OH, BETTER FAR TO LIVE AND DIE

From now on, whenever anyone makes a big, tough boast, I can probaly trump them. "You once beat up seven guys? Yeah, well, I'm not allowed back in Russia."

No, really. Okay, truthfully, their immigration isn't organized enough to make this a truly permanent state of affairs, and it likely wouldn't remain this way with much of a challenge, but for now...

Jamie, Sup, and I are barred by the authorities from getting off the ship in a Russian port. We tried to smuggle plans for their new caterpillar submarine drive back to the US in hopes of... no, that was Hunt for Red October. Surely what WE did was equally heinous, an equal threat to Soviet... oops, I mean Russian security.

In the case of Jamie and I, we were trying to go to a Jazz Club and one of the authorities at the gate, a large woman who obviously wanted money, would not let us pass because we somehow had the wrong credentials. We were luckily with the only person on the ship who speak fluent Russian, and while we watched them talk I lost my motivation to go to the stupid bar. Jamie, on the other hand became visibly incensed that he wasn't being allowed to do what he wanted to do. He began shouting and puching at the air. This didn't help. I told him he wasn't helping, and the woman who was barring our way out of the port gate called and put an alert out for us. We didn't really know that. Basically, it meant that everyone would be on the lookout for us.

We went outside and tried to get a cab to take us out - in which case we could just go through, no having to walk through the checkpoint. Even the cabbie knew we were persona non grata, and offered instead to drive us back through the port and back to the ship. We did that. Then we hopped on one of our tour busses right in front of our ship, and thought we could get out of the port that way and grab a cab. I did not think this was a good idea. I was saying that when the immigration authorities came onto the bus and made us get off. They asked for our passports - even the Russian's - and Jamie continued to mouth off. Though the woman in charge there couldn't understand what he was saying, he was pissing her off. I was telling him to stop it and our friend to tell the Russians that he didn't speak for us, but it did no good. They were resentful idiots, and they tried to actually do worse ( I learned later) but reached the limits of their power at barring us from re-entering Russia and had to let us go back onto the ship.

The next day, our friend Sup had a similar but much less dramatic run-in that resulted in him also being banned. They've been really ridiculous this year, the Russians, and I'm glad we've made our final stop there. Last year was a lot better there. It's actually become much more of a pain, dealing with the authorities there.

Anyway, the next morning - our last day - I thought to try to get off the ship to see what happened. there were two lines - one where they checked names and passports against our crew list, one where they didn't. We didn't know that, and I happened to go through the line where they didn't check. One of the people I was with saw Jamie's and my name on the list, circled in red and x'd out. So, I got into Russia to go to the port CD shop's end of season clearance. I returned unscathed with a couple of CDs, some postcards, and some free chocolate the shopgirls gave us.

Or, to put it another way, I snuck into Russia, retrieved the documents, romanced the locals, and returned to tell the tale. I'm a regular James Bond.

Self-aggrandizment 101.

A couple of stories - one very recent, one not so recent...

Apparently, there's a gesture here in Russia used to indicate association with the mafia, and it gets you out of everything from waiting for traffic to paying for vodka. A few of my friends onboard here were headed out for a guys night and their taxi became stuck in traffic, waiting for an accident to be handled by the police and ambulance and whatever. The driver decided not to wait - he pulled out of the lane and drove up and through the scene of the accident. When he got a look from police, he made this gesture involving a flick of the neck. When asked what was going on, he explained in one word - "mafia."

Once the guys were at their destination bar, one of them approached the bar and, mimicking the gesture used by the cab driver, said only "vodka." Keep in mind this is a place notorious for tricking unknowing foreigners into paying hugely inflated sums for drinks... well, when the bartender saw this gesture, he nodded and reached under the bar. He came out with a large full bottle of some of the best vodka they had, and simply handed my friend the whole bottle without a word. No payment, no nothing - just matter of fact. I figure they're lucky no actual mafia was there to see this take place, because I imagine some ...um... hurt feelings may be involved at this posturing.

Yesterday I was reminded of a story from last year, in Lisbon. I know very little Spanish. Enough to get me back to the ship and around a little bit in Spain. Here is an example of how Spanish is NOT Portugese. We were out in Lisbon one night and trying to get back to the ship - the driver was not getting it. I cannot spell anything in either of these languages correctly, but suffice to say that the words for "ship" are similar if not the same, but the Spanish word for "cruise" is apparently VERY close to the Portugese word for... well, that comes later. The driver kept giving me strange looks every time I said this. We wound up being dropped off about a mile from the ship down a long wharf street because though we could see the ship we couldn't get it through to the driver that we didn't want the terminal, we wanted that ship. The cobblestones were not a good walk for someone in heels... and no, that wasn't me. I think. It was over a year ago.

