Lundi at sea, Em out to lunch

I return to the changing room a changing woman. I just sit there, by the floor-to-ceiling window, looking into the empty infinity outside. I am mesmerized by the water just at the vertical of the ship. It does not look like water at all, more like anthracite sand dunes, constantly remodeled by a gentle wind. I can't take my eyes away. There is now an island in the distance, flat and nameless. I feel unbelievably spoiled, ill at ease. I stay there in contemplation while a few women come and go behind my back. I feel guilty, but also strangely at peace. Everything will be alright, after all. I peel myself off, finally, and go back to the sort of real world that can be found on the lido deck. Dad has grabbed a different table, and is sitting there, doing absolutely nothing with an unerasable grin on his face. We go eat - no red meat, no alcohol. Not too hard - it's only 11 am (8 am, LA time). I think I'll live on their buffet of cheese, tuna-filled veggies, and fruits. It's clearly easy to overeat on a cruise, but it's also easy to eat healthy and appetizing stuff, a big change from the over-portioned crap on campus. 

After snack, we go explore the top deck. Aft, there's a

pool and a basketball court. Windswept lounging chairs. And pretty much no one on them. I can look at the ocean for ever, provided there is enough wind to drown out the sounds of the world.

Monday - Em at the spa

Overnight we skipped an hour forward, and my appointment at the spa is at 5:30 am Los Angeles time. Somehow, I'm not on LA time anymore. The sleepless night in Fort Lauderdale, the new life on the boat... My body is a bit lost, though not malcontent. I'm here for my sea-weed wrap, which is going to give me the body of a goddess, if we believe the spiel I got yesterday at the open house. A detoxified goddess, too.

In the spa, the locker room has floor-to-ceiling windows. The 15th-floor vertical view on the limitless ocean below is unreal. I am not supposed to be here. It feels so inappropriate to be here, in the middle of winter, when everyone else is slaving away on their grant submissions (I did get two out before I left).

I move to the waiting room, which has the same view, just better seats and start filling the two-page questionnaire of silly questions. "Do you ever experience symptoms such as: skin dryness, blotching, under eye swelling, redness, breakouts, small wrinkles.." Duh! The list goes on for half a page in small characters. "On a scale of 1 to 10, how stressed are you?" "What goal are you looking to achieve by your session here today?" How much time do you have? Oh, half a line. OK, forget it.

Noticing that I hadn't made much of an effort at filling the questionnaire, the pretty Philippina (yes, I asked) looks me up and down, and sighs "OK, I'll do the whole-body assessment as we go". She gives me a pair of highly esthetically pleasing, black, disposable, one-size-fits-most, panties. (Can't help wondering how it'll look on my dad - maybe they have manlier versions...) and instructs me to lie on my back, head forward; the small towel is for the breasts. When she returns, she expertly wraps my hair in another towel and starts slapping away the warm sea weed concoction all over my body. No smell, just the heat. When she's done spreading the marinade, she wraps me in a gigantic piece of alu foil, then in a rubber survival blanket, and... removes the plank under my back. I am dipped into the water. A baptism of sorts (never too late, is it?!). Except you never get wet - you float in a waterproof hammock in a big bath tub, swaying at the rhythm of the ship. Being both steamed and boiled at the same time. Poached, maybe.

That's when the scalp massage starts...

Now, before you hate me completely, let me say that this one is not going to be in the orgasm-inducting category of scalp massages - too much acupressure, not enough stroking. But still, it has the effect of any respectable scalp massage - my sinuses are dripping all inside me. Scalp massages have to be one of my favorite things in the world. Wonder if someone would pay me to write a guide... 

After what I'd been told would be 20 minutes, she unfolds the papillote and sends me to the shower - "leave the underwear on the floor". I wash off the green goo and go back to lie down, still on my back but head aft this time,  and with the longer towel covering the length of my body. She expertly replaces the towel by the alu foil, and I am re-wrapped - minus the marinade - and re-dipped. This time she starts massaging my feet. She's better on the feet than the skull, but hers is never going to be the type of massage that reverberates throughout your body for hours after she's finished touching you. This time, I'm truly steaming - probably didn't dry my skin well enough after the shower. It starts feeling uncomfortably cramped in there, so I take my arms out and raise them around my head.... Ahh, so much better. After another 20 minutes, I get to shower again, to rinse the sweat (and toxins) off, I suppose. 

