When our first voyage was finally over and we docked in Rotterdam, Holland, it was with a sense of sadness that we disembarked. After ten days at sea and thirty or so meals at our table, we seven had become more than mere friends-–we were a family. Our final parting was painful and we all promised to write. And we did for a while. But as memories faded so too did the letters. This has been the script with every ship I have been on save one. In that instance, I spent more time in the bars with a group of like-minded louts than at the dinner table and thus, I hardly knew my table mates.
Generally, when I travel abroad it is not so much to visit as observe. Although I've seen the Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum, the Casbah (above), the Parthenon, the Blue Mosque, and other great landmarks, I prefer to study local life forms. After drinking my fill the first week, I followed old drunks the second week as they wobbled and weaved through the Oktoberfest hordes in Munich (several nights of that will cure any one of imbibing to stupidity). I've pondered Moroccan waiters during Ramadan as they fed us foreign devils while they themselves starved from sunup to sundown (vultures on a limb is the best description I can draw). I've watched sanitation workers in Zurich (one man, one machine, no mess), eyed for nights on end some really old and ugly Paris prostitutes in action (or inaction) and some of the Quasimodos they had as clients. I've hitchhiked and driven on the German autobahns so I could find out what racing at Indianapolis was really like.
While living in Greece, I also had a chance to study gypsies. Some of the first encounters came when they appeared at our door seeking handouts. Although these people always wanted more, if Maurine gave them a little bread they generally left satisfied. If we had nothing to give or were unwilling to part with what we had, our guests would stand staring at us through the kitchen window. As a rule, one seldom sees a gypsy man unless he is lolling around their camp. They apparently shade the day away in tents while forcing the women and children out on their plundering expeditions.
As for the gypsy females, no one could mistake them for Greeks. Some Greek women (those few not in mourning, that is) wear bright clothing; but nothing like the colorful, gaudy gypsy. Also, to see a young gypsy woman walking on the road is pure pleasure. When they aren't quarreling with one another or sifting through trash cans or lashing a kid for something, the ladies really set a pace. With a long, rapid stride and arms swinging gracefully, a gypsy woman would leave her short-legged Greek sister in the dust. Their children often trot to stay up.
Second to pilfering, begging is the main occupation of gypsies. One might imagine that after centuries of practice, these people would have become pretty adept in that line of work. But such is not the case. With a swaddled infant in her arms, a gypsy woman when begging will normally assume the most pained and exaggerated expression imaginable--not even close to looking sincere. If one can envision a woman with her foot caught in a bear trap, then one will have a pretty good idea of what a gypsy's face looks like when begging. Maurine once saw two women in the Kalamata market hustling at different times with the same baby. Although infants naturally tug hardest on a client's heart strings, if none are handy almost any child under twenty will do. While in Patras once, my son, Clipper, and I stared in disbelief as a gypsy woman carried an eight- or nine-year-old child who was almost as big as she. The large, squirming kid was obviously miserable and wanted down but the woman struggled to hold him and beg at the same time. I have seen other women pounding the pavement in winter, begging in shirt sleeves, while thirty or forty yards behind another is carrying their coats. Apparently a lot of Greeks fall for such corn, else the gypsies would have switched to a new scam long ago.
One morning I pedaled my bike ten miles to Messina to spend a day observing gypsies. They had their big camp along both banks of the Pamisos River, about a mile from town. Except for a few blue and green pickup trucks, the scene might have been 1876 and the Little Bighorn. Breakfast was long over when I came by and only a few threads of smoke were trailing up from cold camp fires. Several squatting women were about, doing hand wash or beating canvass at the river's edge. Wildly colored rugs and clothes were draped on bushes to dry. Horses and mules grazed quietly nearby; a dog stretched in the sun. But other than this, the camp was dead. The bulk of the women and children were in Messina. Poor Messina.
