Barb: As usual it’s been a year of ups and downs. Last March my cat, George, died. He was 16 ½ so it wasn’t unexpected, but it was a wrench. You get really attached to a pet after 16 years. But what really hurt was the death of Gracie. She was only 6 ½ when she was killed by a coyote. She must have been caught completely by surprise because I’d seen her fight off coyotes before. At least her death was quick but I still miss her. She was special. The only bright spot on the pet situation was the fact that we’d adopted two kittens a month before because we didn’t want Grace to be alone when we went on trips. She hated the kittens until the day she died. We had to protect them from her; they were so small we were afraid she’d kill them. So I guess she wasn’t as sweet as I remember her. When told of Gracie’s death, the neighbor who fed her sort of rolled her eyes when I lamented how sweet Gracie was. She’d had to clean up all the dead critters Gracie brought in to eat at her leisure. Gordon commented that maybe this was Gracie’s karma for all the gophers she’d killed and brought to bed. But I loved her. And I still miss her.
This is not to say I don’t appreciate the kittens—well, most of the time. When we went to the shelter to pick out Gracie’s future friends, I told Gordon I wanted a calico. We’d never had one before, so I picked the only available one and named her Maggie. We got the second kitten because Gordon got snagged by a tiny little black-and-white male who played ‘paw’ with him. Turns out they were littermates and Gordon decided we couldn’t separate the two. Kittens are like potato chips for Gordon; he can’t get just one. The shelter wouldn’t let us take the kittens home that day; I had to make an appointment to pick them up five days later. Gordon had a business meeting, so I picked them up myself. As I filled out the paperwork, the staff member told me they didn’t think the little male would survive. “He won’t eat,” he said. “You can bring him back if he gets worse.” The calico girl was small but the male was so mal-nourished that when Gordon picked him up that he night he said, “My God, it’s like picking up a baby bird.” We named him Bucky. He was nothing but eyes and worms, but he was ours. I think he must have been younger than the 8 weeks the shelter claimed because I don’t think he could chew hard food. We gave him canned food and he ate non-stop. We got both of them to the vet and got all their worms and parasites killed and that’s all they needed. Our de-crittered messes are growing up to be big and healthy and look to have long lives—unless I murder them. Which I threaten to do on a daily basis. They consider rules as suggestions and disregard all of the restrictions about counter crawling. And they’re so fast they can snicker and run when they hear an anguished “Bucky, no!” or “Maggie, dammit!” So, I dug out an old super-soaker squirt gun I bought years ago. Works like a charm. Each of them got a blast in the face and they run when they see me grab it. It’s got tremendous range and shoots a lot of water so even if I miss a cat, I clean the floor. It’s a win-win. I’m the fastest squirt gun in the West.
We finally got to take the Baltic cruise we paid for three years ago. St. Petersburg was off the itinerary, but Viking replaced it with Oslo, Berlin, and Gdansk. I’d never been to those cities before, so I was happy. We still had to follow COVID protocols which included spitting in a test tube every morning before we ate or drank anything. I didn’t realize how tough it was to come up with 5 ml of spit without having any water. It was gross, watching my drool inch down the side. It took forever. Then we’d put our samples in a baggie and put it outside our cabin door where crew members in hazmat suits picked it up. That did not inspire confidence. Everybody who cruised had to be tested twice before even being allowed on board so I didn’t know how anyone could get sick, but they did. A couple from San Diego had their “trip of a lifetime” ruined. Ten days into the cruise I found the husband sitting in the lobby, wearing a mask. He said his wife tested positive for COVID and had been quarantined on the third deck for the rest of the trip. He tested negative but had to wear a mask when out of his cabin. I heard that some crew members tested positive too. The third deck was getting crowded by the end. But I enjoyed this cruise more than our Rhine cruise. Then, we had the smallest cabin available, and Gordon learned from that. I get…shall we say…unpleasant when I’ve had enough fun. Actually, it must be like traveling with a caged badger. This time he got a larger cabin. And I tripped over his feet anyway. Not his fault. He was keeping himself out of the way as I flung myself around the cabin. I caught a little toe on his foot and either bruised it badly or broke it. The treatment for either injury is the same–Immobilize it. Fortunately, Billy Williams, a high school friend of Gordon’s, and his wife, Dawn, were on the same cruise. He’s a surgeon and she’s a nurse so I had my own medical team but there’s not much you can do for a busted toe. I gimped my way through Berlin because, dammit, I’d paid for it, I wasn’t going to miss it. You wouldn’t think something so small could cause so much misery. There’s lots more to tell about the trip but I’ll leave that to Gordon. I’m in his space already. Or go to my blog; www.barbaraschnell.com. Have a happy and a merry etc. etc.etc.
Gordon: As you can tell by Barb’s musings, it was a relatively quiet year. We broke out of Quarantine to go sailing, and enjoyed that. My highlight of the trip was a visit to Norway’s OIL MUSEUM, where I learned that Norway is so oil-rich because a state minster couldn’t be bothered to come to the phone on a Friday. Seems Phillips Petroleum had a contract to drill 13 holes looking for oil. They’d drilled 12 dry holes and the 13th was also going nowhere, so they petitioned to stop drilling and go home. The minister told them to come back Monday, by which time they’d hit a gusher. So now Norwegians sit on a huge pile of cash thanks to that American knowhow and evil oil. And they still pay roughly 50% of their income in taxes. But the state takes good care of them. We also got to spend about three hours at Tivoli, which is regarded as the inspiration for Disneyland. It’s tiny by Disney standards, but there were lots of rides and the lines were just about as long as those at Disneyland, so we didn’t do many rides. Given Barb’s toe, it was a good thing it wasn’t any bigger.
Brookings High School Class of 1970 held their 50-plus-a-couple-years reunion, giving us an opportunity to get back to the Auld Sod, and see lots of folks I hadn’t seen in 50+ years. It was a little disappointing that the folks I was closest to were only there at the table with pictures of departed classmates, but I had fun catching up with some of the survivors, and telling tales I probably shouldn’t have. Barb and I got our SDSU Ice cream cones, Zesto Hot Dogs, Nick’s Hamburgers and Greasy Gus Pizza, so we’ve maintained our Epicurean cred.
Aside from that, some clients still call and I still take the jobs I like, but I’m not pushing it. I’m a regular doing tours for the Los Angeles Conservancy, and Barb & I sing with the Lutherans when there’s a big event at the church. The house is now a solar collector, and DWP pays me for electricity, but they get it back in water and sewer fees. And I’m still trying to figure out what I want to do with my retirement. Nice problem to have.
Hope this letter finds you all well and ready for a new year with no masks, very few sick days, and happiness to be back in the world. Until next year….best wishes, and keep in touch.
Just a quick blurb to recommend a wonderful concert at Disney Hall. Dudamel and company performed most of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite in the first half of the program. It’s holiday appropriate and the orchestra performed beautifully, as usual. In the second half of the program Duke Ellington’s jazz version of some of the dances was interspersed with the original music. A greasy tenor sax and snare drum set were included. Very tasty. The classical folks can do jazz with the best. The audience was grinning and head bobbing along. Unfortunately, the woman at the end of our row did a Mr. Ed imitation. She stamped her hooves on the wooden floor. The Hall is remarkable live, and her hoof beats reverberated. Annoying. But the music was so good I could ignore her.
The Hall was decorated for Christmas. Very festive. Altogether a great night. I think there are two more performances left. If you want to get your Christmas on, enjoy the Russian/American versions of The Nutcracker at Disney Hall.
Went to Delphine’s before going to the Pantages last night. They’d taken the hamburger off the bar menu, so Gordon had French onion soup and I had crab cakes instead. The food was good, but I would have preferred the burger. Bartender also said we couldn’t watch Jeopardy because people were watching the basketball game. BS. Nobody was watching the game. But it wasn’t worth fighting over. We finished our drinks and crossed the street for the show. We were almost late. They normally start 10 minutes after eight. Last night they started right on time because the show runs 3 hours, and they have to close by 11. The doors were closed after we got in.
