November 10th.
At seven thirty in the morning I stood on the dock gazing up at a pristine white ship. A man hung from a harness polishing a brass bell on the side of the bridge wing. The ship was a pure white, hotty amongst the world of cruise ships. She was graceful and exuded class. I instantly liked her. Already I was impressed by her curvature, her cleanliness and her elegant presence. The ship before me was the Sparkle Symmetry.
Upon arrival I spotted my first gravity defying bouffant. A masterpiece of hair arrangement, somewhat like a Mr whippy of hair perched on the scalp of a woman in her late seventies. It swirled in perfect gravity defying solidity. Beautiful… Well not really beautiful but definitively a point of interest amongst bouffant spotters.
My body jolted: I was back. Surely I should have been pleased but I had an unsettled feeling in my solar plexus. As much as the ship was beautiful, it was only a façade. What was inside her was entirely different. At that precise moment a metamorphosis began: I bid farewell to me, the civilian, and transformed into the uniformed member of crew in servitude. ‘The smile.’
The only barrier separating me from the ship was a large metal gate and security. The crew could not escape! That solitary security guard painstakingly checked the new luggage. Next to him numerous crew lined up like convicts. Each waited patiently, aware that as soon as they stepped on the ship they would instantly be expected to work.
Amy stood next to me watching the guard examine, socks, knickers, shoes - everything.
‘What’s he searching for?’ I asked.
‘Drugs and explosives,’ Amy responded flatly.
‘Standard crew luggage ? Unfortunately I forgot mine…’
She shook her head and smirked. ‘Don’t say that - they might arrest you on suspicion.’
She was right.
Once the security guard completed his task, each member of crew was expected to place their suit case in a large metal container with high walls. The action involved lifting the suitcase above their head. How was that healthy and safety? Imagine failing to turn up for work because you were crushed by your own suitcase! It was possible.
Two hours passed. The mass of crew remained in line, each aware time was dwindling before they began six to eight months of servitude. Many shifted anxiously. The work treadmill was waiting. Once the crew member stepped on the mill the maximum incline and highest speed buttons were both pressed simultaneously. That treadmill would continue between 12-15 hours per day, seven days per week for around six to eight months. The only time for recovery was when you were spat off the end. I shook my head, my survival technique was: sleep whenever you could even if it meant standing up!
In the mean time the security guard painstakingly searched. His method was specific, detailed and involved checking everything from knickers to pockets; pedantic to say the least but that was his job and he was doing it well. The crew watched, each willing him to go faster. It did not happen.
When it came to my turn I stood before him. He studied me. Did I look like a terrorist? I certainly didn’t have a beard, were there any signs that could implicate me?
‘Open the bag,’ he commanded.
I opened a pocket of my bag to reveal a mass of tampons… Always better to be safe than sorry.
‘What are those?’ he asked.
Vaginal incendiary devices?
‘Tampons,’ I replied.
‘You need that many?’ he asked with a serious tone.
How do you answer that? Unfortunately there is no opportunity for reuse or recycle.
‘Erm… yes.’
‘And the other bag?’ he asked.
‘Stinky shoes and some dirty knickers. Do you need to search them?’
He smirked but covered his mouth.
Oh God… What if I was a potential suspect for knicker terrorism. Miss Bliss and the dirty knickers that were a threat to national security.
‘Miss Bliss do you or do you not agree that your knickers are dangerous?’ My tired mind played out the court room scenario. I unconsciously shook my head - it was a horrible thought.
Once my mind was back in order I noticed his straight face had cracked.
‘I guess I win the award for most random contents of bags,’ I said.
‘Yes you do,’ he paused and studied my coat. ‘What’s in the pocket of the blazer?’
‘A mass of snotty tissues,’ I replied.
He studied me in awe/ repulsion. Why lie? What did he expect? A nice answer?
‘Could I have an escort to the ship,’ he called down his radio.
A moment later a fellow security guard arrived and made the crew line up. He led us single file towards the crew gangway where we had our bags x-rayed as we embarked.
One ship I joined a fellow crew member was pulled aside for attempting to smuggle a vibrator on board. In front of everyone the Ghurkha security waved the vibrator at her.
‘Is there potential for explosion?’ he demanded.
She smiled coyley, ’yes but not the way you think…’
She was then escorted to the Staff Captain’s office to explain the find.
Thursday, 14 January 2010
Beneath the surface 7
November 9th
Day one of adventure! Yes! Leaving England at four in the morning was not an experience I loved. Still I was leaving England to avoid an English winter. That morning was freezing and I of course I had to carry the heaviest bag in the world on my back. If I could have filled a bag with cement it would have been marginally heavier.
My brother was kind enough to walk me to the bus station. It was Sunday morning after Saturday night and there were plenty of drunks meandering across the road. A group of drunken teenagers had cleverly found an Asda trolley and filled it with their mates. They were ramming everything they saw; everyone screamed with drunken delight. Bournemouth by night - spectacular!
