Letters From The Loft

Stuff From The Desk Of Chuck Thornton

Chumps Ahoy!

"I can reason down or deny everything, except this perpetual Belly: feed he must and will, and I cannot make him respectable."
--- Ralph Waldo Emerson(1803-1882), U.S. essayist, poet, philosopher

There’s probably a few of you reading this that, even in this Dramamine-enabled age, have never taken a cruise. In my constant pursuit to enlighten those around me, whether they want the lights on or not, I’ve visited my archives and came across the notes I made following our family’s first cruise (if you don't count the one sponsored by Disney that consisted of hundreds of tiny dolls singing at us till our ears bled. Let me share them with you, and give you some cruising tips, so that those of you who have yet to cruise can better decide if you want to utilize this incredibly unique, incredibly slow, method of travel.

     Once you know you're going to take this kind of trip, the first question to ask is:  Should we take the kids?  Of course, when asked if they want to spend an extended period of time in the same vehicle with their children, the average parent's first impulse is to quickly say no before realizing that you must be putting them on. But consider the alternatives: if the kids stay home, you'll either have to chain them next to a big bowl of Kid Chow, or (more likely) find someone to watch them while you're gone and end up owing both the cruise line and whoever you sucker into babysitting. Also consider this: if you go without the kids, and they wanted to come along, you'll have to deal with moping children, a phenomenon that can very quickly lead you to consider walking into the ocean instead of cruising on it.

     So we decided to take Ben and Sam with us, knowing that, if all else failed, they were good alternate flotation devices.

     The next ill-considered decision to make (not counting the decision to use a vehicle that's equipped with a huge propeller and yet, ironically, seldom gets more than a few feet above sea level) concerns your destination. My first choice was Tulsa, but January wasn't a good time of year for cruises to the Midwest, so we looked at other options. There were excursions to Alaska, the Caribbean, and even Hawaii. We chose Ensenada, which is technically in Mexico, but is really sort of a southern Southern California, in that the climate is about the same and English is not the primary language.

     The advantages of taking a cruise to Ensenada from Los Angeles are many:

    The first step of the actual voyage was checking in, a process very similar to airline check-in.  You put little tags on your luggage and trust perfect strangers to make sure your underwear gets to the right place.  Maybe it's not quite as bad as airlines, since, when cruising, you're fairly certain that your bags are going to end up on the same vehicle you're boarding. I mean, it's not like there are 50 ships floating in the harbor, divvying up luggage from a central terminal.  But then again, it's a big ship, and it might take 3 days before it's discovered that a Samsonite went to the poop deck instead of to a stateroom. When all is said and done, though, there's no real need to worry...after the first day of eating, you won't be able to fit into anything you packed anyway.

     One thing about cruising to a foreign land like Ensenada (as opposed to, say, Vegas), is that some citizenship documentation is required.  They told us we needed a passport or, if we were complete rubes (which we are), a photo ID and birth certificates. Just to play it safe, I decided to also dress as a typical American tourist: cap, sunglasses, T-shirt emblazoned with a witty saying or a licensed character, shorts, and sneakers with dark socks. I made it through customs easily, although they insisted on tagging my ear so my original habitat could be identified in case I strayed from the migration route.

      After the check-in, you're ready to board.  The size of the ship is a little intimidating as you approach it, but once we ignored the fact that it's a ten-story hunk of steel with no earthly reason to stay afloat, we were just fine. Just before actual boarding, someone takes your picture. Get used to it.  On a cruise, someone is constantly taking your picture, then trying to sell it back to you.  In our case, it was a wasted effort; they never caught us in any incriminating poses and most of the time I could see the photographer coming in plenty of time to bring my hat or magazine up in front of my face.

     After all this, you're finally shown to your stateroom (which is something of a misnomer, since there's hardly any room and I've never seen a state that small... then again, I've never been to Rhode Island). The stateroom was, to us, both fascinating and frightening.  Its designers have managed to hermetically seal a pair of mattresses, closets, bathroom with shower, a bureau, a TV, and bedside tables into the smallest possible space that two human beings can occupy... and then book four into it. And keep in mind that our group, consisting of two forty-something adults, a 16 year-old, and an 11 year-old, are a Jumbo Party of Four. The attendant showed us the fold-down bunk beds that were supposed to house the boys, then demonstrated that fitting us all in was simply a matter of synchronized breathing and keeping one of us in the bathroom at all times (which wasn't as difficult as you would expect).

     The TV, by the way, had a nifty biological remote control... as I lay in bed, one flick of my big toe would change the settings.

     The bathroom was a marvel. Not the teeny-weeny metal sink, and not the phone-booth style shower with the static-cling curtain.... those were mildly amusing. But the most fascinating bathroom fixture (as always) was the toilet.

     If you think about it (which I don't recommend), it's amazing that flush toilets even exist on a cruise ship. Where's the end of the pipeline? (Probably the same place the aforementioned Samsonite ended up.) I'd hate to be the sailor in charge of that particular cargo hold.

     The toilet was a suitable size; I guess you can't really down-scale a toilet like you can some of the other furnishings, especially since the trend in human posterior-size is, if anything, on the increase. But there are some marked differences between a conventional toilet and the cruise ship variety, and I discovered them the first time I tried to flush.

     Which is to say, I couldn't figure out how to flush the darned thing. There was no handle that I could locate, no chain hanging down from the ceiling, not even a foot pedal on the floor like you find at your cheesier roadside rests. I even stepped out of the room for a moment, then popped back in, thinking maybe it was a sort of discreet, automatic, infra-red-sensor type toilet.

