Travel is to discover that everyone is wrong about other countries.
—Aldous Huxley
Chapter 12. Cannes, France
1
Barney's relatives hugged tightly to their small town in the Canadian Rockies. Despite invitations to his ships for years, they'd never had the temerity to try. That all changed when his mother discovered Under the Tuscan Sun. For the first time ever, something other than Canada had merit. She wanted to see everywhere they filmed the movie—a woman after my own cinephile heart. This included Positano, which was an hour-plus boat ride beyond our port of call, Sorrento. That was too far for unworldly folks such as Ma & Pa Barney, but not for me. Thus he asked if I would escort his family to Positano.
Cosmina was not happy at being skipped over for such an important personal favor. Barney explained that he wanted someone they would feel comfortable with—meaning if not Canadian, at least American. Like him, his parents and sister were raw-boned, folksy folks. Indeed, Barney's sister looked even more like a lumberjack than he! The weather in Positano was perfect: warm and sunny along the palm-shrouded cliffs, rainy and blotchy atop the mountain high above. We had a grand time walking upon the steep streets and sighing upon the sweet sights. As ever, I found the Amalfi Coast to be the most enchanting place on Earth.
I wanted to share with Barney's family something distinctly Italian that they could take home with them. I decided to take them to a local pizzeria—one of Italy's Top 100—to teach them the differences between something Pizza Hut and something Italian.
Though snobs may try, one cannot declare that Italian pizza is better than American pizza—or vice versa—any more than toast beats a bagel. The trunk of the pizza family tree split into two different animals. Of those parental branches—Italian and American—the latter further evolved into regional styles: New York, Detroit, Chicago, and California being the most common. Each has its own goals and merits, none being superior to another. So it is when comparing the parental branch. Though, to be fair, superiority does skew towards Italy because of America's chronic lack of quality control.
The first lesson regarded toppings. American pizza has a whole pile of them. One could spin that it is an effort to focus upon complimentary combinations of flavors, but that's bunk: it's because more is better. Thusly, American pizza can be extremely dense, whereas Italian pizzas never are. They have only one topping, and aim to perfect it. The only way in Italy to experience multiple toppings is to order the 'quattro stagioni', or 'four seasons' pizza. But four toppings does not a supreme make, for each is given its own quadrant so that flavors need not compete.
The second lesson was habits in the care and feeding of pizza, so to speak. Using a knife and fork on a slice is common, as is drizzling olive oil over it. Not just any olive oil, of course, but quality stuff. The dried red peppers familiar to American pizzerias are much to Italian taste, frequently used in the form of pepper-infused olive oil. Nobody in Italy shares the American habit of dumping powdered parmesan onto a pizza. That would horrify Italians, and rightly so, for Pizza Hut's parmesan cheese contains undisclosed amounts of ground up wood. In fact, the FDA has no limits on the amount of wood pulp allowed in American food—hence the superiority skewing towards Italy.
The wonderful afternoon stretched into a gorgeous night. The return boat ride watching the sun set past the cliffs of Capri was inspiring. They all had a grand time, as did I—not to mention the gratitude of the ship's second officer. Turns out, that's something important to have.
2
Wind Surf's arrival to Monaco was scheduled for noon. This steep cut in port availability was offset by something truly precious: an overnight in Monte Carlo. Thus the hours prior to arrival were not at all buzzing with excitement, but rather leisurely. Taking advantage of the rare hours at sea, Janie organized a fashion show.
"I don't just want any dumb ol' fashion show," Janie informed me. "I want to really blow them away. The theme is 'dress your fantasy life'. Look, I'm really nervous, but think I've got it all worked out. I pitched it to Francois and of course he liked it—he's gay! They love fashion stuff."
"It's in the rulebook and everything," I agreed sarcastically. "What can I do to help?"
"We need an ultra cool guy."
"I am your man."
"We have the athlete, the surfer dude, the golfer guy, and the bikini babe. Now we need Mr. Cool."
"I am nothing if not Mr. Cool."
