Shopping With a Ship Captain

 

Shopping With a Ship Captain

I once went shopping with a ship captain. On his ship, where I was working. As an enrichment speaker, I'd traveled aboard cruise ships for more than 20 years, my best dream job ever. I saw the world up close and from the sea, and there is no better way that I can think of to experience everything there is to experience, while not worrying about hotels and cars, or extra travel plans, touring, food, and more.

Life on a cruise ship is so easy. It's all there. A gym, bars, restaurants, reading rooms, a salon, a spa, multiple pools, special events, coffee shops, a promenade with fancy stores, art galleries, so many things to see and do.

I was one of those things “to do”. When at sea, between ports, passengers can pick from a daily newsletter of scheduled events around the ship. Or they can do nothing, which is another glorious reason to sail away. How about a movie? First-run films were always available in the theater or privately streamed to a stateroom upon request. How about origami napkin folding? Carving a watermelon six different ways? Maybe a port shopping review with the guide who will get money from stores you buy from. Or ME! How about me? Interesting “edu-tainment” in the large auditorium, about a multitude of subjects, mostly fun, interesting, comedic presentations about all sorts of subjects picked by the cruise company to present. A favorite is etymology (word origins), probably because our language evolved from sailors at sea long ago. Another area of my expertise is gemology. Passengers like to learn about gems and jewelry and wherever we were headed to determined which stones I'd talk about. Emeralds in South America, opals for Australia, peridot in the Canary Islands, Canada has ammolite, and so on. Jewelry is one of the most popular purchases when cruising. Luxury items to remember a luxurious holiday.

My lectures were very popular and I was pleased to be in high demand from many cruise lines. I started aboard British ships for many years, then finally migrated to American ships too. (But always preferred the smaller British boats to the behemoths that America insists on making even bigger every year.)

One year, I celebrated a BIG birthday aboard a Norwegian ship. My favorite captain at the helm. Weather issues meant missing a couple ports and staying at sea and he asked me to offer some special lectures for high rollers, people that stayed in big suites or those that had spent a lot of money already. Several of us stayed up one night and personally addressed envelopes to these select passengers and they were posted on the doors of these privileged passengers. It was a wonderful presentation. Special because it was intimate, only a couple hundred people instead of the usual huge crowd, with loads of questions and participation, followed by a raffle for a fancy ring that someone gleefully won.

Then the captain rewarded me with a special birthday present, a strand of fine pearls and earrings that matched. Maybe my reaction wasn't the best, because I already owned pearls and earrings and though appreciative and grateful, I think my reaction registered as, well, not really.

He asked and I was delicately honest.

"What would you like that you see here?” He waved his hand over the jewelry cases. I pointed to a gold with diamonds cuff bracelet that I had tried on one evening and really loved, but it was a high-ticket item and we both laughed.

Then the captain said, “let's go shopping.” I had no idea what he meant, but I followed him out into the promenade and he laced my arm inside his. OK, I thought, FUN! We went from store to store; everybody moving aside when we came in, excited to see the captain in their store. It was a game. He wanted to do something lovely for me, but also wanted to test his own security system. There was a nervous feel to the shopkeepers, unused to this unusual situation.

The captain would ask me, “what do you like in here?” and I'd point and he'd lift it off the display and I'd try it on, or he'd just take something and give it to me. Then he would wave up at the security cameras and we'd leave and go to the next store. No money was exchanged. No shop workers stopped us. They laughed and let him do whatever he wanted.

A $250 bottle of Chanel No. 5? Mmmmmm, it smelled nice. “I like that,” he said. And it was mine. Swarovski crystal pen? “Beautiful,” he exclaimed and asked for the box to go with it. Then he saw a matching necklace and said, “how about this to match?” I tried it on and Yes! In each shop, he'd reach for the pretty or expensive and as he “lifted” each thing to take, he'd again wave to his security team. The attendants would wrap each thing and hand it over and that was what we did in every single shop. Such fun! My favorite champagne, a bauble here or there, fancy scarf, arms full of birthday gifts and glorious personal time with my favorite ship man at sea.

I had the best time and it was such a surprise that it didn't register until much later what it all meant to me.
Afterward, we went for fancy birthday dinner at the French restaurant and it was my best birthday meal ever. (Except the staff singing to me. I always get embarrassed by that singing stuff, memories of being made to wear a lobster hat at Red Lobster, long ago.)

For days, I admired and sorted through all my goodies. So much better than a single strand of pearls. Real treasure, both the things and the experience.

But it wasn't until a week later that the biggest blessing of all was bestowed on me. Asked yet again to do a presentment for crew and staff only, something special for my shipmates, I set up in the piano lounge and gave a fine performance, first with facts, followed up with comedy, and then played piano for the stunned group. I'd never done anything like that before on a ship and it was nice for me too.