I wasn’t sure what to expect with this play. Loved the book, of course, but Sorkin wrote the adaptation and he’s Far Left. I also heard that although all the critics loved the show, it wasn’t reopening in New York. So, I didn’t have high hopes. I wasn’t disappointed. Sorkin is a good writer, but he changed the emphasis from the viewpoint of a young girl and made her just one of many narrators. The Sorkin adaption is a re-telling of the of the story from an adult’s (his) point of view. And it’s focused on race. It touches on incest, but the main focus is racism. Racism, racism, racism. We’re told how ugly racism is, how pervasive, and how hopeless the struggle against it is. Sorkin subjects us to the ugly way some white people refer to black people. Calpurnia, the family housekeeper (black lady,) is bitter and shames Atticus because he seems to expect gratitude for defending Tom Robinson. Atticus is finally in despair at the end of the show. He doesn’t know his neighbors and he fears they’ll never change. It’s kind of a hopeless piece of theater.
Richard Thomas plays Atticus. I’ve always appreciated his acting and I appreciated this performance. The girl playing Scout had some trouble with the accent. She sounded like a New Yorker half the time. Oh hell, maybe there’s a Brooklyn in Alabama. The actress who played Scout in the movie is playing Mrs. Dubose and she’s quite effective. I liked the staging. The show is well-done and if you like your nose rubbed in the ugliness of a small percentage of the population, you’ll probably like it. For me, it was a meh. I’ll go back to the book where I can disapprove of the ugliness of racism and not be slimed by it. My God, you’d think nothing had changed in the last 80 years.
This is the second show I’ve seen recently where Far Left people have re-imagined classics. They suck the joy and charm out of everything and all that’s left is ugliness. They should leave well enough alone and come up with something original. Of course, no one would pay to see it. They have to suck us in with the classics and then ruin them for us. No wonder the theater is dying.
We had a glass of wine in the Music Center Plaza before going to see 2:22 at the Amandson. I felt the need for alcoholic fortification after the Oklahoma debacle last month. Well, I didn’t need the wine. 2:22 is clever ghost story. I won’t go into any details because I don’t want to ruin the ending, but the actors were good, the lighting and sound effects were wonderful, and the script didn’t piss me off. It wasn’t “woke”! I didn’t think that was allowed anymore. I’m still annoyed by Oklahoma, the awful “woke” version I endured last month. That new vision sucked all the charm out of an American classic. It portrayed Oklahomans as cruel bloodthirsty louts and liars. The set was cheap, the re-interpretation labored, the singers were pitchy…What a waste of time and money. There were lots of empty seats after intermission. I wish we’d left but Gordon figured we spent the money (too much!) and he wanted to get his money’s worth. Can’t waste a thing. It’s the Midwestern in us. With reference to this production, you can throw shit on a classic but that doesn’t make you an artist–it makes you a vandal. I might have to skip the re-interpretation of 1776 that’s on the schedule. It was written as a salute to the country in a bicentennial year, but I imagine it’ll be “woke”. EVIL United States! It has no right to exist! I hear the theater is in trouble in New York. If this is what is presented, I can see why. I’d rather go to a ball game. Or watch I Love Lucy repeats. And I’m seriously reconsidering my subscription.
Life got really complicated so I haven’t posted in a while. Still not feeling cheerful (my cat, Gracie, was killed by a coyote) but I have to put up something. Here are the first pages of my first novel, First Year. I’m think of posting a chapter a month. But who knows. Hope you enjoy it.
On a tropical August evening in eastern South Dakota, I sat on the front steps of my house, sipping Diet Pepsi and contemplating the cornfield across the road. The sun was a big orange ball hanging over the cornstalks, but the wind was beginning to rise. It had finally cooled off enough so that I could stand being outside; I’d be able to open up the house soon. Until then I’d enjoy the cooing of mourning doves and the soughing of the breeze. Bob would be home for supper shortly, but it was too hot to cook. Good thing I got the phone service hooked up today. I’d be able to order a pizza.
“Yoo hoo, Mrs. Anderson! Yoo hoo!” Mrs. Nelson from next door was standing in her driveway waving frantically. Oh man, I’d hoped I could avoid her if I stayed in the front yard. Normally she spent her time bent over her back garden, her big pink polyester-draped butt a valentine for the neighbors.
“I’ve got some more tomatoes for you, Mrs. Anderson,” she yodeled again. She was wearing a too-tight tank top and the skin on her upper arms was flapping. Geez, I thought, irritated at having my peaceful mood disturbed, if she weren’t so heavy, she’d be airborne by now. She’d even scared off the doves. And I had absolutely no desire to talk to her because Mrs. Nelson was a vicious gossip. I’d found that out the day after Bob and I moved in.
“You know she had men in there all the time,” she’d whispered about Mrs. Swenson, the wife of Dr. Swenson, Bob’s engineering professor and owner of our house. It sounded to me like Mrs. Nelson was trying to make a scandal out of grad students, so I’d futilely tried to change the subject. I finally ran inside the house to escape her.
Today she trudged over, pulling a wagon with a bushel basket half-full of tomatoes. “Hot enough for you?” she began the ritual conversation.
“You bet,” I said with a resigned smile.
“Well, you know, it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” she chanted.
“You bet,” I returned, right on cue.
We’d completed the opening hymn, so she began her sermon. “I hope you can use some more tomatoes,” she said, leaning into the basket and grabbing three in each large hand. She straightened with a groaned “oof duh”, waited until I bunched my T-shirt into an improvised apron, and dropped them in. “Fritz always puts out a dozen plants and we can’t use everything that grows. Now you take some of these here, slice them up, and put a little sugar on them. You’re such a skinny thing we have to fatten you up,” she chortled and various parts of her shook. I smiled and wondered how she managed to stay so…chubby. If her garden was any indication she worked hard and ate a lot of fiber.
She continued her prattle about recipes, and I understood how she stayed so robust. “Now I like to take a few tomatoes and chop ’em up for my mac and cheese. Have I given you my mac and cheese recipe yet? Well, my Fritz just loves it…”
Her mouth was off and running so I let my mind wander. Marilyn had invited Bob and me out for the weekend at her cabin. I could save the tomatoes for then…
My attention returned to Mrs. Nelson when she moved in uncomfortably close and lowered her voice. “You poor thing. I heard all about that student business. It wasn’t true, was it?” she asked sympathetically but her eyes gleamed avidly. I thought about blasting her with a few well-chosen comments about curiosity, old cats, and why the Eskimos put their old women on ice floes instead of Social Security—and the wisdom of that practice—when the admonitions of my Midwestern mentor, Connie Schwartz, surfaced.
“Stevie,” she’d said, frowning in amused exasperation, “it’s not wise to say the first thing that comes into your head. And it’s not necessary to win every confrontation. Take a minute to decide what the consequences of your words or actions are worth. You’re a smart girl and if you make it to my age without being shot” (Connie was only eleven years older than me but she acted like a generation separated us) “you’ll be a truly admirable woman, but you need to work on your impulse control.”
After reflection I’d decided Connie had a point so now I swallowed my nasty comments and silently counted to ten. Mrs. Nelson was a neighbor; I had to be nice, I guess. She seemed lonely so it wouldn’t kill me to put up with her bad breath and spite for a minute or two. And she did grow great produce.
When I failed to respond with anything other than an inward stare Mrs. Nelson changed tactics. “That Ricky Anderson, he always was a troublemaker. I don’t think he has any business teaching though between you, me, and the fencepost,” here she leaned in again and whispered, “he’s pretty much finished at the University.” She waited eagerly for my reaction.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” I said coolly.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. Then she brightened, “Tell me all about Hollywood. Is it true…?”