"You'll wear a Tommy Bahama shirt, Tommy Bahama shorts, Tommy sandals, and a Tommy watch. You'll have a martini and a cigar."
I raised an eyebrow. "So how does this vary from everyday?"
She frowned, then handed me some baby blue sweatpants. So much for my moment of fashion glory.
Before the appointed hour, we participants milled about in the gift shop. Janie's assistant, Melanie, gently moaned in a corner. She drooped as heavily as her natural red curls. Melanie's role in the show was to model a dress or two: a mercifully simple assignment considering the magnitude of her hangover. Janie, by contrast, buzzed around everywhere. She was ever the cheerleader, pumping everybody up with words of enthusiasm: 'Hang ten!' to surfer dude, 'Hole in one!' to golfer guy, and an awe-struck, 'You look hot!' to bikini babe. I perked up at that, but wasn't rewarded with sight of her because she was changing in the office. Luckily for us all, bikini babe was to be played by the gift shop's latest addition: the undeniably buxom Nina.
"Okay, people!" Janie said, clapping her hands. "It's time! We've got a packed house, so let's go out there and strut our stuff! Whoo hoo! Let's DO IT!"
Kicking open the doors, Janie ran out, arms waving. Her demeanor was nothing less than that of a champion quarterback running out into a packed stadium. But instead of a raging crowd there was nothing but silence of the patiently waiting. Her team dribbled out after her.
The main lounge had been cleared to create a runway, the tables and chairs rearranged accordingly. A hundred curious guests sipped coffee or mimosas, waiting. Janie bounded up to the stage and took up the microphone. Beside her was the keyboard player from the new band, Nigel. He brushed back his long, blond hair and smiled charmingly, unfazed by his own crooked teeth. Nigel had the leathery countenance of an aged rock star, which suited him well.
"Good morning, everybody!" Janie squealed. Though the speaker projected her voice, she needed no such amplification. Her enthusiasm easily reached into every corner. It was not exactly reciprocated by the audience, however. Half the audience were hen-pecked husbands who looked downright bored. This did not deter Janie in the slightest. She was experienced at getting crowds going, and going is indeed how she got the crowd. Somehow—I still don't know how, though I watched the entire process—Janie revved up a hundred middle-to-late-aged, upper class men and women. She whipped them into a downright froth. Monte Carlo be damned, they were here to see a fashion show, a fashion show for the ages!
Nigel had prepared perfect music accompaniment. He began with Madonna's 'Vogue', wherein the sexy Nina sauntered out in large sunglasses, an even larger floppy hat and—Hallelujah—a dental floss-thin bikini. If the husbands had been secretly harboring any doubts about a fashion show as entertainment, Nina completely blasted them out of the water. Even Francois stared, impressed.
A series of dresses were displayed by both Nina and Melanie in turns. Eddie took his turn as golfer guy, wherein Nigel played the theme to Caddyshack. The applause was honest, and people were having a good time. Janie beamed and bounced. Her show was already a genuine success, but the real coup was about to come. For somehow, amazingly, Janie had procured the strutting services of none other than a senior officer.
To the tune of Rod Steward's 'Do You Think I'm Sexy,' out came none other than the Second Officer himself, the strapping Barney. He played Tommy Bahama, suavely posing upon an imaginary beach. He checked his watch, then delightfully realized it was happy hour. Handed a martini and a cigar, he worked them both like a natural.
The crowd went absolutely crazy for Barney, amazed a senior officer could be so playfully self-effacing. He was an undeniably handsome fellow, but my sour grapes insisted he was too rugged for a convincing beach jet-setter. The audience obviously did not agree. He tried departing, but they noisily demanded an encore. When he obliged, Nigel smoothly moved into the James Bond theme. I grudgingly admitted Barney was indeed the Sean Connery of James Bond. But I was the Pierce Brosnan, dammit.