After everyone left, the captain called me over to walk with him. We went through the art gallery and over to the jewelry store and he opened a drawer and pulled out a felt pouch and handed it to me with a “thank you, this is for you. Happy Birthday.”

No wave to the security guys this time. Everyone already knew about it. I opened the red velveteen bag and inside was the gold with diamonds bracelet that I wanted from the beginning.

What a moment. What a cruise. What a birthday.

I am so blessed. 

FIRED! In 45

 

Fired! In 45

Gibby's. Fort Lauderdale. FIRED! It was forever ago, but it is still funny to me. (It wasn't the least bit funny when it happened.)

Gibby's was a well-known, long-established restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. I think it lasted something like 40 years or so before weather damage and interior weariness signaled The End.

But I was there in the beginning. Day One.

Never a drinker, I lived by the beach and was still a bar-going 21 year old. Partying and playing and searching for dates while shouting over disco music; these were typical twenties before payphones disappeared and everything electronic took over everything social.

I didn't drink because alcohol tastes terrible and it made me sick. Half a beer and I barf. Very lightweight date, me. A ginger ale and some interesting banter and we might ignite a small spark. Extra small, because I can't get drunk on ginger ale, even with two stemmed cherries.

But who doesn't like the bar atmosphere and I needed night work ( I was a bank teller by day), so I thought it would be fun to be in the bar ambiance where the excitement and laughter and noise made me feel comfortable, but not be obliged to drink. BARTENDER. That's the ticket. How hard could that be? Getting paid to party!

I read a bit about bartending and had certainly watched enough Tom Cruise wannabees behind a bar shaking up a cocktail. I could do it. Mostly, people tell you what they want. Rum and Coke. Gin and tonic. Vodka and orange. It would be easy. Fake it till I make it was my mentality. After a few weeks and having a chance to watch coworkers, I figured I'd learn on the job. After all, there's the trusty Mr. Boston's Bartender Guide hanging on a chain behind the bar. If somebody ordered something too fancy, I'd sneak a peek.

As the world's best interview, I always get the job. I make great first impressions. My last impressions are memorable too. It's the middle impressions that get me in trouble.

Gibby's was making a grand splash in papers and around town about opening. They interviewed new hires on TV and picked me! They had big interview events and getting a job there was pretty spectacular for loads of people. The restaurant defined luxury. During interviews, there were group tours, uniform and food samplings, all kinds of unusual excitement and corporate involvement that goes with these sorts of upcoming grand openings. I remember a super seminar we had with a wine company after I got hired and before we opened, where we sampled wines, learned all about them and how to recommend them and got gifts from the winery and a personal fancy corkscrew.

Anyway, The Interview. I applied to be a bartender. I'd had enough waitress jobs to last a lifetime and Bartender was my new goal. We didn't have resumes back then, we filled out applications. Remember those? I might have lied a little bit on mine. I had nearly been a career cocktail waitress and switched up a couple of those jobs to behind the bar experience. Employers didn't check back then. Especially if they liked you. I wouldn't be doing brain surgery … other than in liquid form, so hey, hire me! 

But I made my great first impression. We had a good interview and I knew that they would hire me and they did. I was going to work at Gibby's! I told all my friends. And I was going to BE A BARTENDER!

Oh to be 21 again and know everything there is to know. Considerably older now, I look back on that girl with warm affection and astonishment simultaneously.

Day One. Boy was I excited in my fancy Gibby's uniform with the black and white bartender's look and red bow tie. Very crisp and sharp. Oh yes, I felt that I'd made it. After a brief meeting with the whole staff and a scrumptious introductory meal on our bosses, we OPENED!

Customers poured in opening night. They were lined up waiting. The bar filled fast. The service bar cranked quickly too. Luckily, I wasn't on service bar, because those orders pop fast with no time to think and waitresses waiting impatiently.

A man ordered a Jack & 7. I knew what that was! See? Piece of cake. Somebody else ordered straight up bourbon, another asked for a house brand. A glass of wine. A shot. A beer. Nothing hard at all. This was fun! They were lining up. I got a TIP! Everyone was laughing and cutting up and I couldn't believe I would get paid to pour and party like this.

And. Then. It. Happened. A business man in a high thread count custom suit sat down and asked for a Brandy Alexander. 

A WHAT? Not even an hour on the job and somebody wants a drink I've never heard of. My heart raced. I was too embarrassed to ask him what was in it and I didn't want to get caught not knowing, so I sort of pivoted around a bit and bent down to sneak at look in my little book.

Mr. Boston's got me in trouble. My boss saw me look. Panic. I lost my fake it till you make it in my frantic search for an Alexander. Whew. I finally found it. Brandy, Creme de Cacao, and cream. I dropped the book, picked up a skipped heartbeat, and perspired in my new fancy uniform, but made the dang drink. It actually looked like the little picture from the book when I set it down. The man took a sip and nodded. 

