mrs-roboto's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- These Boots Were Made For Walking So Maybe I Should Get a Pair Of Uncomfortable Heels To Stop Me From Running Off Have I ever told you that I often think about running away? Maybe running away is too vague of a description. It's more like picking up and starting over. When I was younger, I'd do it regularly. I'd move from one town to another or if I was feeling particularly antsy but low on cash, I'd just move a few blocks away from my last apartment to the next neighborhood over. I like the act of moving. I like sorting through the old stuff, throwing things away, and only keeping what's important or necessary. I like setting up shop at a new location. I like the feeling of the unknown, the unexpected, the idea that anything can happen. I like reinventing my destiny. I knew when Pete and I bought Old Trusty (that's what I am calling the house these days), things would settle down a bit. We wouldn't be able to throw everything into the back of the truck and head off to Santa Fe or Tupelo or London (yes, I know you can't drive to London, Smarty Pants). I assumed I'd be fine with it. It was definitely time to have a home base and Seattle felt like home from the first time I walked her streets but Autumn is a weird time for me. Many of my traveling buddies from my seafaring days pass through town (imagine me wearing an eye patch with a colorful parrot perched on my shoulder as you read this) with grand tales of escapades in strange lands. Somehow showing off the lime green kitchen cabinets and the new couch pales in comparison to my dear pal Mary's plan to head to the South Pole. I mean really, can anything top that? Mary keeps everything in the back of her pick up truck. She leaves the truck for months at a time in some port or small town while she chases down her next adventure. She's a minimalist, often carrying only a single bag of belongings to her next destination. She sends postcards from remote locations and brings back pictures of the most breathtakingly beautiful sights. It's enviable to say the least. But it's moments like this that I have to ground myself and think realistically. I have a tendency to romanticize my days on a the cruise ship as a traveling nomad. I forget that I shared an 8' x 8' room with three other people and that the shower in that room also served as the toilet. I forget that I had to eat the same food day after day and could only have a single alcoholic beverage daily even on weekends. I forget what it was like to live and work in the same place, to get up early everyday and go to bed late every evening, to work for months at a time without a day off, to be surrounded by the same people day in and day out. And if that isn't enough, I remind myself of the following story. It was early September, almost the end of the season. Passenger counts were getting low so several guest rooms were available. It had been months since I had a room all to myself. I went to the hotel manager, Tracy, and pleaded my case. "Please, please let me sleep in one of those open rooms," I whined. "I'll simply die if I have to share a room for another day. I've been here for six months, longer than anybody else, and all I want is to read a book in peace. Also, I have foot fungus (yes, probably more than you care to know but I assure you my feet are better now) and it will spread to all of the other bunkmates if I don't get my own shower. It will reach epidemic proportions and the cruise ship will be forced out of commission because of the Itchy Athletic Foot Outbreak of 1997. Hundreds of silver-haired retirees will never have the chance to fulfill their life long dream of playing bingo and shuffleboard in Alaska and it will be all your fault. Don't let this happen. Don't take away their dreams. Give me a guest room to sleep in!" Tracy had been dealing with my drama for some time and knew that once I got a hold of an idea I didn't let go. Rather than hear my mouth run for the next few weeks, she agreed to my moving into a guest room as of the following Sunday when the boat unloaded the current passengers and picked up the new ones. In the days leading up to "the move" I did much daydreaming. Soon I would lie on a bed and not have to hear the inane chatter of Miss Laura, an eighteen year old girl who woke up at the crack of dawn to apply a full face of makeup before anyone had the chance to see her au natural. And speaking of au natural, I would soon be at a distance from Emily, a rather large girl with a passion for walking around naked in our tiny room. I slept on the bottom bunk and she was on the top. Imagine the view I had when she made her bed each day. And at last, I 'd be able to avoid Madeline, a born again Christian, who felt the need to pray loudly for her salvation every evening before we all went to sleep. Alone, alone! I would finally be alone. I was so happy. Sunday, we pulled into port at Ketchikan. We rolled the senior citizens onto land in a jiffy and I returned to the vessel to claim my new room. I grabbed my duffel bag and steamer trunk and told my bunkmates "Sayonara!" I headed towards Room 115, my new home, but was stopped midway by the Assistant Hotel Manager. He asked where I was going and I explained my new digs to him. "Gee," he said, "I don't know how to break it to you but Tracy quit today." "Oh no," I responded. "That's terrible. Did she say why?" "Well no," he responded. "But I'm taking over from here on out and I'm afraid I can't let you stay in a guest room. How about Crew Room 2 with Laura, Emily, and Madeline?" I didn't even look at the guy. I put my bags down and proceeded to the bow, to an area roped off from the passengers access. I climbed up on the railing and balanced myself precariously over the water. "Attention, your attention everybody," I called out. "If I do not get a room to myself today I promise I will kill myself by diving into these icy waters." A small crowd gathered on the dock and the rest of the staff followed me out onto the bow. They gazed at me trying to determine whether I'd actually make the jump. I stood out on the bow for hours, making various threats and badmouthing the new hotel manager. I knew about an illicit affair he was having with one of his staff and this was strictly forbidden according to company policy. I rattled on about that. I made some other slanderous statements about my coworkers. I babbled like a psychotic. I believe I tried to convince the onlookers that said cruise company was harpooning Orcas late at night when the passengers were asleep and feeding them to the crew. I pretty much went completely insane. Finally, it was resolved that I would have the room that was promised to me. I spent my remaining two weeks living alone. It was sheer ecstasy. For some reason the company in question did not ask me to return the following season. I learned allot that year though. I found that I am not the most flexible person in the world and might even be ready to stay in one place for awhile. Adventures are great but there is something to be said for the unique comforts of home, don't you agree? 10:11 a.m. - 2002-09-25 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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