Читать книгу The Happy Hypochondriac Survives World Travel - Kat Spitzer - Страница 9

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Cruisin’

I’m a hypochondriac. I have many afflictions. By the death-defying age of thirty-seven, I’ve survived at least half a dozen self-diagnosed aneurysms, multiple heart attacks, tumors of all sizes and locations, but especially those involving the brain, and very rare insect and animal borne illnesses typically not in existence in the United States. I’m fairly certain I’ve had mesothelioma. To look at me, you’d never know that I’ve been through such trauma. I look healthy in direct contrast to all the commotion brewing inside.

Despite all these very serious diagnoses, most not confirmed by a practicing medical expert, my most serious disease is an insatiable travel bug. No matter the prescription, I can’t get rid of this affliction. Insurance doesn’t cover it, even when I’ve tried to argue that it’s medically necessary because of stress. I’m stuck, a wounded victim of wanderlust. The only known cure is to get out and travel.

As with most ailments, psychological or otherwise, I blame my parents. Whether we had money or not when I was growing up, we always went someplace. The doctors often actually prescribed rest and relaxation for my father, because on the rare occasions when he would visit a doctor, they would be spellbound by the sheer enormousness of his blood pressure and urge him to relax, stat. We lived in Orlando, Florida, and because my mother refused to fly, a vacation usually meant driving to Tallahassee or Miami to visit family friends. I flourished under these circumstances. Peanut Cluster candies from a roadside Stuckey’s, anyone? Anyone? How about some boiled peanuts? I still have dreams about those things and try to pick some up whenever I go back down to the South, preferably from a roadside stand with a handwritten cardboard sign. Those vendors know their audience. I wasn’t hard to please.

At the age of ten, I hit the motherlode. My parents took me on my first cruise. They had cruised multiple times and finally thought I would appreciate the experience. I had always admired the photos of my mom looking hot, in a yellow halter polyester pantsuit, my dad’s arm proudly around her somewhere in port in Venezuela, his devious smile saying, “Oh yeah, I may be bald but this total babe is all mine.” I wanted that type of exoticism in my life, sans the bald boyfriend.

Carnival Cruise Lines welcomed me into the colorful glamour of all-you-can-eat Lido deck buffets, steel drums, drinks with umbrellas, saying the word “virgin” every time I ordered a drink, and passengers who would go to any embarrassing lengths to win utterly meaningless prizes. I would never be the same. I would also never underestimate the value of a towel animal to bring a smile to my face. I was hooked like a sea bass from that moment forward.

This was also the moment when I developed what I like to call “ocean issues” and again I would never be the same, but in a far different way. I know, it was quite the pivotal trip. I can recall the actual instance it happened, and even have the photo to prove it. The fear materialized when the bell tolled for the lifejacket drill; so, essentially as soon as the ship took off. All passengers had to quickly head to their staterooms, vacating their short-lived strolls of exploration around the ship, in order to grab their lifejackets and rapidly, but safely, locate the lifeboat station where they would meet should the ship decide to sink.

Now, I had addressed my own mortality on many occasions already by this age, but this was the first time I had considered anything but perfection on a vacation.

“What exactly are the chances of this ship sinking?” I needed to understand my odds.

“Oh honey, the ship’s going to be fine,” said my mom. “Do you think I’d be on here if I thought we would actually have to get in these lifeboats? I can’t even swim.” I looked at her, wide-eyed, letting the implications of this, ahem, sink in. My mother can’t swim. I’m not a terribly strong swimmer. That isn’t good. If neither one of us can swim, what will we do? Well, at least this nice person in the Carnival polo shirt is saying that women and children get to board first. Oh my gosh, that’s like the Titanic! We’re going to sink. Help. Me. My mind veered into crazy territory.

“Are there icebergs?”

My father started laughing. “Don’t be stupid, Kat. There are no icebergs in the Caribbean. Now be quiet, you’re going to embarrass yourself, and me.” Fine. This was a big boat; 42,000 tons (note: cruise lines hardly even sail ships that small anymore. They are practically ferries at that size, by today’s standards). Back then, it felt like a grand, glorious hotel. I would barely feel the waves. That said, I had a hard time not contemplating the vastness of the water underneath. We were but a powerless speck bouncing on top of the most imposing part of Mother Earth. Like issues involving outer space, the depths of the ocean overwhelmed me and I maintained more than a healthy fear and respect for them.

Cut to the Captain’s formal dinner evening. I wore a stunning pale pink iridescent gargantuan dress with hoop skirt crinoline underneath. Perhaps I thought I was headed to a southern cotillion or on the verge of drinking a virgin mint julep, if it were even possible to manage such a thing. Either way, I was struggling to fit through the tiny cabin doors and down the narrow hallways. This being the eighties, sharing that space with the shoulder pads on the formal wear of the other passengers provided additional spatial challenges. I kept a smile on my face as my fabric was smashed, turning my round hoop skirt into more of an oblong or oval, and did my best Scarlett O’Hara interpretation as I descended the grand staircase in the lobby of the ship.

