non-participation award

I went. I did the cruise. For me, it was something like five days of disco with food. The women I traveled with were nice. The boat was old and trashy-eighties, too bright and way too loud. But the ocean was still the ocean and I liked that part. They made towel animals for our room each day, elephants, bears, a reclining bunny, and a sloth hanging from the heat duct. Those were the best. That's what I took pictures of.

Our flight out of PDX to Long Beach was delayed three hours. I had to be nervous for three hours longer than anticipated, and believe me, anxiety is all about anticipation. By the time our flight arrived in LB, our "transfer," the guy who gets us from the airport to the boat, drove like Parnelli Jones to get us there. We had no adjustment time to wander around the boat. It was grab your shit and go. The safety lesson was a blur. All I know is that I was to find Muster Station B if for any reason the Inspiration became the Titanic.

So, the cruise. It was eat, find your way to the next deck, eat, find the next deck, eat, make an excuse to leave the drinking group to read, sleep. We went to Catalina on the first day. I didn't want to. This is not unusual for me. I don't want to do anything. There were all kinds of tour packages: para-sailing, deep sea fishing, segway tours. But as it turned out, we were allowed to just disembark (get off the boat) and wander around. This sounded more my speed. So we did, and as luck would have it, there was a Chihuly exhibit happening in the art gallery. One of the women, the eldest of us at 77, was the best. She made me go with her. It was, as is any Chihuly exhibit, breathtaking. I am enamored of the fragile baskets, these were ocean colors, turquoise to white, and full of transparent little bowls. I love bowls, and these -- oh so pretty. If I was wealthy, I'd use the biggest one as a salad bowl at a party. I wouldn't put it in the dishwasher, I'm not stupid, but they are bowls afterall. I see the utilitarian in art. Catalina was stunning. I'd go back. I loved the painted clay tiles and little side streets. Marilyn Monroe was from there, and Natalie Wood died out in the bay, washed up on shore. Not a safe place for gorgeous women. I felt safe enough.

So the second day was the same, only in Mexico. Again, we didn't want to disembark, but -- when in Rome -- only it was Ensenada. So we bailed off the boat, sheep in line for the fleecing. We took a bus from the port to the center of town where we were summarily dropped into another culture: dirt poor and hungry. Without a plan, it was almost immediately clear we needed one. We were standing mid-sidewalk and a woman walked up to us and pretty much said, "Hey ladies, you really oughta board this little bus right here and get off the street or they'll eat you for lunch." So we hopped in a van headed for "La Bufadora," a big blowhole. I sincerely wanted to launch into political commentary, but held back. You would have been proud of me. Immediately, a man with a guitar leaned into the still-open bus door singing my ringtone: La Bamba. We tipped him and took off. Lili was our tour guide. As we drove through Ensenada, it was clear that we were only seeing what they wanted us to see. The only paved roads were the ones the tourist buses traveled. Little children sat roadside while their parents begged. Lili told joke after joke at her country's expense, from the drinking age to the obvious thievery we would certainly encounter at La Bufadora. We did. I bought good vanilla, a cheap poncho and ate a pork taco. Pretty sure it was pork.

Day three was a day at sea. With disco music and food. My compadres drank. The cruise, to this non-drinker, seemed to be a lot about alcohol. I drank four Virgin Mary's. I love those. I never think of drinking them when I am home, but I should get some of that mix. I love tomato juice made that way. Lots of tabasco and lime. Yummy. Booze wrecks it. I read the latest John Grisham novel, which was crappy, but easy reading. Sometimes that's all I need: just some pages to turn. I did not get enough alone time to write. I was also not inspired to write and have no current project to work on. That is a lie. I have three. None of which I was inspired to work on. Writers who await inspiration are fools. You can quote me on that.

One of my co-sailors was Karen, a youngish mom from Carlton (just three miles from us.) She had Karaoke on her bucket list. I do not. However, always supportive, I joined our group of four willing singers. The two elder women sat it out and I think videoed it. The list of songs was endless. We settled on Can't Buy Me Love. Do I need to say, "by the Beatles?" If you don't know, you should. If you don't know, you can no longer read this blog. Anyway, it was really fun. Really. I'd do it again.