The perfect foil for Barney's lumberjack manliness followed. Yoyo came strutting out in a little sailor outfit surely meant for children. He was so petite it almost fit him—almost. The shirt revealed his belly and the shorts became short shorts, or should I say hot pants? He could not have been more feminine if he'd been wearing roller skates and seductively washing a car. Nigel appropriately began keying the Village People's 'In the Navy' to a roar of approval.
I was last. Though not entirely enthusiastic about my role, I was a team player and consummate ham. Donned in baby blue sweat pants and matching Wind Surf hoodie, and sporting a fuzzy white headband, I jogged out onto the runway. I toted my gym bag as dynamically as one can tote a gym bag. Not knowing what else to do, I pranced around like an idiot. Audience applause plummeted. Nothing emanated from the throng except, perhaps, the chirping of a lonely cricket. Janie urged me into action from on high. But what to do? How does one rock sweat pants and a hoodie? Did she want me to play with the zipper on my jacket, or what? As if I didn't already recognize my failure, the synthesizer moved into Right Said Fred's catwalk mocking 'I'm Too Sexy.'
All told, the show was a big hit. Everybody had a grand, silly time. It reminded me of the old sailor days of long voyages, far from land. The crew would perform plays for the officers, Shakespeare and whatnot. The ladies' roles would be portrayed by men in drag, using mops for wigs and sewing extra sailcloth into dresses. While our show featured no such cross dressers, the good-natured goofiness was equally evident. After the show, Janie basked in the congratulations offered by audience and officers alike. She was particularly keen to hear what Francois had to say, but he had disappeared... Yoyo in tow.
3
Walking up the incline towards the train depot in Monte Carlo, I turned back to look down at the Wind Surf. She was a half circle of harbor away. Compared to the luxury yachts filling the smooth waters row upon row upon row, the world's largest sailing vessel looked huge. But she wasn't. My stomach roiled at the recollection of first setting foot upon her. It had roiled then, too.
'Where's the handover documentation?' I had asked the departing—nay, fleeing—auctioneer. He had replied, 'I didn't do any. Doesn't matter. No employees. No auctions. No sales. Ever. Wait'll you hear about the auctioneer before me'—meaning blind old Gertie—'It'll blow your god damn mind.'
Thus, the call I made telling Bianca to not come aboard with me—my first dreaded ‘no’. We'd hardly spoken since. Yet we did see each other once. Making it happen had been a chore of the highest calibre. Wind Surf had been docked in Taormina. Bianca's ship had also been docked on the same, eastern shore of Sicily. The distance between the two cities was not so great from an American perspective—just over fifty kilometers—but Sicilian highways were not the stuff of the Eisenhower Interstate System. Unfortunately I had to request Cosmina's assistance to make it happen.
"So you want me to book a hotel in Messina," Cosmina said with a wry smile.
"Just transportation," I had said. This left Cosmina utterly confused.
"Don't you want her back?"
"Things are a little more complicated than that," I said. "We didn't really end it, per se."
"So I'll get you a room."
"I'm not going for a quick romp in the sack," I said. "We need to talk."
"Talk," she repeated flatly. "About limestone? You talk afterwards!"
When Surf passed by Messina that morning—at 8 o'clock sharp, I remember—Carnival Liberty was already easing into port. I wanted to run to the bridge and scream, 'Stop the ship!' I couldn't help it. Whenever Bianca was near, I completely lost my head. Fortunately, the taxi Cosmina procured got me there in record time. That was not entirely a good thing, though. He drove over 150 kilometers an hour the entire way, swinging in and out of traffic, invariably on the wrong side of the cliff-hugging so-called highway. I thought I was going to die. But to Messina I asked, and at Messina I was. The crew of Liberty was just beginning to tackle the mooring lines. They moved like snails. Apparently Italians take their sweet time on everything but driving. After waiting for an eternity, I had to wait even longer: the passengers disembarked first. The ship disgorged thousands upon thousands of leisurely, vacationing passengers.
