mask. The answer? About $170. Yup, that’s right. I spent €95 on this black and gold half-mask decorated with feathers, then pulled another €15 on two smaller porcelain pieces. I can think of any number of things I could buy with $170, but dammit, this is Venice, and I don’t know when I’ll come back here again, and these are some goddamn pretty masks. The purchase was totally worth it! I am such a fucking faggot.

Anyway, the rain eventually let up a little, so I was able to wind my soggy way toward the Art Academy. I’d figured I could go in and wander around a little, maybe sneak a few pictures, but upon arrival I discovered there was an admissions fee to get in. And me without any Euros (before you ask, I’d charged my card for the mask purchases). Oh well, maybe next time.

I was hitting time for the Fenice Theatre tour at this point, so I headed back across the bridge and made my way to the theatre, replying on the sketchy memories from yesterday to navigate the twisting streets. The rain still hadn’t let up, and by this point I was having a sinking sensation that maybe there wouldn’t be a Fenice group tour as a result. Maybe it would consist of me and…me, and then I’d have to field demands from twenty-odd octogenarians for their money back. Augh! I choose you, Sherrychu! Save me with your Guarding Booby Smash!

Well, true to form, we had exactly seven people attend the tour. Ron and Norm, Philip and Marilyn, me, and two of our passengers. That’s two passengers out of about twenty. Success! Ignoring the fact that I would probably have complaints waiting for me back on the ship, I went on the Fenice tour with everyone and had a terrific time. The Fenice Theatre – the inside, at any rate – is easily the most spectacular theatre I’ve ever seen. I had thought the set for Phantom was impressive, but in comparison now that’s like calling a turd haute cuisine. I wish I could have taken a picture of the place, because not only is the theatre absolutely MASSIVE, it’s also intricate like nothing else I’ve ever seen. All of the walls – including the ceiling – are covered in gilded leaf-shaped curlicues and decorated with paintings in a classical realistic style. The gilding was actually made using sheets of real gold leaf, shaped to cover the carvings underneath, then welded and polished smooth. And the Royal Box! Good god, the Royal Box. Imagine this plush, effusively opulent room roughly ten feet to a side that’s all blood red velvet and gold drapery, touched with classical artwork here and there, and you’ll have an idea of the Royal Box. The detail of everything in the place is simply staggering.

We were initially going to have a reception after the tour, but since there were only seven of us eating and drinking for twenty-two, it consisted mostly of me stuffing myself with some high-class snack foods and downing almost an entire bottle’s worth of Bellini’s. What can I say? I’d skipped lunch. Anyway, we made our way back to the ship after that, and I spent the rest of the afternoon making programs, answering e-mails, and trying to figure out the logistics of Rome.

Now came dinner time. Dinner itself was amazing, although I spent a good deal of it jotting down notes about how I wanted to rearrange seats for next time, assuming Leo would let me. Unfortunately, almost as soon as dinner was over, those same four passengers from yesterday came to let me know that they were “very unhappy” with the dining conditions. They were very cold sitting underneath a vent, and they felt like they were outcast from the rest of the Theatre at Sea group. At least one of them was unhappy with her company, as she had wanted ostensibly to sit with interesting people (and by interesting she, of course, meant the stars featured on our cruise.) Christ almighty, save me from rich people and their overblown sense of entitlement.

To top off the day, Betsy called me and asked me to pick up Patricia from her spa treatment in the morning. I’m sensing a rather alarming pattern forming. Ron thinks that although Betsy is Patricia’s semi-official companion, she’s also hoping that someone (namely me) will step up and offer to help take care of Pat. Well, I think I speak for the receiving party when I say, “Fuck. That. Shit.” I have already got WAY too much on my plate without dropping special time with Pat on top of the pile.

Ugh. Tomorrow is our first at-sea day, our first formal night, and our first show. I am going to spend my morning in the gym, I think. Blow off some steam. Hope that today doesn’t set an example for the rest of the cruise, because otherwise this ship is going to end up a prime spot for a noir-style murder mystery.

Travelogue, Day Two: Serenity, Venezia, and Dining Issues

First off, I’d like to say that it’s one thing looking at cruise ships on a computer screen, and another thing entirely to be standing next to one. Good god, these things are MASSIVE. It’s sort of vulgar, when I really stop and thinking about it, but I’m still a little too busy being impressed by the sheer grandeur of the Crystal Serenity. It could easily fit ten iterations of my apartment building and still have room left over.

