Benefits of Country Music

The drive from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga is supposed to take about 12 hours. Maybe 13 depending on the numbers of bathroom breaks and how long it takes you to wolf down greasy fast food.

I was thinking we’d get home before midnight. Ha. What I didn’t know is that the state of Florida must have use-it-before-the-end-of-the-year Federal Cash for Clunky Highways funds. I mean why else would the state decide to do road repair the week of Christmas? It doesn’t take a lot of brains to realize that there just might be a lot of traffic the week of Christmas and that shutting the highway down to one lane isn’t a wise idea. Nor are the ridiculous lines at the toll booths on the Florida Turnpike. Speaking of which, it seems to me that toll roads are only a semi-legitimate form of demanding baksheesh (bribery). I was complaining about it loudly in the van, and Ariel informed me that roads don’t qualify as a “public good” and thus from an economics point of view, they can charge whatever they want. Yeah, right. Free roads seem like a public good to me.

At any rate, our getting home on time schedule was thrown wildly off kilter. I ended up driving late at night. I’m not at my best late at night, but Cal needed a nap. In order to stay awake, I cooled the car down until I got a bit shivery—it’s hard to fall asleep when you have goosebumps. But that wasn’t enough. I turned on the radio. We were in Nowhereville, Georgia (just north of Valdosta), and the only station I could get was country-western. Not my favorite, but noise is noise. I listened to one song where the guitar was so loud you couldn’t understand the words, which was probably just as well. The next song came on. A twangy voice started talking about plowing the fields and the girl he loved. That’s okay. I like ballads. Then came the refrain. “She thinks my tractor’s sexy and she loves my farmer’s tan.” I burst out laughing. It woke me up for a good long time. I realized someone should start a music station to play wacky country music to keep tired drivers awake. I bet you could make a chunk of change. Or maybe you could get a government grant: Cash for Country. Seriously.


Here we are swimming on St. Thomas.



Ariel at the gate of a cathedral on Antigua.

Code Red

Before we went on vacation, Cal warned me not to overdo vacation preparations lest I get sick on board. Despite all the “wrenches” thrown into preparations, I stayed healthy on the entire cruise. However, not everyone could make the same claim. Somewhere early in the cruise, a vacationer brought back a nasty, highly contagious gastrointestinal bug from one of the islands. Medical chaos broke loose.

My first clue was one morning I walked into the hall and smelled bleach. Stewards were wiping railings, handholds, door handles, every non-fabric surface with bleach. Hmm. As much as the cruise lines prize cleanliness, I’ve never seen them out with bleach. Later that day a steward bawled out Luke and Ariel for taking a fork instead of waiting to be given a fork (which is what they did the day before). Odd.

Next I smelled unpleasant odors and saw floor fans. After that the ship personnel became very aggressive with hand sanitizing—the stewards had to see you sanitize your hands before you were allowed into the dining room.

Cal started running a fever, stopped eating, and had to be forced to suck ice chips. Then came the announcement. All sick or possibly sick people had to notify the medical officers and be quarantined. Cal was among them.

Speaking the obscure, but native language, of the officers came in handy. Our ship was under “Code Red.” We had very, very high numbers of sick people. Certain dining areas were shut down. Certain activities like chess, library lending, etc., were ended. A DVD we rented was free because the rental woman didn’t want to touch my “card” because we came from a stateroom with a sick person. Even the on-board jewelry store was shut down—touching jewelry could spread disease.

When we arrive in Fort Lauderdale, the entire ship has to undergo a complete sterilization before the next cruise. Cal’s doing better—he’s up and about, though he doesn’t have his appetite back. But I’m hoping and praying that the drive from Fort Lauderdale to Chattanooga is “uneventful” because 12+ hours is a long time if you have to find bathrooms along the way. And it’s even longer if you can’t.

(The rumor circulating is that the sickness is so bad it might make the news.)

Here's a picture of me with a canon at a Napoleonoic era fort. Maybe Horatio Hornblower came here.

Here's photo of Luke--his skin is so tan from the ten days that he looks like a native Carib.

A Cruise of Discovery

We visited many different islands on our cruise. St. Maarten, St. Lucia, Barbados, Antigua, and St. Thomas. (I think there were a few others, but I can’t remember.) Most people who cruise get off the ship and take excursions or taxis to visit the sites or beaches. But since the excursions are very pricey and the taxis are just as bad, we opted to do a lot of walking. In the end, though it was a huge hassle, it turned out to be a great blessing.

Instead of zipping from one aesthetically-prepared tourist spot—set up to make American/European visitors feel at home—to another, the kids experienced third world countries. They discovered that third world countries rarely have sidewalks. They saw people filling their water jugs from spigots because they don’t have running water at home. They saw pets riddled with mange and worms. They saw people standing around idly because the unemployment was so high there was no work to be had. They saw waste water from homes running into open sewer systems. (Really scary when you consider it runs untreated into the sea and around the beaches. Also from the color and texture of the waste water it seems to have high levels of phosphates.) They saw historic landmarks covered in trash and treated with contempt.

At one point, Jacob took my hand and said, “We’re really, really blessed to live in the United States.” Gratitude instead of entitlement. That discovery was music to my ears.

The next day we went to St. Thomas, which is one of the US Virgin Islands. Five minutes after we were on the island, the kids said, “Mom, this is like being back in the US.” The streets had sidewalks, people had jobs, and the streets were clean. And, yes, the island had poor people, but their situation was nothing like the extreme poverty on the other islands.

Here are a few photos.

Luke is peering into a cathedral on Antigua. It was shut down (the doors had padlocks on it) because a tourist had fallen through the rotting floor boards.

Here we are on St. Thomas.