At the bus station a group of swearing drunks were trying to convince the bus driver that they were sober and should be allowed on the bus… When I turned up with my luggage they stopped swearing and asked my brother where I was going.
‘Antarctica,’ he said.
‘What’s it like to party down there?’ they asked.
‘It’s a vast land of ice, settled with a few military bases and scientific research stations,’ was Bro’s specific response.
‘So not that great then?’ asked the drunk.
‘Not unless you’re a penguin,’ I responded.
The group studied me curiously.
Once at Heathrow I made my way to terminal five for a fast and efficient check in. I kept the heaviest bag in the world with me and realised this was the last time I would be in England for six months. For an hour I sat and watched people mill about the airport. It dawned on me that we were all there for a common reason: we were all going somewhere to do something. The airport, for me, was always the beginning of something new. I love airports because people are united or have a purpose. Everyone at that airport is anticipating a new adventure or returning from an experience. I find that inspirational. Although making your way through security was quite the opposite - especially when your knee-high, buckled boots set off alarms.
The window seat of the plane was always the worst in terms of toilet access. On top of that two guys slept next to me. Boring! The flight was ten hours long so I had no choice but to watch four films in a row. I regulated my bladder to three hourly bursts… You know what? The guy next to me kept blowing off. He was from Norway and whenever he woke up stuffed that weird tobacco stuff under his lip. He then made a loud sucking sound before he returned to sleep. He smelt odd too, like mud, wet dog and pete bog combined. So ten hours of rot smell - brilliant! That was the trouble of flying alone: you never know who you’re going to get stuck next to. One time I had an obese Russian with a body odour problem. Another time the check-in girl was having a joke and placed me amongst the Kenyan weight lifting team. I was the last person on the plane, with one seat remaining amongst five rows of muscle bound Kenyans. What made it worse was the other passengers appeared to be waiting in anticipation: who was the lucky person who had been allocated the remaining seat? Me!
Arrival in the U.S is usually awkward; they treat you like convicts; guilty until proven innocent. As a member of crew I was escorted to a room full of other potential felons who were obviously trying to break into America. Anyway in the ‘special’ interview room I met Amy, a South African who worked on my new ship. She was tall, blonde and had a face designed for customer service. Her face could smile while her eyes drove daggers into anyone who gave her grief. I liked her.
‘Are you going to be working for Sparkle too?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your first time on a ship?’
That was a standard question; it seemed people were always interested in gauging how ship naive you were.
‘No it’s my fourteenth.’
‘Ah, quite experienced then?’ she said with a wink.
Brackets (ah you know what it’s like and you’re not going to fall for anything. And you are aware of the new meat syndrome.)
Inside the potential felons waiting room we waited and waited. Amy was friendly so we chatted about everything under the sun. She was in awe of the fact that four of the five interviewers /guards were in a heated debate about Obama and the pro’s and cons of his leadership. Bearing in mind there were probably fifty of us waiting to be cleared, it seemed a little shoddy. It was apparent the interviewers were all trying to get out of work! Eventually a fight broke out between the guards and they had to be separated. It was apparent that to avoid work all you had to do was physically fight with your colleagues! A technique I may well employ on the ship.
Two hours later I was interviewed about being a photographer. I was further interviewed about the fact that I used Canon rather than Nikon. The security guard was actually attempting to convert me… Madness! I wondered whether I would be put back on a plane because of my taste in camera equipment.
Eventually I cleared security and Linda was waiting in the arrivals area. She was a portly, middle aged lady with yellow-blonde bobbed hair and a classic English accent. When we caught the taxi a wave of realisation hit me: I was out of England and in the warmth of Miami. Life was full of potential. Yey!!!!
When we arrived at the hotel Linda arranged for me to have my own room. Thank goodness! The first thing I did was check to see if there were any biscuits and peruse the mini-bar to see what drinks were for the taking. After eating a whole host of short breads and pistachio nuts with diet coke I finally relaxed. Whilst still chewing I took a shower and ignored the little voice calling me to sleep. At that moment I had already been awake for at least to twenty four hours.
‘Do you want to go for a stroll and get some food or go to sleep?’ asked Linda down the phone.
‘A stroll and food would be good. I’d love to see Miami by night,’ I replied
‘Okay I will meet you in the foyer in five minutes,’ she said.
Strolling through a plaza close to the Marina you could smell salty, warm air. It was so comfortable in comparison to the bitter English weather.
We found an Italian restaurant with tables spread along a promenade, it overlooked numerous yachts. Beneath the restaurant was a docking area for speed boats. One particular boat had two drunken topless guys wearing baseball caps; they danced/swaggered in a drunken seductive manner to some Latin music. Their dance evolved into gestures, I side glanced and noticed they were trying to gain our attention.
‘Don’t look but they’re calling you over. Do you want to go and dance with them?’ I asked cheekily.
‘No way! Not to that music!’ she said very seriously.
‘Do you want me to get them to change the music?’ I said with a smirk.