Then it's time for the half-body massage. I am curious to see what half... this time there is no underwear anymore, and I am instructed to lie face down and cover up with the "first towel". There are three on the table, and it's not immediately clear which one is "first". I improvise. It appears I might have picked the right one, but apparently didn't quite position it as was expected. She slides it up to cover my shoulders (how am I supposed to do that?!). OK, then it's going to be a lower half massage? No, she immediately slides it back down. I guess she's now done the full body assessment and either judged my legs too hopeless, or decided that the upper body needed more urgent help. Anyway, the towel now slides to cover my legs. But not quite my ass. This is when you know you're not in America anymore - it's a Philippine masseuse on a Dutch ship... My butt cheeks will get some of that scrumptious warm aromatic oil that never quite makes it there in the good old U. S. of A.... My face is buried in the torture circle. Yes, it's cushioned by a towel, but you still can't breathe, your sinuses are still dripping inside, and you know you'll have the red mark in the middle of the forehead for lunch! She attacks my right shoulder, with the full length of her forearm and massages her way around my upper half expertly. Apart from some pain between the shoulder blades at the third passage (and the 4th, and 5th - she only stops when I audibly cry. I guess she couldn't see me wince before), it's quite good.

It's over too soon. Technically, it's not a half-body massage, more like a quarter body. I have a full other hemisphere that remained untouched. I get to put the robe back on, get a glass of water, and the check. Only then come the instructions. Drink as much water as you can. OK. Pretty standard so far. "You've got to eliminate all the toxins that all those systems we have activated are going to release". I am starting to feel nauseated imagining years of accumulated old gunk spewed by my kidneys, my pancreas, my liver, my lymph nodes, my adrenals into my poor veins and guts. I am so lost in that image of my interiors that I barely hear the rest. "At lunch, lots of fibers and proteins". OK. "No red meat for three days and no alcohol for 3 hours". Excuse-me?!!! C'est maintenant que tu dis ça, ma poule ?! 

The meat I can understand. We don't pay for anything on the ship, so it's cheaper for the organizers if anyone who goes through the spa can't eat the most expensive item on the menu, through half the cruise. But the alcohol - man, if they can't sell the alcohol, they're going down!

I don't get it. Just then it hits me. It's time for the Playboy T-shirt party. Free drinks for 2 hours, provided you wear the Playboy T-shirt they gave us. There's the scam...

Premier concert

Dimanche soir. I'm excited - it's 6 pm. Time for the first real concert. Someone gave us the advice of trying the balcony for good seating. So we head for level 2 - aka. the lower promenade deck - to the Vista lounge. We make our way past the Queen's Lounge and Culinary Arts Center (I'm not making this up!), the eerie Northern Lights night club, the tables and slot machines of the casino. Then, we face two choices. There is a very long line for the entrance on the right, and a minuscule one for the entrance on the left. We opt for the left - wondering if we are smarter than everyone else or if they know something we don't. Ask the lady who's manning the door. She says there is no difference; that we need to wait behind the rope. A few more people arrive and are directed to wait - outside the rope... Who ARE those people? So I go back to the lady and take out my gold card, to see if it changes her attitude. And, oh, yes, miss, you should wait here - meaning in the line of people who are not in line... When they finally open the doors, we get a seat on the first row of the balcony. The room is HUGE. 

The first act is a trio of kids led by a prodigy pianist, Eldar. It's really Eldar Djangirov, an Oscar Peterson-inspired transplant from Kyrgyzstan, who was nominated for a Best Album Grammy last year, and will turn 22 during the cruise. His technique is dazzling - his hands incessantly moving as waves over the whole range of keys. Those compact muscles subtly bulging under his T-shirt and narrow hips swaying on the piano chair don't hurt either... The drummer is unremarkable. And the bass player plays well, but looks ill at ease when he's not playing, not sure how to handle himself during the long moments when he is not the center of attention. But when he finally puts away the electrical bass and switches to the real thing - man... he comes alive and the two kids start duetting madly. Wow.

After the youngest act on the cruise, we get the oldest. Legendary (I don't exaggerate  - when he got married 20 years ago, his best man was... Dizzy Gillespie) sax James Moody will turn 84 in March. He still plays like he's 25. His drummer is awesome. Should play with the previous trio. What a night.

Sunday, aprem - tuuuuuut, on est parti !

