But Not For Me

Don't put the King of the Road on a cruise ship.  He'll merely think the Hollywood Freeway is preferable, as passage on that thoroughfare usually takes less than a week.  There is no pretension in that mode of transportation; his surroundings are as plebeian as his Chevrolet.  The traffic creeps but does not toss and turn his stomach.  Aggravation---well, that's his choice, or the whole experience can be reduced to a breath and foot play meditation.  This act feels rather foolish in his stateroom.  After all, the money has been spent, and he might as well take in as much of his surroundings as possible.  But it's all like a Vegas casino on the high seas---initially amusing in it grandiosity and tackiness, then overwhelming and depressing.  He looks for the parking garage, but there's no escape in his Chevrolet.

Venus Reclining: One of the more extreme decorator touches.

The ship is Dutch, a race he connotates with Danish Modern, with its sleek and spartan requisite. A nod to the Queen Mary is to be expected, but one wishes it was not executed by the same design firm Trump uses.  Metallic finishes there are a plenty, of varying hues, all in the same room.  Since the ship sails back and forth between two climates the color schemes shift from aqua and rusty coral to navy and purple.  Patterns abound, as they hide wear, but of course they aren't subtle or imaginative or even fun.  Are these stateroom drapes a cross section of kidneys?  Or is that just the Meclizine?

Boredom is banned on board---which means there are no quiet public places.  The many bars give some respite, but they usually lack the view one is paying for.  The crow's nest, with its acreage of glass looking out over the sea ahead, seems a natural spot for quiet sophistication, but more often than not someone is braying trivial matters over a microphone there.  The King of the Road burns his fingers unscrewing the bulbs from the crystal table lamps---their reflection on the windows hide the glaciers out ahead.

Barbie, in Forest Ranger mode, comes aboard to narrate the scenery.  She sounds like no ranger you ever heard---she's breathless, even shrill: You are seeing what most people only dream about! The King of the Road doesn't quite know what is implied, and he definitely doesn't like to be told how to feel about glaciers---or the diamonds to buy in the port towns, for that matter.  They were both being sold at about the same level, after all.  But he obeys Barbie's command to go out on the slippery, windswept deck to take in all the elements of the view.  Visually, the glacier does not impress more in a subfreezing windchill---but yes, something memorable does happen: Marjorie Glacier decided to shed some of her outermost garment.  The noise is far from silken.  It is a sound for the ions: far off, sharp then broken---as if a thousand grand pianos were being dumped into the sea.

Margerie Glacier

Yet the irony chafes---this ten story tall, quarter mile long pleasure craft, belching greenhouse gasses as it glides by one of the last 'living' glaciers.

By two, threes and fours these sea skyscrapers line up in port and purge themselves of passengers, doubling the population of the environs.  Strolling around town is not enough of a experience, although some towns are thoughtful in their posting of local history for the education of the stroller.  There, is of course, shopping---and a Middle Eastern man addresses the King of the Road and his companion from a doorway: Hey, guys, look me over.  King of the Road duly looks over his jewels, but not his diamonds.  But wait, there's excursions, too!  Buses to parking lots crowded with other buses constantly unloading and loading passengers who just took another photograph so common Facebook can identify it.  Overhead helicopters chop-chop-chop those willing to pay for a rarer experience---to actually walk on a receding glacier.  King of the Road doesn't understand---except the all too human need to conquer every physical obstacle it faces instead of merely observe in awe and reverence.

Worth twenty bucks.

There are Gala Nights to 'evoke the grand traditions of cruising', all the while failing to mention that past glamor was based on class division, as there was then no access between third, second and first class accommodations and amenities. Ladies don their serviceable little black dresses by the dozens, while the more flamboyant sprout rhinestones and colorful drapery.  The men appear to be going to a monthly business luncheon, and with about as much enthusiasm.  Photographers are there to record this costume party.  They are also present at every disembarkation, steering you to pose with the plush whales, jolly black bears or serious eagles that are the trademarks of each port.  At twenty bucks a whack, these photos probably have the most rewarding profit margin for the cruise line.

Unscheduled scenery

Near the end of the cruise, the ship detours from the Disneyland atmosphere.  A passenger has developed a medical condition and must be released at a remote port so to be transported by air to Vancouver.  The ship slips by little islands and wild shores to a small town that if not charming is at least authentic.  The woman is well enough to step onto Lifeboat 13 in her complimentary white robe before an audience of perhaps a thousand hanging from the railings.  The Coast Guard cutter 'Cape Farewell' accompanies the lifeboat just in case she has plans to deposit contraband in one of the little coves along the way in.  Some local folk come down to the dock to see why the sea skyscraper is there, but everything proceeds at an uninteresting pace and most of rail hangers step back for bingo and/or the cocktail of the day.  The ship continues homeport-ward on this more scenic route, this most Inland Passage with land features close at hand to relieve the eye.

The King of the Road is overjoyed to learn he's eligible for expedited disembarkation---mainly because his Chevrolet is parked in the port garage.  He and his male companion join the small crowd filtering down the gangplank, and all goes well until a uniformed old queen notices the King of the Road is only carrying a modest attaché and garment bag.

"Where's you baggage?!" barks the queen.  "You can't tell me you just spent a week on board with just that!"

Nonplussed, The King of the Road looks back for his companion with his sanctioned large piece of luggage.  He's close enough behind to suggest he's party, but apparently the old queen's gaydar is busted.  A woman pushes forward with her socially acceptable luggage, trying to get around the bottleneck.

"Oh," says the old queen, taking her as the King's.  He waves them on with the back of his hand, and the King of the Road rolls his eyes and sighs free at last.