After nearly an hour—an hour that chewed deeply into the five we had available—Bianca finally crossed the gangway. As always, she exuded a sexy self-confidence. Just the sight of her made me tingle with expectation—it was ever chemical between us. She wore a body hugging purple outfit with a criminally short skirt. She was well aware that her legs were her best feature and flaunted them accordingly. As she descended the gangway, it was impossible not to ogle at those legs so radiantly exposed—nor was it possible to not ogle at the American flag panties equally revealed. I'd never wanted to salute the flag so much in my life. Maybe Cosmina had been right. Bianca threw herself into my arms and we hugged, hugged, and hugged some more.
We walked the crowded, noisy streets of Messina for awhile, looking for a place to sit and talk. There were no restaurants, cafés, or any such recreational facilities anywhere. When I expressed frustration at this, she explained she had known that all along. Rather, she had been hoping for an open-topped tour bus so we could see the sights together.
Eventually we found a pizzeria. Three metal tables sat crookedly upon an uneven sidewalk. Traffic buzzed and belched by. The time was short, the weather was hot, and the city was loud. We sat between a squabbling family from California and an incessant car alarm. Still, I had my four hours with her, for what they were worth. Not much, actually. She seemed more interested in Messina than me, which was more than a little annoying. This was a new side to her, an added complication to a relationship that I had already decided was too complicated. We hadn't seen each other in a couple weeks, but noisy, stinky Messina seemed to dominate our discussion.
Now it was closer to six weeks. We had exchanged only a few emails in that time—on ships sending an email was quite an ordeal—but the most recent had been abrupt on a level that infuriated me:
My vacation begins Feb. 4. Well?
Another of her vexing 'not now, but come back to me' emails. Only this time, for the first time, she was downright rude about it. No doubt she sensed a change in tone on my end since that fateful phone call on Surf. That didn't excuse rudeness. I had been very angry. I didn't feel my efforts were being reciprocated or, for that matter, even appreciated. Yet through it all, I wallowed in wondering if I betrayed her. In my gut I knew she wouldn't be happy on Surf, but it just wasn't my call to make. I had to give her the chance to prove me right or wrong. A chance—a last chance—to put it all on the table: which is more important, money or me?
And so I stepped on the train, bound for Cannes.
The best way to experience the Cote D'Azur, or French Riviera, is by train. The trip may only be an hour or so, but the ride sears itself forever into your skull through sheer beauty. The experience surpasses all of man's paltry purview, for from the rails one views the coast from on high, as if one of the gods themselves admiring upon the fruits of man. The train snakes atop cliffs tufted with palms and sprouting billion dollar villas; the playground of royalty past and super-rich today. Beyond glitters the sea, painfully brilliant and impossibly blue. But as the train wends its way along, you spy new wonders with each curve: snuggled into natural harbors, protected by cliffs dripping with stately excess, hide quaint villages of intense character: Cap d'Ail, Beaulieu-sur-Mer, Villefranche-sur-Mer. But these are not for you, mere mortal. You are not, and cannot be, worthy. For you is to but gape, to wonder, to dream.
Alas, the experience had to end. But did it? For I alit upon the platform of Cannes. Though crushed by the humidity and heat, I was nevertheless exhilarated. The walk to the pier, outside of which incongruously loomed Carnival Liberty, was a long one. I reveled in every step. I passed the famed Grand Théâtre Lumière, where the Cannes film festival debuts its feature films. It was so beautiful it was a wonder anybody wanted to go inside at all. Presumably it was just as impressive inside, though I couldn't fathom how. But, sappy as it sounded, I was more keen to see Bianca. Though no doubt marred by fatigued eyes and bent back after months slaving in the restaurants, her beauty was always my greatest joy to behold. I simply couldn't deny it.
When I finally got to the long, stretching pier, I was exhausted. Though wondrous, the train ride had been quite stressful. Though Cannes was not far from Monte Carlo, it was of another nation. I was blatantly breaking international rules by leaving the country. If I was caught doing so I would be arrested. If I failed to make it back to the Surf, I would also be fired. But were it not for Bianca, I would not have embarked upon the sea those three and a half years ago. Were it not for Bianca—who literally begged, bribed, and stole for me—I would not have even been hired. I felt this last effort on my part, for us, was warranted.