The only other thing that's open at this hour, on the same deck, is... the spa. It's open house there all afternoon, so I go visit. The choices are more limited that in a typical LA spa (OK, that's not saying much). In the first room, they offer to detox you by massaging the mysterious content of a syringe on your belly, then pulsating it with electrodes into your skin. Sorry, not getting zapped today; I'll keep my toxins. The second room, on the other hand... I volunteer to test a new contraption. For a few minutes, I get to float (fully dressed) atop a warm bath. It's divine. Maybe that's what it feels being in the womb... No wonder Arthur didn't want to come out, the little bastard... I sign up for that right away, and sign up dad too. Tomorrow is a full day at sea, so I've got to find things to fill my day. That's my excuse.

When I go back out on the deck, dad is still at the same table, which has now become a hot commodity. More and more people keep seeping out of the elevators, pick up a tray and wander, ogling the table with envy. Amidst the sea of people, there is a small army of Philipino boys at our service. Apart from the Dutch girls at the spa, everyone on the staff of 800 looks Philipino, and every single one I've asked actually was. Ninety percent look male (no, I didn't ask...). In any case, they are amazingly efficient and nice. 

2:30. We finally get to see our room. It's on deck 1 - so it's back down 8 floors in the mid-ship glass elevators. It's very nice, larger than I expected with a large window, big closets, and a huge curtained shower. The luggage, however, is not here. Around 4, we get dad's suitcase. I'm starting to get nervous - better make sure mine is on board before it's anchors aweigh! Also, by now I really feel like freshening up. The evening is barely starting - I'm exhausted just look at the program.

4:45-5:45  Sailaway party with the New Birth Brass Band, Lido Deck

6:30-8:00 Welcome show hosted by Marcus Miller, Vista Lounge

7:30-9:00 Pianist Peter Martin, in the Ocean Bar

8:30 Dinner

10:30-12:00 Singer Roberta Gambarini, Queen's Lounge

10:30-12:00 Ship's pianist, at the piano bar

10:45-12:15 James Carter trio, Ocean Bar

110:00-close Singles get together, hosted by DJ Logic, Crow's nest

I feel for the ship's pianist. Who's going to go listen to him with the competition around? Seriously, they should give him a week off when they have the Jazz cruise. It's not fair.

The other thing that's missing in the room is the magic passes we were promised. They should have entitled us to a world of goodies, in particular priority access into the concert room 10 minutes before the rest of the crowd. I go inquire at the front desk, gladly turn in our blue key cards, and come back gloriously holding two gold cards. We are not blue or red anymore, just golden. Very fitting in the Obama era.

Back up on the Lido deck, by the pool, the New Birth Brass Band is playing "what a wonderful world" to a happy crowd. Everything else feels soooo far away.

Finally we sail away. Seriously armed coast guards and loads of well-wishers ashore accompany our triumphant exit into the sunset.

Sunday 11 am, boarding

Time to pick up and call a cab. Five minutes to Port Everglades, where the ship awaits. Of course, Port Everglades is nowhere near the Everglades - sure it's not that far by land, but if you're coming by boat down the Atlantic coast and are already salivating over the crocodile burger you're going to have for lunch in the famous marshes, man, you gotta keep sailing, 'cause this ain't the Gulf of Mexico! So, we are relieved to find out, Port Everglades may not be in the Everglades, but it is a shipyard. It's cliché to say that those cruise ships of new are huge, but it's hard to take in how huge until you're actually standing at the foot of her (I can say that, right, or is this considered sexist?). It's a 15-storey building that runs 285 meters long. That's 936 ft., for those of you live in one of the three countries in the world still using some non-metric system (the other two are Liberia and Burma, if you're wondering...). Yes, if the Eiffel Tower were to lie next to it, it would be a tad longer, but only by the length of the antenna and the male-pattern-balding part of the head.

We are a bit early, but the line has started forming. Maybe 50 people are ahead of us. We abandon the luggage on the tiny and already full sidewalk, with some trepidation. The doors soon open and we are marched into a huge barn-like structure. Uniformed "young ladies" (they call each other that, but it's all relative) direct us to one to the 20 immigration officers aligned behind one long long counter. Photograph. We get a boarding group number (3) and a key card - blue, which indicates that we get to see the earliest of the two big nightly shows (at 6:30) and dine after that (the red-carded do the opposite). The large center is obviously designed to be able to cordon off the boarding masses into organized snaking queues, but right now, it stands empty and we just flow through easily. We are IN, separate from the real world, but not on the ship yet. We are further directed one flight of steps up to... another waiting room. Somehow the word cattle comes to mind. Some pretty spoiled cattle, I must say. Group #3 is called quickly and we walk the plank (in a good way) to the third deck of the ms Westerdam. 