Okay, starting off at the beginning, as it were. The flight into Rome was uneventful, although I managed to catch all of two hour sleep. Nor can I say much about the flight from Rome to Venice, except that the customs line in Rome was just unreasonably long. I was a little caught between being the asshole American tourist and just speaking in English, or embarrassing myself with my stuttering Italian. I managed a “Buon giorno. Parla inglese?” here and there, but that was about the extent of it. There was an issue transferring from the Venice airport to the ship, where apparently I wasn’t listed as having a transport in despite having air arranged by Crystal Cruises. So they’re currently zero for two in the air department, because they’d fucked up earlier in putting me on the September 1st flight, as opposed to the September 11th. Oh! Annnnd something apparently happened to one of my checked bags, because it came back to me split open and covered in white tape. My guess is that customs had to open to it check it for contraband (does thirty pounds of Pat Neal’s autobiography count?), and then couldn’t figure out how to close it up again, so they just taped the whole thing up and threw it on its way. I’m astounded the thing lasted the trip, and it’s pretty fortunate that the only things in there that were mine were a pair of shoes.

My first impression of the Venice countryside was that (brace yourselves) it reminded me a great deal of Northern Virginia. Before any of you start howling at me, I’d like to note here that the route I took had very little in the way of housing, consisting mostly of isolated groves and fields of wheat or corn. That’s basically all you’ll find in large swathes of NoVA. Add to that Ace of Base’s “Cruel Summer” coming on over the radio as we drove, and the entire scene could have been transplanted a few miles outside Fredericksburg with nobody the wiser.

The cruise terminal – the Marittima Stazione – docked several large cruise ships, including one from Princess Cruises as well as the Rotterdam (or something like that) from Norwegian cruise line. As I already said, it was a fairly impressive sight coming in by car. I shuttled myself over to the cruise terminal, grabbed my check-in number, and promptly saw the Theatre at Sea cast sitting in a series of plastic chairs over by the window. Everyone was already here, of course, and although I’d met Lee Roy, Betsy, Richard, and Susan a few times, I’d never actually spoken to Brian Bedford, Donna McKechnie, Lucie Arnaz, Laurence Luckinbill, or Patricia Neal. Well, first impressions were decent, I guess – I didn’t spaz out and faint, but I was a bit nervous about how I was going to manage all these actors for the duration of the cruise without looking like a complete dunce.

I ended up settling for getting them cookies from the refreshments table. Hey, it works.

Anyway, check-in went smoothly, although they took my passport upon my boarding the ship and traded it to me for a little stateroom card with another of those perennially terrible ID photos. I can’t say I was altogether pleased by this, because the thought of someone manhandling my brand new passport was, at a word, irksome. (Unhand my passport, brigand!) Ah well.

My first impression of the Crystal Serenity’s interior – in this case the atrium – was nothing less than spectacular. Polished marble floors in the atrium, coupled with a truly lovely statue, and a stained glass ceiling give the entire place a thoroughly elegant look. I finally checked in my book bag, since the D&D books were getting awfully heavy, and went into the Crystal Dining Room for some lunch with Philip and Marilyn. That was another amazing affair – it’s a little late and I can’t quite summon the words to describe it, but the dining room is about as upscale as you can get, the sort of place where you feel obligated to wear a suit and tie, wonder about the etiquette of using the utensils, and expect a three digit check at the end. But for the purposes of this trip…IT’S ALL FREE! Please excuse me while I go do a goofy dance.

I had some chilled fruit and some salmon for lunch, both of which were excellent. Although, there was a small yellow berry on the chilled fruit that I suspect might have been a dressing, rather than something actually meant to be eaten. It had a very bizarre, woody sort of taste to it, not altogether unpleasant, but I’m not certain altogether palatable either. The salmon was delicious, but small…really small. It came on a plate the size of a truck tire, which is a concept that has always kind of baffled me, and looked a bit like a little floral arrangement with its various veggie dressings. It was certainly a few orders of magnitude better than the pieces of shoe leather they tend to serve at Columbus deli, in any case, but I felt like I could have done with a more substantial lunch.

After lunch, I finally made it to my stateroom, which is another beautiful monstrosity, hold the monstrosity. It’s basically a small hotel room with a truly ginormous bed – I mean, seriously, the thing can probably hold four people or one really, really fat man – and a little sitting area past the bed. I found myself thinking that I could probably live fairly comfortably in a room like this, even if it is a shade smaller than my bedroom back at the Heights.