When I reached the town a short time later, I found gypsies swarming everywhere--begging, stealing, rattling locked doors and gates, trying to resell the junk they had just begged or stolen. Some of the green grocers gave handouts, I noticed, probably on the premise that it is better to give and seem magnanimous rather than be stolen from and appear stupid. Gangs of gypsy children also made their presence felt. These kids are hard to describe since other than being completely filthy, there is nothing else uniform about them. Little boys might have their knotty heads shaved right down to the bone or they might sport dirty long curls. And they might don anything from one-legged pants to an old suit coat worn over swimming trunks. I even saw one nine- or ten-year-old boy in a dress. The pathetic little girls all look like they have just climbed out of a chimney.
The life of a gypsy kid, free and wild, is the life all children fight to gain, but without success. They loaf at café tables and steal food when no one is looking; they play with matches and smoke; they twist the arms and pound and torture someone smaller; they race down streets like a knot of squabbling sparrows zeroing in on crumbs in a gutter. A little boy who can't keep his pants up and his bottom shows–-who cares? Most go barefoot, even in winter.
When I left town around noon, the gypsies too were calling it a day and heading back to camp with their plunder. As I pedaled back along the highway, the scene looked like a column of ants returning to the hole. I saw one child with a sack of potatoes on his back as big as he. I suppose that such booty greatly pleased his grim sire and stayed the flogging arm for a sun or two.
On another occasion, Maurine and I drifted over an abandoned gypsy camp at dusk. A hand or two of scattered, soggy playing cards, a discarded "blanket" heavy enough to crush a shot-put, folds of clear plastic, one brown shoe, unbent kindling, orange peals, paper. And, of course, human excrement, which I managed to trod upon. Going by the camp on the drizzly night before and seeing the bonfires through the dripping olive trees, it occurred to me why Greece or any other country would tolerate as they do thieves proud and bold in their midst. It is much like the national parks of America, to use an analogy. Sprung from the caves as we are, we want to embrace that which was best of savagery. Though the parks are beautiful unto themselves, they also remind us of our wildness and origin which we at times long to return to. The same is true when viewing the gypsies. The campfires, the tents, the nomadic existence from land to land-–to see true freedom at work is a shot in the arm and a wonderful thing to ponder. Certainly gypsies are a different species of Homo sapiens–-the grimy little urchins and their almost extraterrestrial parents. What happened in the great long ago to set these people apart from the rest?
My observations while traveling are not limited to humanites. I've watched dogs on the sandy beaches of southern Portugal dig for clams (one dog digs and another barks encouragement); I've observed the proud little dachshunds as they trip along the river promenade in Salzburg (if ever a race of dogs raises a civilization, my money is on these intelligent little creatures); I've written about the "rock apes" of Gibraltar (they love pulling down the bikini bras of buxom young women who try to feed them peanuts); I've studied cats in Switzerland (cunning and cruel, cats are the same everywhere). Like the "manure bugs" of Nebraska, I'm also fascinated by insects.
I won't go into the details about life aboard a ship. Most people have read a little or a lot of such things and the doings on the Stefan Batory were no different. I will mention, however, that point upon which all else pivots aboard every ship I've ever was on: The dining hall (above).
When one books passage they are assigned a table. Unless a person asks to be moved, this is where you will dine morning, noon and night. I've sat at tables with as many as fifteen people and as few as five. On this my first voyage, there were seven, including Maurine and myself. There was Hanni, a shy Swiss lass returning home from her job in Toronto where she was a cancer researcher. Hanni was tall, slim, had a slight limp, and spoke perfect English. There was Hilda, a German lady who lived in New York City. At our first meal, Hilda sat at the end by herself and said not a word. Finally, I asked her a question and from that moment on she never stopped talking. Hilda had a 1940's hairdo, was fifty-five or sixty ("middle-aged," she stressed), and was a real world traveler who had sailed the high seas many times. Hilda was also one taco short of a combination plate. She was in the habit of interjecting the most contrary thoughts into a conversation. For instance, we might be discussing whether the dealers in the casino were cheating or how long the garbage strike in New York City would last and with wide, serious eyes she would jump in, "But you know, zee food on zee Mikal Lemmonkoff ezz much better zan here. . . . Russian sheeps are much better. An zee waiters? Ha, ha, ha. Zeez here are amateurs."