A few steps on the deck lead to the bank of elevators - seven of them -  which we are instructed to take to deck 9, the only one open at this time. You easily imagine the hundreds of staff folding, cleaning, vacuuming, restocking,... all around in the rest of the beehive, but here it feels curiously very quiet and subdued. The few tourists on board are in a daze. Everything is dark and warm, brass and carpet; the feel that of the lobby of any luxurious boutique hotel. Except the view from the elevators is on the Caribbeans... this is so decadent.

Luxe, calme et volupté - Baudelaire vient à l'esprit.

Then we exit the elevator into what can only be called a gigantic food court. Burgers, tacos, asian food, piles of fruits, cheese trays, teas, juices... Displays are lining the walls as far as we can see and along each turn we take. 

As there is not much else to do, we pick up a tray, fill it with food and sit at a pool-side table on the Lido Deck (the retractable roof is retracted), and we do NOTHING. At all. We are happily surprised to find out that the food is delicious. Tables fill up, people err, meet and greet.

Les vieux de la vieille, qui s'exclament en retrouvant les copains. Et les bleus, comme nous, qui marchent en rond, bouche bée.

Not unexpectedly for a jazz cruise, about half of our fellow guests are black. Several carry around instruments. Many look like old pros. They have the cap, the wraparound shades, the 'tude. An air of having seen what life is about, and of not wanting to talk about it any more. Those cheeks could be distended by years of trumpet or trombone. You feel you should know their names, but maybe they're just a caricature. It feels great though.

Dimanche matin, Fort Lauderdale

8 am. We walk half a block up to the Hilton, order our croissants in French to the Belgian manager, and lounge on cushions with free ocean view, not entirely ruined by the massive boulevard in between. Dad looks positively content, in his best Sheherazade impersonation.

Yes, it's a daddy and me trip. What are we doing, here, you ask. Well, one day I called in to support my local jazz radio station - there is really no audible radio here, so you've got to help the two that you can bear to listen to (that's one thing I miss from France!). I called in at the right moment, and won a passage for two on the first Playboy Jazz Cruise, with an out-there line up and dream ports-of-call (I'm not telling who or where just yet; gotta keep ya readin' da blog, don't I...). So here we are, just 40 kms north of Miami, ready to begin our adventures.

After breakfast, we hit the sand. The beach goes on forever, the water is turquoise, and the sea gulls friendly. The air is warm, even if the water is too cold for a swim. The horizon is dotted with tankers. The ten blocks of ocean front alternate gigantic hotels under construction or renovation, and souvenir shops stuck in time. It's just odd.

Fort Lauderdale is called the Venice of America. Of course, after living for so long in the US, you get used to their ridicule-defying grand statements but, still, we must be missing something. There's supposed to be a lively river walk, with shops and restaurants - must be somewhere else, along the canals. On se croirait coincés à visiter le quartier de la stazione ferroviara à Mestre sans jamais arriver jusqu'à l'Accademia ou la Piazza San Marco...

Fort Lauderdale by night

Uneventful flight yesterday from LAX (rain) to Charlotte, NC (high 50s, overcast, sunsetting), then Fort Lauderdale, FL (very temperate, soft tropical breeze). The second plane was a 737-400 with cracks in the plastic of the luggage compartments and still the ashtrays from another era. I hadn't taken USAir in a while. You pay for coffee ($1, free refill) and sodas ($2). There is no entertainment at all - not even for sale, not even on the 5 hour coast-to-coast flight. No music, no movie, no games. What is this, 1969? What are we supposed to do? Talk to your neighbor? Read a book? Ah, les amis, la crise, ça craint. (Yes, I write this in English, so the French readers will suffer for my art, but they are entitled to a few compensations - if the anglophones ask, I'll try and translate those brilliant nuggets of French language, if I still can...). Of course, this rant from someone who almost never partakes in in-flight entertainment.  

Good pasteurized (I kid you not) crab bisque at Charlotte airport. 

Wonder if the hand-picking is done before or after pasteurization...

We spend the night at a drab hotel along the terminally depressing Fort Lauderdale waterfront. A sixties motel in between the behemoth Hilton and the equally huge, not yet open, new Donald Trump venture. An outrageously expensive but excellent dinner on the ocean-facing patio of the Ritz-Carlton restaurant - pretty much the only thing open - does restore us from our travels. The evening is spent sipping a lemon drop and watching the few lost souls, who like us an hour before, err along the interminable boulevard in search for food, a cafe, a place to sit, a shop, a light, any sign of civilization... 