From her questions, I was pretty sure she got her information from the tabloids, so I zoned her out again—which seemed to frustrate her. She wanted to gossip, and I was the only neighbor who hadn’t ducked out in time. Mrs. Nelson forcibly recalled my attention by grabbing my arm and hissing, “And Mrs. Olafson, in my church? Well, I heard that her third daughter…”
I didn’t know Mrs. Olafson or her daughter—they weren’t Lutherans—and whatever Mrs. Nelson was saying about them was probably fiction anyway. I told myself that I was paying for my tomatoes by pretending to listen and planned what I’d do with my big, red, juicy treats. Maybe I’d slice one of them up tonight and put Italian dressing on it. Bob hated tomatoes—he wasn’t too wild about Mrs. Nelson either, for that matter—so he’d bitch but I could always peel a sack of carrots for him. Or I could drop some off at Connie’s and report how I’d managed not to over-react to a stupid comment. She’d probably pat me on the head and give me a cookie.
I wonder what would have happened a year ago if I’d had a buddy like Connie to advise me about my impetuous rush into marriage. Leslie, my best friend in L.A., was just as young and stupid as I was so I didn’t pay much attention when she tried to dissuade me. Knowing me, I probably wouldn’t have listened to Connie either—assuming, of course, that she would’ve recommended caution.
Not that I regretted marrying Bob—well, not today anyway. Let’s face it, if I’d been smart and cautious, I would have missed out on a lot of adventures. On the other hand, I’d have missed out on a lot of crap, too. But don’t you need crap in order to mature? I read someplace that life slaps you around until you learn to duck. But I could have learned to duck in Los Angeles; God knows I got slapped around enough there. And if I’d stayed in L.A. maybe I’d’ve become rich and famous. Ahhh, I probably would’ve ended up dead in a ditch. Of course, on the other hand…
I grimaced and waved my size sheet, Polaroid, and headshot. The casting assistant grabbed my paperwork, glanced over it, nodded briskly, and marched out of the room. I followed slowly. After looking at the storyboard and reading the copy I was offended at the idiocy of the advertising world. Who did they get to write this crap? Had they no shame? I knew I didn’t; I was about to do my best to sell it. As I walked to the video room running inane lines through my head, I remembered all the years I spent studying Chekhov and Ibsen for my Master of Fine Arts degree. The academic life doesn’t prepare you to sell panty liners—not that I have anything against panty liners; I just don’t think they’re necessary. I change my underwear every day. But I had bills to pay and if acting like I needed crotch protection—other than a .357 Magnum—would earn me some money…
I smiled brightly into the camera and chirped, “I love that fresh feeling!”
Man, did I feel stupid. And what’s even worse—I was lousy.
I worried as I drove back to my condo in Hermosa Beach. Was I losing my grip? Had I really been that bad? Nyaahh, it had to be the writing not me, I rationalized. The excuse gave me courage to call my agent, Heather. I reported that the panty liner thing was a stinker, and did she have anything else in the pipeline?
“Stevie, I’m so glad you called. I need a Hispanic woman for an action film that calls for some nudity. Now, before you say ‘No’ right away, just listen. It could lead to something interesting, and I personally feel…” Blah, blah, blah.
Before you get your shorts in a snarl about my last name and this Hispanic business let me explain: My mother was a Morales from Texas, and my father was an Irishman from the Old Sod. I have dark curly hair, brown eyes, even white teeth, and can play anybody in the known universe except an Aryan. Hitler would have gassed me.
“Heather,” I sighed into the phone, “you know how I feel about nudity.”
“I know, darling, you’ve told me before, but you only have a few more years to make the big money. If you haven’t done it by thirty you probably won’t. You’ve got to get your foot in the door.”
“It’s not my foot they want to look at,” I pointed out.
But Heather was ready with an argument. “Listen, you only have to do it once…” More blah, blah, blah.
I’ve heard it all before.
The feminist in me says that all this frontal nudity crap is just that: crap. Do you see Tom Cruise letting his little dangler hang out in front of God and everybody? I don’t think so. Why is it that if you’re female, 25, and reasonably good-looking, the film world thinks disrobing is a plot point? And that’s a purely rhetorical question. Everyone knows the movie industry is directed at prurient teenage boys.
“Heather,” I interrupted with my usual excuse, “you know my chest isn’t all that great. I’m under-qualified for the role. Don’t you have any Playboy bunnies who don’t mind showing their boobs as they’re being blown up?”
Heather paused then said forcefully, “Listen carefully, Stevie, you’re running out of time.”
I’d heard that before, too. “Heather, it’s creepy and embarrassing,” I said.
“Well, if you’re so sensitive I don’t know if there’s any future for you in this business,” Heather said threateningly. This was not surprising, Heather always closed with a threat. “Should I submit you for the film, or not?” she finished.
For once in my life, I took a deep breath before I said anything stupid. I’m a nobody. An educated nobody but a nobody, nonetheless. I needed an agent and Heather was the only one who’d shown any interest in me.
“Listen, Heather, I don’t think it’s good for me, but I’ll give it serious consideration and get back to you,” I equivocated, then hung up and scratched the ears of my cat, Pudgy. It appeared she and I were in for another quiet evening at home. I love my cat but every now and then you need to talk to a person. So, I called my friend, Leslie, who has the place across the hall.
“Les, it’s me,” I said when she answered. “I think I hate my life…”
“Again?” she interrupted. “Well, come on over and we’ll talk about it.”
Leslie Williams is maybe the only real friend I have in the world. We’re both new to Hermosa Beach; she bought her place six months ago, right after I bought mine. She’s about my age, single, and also searching for her niche in life. We both like to talk, and we both have nicknames that are considered sexually ambiguous. There our similarities end. She’s tall, willowy, and blond; a WASP from Philadelphia. I’m, well, not short, but shorter, compact, and a runaway from patriarchal Catholicism. She has an MBA in Finance from Wharton and is now working for the local PBS station as a lark. I have an MFA in theater arts from Cal State Northridge and I work for money. Les’ parents are making the payments on her place and probably consider her California adventure an amusing bohemian interlude before she takes her rightful place as chatelaine in a mansion with a career in charity work and motherhood. I’m an orphan, make all payments on my own, and consider my Hermosa Beach condo the nicest place I’ve ever lived in—as well as a good investment, of course. Les is personable, witty, and says she likes to hang with me because I’m brave, but she mistakes bravado for bravery; I just have a lot more practice tap-dancing on land mines than most people. But I’m glad she likes me. I trust her to feed Pudgy and pick up my mail when I can’t. And there’re not many people you can say that about.
“Most women would love your life. I came to Los Angeles to live your life,” she declared after I’d unburdened my frustrations on her living room couch.
“I thought I’d love it, too,” I grumped. “I’m beginning to think I should have gone to law school.”
“You’re just down because you had a bad audition,” Les consoled. “We have to get you out of the house. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s depressed. What do you want to do?”
We sounded like the two guys in Marty. I had no ideas; I just sat slumped on the couch. Les had little patience for such blatant self-pity. “We can always go to the grocery store,” she suggested. “Maybe we’ll meet someone cute. I need bananas anyway.”
“I’ve had enough discussions with guys about produce,” I returned impatiently. “I want to do something new, meet someone different…I want…Oh, geez, I don’t know what I want.”
“I’ve been telling you for months you need to get out more. You know, experiment? Even if it’s short term, it wouldn’t hurt you one bit to have a man in your life. Honestly, you’re going to grow shut.”
She had a point. I’d been celibate about a year now, which unsurprisingly enough, coincided with the anniversary of the death of my last romance. Les found my celibacy ridiculously cautious and I thought Les’ sexual philosophy foolhardy. The fact that intercourse and AIDS were connected had apparently not penetrated her psyche. She seemed to think a trust fund would protect her from anything. I put more faith in a good condom. My last sexual partner, a fellow actor—who else did I meet, fercrysake? —claimed that I didn’t trust him when I insisted on using protection and complained, “Stevie, I can’t feel anything!” He was right about me not trusting him; I’d never found much reason to. And if he didn’t feel anything, well, that was only fair; neither did I. He was more in love with his mirror than with me. I didn’t miss him one bit when he left, and I swore I’d never date another actor. And I haven’t. Of course, I’ve haven’t dated anybody else either.