Ron gave me a call after I’d finished settling in, letting me know that he and Norm were heading into Venice, and that since this was my first time abroad, they were happy to lead me around the place a bit. I took the offer and, after the administrative shuffle, we found ourselves making our way toward the pier. The sky had turned a very ugly shade of gray-green at this point, the air becoming thick and heavy, and amidst the wrangling of trying to figure out where our shuttle boat was docked we were hit by a torrential downpour. It lasted all of five minutes, and while the three of us took dubious shelter underneath some canopies the shuttle boat arrived. Then we were on our way.

The shuttle boat was almost empty, most people having more intelligence or more sanity than us, and it took us in around the southern edge of San Marco toward the Grand Canal. I really don’t have any comparative words for my first impression of Venice from afar, save maybe that strange bittersweet-sour mix of excitement, anxiety, and anticipation I always get when heading into a new place. Venice definitely has a weighty feel, that press of ages you’ll be hard to find, but the sensation was marred somewhat by the proliferation of cranes and scaffolding that I could see even from twenty minutes away. A necessary evil, I suppose, given the number of ancient monuments in the city in constant need of reconstruction or renewal.

The shuttle boat docked just a short distance from the Piazza San Marco, and as we walked Norm and Ron divulged their collective (and very expansive) knowledge about the city, explaining in great detail where we were going and where I should consider going tomorrow before the party at the Fenice Theatre. We paused in the Piazza San Marco so that I could take some pictures, avoiding the pigeons massed like rats in the middle of the square, before venturing deeper into the city.

I’m not sure I want to go into a blow-by-blow about the individual sights we saw, although it’s probably worth mentioning that I fell in instant love with the Venetian masks. It seemed like there was a mask shop on every corner, its walls covered in these glittering, shining, intricate little constructions. There were masks with crazed wings of gold filigree, masks surrounded by a halo of burning golden feathers, masks painted with flowing streams of musical notation, masks with pointed chins and devilish noses. It’s hard to do them justice with words, to describe the sheer variety and awesomely detailed construction of these masks. Like the interiors of numerous cathedrals I saw in the city, some of these masks were just too complex to be believed – I remember one in particular featured a sort of floral pattern that expanded in waves above the eye holes, spreading out fully three or four feet in diameter as it melded seamlessly with the life-sized face underneath. It was simply an amazing piece of craftsmanship. I wish I could’ve taken a picture of it, or better yet, had the money to buy it. I actually don’t even know how much it cost, but with even the more modest masks weighing in at sixty Euros or more, that one was definitely well out of my budget range. Well, who knows, maybe I’ll come back to Venice one day when I’m oozing money from every pore and buy out the store.

The masks, however, weren’t the only thing that made an impression as I walked through Venice. The place has a definite air, an indescribable feeling I can only describe as Venetian, with its cobblestone streets, narrow alleyways, and high walls. The city is internationally defined by its canals, and they’re certainly integral to the sensation of being in Venice, but in my estimate the city is a great deal more than just the waterways. On a random note, I apparently got fairly lucky, because the sudden downpour cleared out most of the big crowds in the more popular tourist areas and I was able to sample the Rialto without having to force my way through a jumble of people. The view of the Grand Canal across the Rialto is, according to Norm, sort of an essential Venice. I wonder if I can overuse the word “spectacular” in one blog.

Oh, we also went to see a church, which followed suit in the intricately detailed artwork with some truly lovely shrines. Unfortunately, they didn’t allow any photography inside, so I had to make do with some rather crappy sneak peeks from outside the door.

I’m not sure there’s much else to say about my first day in Venice. I did a bit of work after coming back in and met a few more of the Theatre at Sea group as we were heading into dinner. Again, the food was excellent, although they’re still doing the artistic thing where the plate pretty much dwarfs anything it happens to be holding. Jon’s statement, “It’s like fucking a hula-hoop with a needle” comes to mind. This being our first night on the ship, dining utilized open seating. There were a few grumbles about that – particularly among the actors, actually, since they didn’t really want to be separated from each other. I spoke to Leo, the Maitre D’ of the Crystal Dining room, and I understand we have our own Theatre at Sea section, so I’m hoping this will all sort itself out tomorrow.

I didn’t have a chance to withdraw any money or buy anything while I was in Venice, but we’re docked here one more day before we head off toward Dubrovnik. Tomorrow’s the tour and reception at the Fenice Theatre, so I’m thinking that I’ll pop into one of the mask stores and pick something up before meeting Philip and Marilyn and the rest of the Theatre at Sea group.

Man, this has been a huge entry. I think I’m going to cut it short here and go to sleep. In my huge, semi-orgy sized bed with its four dramatically soft pillows. It’s like sleeping on marshmallows!