Anyway, the next night I was asking a Portugese maitre'd friend of mine what I'd said wrong, and he explained to me that as repeated what I was saying time and time again inhopes of maybe getting the driver to understand "cruise ship"... such repetition being the very definition of insanity ... apparently I had been over and again insisting that we be taken to the crucifixion ship, the ship on which they crucify. The Spanish word I knew for "cruise" is apparently closer to the Portugese word for "crucify" than anything else. Spanish is not Portugese. Obregad.(o).

I'm posting with astounding regularity lately, but only because I have specific things to communicate... for instance, in the past couple of days, I have gotten a number of hits from Las Vegas. I cannot for the life of me figure out who that could be, but I don't think it's anyone I know. I'm really curious, Vegas person, if I do know you - drop me a line if I do.

Lately I have been thinking a lot about the temporary illusion that is ship life. I have blissfully remained outside it this time around. Last year I was lucky in that I found something remarkable with the potential to be a very real, lasting thing while out here, but I didn't acknowledge how ship life and "real" life eventually intertwine and... yeah.

Now I know this, and in trying to deal with "real" and "ship"... there's no difference. You have to know that whatever petty dramas or anything that concern people here aren't lasting; only rarely are they anything but problems built from boredom or conveniences of proximity. You have to be very lucky to find something lasting and real, to have anything other than what some call "single serving friends" even. This cast is great about this - we're all good friends, and we're mostly fairly aware of the transitory nature of all of this and that we all have lives and issues we left on shore that we'll return to come the end of our contracts. Things like what I found last time I was on this ship.

My cell number is working again, and so my regular voicemail works again. It's been a mess getting that straightened out.

Also, I noticed that for the first time since I put it on the site my terror alert level has changed - notice on the right there.

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Here are a few photographs, none of which are that significant, but given that I have yet to take one picture since I left Florida, I'm lucky to have these. Come to that, I don't even think I took any in Florida. Considering the vast archive of photography I took last year, apparently I'm having a backlash. Anyway, the first photo is Diversity, which I believe is an old, old wooden ship used during the civil war...
Actually, it's the Vasa, in the museum which bears its name in Stockholm. It's an immense warship that went down in the harbor in the early 1600s and was preserved by the brackish waters here, only to be raised a few decades ago and painstakingly restored and made to be the centerpiece of this amazing place of archeological and anthropological ...something or other. Heh.
Next is... Jamie and I, enjoying our "gentleman's drink" as we do each week after the Captain's Welcome before the Classical show. A glass of port in the Horizon Lounge and witty banter that makes us fall out of our chairs laughing but would likely annoy or confound nearly anyone else to tears. Most of you (that I know of) who are reading this would probably chime right in.
And finally, a picture that feels like it was taken years ago, but was in fact only taken in June. This is me and three people without whom I may well have long ago jumped overboard. Sup, Christina, and Jamie. "And then there were four."
We found this picture while compiling all of our photos and, well...It seems we were all so much younger then. Actually, I just realized that three of us have had birthdays since this was taken, and Jamie's about to have one, so we WERE younger then. This was at some random bar in Orlando.
So, that's what I have. I don't know if I'll ever get out my camera; I'm not hugely motivated to do so, but maybe when we hit the British Isles. See previous entry.

Yeah... I'm not over it. I never asserted that I was over it, but while I am a (mostly) functional individual able to perform most of my duties and daily rituals with relative assuredness, I am still waist-deep in it. I thought that should be clarified. Because I was asked and because it's true.

What am I talking about?

Anyway, I went CAMPING Saturday night in Stockholm... well, outside Stockholm. I found out a tent we'd brought onboard last year was still here, and decided we had to go camping. A few of us put together a ragtag semblance of camping supplies, headed out in the evening, bought some supplies (candy, brats, etc.) then hopped on a Metro, then an outbound train, then got off the train when we saw an area where the woods looked inviting. We hiked in for a while, set up camp, and split off for a while to find wood. We did man things, breaking up wood, building a giant fire, forging steel into girders, and destroying things with our massive power

We all slept under small blankets in the tent and were awakened by the deep chill at around 5:50am and had to build another fire. Jamie and I each wondered whether how much good we'd be for that night's show after breathing in all that cold air all night, but as we've proven through nights of other abuses and lack of sleep, so far so good. That doesn't sound like me, huh?

More on this, on everything, later...