This is not to say I’m a lesbian; I’d probably be better off if I was.
But Leslie had a point about rejoining the human race. I was tired of spending most of my free time watching TV with my cat. If I didn’t connect with a human soon, I’d have to invest in something battery-operated.
“Well, maybe you’re right,” I reluctantly agreed.
“Great!” Les exclaimed. “Let’s go for a drink.”
“Okay, but no sports bars!” I warned.
I had a good reason for my objection. Early in our friendship Les confessed that she was having a terrible time meeting guys. “I always see them in cars,” she complained. “They have to get out of them sometime, don’t they?” She gave the problem some thought and came up with a strategy. “When you’re hunting big game, you hang out by the watering hole,” she decided. “So, let’s go find a bar. The guys have to get out of their cars to get in the bar, even if it’s only to pee. Smart, huh?”
“Les, I am not going to stalk men and trip them as they go to the bathroom,” I stated firmly.
“Stevie, sometimes you’re so literal,” she returned witheringly and waved the local free paper in my face. “I found an ad for a bar in West Hollywood. Look at the picture! This could be the place for us.”
I stifled a grin. West Hollywood is known as Boys’ Town–but one that has nothing to do with Father Flanagan. Les was crestfallen when I told her it was probably a gay bar.
“Darn, and the guys in the picture looked cute, too,” she said wistfully.
“They’re probably gorgeous,” I agreed. “It’s one of life’s little tragedies that they’re not even remotely interested in us. As a matter of fact, you should consider them competition.” I snickered at her look of dismay, and added, “Welcome to Los Angeles.”
Les finally decided to try her luck at a local sports bar. “It’s Monday night and there’ll be a football game on the tube. I bet the place will be packed.”
“But I don’t know anything about football,” I protested.
“We’re not going for the game,” she returned shortly.
Well, she was right about the place being packed with guys. Les and I were among a handful of double X’s (chromosomally speaking) brave enough to force our way in. And it was loud. Huge bellowing Y people stood shoulder-to-shoulder staring at TV screens scattered around the bar. And since Les and I were smaller and lighter than the men we got shoved around and stepped on. We finally squirmed through the crowd and wedged ourselves onto vacant stools. We screamed our beer orders at the bartender and then gave up on conversation; there was no way we would have been able to hear each other. Having nothing better to do, I decided to watch the game on the TV closest to me.
Now, the only sport I ever played was field hockey, which I was forced to take in high school to meet the PE requirement—and I never bothered to learn those rules either. The point of field hockey seemed to be running around for an hour with a stick in your hand and, if you perspired and panted enough to suit the instructor, you got to go home with your teeth. It soured me on team sports generally.
But here I was at a sports bar watching football. Well, how tough could it be to figure out? None of these people seemed to be mental giants and if they could understand it, I could too. I watched intently. One little guy in a blue and white uniform ran backwards as the others scurried around. The guy on the barstool next to me started yelling encouragement. On TV one big guy in an orange and white uniform jumped on the first little guy and flattened him. My neighbor groaned and drained his beer. Apparently, something bad had happened to the little blue man. Then another little blue man kicked the ball and all the people on the field jumped on it. A man in a striped shirt indicated that the orange side got to play with it and the action started again. Both sides got in circles, broke up, did something with the ball and they all fell down. At this point the man next to me was frothing at the mouth in excitement. Finally, one orange man managed to run quite a distance before being mashed. My neighbor jumped up, gasped something about ‘Down’, and knocked my beer on my lap. He didn’t apologize, probably because he couldn’t hear me swearing at him—or maybe because he could. Les hauled me out of the bar before I could get in real trouble. It’s a problem having the personality of a T Rex in the body of a bunny.
I never did learn the rules to football.
Les always giggles when I bring up this story. “Okay, no more sports bars,” she agreed. “Hey, I know! I read about a jazz place in Hollywood. We’ve never done that before.”
“Do you like jazz?” I asked dubiously.
“No, but it sounds cool, doesn’t it?” she said ingenuously.
Well, it did sound cool. I knew very little about jazz myself, but it seemed like such a sophisticated sort of thing to do I was willing to go along. I’ll try anything within reason once.
So, we went to the Vine Street Bar & Grill, clear over in Hollywood. The club was crowded so Les and I sat at the bar, sipped wine, and listened to a quartet. To save calories I decided I’d have a glass of wine, a glass of water, a glass of wine, etc., until my bladder blew up. I was still working on my first glass of wine when the band took a break, but it seemed like a good time to get a head start on any leaks. I left for the bathroom and stood in line, waiting impatiently and kvetching with the other women on the shortage of stalls as we did our snake dance down the hall. I’d reached the point where I was blocking traffic when a tall, blond man came out of the men’s room. I was turned away, loudly commenting that the management needed to hire a woman to design toilets, when I felt a light touch on my shoulder and heard a soft, deep voice say, “Excuse me?”
I turned, looked up, and got jolted by a pair of clear, blue-gray eyes surrounded by the kind of white you normally only see on bathtubs. I was a tad stunned so I just gawped at him and said, “What?”
The skin around the blue-gray eyes crinkled and the full, wide mouth below them smiled. He gestured, “I’d like to get through.”
“Oh sure, I’m sorry, go right ahead,” I babbled and stumbled out of the way. At least I didn’t wet my pants.
When I returned to my bar stool, I related the whole sorry encounter to Leslie. “I feel so stupid. The one time I run into an attractive man I’m standing in the pee line,” I said in a minor orgy of self-disgust. “The best thing that can be said is that I wasn’t clutching myself.”
Leslie waved her hand. “Relax. You’ll probably never see him again anyway.”
Somehow that didn’t make me feel better.
The quartet started again, and I sipped my wine moodily. What the hell, I was out to hear music and be cool. I wasn’t out to impress anybody. The goal had been to get out of the house and be entertained; I would meet that goal. I lifted my chin, determined to enjoy myself.
Of course, the fact that you’re not cruising for men doesn’t mean that some drunken, obnoxious piece of sub-human filth won’t take a fancy to you, proceed to ruin your evening, and make a spectacle of himself. Not necessarily in that order.
The two stools next to me had been vacated by a couple and replaced, both stools, by a balding, overweight, very drunk man.
“Buy you a drink, honey?” he belched beerily in my direction.
I smiled coolly, said I was through drinking for the evening, thank you very much, and turned to Les to simulate a conversation. He wouldn’t take the hint, though. He grabbed my arm to turn me back to him.
“Hey, good-lookin’, I’m offerin’ to buy you a drink,” he slurred.
“And I already said thanks but no thanks,” I replied as I tried to extricate my arm.
“What’s the matter? Ain’t I good enough for you?”
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t but I’d done my best to be civil. I could feel his fat, sweaty palm through the sleeve of my dress and I’d had enough. Personally, I think that a woman should be able to sit in a bar, have a drink, and listen to some music without being physically and verbally assaulted by the brain-dead of the world. Well, I’d been taking care of myself for a long time and a fight didn’t scare me. My Irish and Latin were both up and I was taking a deep breath to begin an attack when I felt a hand on my shoulder (different hand, same shoulder) and a vaguely familiar deep voice saying, “I thought I recognized you. I was going to call and tell you I was in town. Imagine seeing you here. You’ve got to come over to the table so we can catch up. Excuse me, friend” (to the drunk) “this is the sister of my college roommate.” It was the tall blond man with the blue-gray eyes. I grabbed Leslie’s arm and he directed his attention to her. “Well, I haven’t seen you in years either…” He continued his patter as he freed my arm from the slug’s grip and led Leslie and me to his table. He seated us, returned to the bar, got our drinks, and returned, all without losing his smile or getting into a fight. Very smooth.
As he left to retrieve our wine Leslie asked, “Is he the guy by the bathroom?” I nodded. “I can see why you got so weird. He’s cute,” she murmured.
“Shut up,” I hissed and composed myself as he returned. He placed the glasses on the table and sat down. “Thanks for bailing us out,” I said sincerely.
“Oh well,” he shrugged, “I hate to see women hassled.”