Lastly, there was a family of Yugoslavians–-father, mother and teenage son. Although the young man spoke a smattering of English, his ma and pa knew nary a noun. Hence, though the son tried to translate, his parents "spoke" with signs. The father was a sober, brick-hard man with large hands that looked like iron; obviously, he did some sort of serious manual labor back in the Balkans. Though he was having a fine old time, he smiled only rarely. I have never seen anyone enjoy coffee more than this fellow. Like some people seem to be having orgasms when they eat good chocolate, so too this man with each sip of java. Holding up seven to ten fingers to signify how many cups he drank each day, he then held up only two fingers-–"No go sleep." The mother was a plump, smiling woman who always looked a little embarrassed while slurping her soup.
Our waiter was a tall, handsome--if somewhat unctuous--fellow named Pogado. Although he treated me like the important person that I wasn't, his eye was mostly on Maurine; rather, his eye was mostly down Maurine's blouse. Pogado also had a drinking problem and something or other was always on his breath. One night when there was a little more on his breath than normal, he was showing our table a dance step when the ice cream he was holding (mine) plopped on the floor.
"I zink he's ttrunk," whispered Hilda in my ear. "On Russian sheep he would be fired in zee hour!"
Whenever Pogado, who also knew very little English, served Maurine or poured her coffee, he always purred "Yezzzz, pleeeeze." For Hanni and me it was the same but the word lost just a dab of its sweetness. For Hilda, the "please" was minus all sugar and for the Jugoslavs, the beseechment was gone entirely. "Yez," he said curtly, as if compelled to perform a distasteful task.
Although they were good people and we enjoyed them greatly, the Jugoslavs were very gruff with Pogado. Not once did I hear them say "please" or "thanks" in any language and when ordering their meals they would simply point to the menu and grunt "dat" or "dis." When the soup and first courses arrived, the family would dive headfirst into the food, leaving the rest of us to watch. Sometimes their faces were mere inches from the platter.
"Pogado!" ordered the father as he pointed to his empty coffee cup.
"Yez," obeyed the waiter with arched eyebrow.
I suppose our "etiquette" eventually shamed the family into better manners. After a few days, they seemed more self-conscious and began watching us when we ordered. Previously, when their meat course was served, no sooner had it hit the plate than a fork was harpooning it and a knife was sawing off a hunk–-never mind the potatoes, vegetables and other superfluities; they would be dispatched as they arrived. The rest of the table waited for everything to be set down before beginning the meal. And thus, so now did the Jugoslavs. But from that time forth, there was an air of nervous tension surrounding the folks; looking for the waiter with the potatoes and vegetables; looking down at the meat; to the waiter; to the meat, and so on, as if the meat would take legs and run or another person would snatch it.
But "manners" ended where eating began. With the meal before them, shirt sleeves were rolled up, an instinctive arm encircled the plate and the feeding frenzy was on. Poor Hanni. She was light-complexioned and any embarrassment was instantly registered on her pretty cheeks. The spectacle at our table kept Hanni's cheeks glowing alternately from red to white to red again like some flashing neon sign. Even our drunken waiter once paused beside the table, looking askance at the food fury for a stunned moment or two. Each day, however, the frenzy grew a little less and eventually the encircling arm retreated until only a protective hand sufficed. All the same, the parents never did get the hang of eating soup with a spoon. As strangers became friends at the surrounding tables though, the slurping was all but drowned out by the chatter and laughter. Still, every so often there was a lull in the racket, as when an officer or a pretty girl walked down the aisle, and like a few seconds of sunshine peeking through week-long clouds, sure enough from our table would come "sloupppphhh."
"You zee?" Hilda nudged me as she surveyed our waiter who stood eyeing the Jugoslavs. "He is zee only one without his brass buttons!"