     Nothing. I was starting to panic at the prospect of calling a technical support line or facing a cabin attendant and explaining that I couldn't figure out the john. I was also starting to get a little peeved... let's face it, if you can pick only one appliance in a place to be user-friendly, that appliance should be the toilet.

    I was sitting down and rolling up my sleeves to pop the hood on this puzzling piece of plumbing when my elbow brushed the hand towels that were hanging from a bar above the bathroom counter, and I noticed a wall-button that had been obscured by the towels. Fully revealed I could see that the button was accompanied by a sign explaining in full the operation of the toilet.

    A sense of relief washed over me (the second time since I'd entered the room). I had found the Holy Grail.  Being the cautious type, I read the instructions, which included the usual warnings about not using the toilet to dispose of gum, popsicle sticks, or small mammals.  The actual operating procedures were simple: Close lid, push button, rinse, repeat. I ignored the "close the lid" part, assuming it was written by a woman, and punched the button.

    What followed was one of the most astounding displays of sanitation technology I have ever witnessed. There was a tremendous whoosh! that made me think for a split second that we had inadvertently boarded an aircraft carrier. The entire contents of the toilet disappeared in the wink of an eye, whisked away by a vacuum that, because of the raised lid, also sucked down some unsecured sundries, my son's retainer, and a couple of my fillings.

    When I regained consciousness, I realized this was no ordinary toilet. This was a high-compression piece of plumbing that somehow combined wind-tunnel technology with anti-matter warp drives to whisk its contents to Neptune-knows-where. With this kind of fixture, there  was really no reason for any cruise passenger to suffer from constipation; just sitting on one of these babies while flushing would result in something that could only be described as a cyclonic high colonic. I suppose it could be quite refreshing if you're into that sort of thing and don't mind walking around with a bowl-shaped fanny.

    Once we adjusted to our new living quarters, we spent the rest of the voyage discovering why exactly people go on cruises.  It's not to get somewhere--- planes have reached their destinations and returned in the time it takes the cruise ship captain to unfold his map. It's not the accommodations--- hotels have larger rooms, with toilets that aren't driven by turbines. And it's not to relax--- there is a planned activity for virtually every second you're on board (a clever strategy to keep your mind off the fact that the entire resort keeps tilting from one side to the other).

    No, the answer is surprisingly simple, and made me think that I had been preparing all my life to go cruising: The only reason you go on a cruise is to eat more than any other person, living or dead, has eaten before.

    Oh sure, like I said, there's all sorts of activities.  There's shuffleboard, and Ping-Pong, and swimming, and dancing. There are art auctions, and gambling, and shows every night featuring the finest talent Star-Search could find. But all of that is just filler, activities designed to give the staff a chance to clear the dining tables before ushering you back in, and to give you a chance to make some more room for the next meal.

    In a typical day on an ocean liner, you can have your three conventional meals in the main dining room at scheduled times. However, there are also alternate locations, with more flexible schedules, that are open before and after the dining room hours. These locations are for us disciplined eaters who want to do some warm-up eating before hitting the dining room, and need to decompress after the main meal.

    There are brunches, afternoon teas, ice cream socials, and midnight buffets. There is 24-hour room service for those who discover they've become too wide to exit their stateroom. The entire cruise ship enterprise is a monument to digestion; after one day on board, it was obvious why these vessels come equipped with toilets by Boeing.

    If you think I'm exaggerating when I say that a cruise ship is in fact a floating shrine for diners, consider this: Before officially opening up the gala midnight buffet for your feasting pleasure, the doors are initially opened so that the guests can file past and take pictures. That's right... on a cruise, food is something to put into your scrapbook, so you can sigh in fond remembrance long after your stomach acids have done their work.. This is more than just a meal; it's a tourist attraction, consisting of intricate sculptures made of ice, margarine, gelatin, pate, Cheez-Whiz, caviar... virtually every food substance except Spam, for which the embargo has yet to be lifted.

    It's almost spooky seeing the crowd snapping pictures of this cornucopia, capturing this Kodak moment before they turn into a pack of ravenous dogs. Do you suppose piranhas swim by with their Instamatics before consuming the stupid cow that waded into their dining area?

    Besides describing the meals (or maybe I should say "meal"... "meals" implies some sort of pause between intake), I guess I could fill you in on Ensenada... but we never left the ship to check it out. I no longer had any interest in being a tourist. I was a shark, constantly moving from one morsel to the next. There were buses available to a coastal formation know as La Bufidora. But after all we had eaten (and had yet to eat) the prospect of visiting someplace whose name translates into English as "The Blowhole" had little appeal.

    By the time the voyage ended and we were back in L.A., "full" doesn't begin to describe the way I felt. Neither does "stuffed", "gorged", or "meltdown eminent".  I felt as if my stomach, reaching its full capacity, had sub-let my liver, kidneys, lungs, and spleen in order to handle everything coming down the chute. Until then, I hadn't realized it was possible to overdose on food. Luckily I had packed my muumuu to wear when the trip was over and we were disembarking. I do wish I had worn more modest underwear, though...I hadn't counted on the crowd of spectators on the dock below when the winch hauled me onto shore.

    Anyway, I hope this will encourage the uninitiated among you to try a cruise.  There's more I could share, but if there's one thing I'm more aware of lately, it's space limitations. I promise to keep you up-to-date regarding the results of my personal injury suit against those near-sighted whalers.