“Were you watching us?” Leslie asked him, with an amused glance at me.
He looked startled for a moment then even in relative dark of the club I could see him blush. “Well, you, I…” he stammered.
“He was helping out two women, that’s all. Right?” I said to spare him and stuck out my hand. “My name’s Stephanie but my friends call me Stevie. And this is Leslie. We both thank you very much. Don’t we, Les.” I kicked her lightly under the table to encourage her agreement, ignored her look of outrage, and turned my attention back to him. “Can I buy you a drink? You know, thanks and all that?”
“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” he replied, recovering. “More than happy to help out.”
The music started again, and we all settled back to listen. I caught Les sneaking peeks at him and I caught him sneaking glances at me. There was a lot of sneaking and peeking going on. I again offered to buy him a drink, which he again gallantly declined, but he bought me one (Leslie refused his offer since she was driving). There wasn’t much conversation because of the music.
During the next break Leslie excused herself to the Powder Room—the first time I’d ever heard her use that euphemism. Since she hadn’t had much to drink it was pretty obvious it was an excuse to let me flirt.
The two of us sat silently. I waited for this guy to say something. I figured if he was brave enough to stop a drunk from bothering us and smooth enough to do it without a fight, conversation wouldn’t be a problem. But he concentrated on his cuticles.
The wait went on with me sitting there expecting the come-on equivalent of the Gettysburg Address and him picking his fingers. Uncomfortable, I finally took the initiative. I cleared my throat and said, “You haven’t told me your name.”
His head popped up and I got another good look at those eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s…Rob Anderson,” he said. I wondered at the small hesitation.
“Pleased to meet you, Rob Anderson. Remember me? Stephanie O’Neill? Also known as Stevie?”
I expected him to say suavely, “I hope you’ll let me call you Stevie. I’d like to be your friend”, or some variation thereof. He said, “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss O’Neill.”
Miss O’Neill? The last person to call me that was the receptionist at my gynecologist’s office, and she was from the Philippines. I got the feeling he wasn’t from around here.
“Are you visiting Los Angeles?” I asked to jumpstart the conversation.
“Oh no, I live here.”
The end. No further information was forthcoming.
I was baffled. Was it worth the time and effort it would take to see if there was a personality hidden in that attractive hulk? He glanced up at me quickly and looked back at his fingers. I got a shot of those eyes again: intelligent eyes, rather shy. Shy? Of me? How flattering. Maybe this guy had potential if I could pry some words out of him. I redoubled my attempts to make him talk. “And what do you do…uh…what should I call you? Mr. Anderson, was it?”
“Just call me Rob.”
“If you call me Stevie,” I replied with a Groucho grin.
“Okay.”
He smiled into my eyes again. Even the cartilage in my nose melted as I smiled bemusedly back. I enjoyed the moment before I remembered my responsibilities as icebreaker.
“And you do…what?” I continued.
“I’m an engineer.”
“What sort of engineer?”
“Civil.” Thud.
This was getting ridiculous. I felt like I was talking to a computer. Wait of minute, maybe he was hiding something. A woman living alone like me has to be careful who she takes up with, so I backed off and said quickly, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”
“No! That’s okay! Go ahead and pry!” he said, sounding slightly panicked.
I eyed him. I was having a little trouble reading this situation. I’m not patient by nature and I was afraid I’d seen the best this guy had to offer. Then it hit me that I was the one who should have gone to the Powder Room. Maybe he was miffed because he was attracted to Les and got stuck with me. A wave of disappointment washed over me closely followed by pique.
Les came back, seated herself jauntily, and beamed at us. “So, where were we?” she sang.
“We were just leaving,” I said as I grabbed my purse and stood up.
She looked at me blankly but obligingly got up again. I threw a couple dollars on the table explaining to Mr. Anderson that they were for the tip. I was being petulant and unreasonable. but I couldn’t seem to stop myself. Leslie was making excuses when I got control. Okay, so maybe he wasn’t interested in me, but he’d saved my butt and he deserved better than being pouted at. And maybe Les would have liked him. I was mean-spirited, childish…and ashamed.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Rob Anderson, “I’m acting badly, and I apologize.” I turned to Les. “Do you want to stay?” I asked her with as much charity as I could muster.
Les looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “No, I’m ready to go if you are.”
Mr. Anderson sat there looking confused. Then he stood up. “I guess I haven’t been very entertaining,” he said to me, and I smiled wryly, “but I was trying to figure out how to get your phone number…without being too pushy,” he finished in a blurt.
“You want my phone number?” I asked.
“I thought that, well, since you seem to like music, maybe, well, maybe we could go to the symphony or something. But I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything. I mean, I know you don’t know me or anything but I’m not dangerous or anything and, you know, if you wouldn’t mind or aren’t busy or anything…” His speech dried up under my gaze.
I hesitated for a moment, looked at Les who raised her eyebrows and shrugged, and turned back to him. His face had a slight sheen of sweat. He seemed harmless enough.
“Sure, why not.” I quickly wrote my name and phone number on a cocktail napkin and handed it to him. He put it carefully in his wallet and removed a business card.
“Here,” he handed it to me, “just so you don’t forget who I am.”
I put the card in my purse without looking at it. “Thanks.” Now they were both looking at me expectantly, but I didn’t know what to do. Sitting down again would be ridiculous. A quick exit seemed like the only option. “Well, be seeing you. Ready, Les?” We walked out, leaving him standing, and drove home in Les’ Volvo.
“That, without a doubt, was the strangest attempted pick-up I have ever seen,” Les commented en route. “What’s the business card say?”
I dug it out of my purse, turned on the interior light, and read: “‘Robert Anderson, Department of Water and Power, City of Los Angeles.’” I frowned. “Department of Water and Power? He told me he was an engineer!”
“The city needs engineers to map out sewer lines and that sort of thing. He’s probably legit,” said Leslie.
“Anything’s possible,” I said doubtfully.
Leslie smiled. “What are you going to do if he calls?”
“I’m not going to worry about it.” I mused over the card then put it away, out of sight and out of mind. I forgot all about the guy and the card.
A week later I got home from the library to find a message on my box: “Stevie O’Neill? This is Rob Anderson. We met at the Vine Street Bar and Grill? I was wondering, well, I mentioned the symphony and I have two tickets and I was wondering…well, I know it’s late to ask someone out for Saturday night but if you’d like to go…” He sounded like he was strangling then managed to leave a phone number.
Of course! The guy with the great eyes and no verbal skills. I called Leslie. “Remember that guy at the bar last week? The one who saved us from the drunk? Well, he just left a message asking me to the symphony,” I announced.
“I didn’t know you liked classical music,” Les said, surprised.
“Maybe I do. I’ve never really listened to any,” I said.
“Oh,” Leslie said, nonplussed, then asked, “So? You going to go?”
“I don’t know,” I said uncertainly. “He seemed nice but for all I know he could be Ted Bundy’s evil twin. Besides, he doesn’t know how to talk. It could be an absolutely horrible evening.”
“Meet him downtown,” Leslie advised impatiently. “That way he won’t even have your address. And you won’t have to worry about talking. You’re not supposed to talk through the music.”
“Yeah,” I said unconvinced.
“And the best argument of all is,” here Leslie paused impressively, “what else do you have to do? Your cat can survive one Saturday night without you. Honestly, you make such a big deal out of everything. A good-looking guy just asked you to a concert; you don’t have to marry him!”
“Okay, okay, I’ll go,” I said. “What should I wear?”
After we thrashed out the wardrobe question, I called Rob Anderson and told him I’d love to go to the symphony with him. He sounded vaguely pleased even when I told him I preferred to meet him there. I hung up before he got too tangled up in his tongue and I started regretting my decision.
I had a date for Saturday night just like a normal person! I hoped Pudgy wouldn’t feel abandoned. I’d leave the TV on so she wouldn’t miss the 60’s sitcoms she liked so much.