Vatican Intelligence

"Intelligent Design isn't science even though it pretends to be, if you want to teach it in schools, intelligent design should be taught when religion or cultural history is taught, not science."

Here is your quiz of the day: who said this?
No, you're not going to guess.

This dissenting opinion on the recent decision of the Kansas Board of Education to teach Intelligent Design in science classes was proffered by... the Vatican's chief astronomer, Rev. George Coyne. See, you've already learned something reading this. There is a chief astronomer at the Vatican?! Yes, and his abode is not the shabbiest either - the observatory is at Castel Gandolfo, the papal summer residence just outside Rome, and you know how Jesuits always found the best places to settle. The castle has three domes, one the expected Bernini-designed coupola for the chapel, and the other two for the observatory telescopes! I could insert some smart-ass quip on the necessity of the terrestrial envoys of God to actually have to look into the sky to know what's there, but that's exactly the point of Dr. Coyne.
He says that, of course, the Big guy created the whole thing, but that since then he has been pretty hands-off, behaving more like "an encouraging parent", "not continually intervening". God flipped the switch, he says in substance, but "science explains the history of the universe". God in his infinite freedom continuously creates a world that reflects that freedom at all levels of the evolutionary process to greater and greater complexity."

We don't agree on how the switch was pulled, but since neither you nor I know - or can even begin to comprehend - how the world was created, your version is as good as any. It's not every day that you will hear me say I agree, even in part, with the Catholics...

The complete AP article is at: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20051118/ap_on_re_eu/vatican_evolution;_ylt=AnGYIZ6FZfsLC8s6xQ7B2j6s0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTA3MjBwMWtkBHNlYwM3MTg-

Blowing up the earth

You wouldn’t expect the oil industry to waste their hard-earned money funding research to try and compensate for the ill effects of their activity on our planet, would you. Well, they did just that, in collaboration with the Canadian government and the American Department of Energy. It was reported yesterday that an experiment to re-inject carbon dioxide into the underground holes created by oil drilling was successful. They managed to rid the atmosphere of 5 million tons of CO2 and stick it underground.

I am not sure what that represents compared to what we produce, or how much needs to be removed from the atmosphere to hope to compensate for greenhouse gas effect on global temperature. The trumpeting from the experimentators is that, if we did this everywhere over the globe, we could reduce atmospheric CO2 by half, over the next century. Now, I am a pessimist, but is anyone going to first try and calculate the effect blowing up gas into the planet might have? What happens if an earthquake decides to crack the ground above one of these gas stores? Will the planet bolt in the other direction like a suddenly deflating balloon, until it hits Jupiter or whatever planet happens to be orbiting in the wrong place? Sure, this would help the extra-solar system exploration programs, but would we still be here to enjoy the scientific benefits? And, if the repartition of the man-made underground holes is uneven around the globe, as it is, is this intensive gassing going to change the density of one hemisphere compared to the other even so slightly to inch the planet out of orbit?

Of course, you cynics were right – this is not a philanthropic endeavor. The result of injecting CO2 in holes is that it increases the pressure inside the hole, thereby pushing out whatever oil is left there. It is therefore a way to increase the yields of existing holes, and to improve the benefits of oil companies. In the words of the Energy Secretary, "we would see billions of additional barrels of oil and a reduction of CO2 emissions equivalent to pulling more than 200 million cars off the road for a year." Am I the only one who sees the irony of removing CO2 from the atmosphere, so that we can get more oil to power more cars who can produce more CO2?

Moon, Mars and Lemon Drops

Tonight is a full moon. Get out and watch, Mars is at its closest to the Moon. It is an incredibly bright red toddler-sized dot, next to it's big round mother. At some point during the night, it should even be eclipsed.

Last night we finally found an satisfying recipe of Lemon Drop - a supposedly "girly" cocktail invented in the 70s in San Francisco. It is decadent and delicious, so I thought I'd share. The trick is the superfine sugar - which can be made in a pestle and mortar out of regular sugar.
1 and 1/2 ounce (or whatever your dose is...) of vodka
1 ounce Cointreau
1 teaspoon superfine sugar
1/2 ounce freshly squeezed lemon juice
Add all ingredients to the shaker half-filled with ice cubes. Shake 40 times to get the sugar dissolved. Serve in glasses with a rim of the same sugar. The Délots of all genders loved it.

Premier essai

This is my first try - let's see how it looks. It will be short because AA is awake.