"Bugs"

The other day we were sitting in the dining room next to a huge window, and Matthew asked me, "What is the name of the bugs that swim in the water next to the ship?" I frowned--bugs that swim next to the ship? “I’ve seen them out the windows,” Matt said. Jake interrupted, “They’re not bugs. But they swim just as fast as the ship.”

Ah, I thought, they are confused. I launched into my “there are no bugs, what you see are reflections of the sunlight dancing across the water” speech. “Besides,” I said, “nothing small could keep up with the speed of the ship—we’re booking.” The boys gave me their “you poor confused parent” look. After the meal, they boys took me through a circuitous “secret” route to the very bow of the ship. We looked over the prow. A couple of minutes later I saw the "bugs." Exquisite flying fish—translucent and glimmering in the sunlight. If I hadn’t seen them, I wouldn’t have believed the boys’ descriptions. They leapt out of the water and their pectoral fins flapped with the grace of wings. And they did keep up with the speed of the ship! When they needed a breath, they dove into the sea.

Later on I discovered that they’re able to “fly” so fast because they’re riding a wind created by the ship. Very Cool!

This is a picture of Antigua (I think). Don't you think this would make a wonderful watercolor painting? (Not so subtle hint to Calvin.)

Stormy Weather

Housekeeping note: As I write this post, the ship is nearing Fort Lauderdale. I’m sure it will take me several days to unpack and do laundry, let alone get the last minute Christmas things done. But I have several posts scheduled (one will post per day until they're all posted). I hope you enjoy them.

Before we left on the cruise, Matthew asked what we would do if we ran into a storm at sea. I told Matt that this was the wrong time of the year for storms. I should have said it’s the wrong time for hurricanes because I was completely wrong about storms. We left Ft. Lauderdale Friday night and ran right into a storm. The ship rocked and pitched. Passengers started popping Dramamine like peppermints.

We walked around the ship and watched the swells. Clouds of sea spray filled the promenade. After a few strides you could taste the salt on your lips and feel it on your skin. Later we climbed to the crow’s nest, and I clung to the rails of the ladder that led onto a platform enclosed by windows. Despite the protection, the winds whipped over the wind break. Even though the rains hadn’t started yet, the winds stung like pin pricks and pressed your clothing so tightly to your body it was like a second skin. When I turned my back to the wind, it pasted my hair around my face like a heavy veil.

Of course, the rains started and we had to go below decks. It was our turn to take Dramamine, drink tea, and pretend we felt fine. By Sunday evening the weather had improved though swells continued to make passengers stumble the halls and bump the walls. Everyone looked like they’d had one too many martinis.

Eventually, you do get used to the motion, especially at bedtime. I told the kids it was like getting rocked to sleep. They gave me their “your-mind-has-been-blown-loose-by-the-wind” looks. But that’s what it’s like. I could really get used to it. It’s soothing. Most of the time.

Here's our ship the Statendam at our first port St. Maarten.

Note to my NEH grant art students--Notice the visual rhyme!

The Open Road

I learned to drive in Honolulu and then spent the next six years driving in Southern California. Both places are known for heavy traffic and ridiculous speeding. The two might sound like mutually exclusive categories, but remember after you get out of traffic you have to make up for all the time you lost.

That introduction is so you understand that I’ve been struggling with the need-for-speed all my adult life. I’ve gotten much better, really. I’m not a speeder. At least not often. Not until you give me a cup of coffee, music with a backbeat, a car pointed toward Florida. The Highway Patrol loves people like me. But not in the way you might think.

I came around a curve in the far left lane and saw a Georgia Highway Patrolman with a radar gun pointed straight at me. I was going at least 10 miles over the speed limit in a work zone. I slowed way down, but clearly it was too late. As I drove toward the GHP officer I thought he was flagging me down. But he wasn’t. He just smiled and waved. I waved back—very animatedly, as if we were old buddies.

You’d think that I’d have learned my lesson. You’d be wrong. Before long, caffeine, a stretch of road with no cars, and some serious U2 had rolling down the highway. I met another curve. On the other side was another GHP. I slowed a lot. He looked at the car behind me.

The third time I was cruising through Atlanta, blasting by the traffic in the HOV lane. I looked into my rearview mirror and a GHP car was on my bumper. I slowed down again (to the posted speed limit) and waited for the siren and lights to go on. But instead, the GHP car whipped around me and continued at the speed we’d both been going at.

Yes, there was a fourth time. Later when Cal started driving, I said, “I thought for sure I’d have gotten a ticket. Do you think they viewed my slowing down as an acknowledgment of their authority and my fault, and so they didn’t give me a ticket?” Cal raised his eyebrows and made a noise that expressed disbelief. He said, “If it had been me, they’ve given me a ticket.” Hmmm. I guess I should be mildly offended, but it’s hard to work up any outrage.

Forced Labor

Whenever I drive through northern Georgia along the I-75 corridor, I’m always impressed by how pristine the sides of the road are. No bags, beer cans, or paper litter the sides of the road. I could it explain it by saying that in small town Georgia people take pride and ownership of their surroundings. And that may be true, but there are plenty of non-Northern Georgians traveling the interstate. Today I discovered the reason the roads are so clean—prison work detail. Twice today I saw signs announcing Prison Work Detail. Sure enough, prisoners in orange vests were picking up garbage. I can imagine the argument going something like this: “We’re not paying to feed and house these prisoners without them doing something to help pay back the state.” Makes sense to me. After all, I came from the state that put Martha Stewart in jail. The rumor is that her punishment included teaching other prisoners napkin-folding. Personally, I think they should have hit her with a heavy fine and made her pay restitution (though for insider trading I’m not sure who should get the money). On the other hand, maybe picking up some trash isn’t such a bad idea...Of course, I’m the woman who calls her children together for housework by yelling, “Time for slave labor”, so maybe I’m not the best person to make such decisions.