Day 10 ~ Aruba
Monday, May 2
We’ve reached Aruba, and I’m awakened by the sound of Bob shouting next door. (He is the Serial Cruiser equivalent of a flock of seagulls.) There are several other ships in the harbor, including one that seems to cater to the South American clientele, since the overhead announcements are in Spanish. Of course, an eavesdropper would think our ship came directly from downtown Berlin.
Snookie brings me breakfast before settling in to watch the teen-movie channel (this from the boy who hated high school) and I curl up with my iCrack. And by my third cup of coffee, I have even managed to finish Elizabeth I. Big surprise: She dies.
The modern day news is that Osama bin Laden has been killed in Pakistan. Let’s see: We were in Maui when they caught Saddam Hussein and in the Cotswolds when Gorbachev was taken hostage. Maybe the CIA should pay us to go on vacation.
We’ve reached Aruba, and I’m awakened by the sound of Bob shouting next door. (He is the Serial Cruiser equivalent of a flock of seagulls.) There are several other ships in the harbor, including one that seems to cater to the South American clientele, since the overhead announcements are in Spanish. Of course, an eavesdropper would think our ship came directly from downtown Berlin.
Snookie brings me breakfast before settling in to watch the teen-movie channel (this from the boy who hated high school) and I curl up with my iCrack. And by my third cup of coffee, I have even managed to finish Elizabeth I. Big surprise: She dies.
The modern day news is that Osama bin Laden has been killed in Pakistan. Let’s see: We were in Maui when they caught Saddam Hussein and in the Cotswolds when Gorbachev was taken hostage. Maybe the CIA should pay us to go on vacation.
True to its Dutch roots, Aruba is spotless. So clean, in fact, that one poor bastard walks smack into a glass wall, leaving his head print as evidence. Once we get past the usual gantlet of vendors waving laminated maps (“Island tour?”) we find wide streets, upscale shops (mixed in with the usual Diamonds International and Kay’s) and a perfectly groomed park leading down to an equally pristine beach.
The buildings are of Dutch architecture but in fanciful colors with white trim around the baroque gables – sort of a wedding cake on steroids. One happy island, indeed. (Not counting the crabs, of course, who don’t know that I ate their cousin yesterday for lunch.)
The buildings are of Dutch architecture but in fanciful colors with white trim around the baroque gables – sort of a wedding cake on steroids. One happy island, indeed. (Not counting the crabs, of course, who don’t know that I ate their cousin yesterday for lunch.)
Happy, however, is one thing. Temperate weather is quite another, and in spite of the eight drops of rain that fall as we step off the ship, it is hot. Oppressively so, and we give up in a little over an hour. There is lots of room at the pool, and we cheerfully vegetate with books and iPad (and the occasional foray for sugar-laden food) until a couple from Orange County stops by to announce how much they enjoy watching us dance. (They note that I’m always smiling while Snookie looks serious, the exact opposite of our real-life personas.)
They are less impressed with our skill, I suspect, than with our willingness to make fools of ourselves. Sort of like a dog walking on two legs. Or, in this case, on two left paws. (They’ve been married 35 years, and we convince them it’s never too late to learn.)
Then an old guy poaching in the hot tub calls out that he admires our dancing, too. And it gets better: Snookie gets yet another compliment on his old-guy hat. More proof that this is our demographic. Heck, on Holland-America, he would probably be elected King of the Geezers.
During tonight’s dancing, I suddenly feel self-conscious: It’s not paranoia if people really are looking at you! But Snookie feels obligated to live up to his reputation and drags me out for every dance, including a merengue: Stomp, two, three, four; stomp, six, seven, eight. And he requests a fast waltz for the final dance. We get an up-tempo “That’s Amore” and nearly break a hip spinning around the floor. But we’ve earned at least part of our dinner!