Why Shirley Jones and Hugh Hefner never did the "Wild-Thing."
Written: Dec 24 '99 (Updated Sep 05 '00)
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Product Rating:
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Pros: No one died
Cons: Someone ought to
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| cowboydj's Full Review: Royal Caribbean Legend of the Seas |
(IMPORTANT NOTE: The cruise ship referred to in this Epinion is not this one, but the "Song of America," one of RCCL's oldest ships. It is not listed, and I placed my review here because this ship is the most similar to the one I was on. Most of RCCL's ships are newer and quite luxurious...or so I hear.)
My parents had been insisting my brother and I join them on one of their yearly cruises for so long that turning them down again risked putting my inheritance in jeopardy, and who knows--that $8 might come in handy someday--so I relented.
"Tell me where and when," I offered, "and I'll make the arrangements."
"Done," Mother countered, "We're already booked on a Caribbean cruise."
Rules-to-Live-By #47: NEVER let Mother make your travel arrangements. I immediately flashed on a birthday years back when, mistaking a fishing shuttle for a harbor cruise, Mother booked four of us, dressed to the nines, on a ferry ride to a floating platform in the middle of an industrial port, which my best-friend Tera dubbed "the Birthday Barge." This would have merely been an amusing detour if the next ferry had left any sooner; however, five hours and four chili-dogs later, WE were NOT amused.
Gingerly placing a zip-loc bag containing two not-quite-dead "birthday" fish (a gift from "Rocky and the boys") next to a paper plate of hot-dog bun remnants left on the greasy picnic table by previous diners, Tera quipped, "Even the good Lord himself could not make a meal out of this."
I was, understandably, apprehensive. "Uhhh, Mummy?" I stuttered, trying to disguise my panic, "What cruise line are we talking about here?"
I was relieved (and surprised) to hear Royal Caribbean; although the concept of cruises appealed to me about as much as a Tobasco-sauce enema, at least they were a reputable company. Moreover, the ports-of-call sounded fairly tolerable: shopping in Jamaica, snorkeling in Aruba, white-water rafting in Costa Rica...even my brother perked up.
"I'll call and upgrade the cabins," he whispered, shooting me a knowing look. "Not that mummy is cheap or anything..."
A few short weeks later I was slamming back gin/tonics--in COACH--on a red-eye out of LAX, jonesing for a cigarette and having serious second-thoughts when I heard the unmistakable sound of a Bic being flicked. The stewardess, clearly annoyed at the imposition, pointed to the back of the plane saying since it was an international flight, I could smoke "if I had to."
I took the seat next to the other addict and exchanged pleasantries. She pretended not to be Diane Keaton; I pretended not to know.
"Annoys the (expletive deleted) out of 'em," she sneered, lighting one for me and nodding in the direction of the grimacing gaggle of space waitresses. "Wish I had a cigar."
This was gonna be good.
"If we run out of cigarettes," I puffed, gesturing for more cocktails, "we could always smoke that god-awful hat you're wearing."
"It's not my fault you're trapped into a cruise with your parents," she replied coolly, regarding me through the tattered fringe of the offending straw monstrosity.
"How did you...?"
"Why-the-hell-else would you be going to Jamaica?" she interrupted, adding, "you're not interesting enough to be trafficking drugs--and I recognized a familiar look of panic on your face as you passed me--in FIRST CLASS."
"And why would you be visiting the Happy Isle today, Coco Chanel?" I inquired, "Tye-dye classes at Club Dread? Hat-weaving, part two? Boob job, perhaps?"
"I hope the f-in' barge sinks," she growled, flicking her cigarette ash into my cocktail.
Little did I know that soon I would be hoping the very same thing. After spending 2-and-a-half EXCRUCIATING hours in customs, during which I was groped with unwarranted enthusiasm by a toothless customs agent, we were sandwiched into un-air-conditioned buses and unceremoniously dumped onto a uncovered dock in 90 degree humidity, whereupon we were forced to spend two MORE hours listening to a bunch of white guys in Rasta-hats play the Macarena on steel drums.