She giggled and sensed I was up to mischief. Linda was a real sweetie; she was organised, efficient and straight down the line. We drank wine and chatted endlessly. In fact we could have both won medals in the chatting/random story Olympics.
On the journey back to the hotel I noticed a massage area. Chairs were set up for a street massage. Ten dollars for ten minutes and my God it was worth it. After such a long flight and carrying such a heavy bag the massage was perfect. I treated Linda to a pummelling I think she would have preferred not to have. In a daze the pair of us wafted back to the hotel to learn that Marissa had arrived.
Marissa was Brazilian and employed to work on my photo team. It turned out that she was not a trained photographer; she had worked as a waitress on a ship. She decided to change roles and become a photographer. Something was niggling me: Ken had clearly stated that all the photographers on board would be professional… Was I surprised he had lied again? What was worse was I suspected she was paid the same wage. I wondered how she got the job.
Marissa opened the door, ‘Hello.’
The answer to how she got the job suddenly became clear: massive boobs.
‘Marissa?’ asked Linda
‘Yes me Marissa from Braaaaaaaaaazil.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘I am from Rio,’ she said side-glancing me.
‘Good,’ said Linda.
Marissa looked around forty something, a bottled blonde with light eyes and brown creased skin. She was petite on top and looked as though she was carrying two pillows in her knickers. I accepted Brazilians were famed for their behinds, but this lady had an amble bottom that did not fit with the rest of her body. How could I explain? The bottom suited a woman who may well require one and a half seats on a bus rather than just one. Maybe it could be described as two ferrets trapped in a pillowcase - per cheek. Obviously Marrissa caught me looking her over and shot me a glance.
For a woman of her age her behaviour was like that of a small girl. She looked and acted with a soft voice, a voice eager to impress her new boss. Still when you peered into her eyes you sensed something else: she was not quite what she seemed. I could sense we weren’t going to get on. What was worse we were going to have to share a cabin.
Oh God I hope she’s not a psycho! I have shared rooms with far too many nutters to list. Although the one who stapled beer cans together to build her plane home was pretty bad, then there was the woman who I woke up to find her watching me sleep. God please let Marrissa be sane!
We bid Marissa good night, it was already apparent that her English language was not all that. There was confusion and a blank expression over simple words.
‘We will see you tomorrow Marissa,’ said Linda.
‘Yeyyysss.’
‘At Breakfast,’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘You understand?’ asked Linda in a concerned tone.
‘Yeyssss.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Linda in a louder tone.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Okay?’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Good night,’ said Linda
‘Linda, where tomorrow meet I?’
Oh shit!
Day one of adventure! Yes! Leaving England at four in the morning was not an experience I loved. Still I was leaving England to avoid an English winter. That morning was freezing and I of course I had to carry the heaviest bag in the world on my back. If I could have filled a bag with cement it would have been marginally heavier.
My brother was kind enough to walk me to the bus station. It was Sunday morning after Saturday night and there were plenty of drunks meandering across the road. A group of drunken teenagers had cleverly found an Asda trolley and filled it with their mates. They were ramming everything they saw; everyone screamed with drunken delight. Bournemouth by night - spectacular!
At the bus station a group of swearing drunks were trying to convince the bus driver that they were sober and should be allowed on the bus… When I turned up with my luggage they stopped swearing and asked my brother where I was going.
‘Antarctica,’ he said.
‘What’s it like to party down there?’ they asked.
‘It’s a vast land of ice, settled with a few military bases and scientific research stations,’ was Bro’s specific response.
‘So not that great then?’ asked the drunk.
‘Not unless you’re a penguin,’ I responded.
The group studied me curiously.
Once at Heathrow I made my way to terminal five for a fast and efficient check in. I kept the heaviest bag in the world with me and realised this was the last time I would be in England for six months. For an hour I sat and watched people mill about the airport. It dawned on me that we were all there for a common reason: we were all going somewhere to do something. The airport, for me, was always the beginning of something new. I love airports because people are united or have a purpose. Everyone at that airport is anticipating a new adventure or returning from an experience. I find that inspirational. Although making your way through security was quite the opposite - especially when your knee-high, buckled boots set off alarms.
The window seat of the plane was always the worst in terms of toilet access. On top of that two guys slept next to me. Boring! The flight was ten hours long so I had no choice but to watch four films in a row. I regulated my bladder to three hourly bursts… You know what? The guy next to me kept blowing off. He was from Norway and whenever he woke up stuffed that weird tobacco stuff under his lip. He then made a loud sucking sound before he returned to sleep. He smelt odd too, like mud, wet dog and pete bog combined. So ten hours of rot smell - brilliant! That was the trouble of flying alone: you never know who you’re going to get stuck next to. One time I had an obese Russian with a body odour problem. Another time the check-in girl was having a joke and placed me amongst the Kenyan weight lifting team. I was the last person on the plane, with one seat remaining amongst five rows of muscle bound Kenyans. What made it worse was the other passengers appeared to be waiting in anticipation: who was the lucky person who had been allocated the remaining seat? Me!