At that exact moment, a great “Oooohhh” escaped the crowd assembled below, but it was not due to my immense loveliness. Instead, the ship had careened into a large stormy wave and I tumbled into the rail and down a few steps, bouncing and flailing all the way down. It’s a good thing I had all those extra layers. The bruises could have been ugly. The ship photographer was kind enough to stop taking photos temporarily; a relief, since my parents had a penchant for purchasing all pictures taken of us by the cruise ship staff, whether good or bad, and I certainly didn’t need one of me splayed on the stairs like a large dropped cupcake; dress puffed around my neck like a demented layer of icing.

I regained my composure and my slight, but regal, upright stature, and attempted to glide gracefully into the dining room with only a minor limp. We sat down at the table and watched our water glasses as ice and water sloshed over the tops of the rims, darkening the peach-colored tablecloths. With each pitch or roll, my stomach gurgled a little, but I was a child. I would be fine. These sorts of things don’t affect children, right? Adults get seasick but not kids. I drank the remainder of the water in my glass and imbibed in a buttery plate of escargot, with a large lobster tail on the side. I loved the way you could order food on a ship; bits and pieces of your favorite things, or simply multiple entrees without thinking twice about consequence. I could get used to this type of decadence. I rubbed my hands together in eager anticipation for dessert. Focusing on the food made me forget about my stomach troubles.

Belly full and mouth a little shiny, I headed out to the main lounge for some dancing. My father taught me to ballroom dance at an early age and he took every chance he could to show off my skills. They weren’t competition worthy or anything, but I could hold my own, be led easily by someone with skill, and amaze the older crowd with my mediocre footwork. My dad had been a cotillion escort during his younger days in the south and found the skill to be of utmost importance. In his eyes, the youth of my generation were suffering from severe ballroom dancing inadequacy; a condition he equated to bad breath and limp handshakes; unforgiveable.

We took the stage. My mother snapped photos. I noticed the curtains, navy blue velvet with millions of embedded pieces of glitter, catching the stage lights and disco ball in a way that lit the room. I also noticed that the curtains were swaying so violently that they rarely touched the ground, but instead, kicked up into the air like the waves outside. As we box-stepped, a step back turned into five as we fell to the rhythm towards the ocean with the listing ship. Then we’d spring back in the other direction, attempting to make our little rapid steps appear to be part of the dance. At one point we spun and lost our balance as the ship plunged over a watery precipice, but my father’s strength kept me afoot, his fingers digging into my back to hold us both steady. A few people walked out. I hoped it wasn’t because of our sloppy performance. I don’t like to disappoint a crowd. But I had a feeling it was because they needed to quickly find a place to lose their dinner. I was starting to feel the same way.

“I think I need to go to the room,” I said. I swear I could see the green of my face reflected in my father’s eyes.

I excused myself rapidly and tried to find my way back to our stateroom, a difficult task when all hallways look basically the same, like low-ceilinged hamster habitrails. Desperation took over. Wait. I’m an even-numbered cabin and this is the side of the ship with the odd-numbered cabins. Please let me make it back. I slammed into the wall as the ship fell to the side, and ping-ponged into the other wall of the hallway as the boat righted itself. I kept envisioning the enormous waves outside, and our ship as a tiny plastic boat like the kind I played with in the bathtub as a child. Except this tub held dark water, miles deep, and had man-eating sharks. I might have been having a panic attack but was too young to realize it. That was least of my troubles though, as my intestines were now almost in full rebellion.

I made it back to the cabin in time. I won’t inflict you with the details of what happened next, but suffice it to say, escargot might not have been the best choice for a rocky night on the ship. The snails traveled out of me faster than they ever could have traveled during their time alive. Strangely, this memory has not stopped me from eating the delicacy on later sailings. While there have been other food and alcohol overindulgences that make me shy away forever, even at a passing glance or whiff, I can’t refuse the escargot. Those slimy little suckers in all their garlic butter glory have a warm, welcome place in my stomach any time. I just make sure that I am on dry land or that the seas are generally calm first.

Since then, my “ocean issues” have not receded with the tides. I have a hard time fathoming the, well, dark fathoms of the sea. There are all sorts of crazy, creepy, large-toothed, spiky, slimy things down there that scare the heck out of me. Surprisingly, this hasn’t stopped me from cruising. I’ve since been on over a dozen more. I wasn’t sure if those adventures would stop once I left the sea-bound confines of my parental home and started travelling on my own. It hasn’t. I’ve dragged my husband on a few as well. He enjoys a good steam room, a feature commonly found on today’s cruise ships. As long as he can jog on deck, take a steam every day, eat plentifully and drink copiously, then what’s not to like? I happen to agree. Throw in a good trivia contest, or a passenger newlywed game show and you have the ingredients for a perfectly relaxing, if a bit cheesy, vacation. We are having a ball.