Alborg, Denmark was a smallish college town. We toured historic buildings including a monastery built in 1506. The story was: a monk and a nun had an affair, and the nun had a baby. So, they walled up the nun and her baby, alive, around a support pillar. The guide explained that that was why the pillar was so much thicker. Nothing happened to the monk. They probably couldn’t figure out which one was the father. All the women in the tour were outraged, of course (as I suspected were the men), but it’s done. Thank God we’ve come a long way, baby. During the walk we kept running into costumed students celebrating the end of exams or something. They shared their beer with some of our members. It reminded me of Hobo Day at South Dakota State University. The kids were having a ball as they staggered down the street. They kept it up for hours and the parade just got bigger. It was fun. But it was time to go back to the ship. We were on our way to Oslo.
Student and tourist having a moment
Remember me mentioning Pat and Linda? The couple we met on the first tour? When we got back to the ship Pat was sitting in the atrium with a mask on. He explained that Linda’s spit had tested positive for COVID that morning. He tested negative so he was allowed the run of the ship, but he had to wear a mask. Pat said Linda felt fine except for being forced to spend a portion of a very expensive trip in quarantine on the third deck. We learned later that some crew as well as tourists tested positive for COVID. I don’t know how it spread. We all supposedly tested negative before we were allowed on the ship. It explained the daily spit tests and the crew in hazmat suits. But I felt bad for Pat and Linda. Put a damper on their trip.
We didn’t take the downtown tour of Oslo. Wish we had but there wasn’t time. We toured a lovely park with spectacular artwork. Sort of an outdoor museum. Then we were taken to the training facility for the ski-jumping team. Those kids must have a death wish. The guide told us the kids started jumping at age 9. There was also a training ground for cross-country skiing. No wonder the Norwegians clean up in the Winter Olympic games. They earn it. We saw the summer house and church where the royal family spend their down time. I wish we’d gotten inside the parliament, but I’ll make a point of visiting those sites if we ever manage to get back. Oslo is a lovely city.
Art on the bridge in city parkSki jump facility. You gotta be nuts.
We chose to visit the Fram museum the next day. The Fram was an Antarctic expeditionary ship that is housed in its own building. The Norwegians were famous explorers and I enjoyed learning the history of the ship. They treated us to champagne then we went to another building that housed Viking boats. I learned a lot about exploration; it was fascinating. We were disappointed when we couldn’t get into the Kon-Tiki building. We peeked through the windows but couldn’t see anything. We asked why we couldn’t get in and were told that it was a holiday (boy, they have a lot of holidays) and even getting to see the Fram was a big deal. Kon-Tiki is something else to see if I ever get back.
We went to Stavanger the next day. We took a RIB (rigid inflatable boat() tour of the fjords. We knew it would be like white-water rafting so Gordon and I tried to get the front seats to get the most bounce for our buck. Another couple beat us to it so we sat behind them. Turned out to be good for us. It was cold and started raining. We huddled down behind the couple in front of us to cut the wind and rain. The woman turned at one point and said, “The wind is blowing the rain down the front of my thermal suit. Even my socks are cold and wet.” It was a long trip for her. I enjoyed bouncing around and the close-up view of the fjords was spectacular. I’d do it again if given the chance.
Waterfall in the fjord next to a tour boat.
We went to Eidfjord the next day. They drove us on a bus for an hour and a half to a small cruise ship. We were supposed to have a lovely cruise down the river so we could enjoy the waterfalls in the fjords but it rained again. We spent the entire cruise huddled inside. Then we had that LONG bus ride back to the ship. It was a wasted day for me. I learned that Norway is still having trouble with their roads. There’s little flat land and getting roads next to the fjords is difficult. Those fjords are gorgeous but all you can do is look at them. Farming and industry are hard businesses. We were told that Norway was a very poor country until an American oil company drilled. The company was allowed to take the oil for ten years then everything reverted to Norway. So now Norway has money. Thank you, American industry. I thought the snide comments about American business were thoughtless. The Norwegians would still be trying to make a living on a fishing economy and still be poor without oil. And the Americans lived up tp their agreement. You wouldn’t see the Russians doing that.
We spent our last day in Bergen. It rained again. The guide said it rains 280 days a year. Depressing. Then he asked if anyone in our group had Norwegian heritage and I pointed to Gordon. Gordon explained that his family came from a farm outside of Bergen and the guide said, “I thought you looked Viking!” All of the tourists stared at Gordon which embarrassed him, but he really does look like pictures of the Vikings; aggressive nose, high cheekbones, broad forehead. He should be wearing a wolf-pelt and swinging an ax. Anway, we saw the theater dedicated to Ibsen and statues of Grieg. I was surprised that the arts were celebrated more in Bergen than Oslo. The guide explained that Bergen had been the capitol until some king decided to move to Oslo. Maybe it doesn’t rain so much there. But it’s a charming city. I wish we could have spent more time there. One interesting note: the Norwegians are solidly on the side of Ukraine in the war. We saw graffiti of a dove pooping on Putin’s head.
Putin getting pooped onIbsen outside the theater. Rather odd statue.Grieg. He was a little fella.
We had one more night of dining and entertainment then we had to pack for the trip home. Our luggage had to be outside our room by ten o’clock and we had to be in the atrium of the ship by three a.m. in order to catch our plane to Copenhagen where we changed flights. We landed in Copenhagen at 7 and were dreading the day ahead. We had a 5 and a half hour lay-over before catching a flight to Washington DC where we had another 5 hour lay-over. On our way to check into the next flight I noticed on the departures board that there was a non-stop flight to Los Angeles in two hours. I looked at Gordon and said, “Why the hell aren’t we on that flight?” So, we buzzed over to the SAS counter to see if we couldn’t change flights. We were even willing to pay if we had to. Well, SAS didn’t give us a hard time. They changed our flight and made sure our luggage traveled with us. The flight home was as uneventful as the flight over had been hard. We saved nine hours of travel time and were home in time to feed Gracie ourselves. She was glad to see us.
Scandanavia was a pleasure. Everybody there speaks English. I was told that English is required in all the schools. Most of the people I talked to didn’t even have an accent. They sounded American. Even the Ghanaian barista I met sounded American. One of the guides made a joke about American Imperialism with reference to culture. And he was right. Our marketing expertise is a powerful thing. But it makes traveling easy for someone like me who only speaks one language.
I recommend you save your pennies and travel with Viking. The hotel travels with you instead of you having to shlep luggage all over. I enjoyed the food and entertainment. I got to dip my toe in various cultures. And I know where I want to spend more time if I go back. Good time.
There was a monument next to where our ship docked in Gdansk the next morning. Gordon and I had time before our afternoon tour, so we wandered over to look at it. It was a monument to those who lost their lives in World War II. And there was a bombed-out building down the road from it. We learned that this is where the Nazis first attacked Poland (the Germans called the city Danzig, not Gdansk). We were on the spot where World War II officially started. We watched a group of young people practice marching around for some program or other–we never found out what. And we never found out if they were young soldiers, high school kids, or what. We just saw that they were young and in uniform. They marched solemnly to music on a portable record-player (hadn’t seen one of those in years) to the monument and back to a bunch of chairs. Maybe they were preparing for Poland’s version of Memorial Day. We eventually got bored and went back to the ship for milk and a cookie. Then we took our tour of Old Town Gdansk. Gdansk was leveled during the war, but it was re-built in the 50s to look like it had in the late 1700s. There were fountains in the cobblestoned streets only two blocks from the river. The church was dedicated to Saint Barbara so I approved of that, of course. Amber jewelry is a big seller there. I found some beautiful pieces but I’d already gotten an amber bracelet earlier at a sale on the ship. Maybe I’ll get more some other time. Anyway, I thought the street was charming. And the residents got the feel of an historic city but with new plumbing. The best of both worlds! We were shown the dock where the Solidarity Movement started. Who knew Gdansk was the beginning of so much–World War II, Solidarity…The people were worried about the war in Ukraine. Poland is right next door and they’ve lived under the Russians before. No one I talked to was eager to do it again. Our guide was very proud that Poland had taken in over 4 million refugees. I hope the best for all of them and thank God I don’t live in that part of the world.