Arrival in the U.S is usually awkward; they treat you like convicts; guilty until proven innocent. As a member of crew I was escorted to a room full of other potential felons who were obviously trying to break into America. Anyway in the ‘special’ interview room I met Amy, a South African who worked on my new ship. She was tall, blonde and had a face designed for customer service. Her face could smile while her eyes drove daggers into anyone who gave her grief. I liked her.
‘Are you going to be working for Sparkle too?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it your first time on a ship?’
That was a standard question; it seemed people were always interested in gauging how ship naive you were.
‘No it’s my fourteenth.’
‘Ah, quite experienced then?’ she said with a wink.
Brackets (ah you know what it’s like and you’re not going to fall for anything. And you are aware of the new meat syndrome.)
Inside the potential felons waiting room we waited and waited. Amy was friendly so we chatted about everything under the sun. She was in awe of the fact that four of the five interviewers /guards were in a heated debate about Obama and the pro’s and cons of his leadership. Bearing in mind there were probably fifty of us waiting to be cleared, it seemed a little shoddy. It was apparent the interviewers were all trying to get out of work! Eventually a fight broke out between the guards and they had to be separated. It was apparent that to avoid work all you had to do was physically fight with your colleagues! A technique I may well employ on the ship.
Two hours later I was interviewed about being a photographer. I was further interviewed about the fact that I used Canon rather than Nikon. The security guard was actually attempting to convert me… Madness! I wondered whether I would be put back on a plane because of my taste in camera equipment.
Eventually I cleared security and Linda was waiting in the arrivals area. She was a portly, middle aged lady with yellow-blonde bobbed hair and a classic English accent. When we caught the taxi a wave of realisation hit me: I was out of England and in the warmth of Miami. Life was full of potential. Yey!!!!
When we arrived at the hotel Linda arranged for me to have my own room. Thank goodness! The first thing I did was check to see if there were any biscuits and peruse the mini-bar to see what drinks were for the taking. After eating a whole host of short breads and pistachio nuts with diet coke I finally relaxed. Whilst still chewing I took a shower and ignored the little voice calling me to sleep. At that moment I had already been awake for at least to twenty four hours.
‘Do you want to go for a stroll and get some food or go to sleep?’ asked Linda down the phone.
‘A stroll and food would be good. I’d love to see Miami by night,’ I replied
‘Okay I will meet you in the foyer in five minutes,’ she said.
Strolling through a plaza close to the Marina you could smell salty, warm air. It was so comfortable in comparison to the bitter English weather.
We found an Italian restaurant with tables spread along a promenade, it overlooked numerous yachts. Beneath the restaurant was a docking area for speed boats. One particular boat had two drunken topless guys wearing baseball caps; they danced/swaggered in a drunken seductive manner to some Latin music. Their dance evolved into gestures, I side glanced and noticed they were trying to gain our attention.
‘Don’t look but they’re calling you over. Do you want to go and dance with them?’ I asked cheekily.
‘No way! Not to that music!’ she said very seriously.
‘Do you want me to get them to change the music?’ I said with a smirk.
She giggled and sensed I was up to mischief. Linda was a real sweetie; she was organised, efficient and straight down the line. We drank wine and chatted endlessly. In fact we could have both won medals in the chatting/random story Olympics.
On the journey back to the hotel I noticed a massage area. Chairs were set up for a street massage. Ten dollars for ten minutes and my God it was worth it. After such a long flight and carrying such a heavy bag the massage was perfect. I treated Linda to a pummelling I think she would have preferred not to have. In a daze the pair of us wafted back to the hotel to learn that Marissa had arrived.
Marissa was Brazilian and employed to work on my photo team. It turned out that she was not a trained photographer; she had worked as a waitress on a ship. She decided to change roles and become a photographer. Something was niggling me: Ken had clearly stated that all the photographers on board would be professional… Was I surprised he had lied again? What was worse was I suspected she was paid the same wage. I wondered how she got the job.
Marissa opened the door, ‘Hello.’
The answer to how she got the job suddenly became clear: massive boobs.
‘Marissa?’ asked Linda
‘Yes me Marissa from Braaaaaaaaaazil.’
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘I am from Rio,’ she said side-glancing me.
‘Good,’ said Linda.
Marissa looked around forty something, a bottled blonde with light eyes and brown creased skin. She was petite on top and looked as though she was carrying two pillows in her knickers. I accepted Brazilians were famed for their behinds, but this lady had an amble bottom that did not fit with the rest of her body. How could I explain? The bottom suited a woman who may well require one and a half seats on a bus rather than just one. Maybe it could be described as two ferrets trapped in a pillowcase - per cheek. Obviously Marrissa caught me looking her over and shot me a glance.
For a woman of her age her behaviour was like that of a small girl. She looked and acted with a soft voice, a voice eager to impress her new boss. Still when you peered into her eyes you sensed something else: she was not quite what she seemed. I could sense we weren’t going to get on. What was worse we were going to have to share a cabin.