"Isn't that...no, wait...isn't that "Rasta Alfredo & the Steely Dans?" my brother quipped. I started to lose consciousness. "Check THIS out," he said, pointing behind me.
"Oh dear god in heaven," I breathed.
Mother was in hysterics. "But we've never...but-but it's always been...but-but-but the pictures were so..." her voice trailed off. She looked as though she might cry at any moment. So did I. My brother started to hum "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald." It was the boat from hell.
The next thing I remember I was lying on top of my luggage with a cold compress on my forehead at the bottom of an enormous flight of stairs carpeted in the gaudiest floral I had ever seen. At least it was cooler. I sat up an took stock of my surroundings: crimson Fleur-de-Lis flocked wallpaper, gold-veined mirror tile, and an elephantine, 70's-mod, tarnished-brass chandelier so profoundly hideous it took my breath away. "Holy Hemorrhoids, Batman, it's like the Partridge Family just rammed that bus right up Hugh Hefner's butt!" I cried out, collapsing back onto the luggage.
"C'mon-get-happy, Batgirl," my brother said, grabbing me by the arm, "I can't wait to see the rest of THIS, AND there's Bingo on the Lido deck in half-an-hour."
The room was beige. No, I mean COMPLETELY beige. And really small. "I thought you upgraded us," I whined.
"I did," he groused, surveying our environs "and it wasn't cheap, either."
"Where were we before? The Boiler Room??" The t.v. didn't work. The beds were realllllly uncomfortable. Cheap linens; striped, no less. Who would stripe beige-on-beige blankets? Why bother? The port-hole glass was so fogged, it looked like we were underwater.
My brother pressed his face against the glass. "It's like that awful submarine ride at Disneyland!"
"HELLO! I'm claustrophobic, remember?" I shouted from the bathroom.
"What are you--what are you spraying on my pillow?" he asked, turning around.
"Bactine," I replied, spritz-ing his shirt, "Sorry, it's all I've got with me."
"Oh, for crying out..."
"Hush-up. Just mix it with some Polo--no one will be the wiser," I said, handing him the bottle.
The food was dreadful. The food! On a cruise ship! The service was bad. The shows were boring. Half the lights in the "disco" didn't work; same with the speakers. By the second day I had run up a $250 bar tab. My mother refused to either speak or leave her room. (She doesn't drink, so there was no reason for her to.)
Finally: Costa Rica. It was a sparkling emerald land shrouded in mist and mystery, holding the promise of adventure and a decent meal.
It was a sparkling emerald land whose inhabitants were on general national strike, holding us captive for an entire day in its harbor. My brother and I threw streamers on our parents and waved white washcloths at the shore as we sailed away.
Next: Cartagena, Columbia. If you ever feel the urge to visit this god-forsaken rat-hole, take a dozen testosterone-crazed teenage thugs, give them lots of cocaine and automatic weapons, lock them and yourself into an Indian Sweat-Hut for two weeks and save yourself the plane fare.
Next: the Panama Canal. Hello!! It's a big, smelly ditch with dead fish and mosquitoes, people!!
Next: Aruba. Yeah, sure, it's beautiful. Who gives a flying fig.
I stood on the bow of the ship and sang "A Piece of Sky" from Yentl at the top of my lungs as Jamaica came into view once again. My Mother managed a weak smile. "You hate my guts, don't you," she asked.
No, mummy, no!" I protested, hugging her close. "But on the flight back I get the window seat, ok?"
"You know I get air-sick when I can't sit by the window," she replied, stiffening slightly.
"Yes, mummy," I smiled sweetly, hugging her tighter, "I know."
Recommended:
No
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Epinions.com ID:
cowboydj
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Member: T Morgan
Location: Nashville, TN
Reviews written: 22
Trusted by: 271 members
About Me:
I laughed, I cried, I ate a cannoli.
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