(continued tomorrow)
I have mentioned in blogs past my phob of flying. Despite a stint in the U. S. Air Force, despite a virtual pilot's license, despite having spent literally months in the air, I HATE FLYING. And so. . . .
Since there are no highways or railroad tracks stretching from the New World to the Old, and since I prefer not to fly, that leaves only ships. I haven't seen any statistics on ocean travel versus air travel and I suppose if I did I would discover that a person is a million times more likely to perish from the former than the latter, but again, it is the quality of dying that I care about. I will happily take my chances with ice bergs, storms, old torpedoes, and even giant squids, as opposed to spending the last five minutes of my life screaming in terror as I fall from the sky.
I've crossed the Atlantic four times on ships. I've crossed the Baltic, Adriatic, Ionian, Irish, and North Seas dozens of times on ships. I've crossed the Straights of Gibraltar on ships. I've sailed for weeks on the Rhine and Danube. I'm never stressed when I step on board a ship, I sleep like a log at night, and when I disembark I never feel like I've just been dragged through an emotional knothole. While some of my worst travel experiences have come in the air, some of my best have been while sailing on ships. Like the first day of long trips, my first voyage is still my most memorable.
In 1976, my former wife, Maurine, and I attended the Montreal Olympics. After the games, we headed toward Maine but pulled up for a few days at Quebec City. One afternoon, while sitting high above the St. Lawrence, we saw a long, white Russian ocean liner passing below. The sleek and beautiful thing was gracefully following the river's current as it moved off toward the sea. We could see people standing on the rails looking up at us. We never forgot that sight and four years later we were the ones standing on the rails looking up at couples in Quebec City.
The S. S. Stefan Batory (above) was a little Polish passenger liner that had once been in the service of the Dutch merchant marine. As I discovered later when traveling on newer and more lavish ships, such as the Queen Elizabeth II, the little Batory was pure proletariat with few frills. But as we backed away from Montreal one overcast summer day and slid silently down the surprisingly clear St. Lawrence, Maurine and I would not have traded places with anyone on the planet. All our lives we had read about travel on rivers, of steamboats and Mark Twain, and our thrill at finally doing so was indescribable. Like ourselves, most of the other 600 excited passengers were also lining the rails as we glided down the river. As mile after mile passed, however, the passengers by twos and threes disappeared until eventually Maurine and I were almost the only ones still watching. Except for the low rumble of the ship's propeller shaft, it was so calm and peaceful that we could hear the "ha-lo's" from those fishing on the opposite shores. On the banks behind these people, almost every town, no matter how small, was seemingly crowned by an imposing cathedral. In the middle of this great, wide river were a number of small green islands. Strangely, on many of these spits of land were large herds of black and white dairy cows. Maurine knew something of animal husbandry and said they were young females quarantined from amorous bulls. Late in the day we watched as a flock of ducks followed our trailing black smoke back up the river toward the sunset and that evening, we stood by the rails as our ship passed under the cliffs of Quebec City (below). That first day on board the Batory may have been the most romantic hours of our lives.
The next morning when we went out, both Maurine and I were stunned to see nothing but fog and gray, angry water on every side. We were plunging into open sea. From a distance, the crest of the waves looked like snow capped mountains. Sea gulls, who seemingly never flapped a wing, were gliding among the valleys and tops of the waves like mountain eagles. Although the scene was not so extreme as those old films of "Victory at Sea" in which the ships disappear behind waves, still our little vessel was up and down like a roller coaster. In fact, the sensation was something akin to a ferris wheel and that lighter-than-air feeling coming down and double-gravity going up. As a consequence, the former fresh scent of flowers among the ships passageways was soon replaced by the revolting stench of vomit. At times, it seemed as if our little tub would capsize. I must admit that as I surveyed the scene all about us and saw nothing but ocean, I understood for the first time in my life what the pioneers on the Great Plains must have felt when they scanned the prairie on every side of their Conestogas and realized: "Hey, this is it! We're on our own."
(continued tomorrow)