Oh God I hope she’s not a psycho! I have shared rooms with far too many nutters to list. Although the one who stapled beer cans together to build her plane home was pretty bad, then there was the woman who I woke up to find her watching me sleep. God please let Marrissa be sane!
We bid Marissa good night, it was already apparent that her English language was not all that. There was confusion and a blank expression over simple words.
‘We will see you tomorrow Marissa,’ said Linda.
‘Yeyyysss.’
‘At Breakfast,’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘You understand?’ asked Linda in a concerned tone.
‘Yeyssss.’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Linda in a louder tone.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Okay?’ said Linda.
‘Yeysss.’
‘Good night,’ said Linda
‘Linda, where tomorrow meet I?’
Oh shit!
Beneath the surface 6
November 8th
My last day in England. I met up with Jen in Boscombe garden’s clock café. That little café made the best soup in the world and sold the best carrot cake and chocolate brownies ever! I was going to miss it; actually thinking about it - it was amazing what you missed while you were away : toasted cheese and pickle sandwiches, friends, Cadburys chocolate and home made carrot cake.
Anyway Jen and I sat giggling when Jill, soup maker extraordinaire, came over wearing her most appropriate soup making outfit: white jacket, white hat and dark blue trousers. Jill was salt of the earth and you could only imagine the delight on her face when she created a new soup flavour.
‘We’re going to miss you Felicity. I always know when the pair of you’re here because there’s always raucous laughing. You know I thought about you and your travels and came up with the idea of a silver flask being parachuted into Antarctica.’
‘Good idea, but Antarctica is pretty huge,’ I said.
‘We’ll need a homing device then,’ said Jill matter of factly.
‘Jill you know I’m going to really miss your carrot cake… Please make me a whole carrot cake for my return…’
‘Will do, we’ll ice it with your name on. It’ll be waiting,’ she said. ‘In the mean time I’ll be wishing on the star for Mummy Jills café to come about. You know how I wish on that star…’ she said with her hand on her hip.
She was such a star herself and I genuinely wished that her dream would come true by the time I returned.
‘I hope it works,’ I said.
Jill grinned, ‘it will,’ she said toddling off.
Jen sighed and shook her head; her female partner in raucous laughter crime was abandoning her.
‘I can’t believe you’re buggering off on a ship! I feel so abandoned. What about Salsa? God I’m going to miss you. I don’t blame you though. Business is crap. The winter is coming. God I wish I was going too,’ she said with a loud sigh.
‘You could go if you really wanted to,’ I replied.
‘You know I can’t leave my business,’ she said shaking her head.
Her business was recruitment and at that time in England, where job losses were thick and fast, it was probably the worst job she could have, other than banking.
The rest of the afternoon was spent packing. I am such a limited packer. I just took two of everything except knickers and socks of course - I take more of those. My mum once asked whether people on World cruises took a pair of knickers for each day. I have never found out the answer but it would explain why some women turned up with twenty four suitcases. They probably wore very large knickers!
My last day in England. I met up with Jen in Boscombe garden’s clock café. That little café made the best soup in the world and sold the best carrot cake and chocolate brownies ever! I was going to miss it; actually thinking about it - it was amazing what you missed while you were away : toasted cheese and pickle sandwiches, friends, Cadburys chocolate and home made carrot cake.
Anyway Jen and I sat giggling when Jill, soup maker extraordinaire, came over wearing her most appropriate soup making outfit: white jacket, white hat and dark blue trousers. Jill was salt of the earth and you could only imagine the delight on her face when she created a new soup flavour.
‘We’re going to miss you Felicity. I always know when the pair of you’re here because there’s always raucous laughing. You know I thought about you and your travels and came up with the idea of a silver flask being parachuted into Antarctica.’
‘Good idea, but Antarctica is pretty huge,’ I said.
‘We’ll need a homing device then,’ said Jill matter of factly.
‘Jill you know I’m going to really miss your carrot cake… Please make me a whole carrot cake for my return…’
‘Will do, we’ll ice it with your name on. It’ll be waiting,’ she said. ‘In the mean time I’ll be wishing on the star for Mummy Jills café to come about. You know how I wish on that star…’ she said with her hand on her hip.
She was such a star herself and I genuinely wished that her dream would come true by the time I returned.
‘I hope it works,’ I said.
Jill grinned, ‘it will,’ she said toddling off.
Jen sighed and shook her head; her female partner in raucous laughter crime was abandoning her.
‘I can’t believe you’re buggering off on a ship! I feel so abandoned. What about Salsa? God I’m going to miss you. I don’t blame you though. Business is crap. The winter is coming. God I wish I was going too,’ she said with a loud sigh.
‘You could go if you really wanted to,’ I replied.
‘You know I can’t leave my business,’ she said shaking her head.
Her business was recruitment and at that time in England, where job losses were thick and fast, it was probably the worst job she could have, other than banking.
The rest of the afternoon was spent packing. I am such a limited packer. I just took two of everything except knickers and socks of course - I take more of those. My mum once asked whether people on World cruises took a pair of knickers for each day. I have never found out the answer but it would explain why some women turned up with twenty four suitcases. They probably wore very large knickers!