The appointed hour came. Liberty began to tender in her passengers. Wave after wave of small craft disgorged bodies, but none were Bianca. As my stress grew—we were running out of time—so, too, did the heat. The wait became more and more intolerable on multiple levels. After the long walk, I waited an entire hour in the noonday sun. Sounds all melodramatic until you actually do it. I glanced yet again at my watch. We had only an hour left before I had to return.
Finally a tender loosed a different round of bodies: predominantly Asians. This, then, was the signal that Liberty had unloaded all her passengers. And there she was: my exhilarating, vexing Bianca. She bounded lively from the tender then, when the afternoon struck her, closed her eyes and stretched like a cat. Her magnificent legs flashed, revealed high from a boldly slit, body-hugging dress of fiery red. She dropped her head to the side, hair tied high to open a long, sumptuous neck to the caress of the sun. She looked gorgeous. When she opened her eyes, they met mine.
But this moment of connection was different. We had more intent than time. She took my hand and skipped towards the village. We strode along a street lined with cafés, bistros, and boutiques. I pushed for a coffee so we could talk. She pushed for a boutique so she could shop.
"Just one!" she said, even as she flit inside. Grudgingly I followed.
She danced in the shop, gleefully whirling around the shoe racks. Bianca passed from partner to partner, teasing each before spinning off to another suitor. She passed me only long enough to hand off her purse.
"Come on," I said roughly in Romanian, hoping to catch her attention with her native tongue. "Let's go to the coffee shop. We need to talk."
"Soon!" she replied in equal tongue.
"Acum," I growled, meaning 'now'.
But she didn't hear me. She was already flirting with another rack of shoes. A middle-aged black couple watched her dance with open admiration. They confided aloud in English—they were American by their speech—and apparently presumed I and Bianca were not. The man said to his wife, "Now that is a sexy woman. Will you look at her? I'd go shopping with her any day." He got an elbow in the ribs, but didn't care one whit. Nor was he the only one to openly admire Bianca's playful romp. In fact, I was the only one present who didn't enjoy the show. And boy, did I not.
"This is why I love ships!" Bianca finally said to me—in English—caressing the leather belts on a wall rack.
"Shoe shopping?" I snapped.
"Shopping," she agreed lightly. "I love the constant change. I'll never get tired of all new, all the time. I've wanted to come to Cannes for months, but could never get off the ship. But now that you've come...! These amazing ports are even more amazing when they're shared."
"The only sharing going on right now is that I'm holding your goddamn purse."
The constant change she spoke of I understood, but I seriously questioned if she got the subtle irony of what she was saying. Love of change, my ass!
Then she said it. She said what I knew she was thinking, what I feared she was thinking. "I wish Regatta was here to see this store!"
"Who's Regatta?"
"My best friend on Liberty. She's my assistant waiter and wonderful! She'd like Cannes, even if you apparently don't."
So I was now on par with her new assistant waitress. She would have preferred to share this amazing port with her new friend, not the man she had enjoyed a torrid love affair across continents with. That wasn't real enough, apparently. I had come here to put our relationship all out on the table, once and for all. She had come here to shop for shoes.
Everything I had tried to do for us no longer mattered to her. Rather, it didn't matter enough. And at that moment the disrespect I felt, real or not, deserved or not, led me to the conclusion that it no longer mattered that much to me.
"I've got to go," I said, thrusting her purse back.
"Da," she agreed. "Me, too. The tender to Cannes is really bad. I'm so glad I came this time, because I don't think I'll be able to again."
She skipped back to the pier, humming happily. I can only presume that the entire forty minutes she waited for the tender—a wait I used to share with her but this time chose not to—Bianca was still humming, buzzing about her amazing time in Cannes. I'll never know. That was the last time I ever saw Bianca.