But ... it was too late. My cover was broken. My “experience” listed on my application was a lie and my boss called me to his office and asked me what just happened at the bar and why did I not know how to make a basic drink?

Basic? How is it basic if I've never heard of it and I know I know everything? My mind was racing in an effort to bail me out of my brandy blunder.

Dejected and not yet savvy enough to spin his head with any fast stories, I mumbled something about having forgotten or just wanting to make sure. He wasn't buying it and he fired me. Just like that. 45 minutes on the job and I was well done. Fired.

Gibby's was there in that spot for 40 plus years, but I never went back. The only meal I ever ate there was that before opening employee meal. What happened there, completely my fault, nevertheless stung me hard. That I couldn't just fool my way into a skilled service job. 

Do you know what I did? Not taking kindly to not knowing everything about something I was interested in, I went to Bartender School and I became a Master Bartender. The International School of Bartending. International. That's right, Tom Cruise has nothing on me. Well, that's not exactly true... he has a lot on me. But can he curl napkins with a bar glass? Can Tom slice lemons and oranges into fancy curls? Bet he can't make a perfectly blended Long Island Iced Tea either.

Trading my bow tie for my famed Mai Tai, my favorite mixologist jobs were in comedy clubs, because nothing goes better with flavorful Spirits like funny comedians.

I never learned to like liquor myself and I never tasted a Brandy Alexander in my life just on purpose. I got fired in 45 minutes, but I learned a good lesson at Gibby's and humility is never served on ice. It is always served straight up.

I got to keep the personal fancy corkscrew.

Just Another Lori Story

Confessions From a Colonoscopy

 

Confessions From a Colonoscopy

I was one of Those. Don't judge me. Yes, one of those. I was someone who was never going to get a colonoscopy. I'd thought about it. (They make you think about it.) Doctors had prescribed it. Friends had insisted too. I even went so far as to go see a friend who is “that kind” of doctor, because I knew I could trust him and he went so far as to offer his services for free, so I only had to pay for the facility fee; where they look up there to see what you've done down there.

That's as close as I came to a colonoscopy. He gave me the prep (you've all heard) and I went home, fully equipped to go forward, then promptly backed out. Canceled my colonoscopy.

It's not fear that makes me this way, rather, well, maybe there is a little fear in there. But mostly, I just didn't believe I needed a colonoscopy yet and that YET kept up year after year. Eventually, I needed a CT scan for something else and they had a look around and I decided (with my advanced Google medical degree) that the scan sufficed for the thus far avoided colonoscopy. They saw nothing out of the ordinary.

I skirted the issue at every medical appointment along with the weight scale, an unfortunate habit I picked up a decade ago. The numbers annoy me. It doesn't matter what they are, I don't like them, nor the cheery nurse announcement that comes with stepping off the scale – me, with all my clothes on, a coat, 2 pound pair of shoes, and the 4 pound neck scarf. Nobody ever deducts for the scarf. So I stopped doing that and I stopped discussing tests I didn't need or want, including anything related to my colon, which is my veritable insides. No, they're tender, leave them alone. Like any aging goddess, goodness knows there is enough real stuff falling apart to pay attention to.

Then I ended up in an ER. In the middle of a pandemic. I had put up with a few pains and unrelated issues for a long time, waiting for the dang Covid to give it a rest when I ran out of time. I dragged my sorry self to a doctor who said I had to go to the hospital right away. Not something I expected to hear and not feeling very compliant (that part is normal for me), I went home. But the next morning I put on the big-girl pants and drove myself to the ER for some answers. Whatever it was that kept hurting me had hurt me for a long time, so I wasn't overly worried about it. I worried more about the Virus and I already know that the best place to catch anything sickly is in a hospital. That's the part that scared me.

I don't know where everything went wrong, but I do know it started when they snatched my weight from the bed in the ER. They just WEIGH YOU. No stepping up on anything, no asking, no telling, and thank goodness, no scarf (since they'd already removed everything from me but the backless gown). No cheery announcement either, but I should have known from there that I had entered some kind of relinquish control cosmos. 

I also didn't plan to stay. I only came for a diagnosis and because the doctor said I needed to be seen. But too bad. They kept me.

Basically, the doctors decided I needed the “ultimate car wash”, you know, the one with the prewash, the bubbly scrubs, the fancy sprays, and the after kick, followed by the wind tunnel air dryer --- or is it fryer? ---- because I went through every test I've ever heard of for days on end and with no food. They starved me. Really. Oh sure, I got broth and juice and tea, and NO FOOD for days. Only IV for nutrients and test after test.

I got my first Covid test ever and since I hadn't been anywhere since March 2020, I knew it would be fine. No Covid found and they knew that in less than 5 minutes and I wondered why everyone couldn't get Covid tested without resorting to my ploy of an ER visit.