Beneath the surface 5
Nov 2nd
As I thought… There was a catch. My new company kindly booked me a hotel in Miami. Which sounds very nice but I just read the booking form: No.1 guest Me. Additional Guest Marissa. Who is Marissa? And why did no-one tell me that I was going to be sharing a hotel room with a stranger? Oh God it was another one of their short cuts - lets save some money and treat our professional photographers like cattle. What was ironic about that was my friends were going on about my so called glamorous life. Truth: it is not glamorous. That is why I write this diary - evidence - the anti-thesis of glamour.
E-mail:
‘Dear Linda,
Who is Marissa?
So just to point out the obvious: I am staying in a hotel room and some stranger walks in. What do I do? I assume I am being robbed and take the appropriate action. I think you should be aware of that. Is there any chance I could have my own room?
Kind Regards
Felicity.’
Oh God did I really want to work for that company? They seemed to be making short cuts the whole time. If that was their attitude off the ship then what would it be like onboard - once I was trapped? I could understand if the hotel room was expensive but it cost about £100. A company that made two million profit a year spending £100 on a hotel room wasn’t that massive.
I had a bad feeling.
November 6th
Another trip to London. It took just over two hours from Bournemouth and cost around eighty pounds to reach the Vietnamese embassy during their limited opening times. When I arrived at the embassy I went to collect my passport. I quickly learned they had thrown all the documents away that supported my application. What’s more (and this made me particularly happy) one of the documents was a letter of immigration. Thank God I photocopied it!
‘Where are the documents with the passport?’ I asked.
‘You have them,’ he said
‘No you requested them for the visa,’ I said.
‘No my responsibility,’ he said.
‘So whose responsibility is it?’ I asked.
‘Yours,’ he said,
‘Oh I see… So it is my responsibility that you look after the documents that I give you to enable me to have a visa.’
‘Yes.’
There was nothing that could be done. There was no-one to complain to. You had to accept defeat.
As I thought… There was a catch. My new company kindly booked me a hotel in Miami. Which sounds very nice but I just read the booking form: No.1 guest Me. Additional Guest Marissa. Who is Marissa? And why did no-one tell me that I was going to be sharing a hotel room with a stranger? Oh God it was another one of their short cuts - lets save some money and treat our professional photographers like cattle. What was ironic about that was my friends were going on about my so called glamorous life. Truth: it is not glamorous. That is why I write this diary - evidence - the anti-thesis of glamour.
E-mail:
‘Dear Linda,
Who is Marissa?
So just to point out the obvious: I am staying in a hotel room and some stranger walks in. What do I do? I assume I am being robbed and take the appropriate action. I think you should be aware of that. Is there any chance I could have my own room?
Kind Regards
Felicity.’
Oh God did I really want to work for that company? They seemed to be making short cuts the whole time. If that was their attitude off the ship then what would it be like onboard - once I was trapped? I could understand if the hotel room was expensive but it cost about £100. A company that made two million profit a year spending £100 on a hotel room wasn’t that massive.
I had a bad feeling.
November 6th
Another trip to London. It took just over two hours from Bournemouth and cost around eighty pounds to reach the Vietnamese embassy during their limited opening times. When I arrived at the embassy I went to collect my passport. I quickly learned they had thrown all the documents away that supported my application. What’s more (and this made me particularly happy) one of the documents was a letter of immigration. Thank God I photocopied it!
‘Where are the documents with the passport?’ I asked.
‘You have them,’ he said
‘No you requested them for the visa,’ I said.
‘No my responsibility,’ he said.
‘So whose responsibility is it?’ I asked.
‘Yours,’ he said,
‘Oh I see… So it is my responsibility that you look after the documents that I give you to enable me to have a visa.’
‘Yes.’
There was nothing that could be done. There was no-one to complain to. You had to accept defeat.
Beneath the surface 4
October 29th.
The travel photography awards was a classic ‘Felicity’ evening. I was given two different times for the awards ceremony. One was at seven, the other seven thirty. I arrived at seven thirty considering that was the most sensible time to start an awards ceremony. Unfortunately that logic resulted in me being locked out of the ceremony and having to bang on the window like a complete nutter. I still don’t quite understand how they managed to miss the fact that their winner was not present.
Once inside I kept smirking to myself; yet another ‘Felicity’ scenario had taken place. Further into the evening the winners and their partners were invited for dinner with the Editors. One particular winner’s girlfriend repeatedly stated she was renown for her photographic work, although she had not won anything in the competition. The thing was she just kept going on and on. ‘I blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bla bla bla this…I blah blah blah…. That.
Boring!
I wondered whether I could rebound some bread from a fork into her mouth. I usually carry gaffer tape (for photographic purposes) but that might have been too obvious to gag her in public. Instead I glanced at the editors who used various foods to conceal their yawns.