We had a short stop the next day at a tiny island called Bornholm, or Ronne, still in Denmark. There wasn’t much to see except for an old castle where apparently terrible things happened. None of the stores were open so there wasn’t much to do. Even the bathroom down by the dock was closed. And when you’ve got a bunch of ageing tourists with iffy bladders, that can be a problem. The guide pointed out the Russian embassy which was fenced off. Lots of Ukrainian flags were flying opposite so I suspect the Russians stayed to themselves. They’re not real popular in that part of the world.
Our trip to Berlin started the next morning at 7:30. We had a 2-hour train trip before catching a bus to downtown Berlin. I was glad we got to ride so much. I’d tripped over Gordon’s feet (not his fault, it was a small cabin, and I wasn’t watching where I was going) and messed up my little toe. I thought I’d just bruised it badly but it’s still painful weeks later so it’s possible I broke it. Fortunately, our traveling buddies handled it. Bill is a surgeon and Dawn is a nurse, so they acted as my medical team. Bill stabilized the toe, but walking was painful. And when we left the bus there was a lot of walking. We went to the Brandenburg Gate and learned about the history of Berlin. We saw the Reichstag, some concert halls, churches, other official buildings, and Checkpoint Charlie. We had sausages, sauerkraut, pretzels, and beer at a local restaurant. The one-man band played German folk tunes. Gordon knew the lyrics to some of the songs, but I chimed in with the “Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja” chorus and waved my stein around. That was my kind of place. I had enough euros for the toilet frau, who happened to be a Herr in this case, and we left for a short cruise down the Spree. There were a lot of pro-Ukraine signs and flags in Berlin, too. Nobody who’s lived under the Russians wants them back. But it was a lovely day except for the broken toe (how can something that small cause so much trouble?). The one thing that sticks in my head was how clean Berlin is. It’s the Disneyland of European cities. I was literally shocked when I saw a small piece of graffiti on the way back to the ship. I’ll have to go back to Berlin and check it out more carefully.
We had another long day of walking in Copenhagen the next day. I was swearing at my toe. Why couldn’t I have messed it up when we had short tours? But I gimped around. This was my chance to see Copenhagen and no toe was going to stop me. We saw the Little Mermaid statue. The guide said she kept getting vandalized and I can see why; she’s easy to get to. The statue is on a rock that’s only about 8 feet from shore. On the way to the Citadel we passed another statue of a local goddess who legend says carved out Denmark by turning her four sons into bulls and plowing as much land as they could in one day. We toured an Episcopal church, the first I’d seen in Europe outside the UK. We walked past the official residences of the royal family that surround a public square. After lunch we toured the official palace. It’s impressive. I’m glad it wasn’t flattened in the war. All the guides in the cities we visited really stressed the war. It’s like history started then. I guess what’s happened in the various countries stemmed from that time. Anyway, the guide stated that the Danes loved their royal family and believe that the royals earn their money. Really nice palace. I recommend visiting it. They put us on the bus and took us to Tivoli Gardens where they say Walt Disney got the idea for Disneyland. It had rides, attractions, and lovely gardens all on a two-block area. We thought about taking some of the rides but it was a holiday in Copenhagen and the lines were long–just like Disneyland! We enjoyed the gardens and had a cup of coffee so we could rest our feet (and my blasted toe). Nice amusement park.
We went back to the ship for another fabulous dinner and evening of entertainment. I was glad we didn’t have a big day of walking planned for the next day. My toe needed a break.
Me and the World War II monument in Gdansk. This is the site of the start of WWII.Gordon in GdanskBornholm castle–or what’s left of itWe’re at the Brandenburg GateModern art fountain in front of museum. I thought it looked like a bathtub. But I had to check.Holocaust artMe and the Little MermainGordon and the goddess who turned her sons into bullsEntry to the Copenhagen Palace
We had a day of sailing on the Baltic so we took the time to get comfortable with the ship and get used to our new routines. The first thing we did every morning was spit 2 ml of saliva into a test tube for COVID testing. I had no idea it took so long to collect that much spit. And it’s hard to spit when you’ve just waked up and your mouth is dry. I learned to drink extra water during my Limitless viewings. Had to pee like a racehorse a few hours later but I had some spit. I got rather zen about the testing. We’d been tested before boarding the ship and if I was going to get COVID, there was probably nothing I could do to stop it. Might as well relax and enjoy the ride. And check out the ship.
There was a small pool/hot tub in the center/top deck of the ship. There was also an infinity pool and hot tub in the back. I would’ve gone swimming but I forgot my suit. Suits were for sale at the spa but when I was free the weather was usually too cold. I thought it would be warmer when we booked the trip. I’d googled weather and learned that it’s usually around 70 degrees in that part of the world in spring. Mother Nature obviously didn’t get the memo because it was usually 65 degrees or lower. And it rained every other day. I should have packed more sweaters and a thicker coat but I made do. Back to ship ammenities; there was a putting course, a shuffleboard court and a running track. Gordon ran every day but I took advantage of none of it. I spent my time recovering from our tours.
The food on the ship was great. The first Viking trip I took was a Danube River cruise. German food was mainly served and I found it fatty and uninspired. Except for the strudels. I really like those strudels. Anyway, on the Baltic cruise there were three main restaurants: Manfredi’s (Italian), The Chef’s Table, and The Restaurant (guess they ran out of names and went with the basics). Manfredi’s is self-explanatory. The Restaurant had a diverse menu. But The Chef’s Table had a set 4-course meal with complementary wines. We had the lamb menu the first night, Chinese food another, and seafood the last time. Each meal was excellent as were the wines. We had steaks at The Restaurant and pasta at Manfredi’s. The wine was always excellent and plentiful which didn’t do Gordon much good since he doesn’t drink but I had a good time. We usually had dinner with Bill and Dawn and compared tours. We always had lots to talk about since we only shared one tour. Oh, and the guys had the Good Old Days to remember and discuss. I’m glad we all took the same cruise. They were fun. Anyway, there were other cafe type places for less formal meals. The World Cafe was open most of the day. The Pool Snack bar served hamburgers and hotdogs (I had one with shrimp and mayo; only in Scandinavia but it was good). There were at least three other areas where you could get pastries and breakfast foods. We over-indulged the first two days then simplified things by having milk and a cookie for lunch. I was afraid we wouldn’t have enough TUMS to last the trip otherwise.
During the day there were lectures that educated and music that soothed. I liked the piano player and guitar player but avoided the piano/violin duo. The violinist was slightly pitchy and it was like chalk on a blackboard–although I was probably the only person it bothered. We played (and lost) trivia contests. There were some smart people on board. The first evening show was a medley with four kids and the back-up band. The songs and choreography were professional and enjoyable. But the show I especially enjoyed featured the cruise director, Heather (wish I could remember her last name). The first show I saw her in, she asked if everybody liked opera. Crickets. I figured we’d be forced to listen to a soprano that was the equivalent of the violinist in the atrium. Just as pitchy but much louder. Well, Heather sang the mezzo aria from Carmen and she was great! She claimed to have sung Carmen in 30 productions all over the world. I believe her. She had it down. Then she sang show tunes with the band. She was good. The second show she starred in was even better. She sang jazz and more show tunes. She claimed to have found her niche. I think she did. She got to design her own cabaret show like a Vegas revue and she didn’t have to screw anybody to do it–like in Vegas. She also didn’t have men pinching her –although I don’t think the men on the cruise could have moved fast enough to grab her if they’d wanted to (the demographics on these cruises skews old). Nice gig. A nice well-paying gig. I asked her how they scheduled her time. Did she work two weeks on, two weeks off or what. She laughed–howled really–and said she worked the entire season with minimal breaks. In the Baltic I guess that means four months on, eight months off but I don’t know. She earned her money.
A pianist called Harry the Piano entertained us with two shows. He did mash-ups of music and told stories about playing for the Queen. The stories about celebrities he’s worked with and for were good but his ability to play a Beatles song as if Mozart had written it was amazing. I’ve never run into anyone else who could do that as well.