Day three was actually day four. We boarded on Monday, although late in the day. Our day at sea was Thursday. People seemed to be getting to know each other, drinking a lot, and I actually became familiar enough with our servers to recall a couple of names. Roberto was our cabin attendant, Mohamed, a server. Hector was a drink runner, I think. I had a hot stone massage by Ying, who literally begged me to purchase overpriced but lovely lotions. I didn't. I use Jergen's. I know it isn't the best. I don't care. Her massage was the best I've had. Ever. I had a mani-pedi with Winnie from Zimbabwe. They are currently unseating a dictator. When I asked how she felt about our current political idiot, she said, "you oughta see my country," and launched into a description of their political shit-show that almost -- almost -- made me not want to complain. 

On Friday, we got up and disembarked. They sang to us: Leaving on a Jet Plane. The men danced. Men of every country. Not many whites. Dancing fools all. I was surprised at the cruise demographics. I expected old and white. It was neither. Whites were definitely in the minority. And young couples were common. Young with kids. That surprised me a little.

We caught a ride to the airport from Long Beach to LAX, through LA. Palms and eucalyptus trees, homeless less-evident than Portland, but we didn't venture far from freeway to airport direct route. The PDX airport is much cooler, much more engaging than LAX. We had three hours to wait for our flight home, which was blessedly on time, and there just wasn't anything to do in the Alaska area.

It was so good to land on Oregon soil. Home was still far away. I had to take a detour into Portland to pick Mac up. He boarded with Jen, one of my co-workers. She said he did good "except for the past half hour," in which he apparently consumed a bunch of rabbit food. He puked all the way home and for the remainder of the evening. He is fine now, normal and playing, but his poop is green and leafy.

It is good to get away. It is better to come home. I love my life. I love my dogs. I adore my husband. I am Dorothy, clicking my heels to find my way home, wondering why I am ever-compelled to get away from it all. A classic chronic malcontent. I've heard that somewhere. I am grateful for my life, made all the fuller when shown in bright contrast -- contrast of Mexican poverty, of my own fear of the unfamiliar, of my tendency to isolate. Even if it isn't something I'd probably do again, I'm that much richer for getting on the plane. And the boat. And off the boat.

sailing away

Tomorrow I am flying to Long Beach to board a big Carnival cruise ship bound for Mexico. This is not something I ever wanted to do, but when my friend asked me six months ago if I wanted to go on a cruise in November, I said sure. Now that it is November, I suddenly recall that I hate to fly and am deathly afraid of sharks. "Stay on the boat, then," say all the well-wishers. They haven't seen Jaws as many times as I have and just this week on the news there have been shark sightings all along the Oregon coast. I hope that means the Long Beach to Ensenada sharks have come north for Thanksgiving.

I have packed the shit out of things. You are sort of expected to dress nice for dinner. I have many nice clothes. You'll remember that I have to look like I know what I am doing most days of the week -- so clothing I have. But fitting them in a 20" carry-on is another thing. My dear friend of many years ago, Vivian, told me to roll your nice things in tissue paper and they won't wrinkle. So there you are: a free travel tip from judybluesky. the non-traveling blogger.

All I really want to do is read. This is just an opportunity to do that in a different place. And write. I'll be off grid, using dinosaur fingers and actual paper, but I think I can do it. No promises.

The cruise was cheap. Six women are going, and I am rooming with my friend Cathy. The weather will be fine. Not hot, which is fine with me. I just don't care: the theme of this blog in case you haven't been paying attention. I just want to get away from it all. It all being home, dogs, work, life. I want to eat food not cooked by my off of dishes not washed by me and sleep in a bed not made by me in a room not cleaned by me. With no phone or computer. I could have these things for an additional fee -- wifi and such -- but I just want to check out. As always, looking for a life in which I don't have to participate.