At one point the editor of one of the classier newspapers caught me rolling my eyes and coughed into her wine. I didn’t mean to but bla bla girl’s behaviour was so desperate. If you intend nut nuzzle / arse invade make sure you do it with style and finesse and wear a snorkel. Anyway further into the evening I met the editor of a cruise magazine who kindly gave me his card. ‘You are about to depart on a ship aren’t you? Please keep in contact and send me some wonderful pictures as you travel, we may even publish some.’
Perfect! Yes!!!! Woooppppp! Another door opened!
On the way back to my hotel I was kindly escorted in the correct direction by another travel editor.
‘Don’t you find it annoying how people just try and sell themselves to you?’ I asked.
‘I’m used to it,’ she responded.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That would get on my nerves. I would probably build an obstacle course or something and make them complete that before they talked to me. Then at least I would feel like I was getting something out of it.’
‘So why didn’t you try and sell yourself?’ she asked curiously.
‘I believe my work sells itself and I am about to go around the world on a ship. And more than anything I prefer to be chased!’
We came to the cross roads, ‘Felicity send me your stories,’ she said handing me her card.
I smiled to myself, she meant my photo stories, not my random incidents or adventures. It seemed a door had opened and I was about to travel the world. Life was good!
October 30th
Not being able to drink at the awards was a bonus - I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. Usually when I drink my alter-ego believes she is Lara Croft and feels the distinct urge to explore and climb. On a number of occasions I have convinced a number of people to go garden hopping with me. When three of them were trapped in a garden with high walls and a Rotweiler you soon learn that garden hopping isn’t for everyone.
Today I had to complete my medical to join the ship. With about half an hour until I had to be at the medical I realised the surgery required a copy of my passport as evidence of identity. And where was my passport? Of course it was at the Vietnamese embassy where I couldn’t get hold of it until Wednesday. Brilliant! Another disaster to solve. If I didn’t have the passport I didn’t get the medical. What could I do? I laid down on my hotel bed and scanned my mind for times I had sent copies of my passport to various photo agencies as proof of identity. I needed to find an Internet café.
Frantically I paced Russell square until I realised I had walked past one Internet café three times. Surely if you are an internet café it would be a great idea to advise people of this by simply writing a sign and hanging it outside. Once at the computer I trawled through thousands of e-mails. Nothing. I should have given up… No! One last try. I fed the keyword ‘passport’ into the search and there it was: one e-mail attachment with a copy of my passport details. I printed it off and ran at great speed to Russell Square station where a group of French people were trying to work out how to use the ticket machine. Approximately twenty Londoners fumed behind them. The Frenchies grew angry at each other and gesticulated whilst swearing in French. I had twenty minutes to get to my medical. Brilliant! If was late the medical would be cancelled and I would have wasted three hundred and fifty pounds. Why was I getting stressed?
In the end the Frenchies gave up and the rest of the line stormed the ticket machine. I arrived at the private medical practice on time and upon arrival was kindly handed a pot to urinate in. The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. Once inside the cubicle I lined up the container and it was then mid-flow that the fire alarm sounded.
‘Please evacuate the building,’ shouted someone with an authoritive tone.
A full scale evacuation took place but I had one major question: what did I do with the canister of urine? I could hardly run the stairs with it in my hand. I had nothing to disguise the pot with either. It wasn’t as if I was going to risk putting it in my pocket. In the end I placed the canister on a shelf and headed out the door. Who would honestly steal someone else’s pot of we?
In the evacuation point, I met a Spanish girl, ‘this happened to me once before. I was wearing pyjamas and had to leave my apartment,’ she said.
‘Thank God you didn’t sleep naked,’ I responded.
‘One man did, he had to stand outside the building covering himself. It was February.’
Shrinkage.
After climbing numerous flights of stairs back to the fourth floor practice I was called into the doctor’s office. I was given a small, brown, flannel bath robe to wear. It barely covered me and certainly did not meet in my middle.
‘Please free you arm from the robe,’ said the doctor brandishing a blood pressure gage.
Easier said than done. I kindly obliged, but in trying to hide my embarrassment I cleverly transformed the robe into a straight jacket. The doctor eyed me in a way that suggested that I was possibly on the edge of genius, probably the edge at the furthest point.
‘You have high blood pressure. Are you stressed?’
Why would I be stressed? Peeing in a cup and having to evacuate, pulling off miracles with passports, accepting awards and achieving miraculous phenomenon in the shortest time available. Who could be possibly be stressed at that? Maybe next they could set me the task of walking on water whilst wearing lead.
The travel photography awards was a classic ‘Felicity’ evening. I was given two different times for the awards ceremony. One was at seven, the other seven thirty. I arrived at seven thirty considering that was the most sensible time to start an awards ceremony. Unfortunately that logic resulted in me being locked out of the ceremony and having to bang on the window like a complete nutter. I still don’t quite understand how they managed to miss the fact that their winner was not present.
Once inside I kept smirking to myself; yet another ‘Felicity’ scenario had taken place. Further into the evening the winners and their partners were invited for dinner with the Editors. One particular winner’s girlfriend repeatedly stated she was renown for her photographic work, although she had not won anything in the competition. The thing was she just kept going on and on. ‘I blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa bla bla bla this…I blah blah blah…. That.