There was also a magician who did two shows. I love magicians; I can never figure out how they do the tricks so when he had a seminar about doing basic magic tricks I was in the front row with Dawn. Gordon and Bill giggled at us but I was fascinated. And I felt really stupid when I learned how simple some of the tricks were. The magic is in hiding the effort. I forgot the magician’s name but he was a really nice. We talked about his son learning the business. He was even on the Penn & Teller show. I asked if he fooled them and he said ‘no’ but you have to be really good to even get on. They only take the best.
There was always something to do on the ship. And if you just wanted to read a book and listen to classical music (which I did) there was always the 8th deck reading room with the comfortable chairs, wolf skin furniture covers (probably faux), and great views. I enjoyed my time on the ship.
Dawn, Bill, Me and Gordon–after-dinner coffee at 10 at night. I was only dark about 3 hours a night. Had to get used to that.
Gordon and I bought a Viking Baltic cruise three years ago. We were excited to see Northern Europe, land of our ancestors. Unfortunately, COVID hit, and the cruise was postponed. When COVID finally abated a bit Putin attacked Ukraine. St. Petersburg was taken off the list–too dangerous of Americans and other living things. Viking finalized a new tour that included Gdansk, Berlin, and Oslo in place of three days in St. Petersburg. Most people I talked to were disappointed but I’d never seen Gdansk, Berlin or Oslo so I was fine with the change. On the morning of May 19 our Uber driver picked us up at 5:45. We tried to say ‘goodbye’ to Gracie, but she wasn’t having it. She knows what suitcase means and she refused to let us touch her. What’s the difference between Grace and a vulture? A vulture waits until you’re dead to rip your heart out. I really did feel bad about leaving her. She’d never been alone; she’d always had George before. We thought about putting her in ‘jail’ but figured she’d just be lonely in a cage. Home alone seemed the best option. I just hoped a raccoon named Joe Pechi didn’t invade.
At LAX we were supposed to leave from the American terminal, Building A, but the Uber driver explained that really meant Building B. He showed us on the app that that was true. He was trying to save us steps. Well, we did take off from Building B, but we had to check our luggage in Building A, so we had to shlep anyway. He meant well. When we checked our luggage, we found out that our SAS flight to Stockholm had been cancelled (God know why) and we’d be catching a FinnAir flight that went to Helsinki when we changed in Chicago. Ooookay. That added 5 hours of travel time; an hour of flight time to Helsinki, a 3-hour layover, and a puddle-jumper to Stockholm. What could we do? We got on our American flight and changed at O’Hare which is a zoo. I almost got busted for drugs because I’d forgotten to empty my water bottle. “Do have anything you don’t want me to know about?” asked the suspicious TSA agent. I said ‘no’ and she pulled out my water bottle. I explained that I’d forgotten about the water but that I wanted to keep the bottle. Bless her heart, she offered to empty the bottle and give it back. And, of course, I expressed my sincere thanks. We took the tram to the international terminal and got through customs. The flight was nine hours long, but we had the extra-large seats and the row entirely to ourselves. We were given good, basic food. We got blueberry juice for breakfast. Blueberries grow in Scandanavia, so they’re used in everything. The juice was a little sweet for me, but the color was great. I have no complaints about FinnAir. Everything was new, clean, and as comfortable as a flight can be. We couldn’t go anywhere in Helsinki, not enough time, but the puddle-jumper was on time. It was packed but only took 45 minutes. When we got to Stockholm, Viking hired a Mercedes taxi to take us directly to the ship. That was their way of smoothing feathers due to the botched flights. Not their fault, I suppose, but we didn’t get to see anything of Stockholm that day due to all the delays. We met up with an old high school/band buddy of Gordon’s, Bill, and his wife, Dawn. for dinner that night. I think. I’d been traveling for over 24 hours and was exhausted. I went to bed early but was up at 2:30 a.m. Stockholm time. I discovered an old TV series called Limitless. I really liked it–for a while anyway. It put me back to sleep. So every time I couldn’t sleep I’d turn on Limitless. Worked like a charm. I’d fall asleep in different places so I had to repeat episodes. It took me the entire two weeks to get through the series but I made it. It’s on Paramount+ now. Check it out.
The next day we toured the palace and a theater that was built for the royals in the 1700s. Sweden didn’t have much money back then, so the palace is concrete painted to look like marble. It was a nice enough palace. The gardens looked like a small Versailles, but the theater was particularly interesting to me. The stage was deep and steeply raked. The flats were wooden and painted. They still had a lightning machine, a rain machine, and a thunder machine in the pit. Historic costumes from various productions were on display. I thought it was a great tour. We took a boat from the palace back to the ship. We met Pat and Linda, a couple from San Diego. Pat was a retired percussionist and he told us about playing in the pit for touring shows and for the San Diego Symphony. They were fun. We had a quiet afternoon, and a pleasant dinner with Bill and Dawn. Then we went to a show in the Star Theater. If I remember correctly the talent was two boys and two girls doing a medley of something or other. It was a pleasant day, but I resented missing seeing any of Old Town Stockholm. Everybody told us it was wonderful. We went to bed, and I watched another episode of Limitless. I was starting to get seriously tired.
The next day we went to a small town on a small island called Mariehamn which means Marie’s harbor. Marie was queen of something or other. All the royals were starting to run together in my mind. We got a tour of the island. It reminded me of parts of the Midwest–with water. It was Sunday so all the shops were closed. The historic church we stopped at didn’t want us inside. They were getting ready for the service so you can’t really blame them. I peeked in anyway. Old, old, old. Think it was built in the 1100s. Electricity had been included (a silo sort of thing attached to the exterior) so there were chandeliers instead of candles. I was puzzled by a ship hanging in between the chandeliers but couldn’t ask anybody about it. Then we were taken to the top of a hill to enjoy the views. We got the scrambled history of the place. I think that’s where the spoken language is Swedish, but the island was given to Finland after World War II. God knows why. It was lovely but Viking could have skipped Mariehamn for all I cared but
I think Gordon and I had a hot dog as a late lunch and skipped dinner, but my memory is hazy. I still wasn’t sleeping well and running around a lot is hard on an old lady. At breakfast I explained to Dawn about my sleeping difficulties (she’s a retired nurse) and she gave me magnesium pills. I tried them that night and they worked like a charm. I slept for 6 1/2 straight hours. I only got to watch one episode of Limitless but I was refreshed and looking forward to the next day at sea. No tour!
Stockholm Palace from the boatMariehamn Medieval Church
I haven’t been able to write anything coherent lately due to life getting in the way but here’s a flash fiction story I wrote years ago. It was a winner of the “Will Write for Food” contest put on by the Southern California Writers’ Association. We were given a picture and instructed to write a 250-word story inspired by it. Following is the picture and the story I came up with.
Learning Manners
In 1969, I was a rebellious teenager. So my parents, deciding that I needed to learn appreciation for them and civilization, sent me to stay with my grandfather in the mountains. He didn’t even have TV. The first week, Grandpa put me to work in his vegetable garden. Next to the garden was an old sign that was a thesaurus of verbs warning people to stay off the plants. I hadn’t seen another person for a week, so I asked Grandpa why it was there. Grandpa was cleaning his shotgun at the time.
“Well,” he said finally, “I had a young feller used to run through my property. I asked him nice not run in my garden, but he said he wasn’t running, he was jogging. Every time he ran through my garden, he said something sassy. So, I put up my sign and added the word. Just to let him know I was paying attention, you see.” Grandpa paused, inserted two shells in the shotgun, and snapped it shut. “Well, when I ran out of room for words on the sign, I peppered him with my gun here.”
I stared at Grandpa, horrified.
Grandpa grinned. “I didn’t use buckshot,” he assured me. “Just rock salt. But it got the young feller’s attention. Which brings me to you. Your mama asked if I could teach you some manners. You think I should?”
I mended my fractious ways. I didn’t want Grandpa teaching me manners.