Boring!
I wondered whether I could rebound some bread from a fork into her mouth. I usually carry gaffer tape (for photographic purposes) but that might have been too obvious to gag her in public. Instead I glanced at the editors who used various foods to conceal their yawns.
At one point the editor of one of the classier newspapers caught me rolling my eyes and coughed into her wine. I didn’t mean to but bla bla girl’s behaviour was so desperate. If you intend nut nuzzle / arse invade make sure you do it with style and finesse and wear a snorkel. Anyway further into the evening I met the editor of a cruise magazine who kindly gave me his card. ‘You are about to depart on a ship aren’t you? Please keep in contact and send me some wonderful pictures as you travel, we may even publish some.’
Perfect! Yes!!!! Woooppppp! Another door opened!
On the way back to my hotel I was kindly escorted in the correct direction by another travel editor.
‘Don’t you find it annoying how people just try and sell themselves to you?’ I asked.
‘I’m used to it,’ she responded.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘That would get on my nerves. I would probably build an obstacle course or something and make them complete that before they talked to me. Then at least I would feel like I was getting something out of it.’
‘So why didn’t you try and sell yourself?’ she asked curiously.
‘I believe my work sells itself and I am about to go around the world on a ship. And more than anything I prefer to be chased!’
We came to the cross roads, ‘Felicity send me your stories,’ she said handing me her card.
I smiled to myself, she meant my photo stories, not my random incidents or adventures. It seemed a door had opened and I was about to travel the world. Life was good!
October 30th
Not being able to drink at the awards was a bonus - I didn’t make a complete fool of myself. Usually when I drink my alter-ego believes she is Lara Croft and feels the distinct urge to explore and climb. On a number of occasions I have convinced a number of people to go garden hopping with me. When three of them were trapped in a garden with high walls and a Rotweiler you soon learn that garden hopping isn’t for everyone.
Today I had to complete my medical to join the ship. With about half an hour until I had to be at the medical I realised the surgery required a copy of my passport as evidence of identity. And where was my passport? Of course it was at the Vietnamese embassy where I couldn’t get hold of it until Wednesday. Brilliant! Another disaster to solve. If I didn’t have the passport I didn’t get the medical. What could I do? I laid down on my hotel bed and scanned my mind for times I had sent copies of my passport to various photo agencies as proof of identity. I needed to find an Internet café.
Frantically I paced Russell square until I realised I had walked past one Internet café three times. Surely if you are an internet café it would be a great idea to advise people of this by simply writing a sign and hanging it outside. Once at the computer I trawled through thousands of e-mails. Nothing. I should have given up… No! One last try. I fed the keyword ‘passport’ into the search and there it was: one e-mail attachment with a copy of my passport details. I printed it off and ran at great speed to Russell Square station where a group of French people were trying to work out how to use the ticket machine. Approximately twenty Londoners fumed behind them. The Frenchies grew angry at each other and gesticulated whilst swearing in French. I had twenty minutes to get to my medical. Brilliant! If was late the medical would be cancelled and I would have wasted three hundred and fifty pounds. Why was I getting stressed?
In the end the Frenchies gave up and the rest of the line stormed the ticket machine. I arrived at the private medical practice on time and upon arrival was kindly handed a pot to urinate in. The receptionist pointed me in the direction of the bathroom. Once inside the cubicle I lined up the container and it was then mid-flow that the fire alarm sounded.
‘Please evacuate the building,’ shouted someone with an authoritive tone.
A full scale evacuation took place but I had one major question: what did I do with the canister of urine? I could hardly run the stairs with it in my hand. I had nothing to disguise the pot with either. It wasn’t as if I was going to risk putting it in my pocket. In the end I placed the canister on a shelf and headed out the door. Who would honestly steal someone else’s pot of we?
In the evacuation point, I met a Spanish girl, ‘this happened to me once before. I was wearing pyjamas and had to leave my apartment,’ she said.
‘Thank God you didn’t sleep naked,’ I responded.
‘One man did, he had to stand outside the building covering himself. It was February.’
Shrinkage.
After climbing numerous flights of stairs back to the fourth floor practice I was called into the doctor’s office. I was given a small, brown, flannel bath robe to wear. It barely covered me and certainly did not meet in my middle.
‘Please free you arm from the robe,’ said the doctor brandishing a blood pressure gage.
Easier said than done. I kindly obliged, but in trying to hide my embarrassment I cleverly transformed the robe into a straight jacket. The doctor eyed me in a way that suggested that I was possibly on the edge of genius, probably the edge at the furthest point.
‘You have high blood pressure. Are you stressed?’
Why would I be stressed? Peeing in a cup and having to evacuate, pulling off miracles with passports, accepting awards and achieving miraculous phenomenon in the shortest time available. Who could be possibly be stressed at that? Maybe next they could set me the task of walking on water whilst wearing lead.
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