They were watching my heart, but I assured them that my heart is broken, not defective. My pleas fell flat and a stress test came next. Stress? Check. I have stress and I need food. Nope. No food. One good thing about Covid is that they didn't want me on a treadmill (heavy-breathing all my awful aerosols around), so they injected me with poison instead to make my heart more miserable than its starved self already was.

Eventually, the doctor nobody wants to see appeared at the foot of my bed. “Tomorrow, you're having a colonoscopy,” he said. “No, thanks,” I said. “I don't want one. I had a CT scan and they found nothing.” We discussed. He stated his reasons and I stated mine. Then this doctor mentioned the “Michael Jackson drug”, Propofol. Hmmmmm, I thought …. they'd already humiliated me and starved me and I do enjoy a waltz with Propofol (my old friend from my broken leg trauma surgeries) so I accepted the doctor's deal.

Furthermore, in a hospital, the nasty prep that everyone jokes about isn't nasty at all. It's Gatorade. Two tons of it, but it's still just Gatorade. No bad taste or consistency involved. Those of you who have had a colonoscopy know what my night-before was like. Those of you who have not had a colonoscopy, you don't need details. Your day is coming.

Suffice to say, although the Gatorade did not taste bad, I was still hooked up AND plugged in, and unplugging and wheeling an IV stand with you while you're prepping for a colonoscopy is not for the slow or the uninformed. Doing that every few minutes for hours makes one Olympic worthy for the Colonoscopy Relay. I wasn't even trying to unplug those machines nicely like I'd done the first few times. I was yanking cords fiercely from the walls exactly the way my mother taught me never to do. I didn't have time. How do people everywhere survive this?

The anesthesiologist had beautiful eyes. They were warm and conversational, with an edge of laughter, and I like comedians. Especially comics who knock me out. He was double masked and double shielded and covered all over so that only his eyes peered out at me in the operating room. Room number 4. They'd all just had lunch. I hadn't eaten for four days. They were jovial. I was weakened. He came over and huddled close and promised me he'd announce the Propofol and that it would be a breeze. He was so nice, or maybe my memory of him is oiled by the Propofol that I saw dripping into my hand and the lovely dream I had, which was so long and only 10 minutes. I remembered what I saw in my dream and they saw nothing but an exquisitely clean colon, which was my reward for running through the night with an IV pole and a flood of Gatorade.

All this to say:  Get Your Colonoscopy. Get it before it gets you. You don't want something like that creeping up on you the way that it stealthily crept up on me. 

And I hope that you get a really nice anesthesiologist.

Just Another Lori Story

HOPE

 Hope For Help

Hollering "Help!" oddly didn't help. Crying wasted precious salt reserves that my ocular system struggled to save. Disjointed thoughts battled each other on the overcrowded battlefield of my warped brain. Pain on top of pain promised only more pain on top of more pain.

Going beneath the bottom of the bottoms brought the resignation that there was nothing more that I could do, think or try. In the distance shone a tiny ray of (dare I think it?) H.O.P.E. Actually hope is all that is left when everything else packs up and leaves.

Hope is the last life-preserver before the ship slips beneath view. Hope is the friend I thought I lost that calls from out of the blue with a joke or a jingle. Hope is the knot untied that threatened to remain a tangled mess forever. Hope is help that waits quietly inside where it's always waited ... quiet, unobtrusive, steadfast, loyal. It's the seed of survival waiting to be watered into full bloom.

Hope is FAITH.

Many people "wish". Wishing differs from hope in that wishing indicates lack of probability. Wishing is dreaming.

We wish to win the lottery. We wish the job of our dreams to magically appear via a networking event full of other wishful bores. We wish for the car of our dreams, a mate who is loyal (and gorgeous), tall wonderful children who will support us when they become astronauts or doctors, and that our Oscar speech will be the viral video of show business for decades. We wish. And we rub the genie lamps of our dreams with those wishes.

Hope is different.

While wishes hold fantasy and imagination, hope wagers with reality and possibility. With hope comes conquering strength. Hope gets support from Will and Effort. Hope lifts impossibility. Hope finds a way.

Tears dry up, leaving residue, resolve and resolution along a well-worn path. Hope is a can-do call for action.

Hope means survival and most of all, hope means all of our wishes and dreams can come true.

That is my wish for you.

Hope is Faith and Faith is forever. 

Just Another Lori Story

The Blue Dress

The Blue Dress

I found this pretty blue and white dress at a small shop in Cancun. It fit. I liked it a lot. The shopkeeper complimented me in it and I twirled around from one mirror to another, deciding if I really needed it. Of course not. I didn’t “need” another dress or any clothes. Like most ladies, I just like to shop and buy something new.

But this something cost a bit more than I wanted to spend. Talking myself out of it, especially since the saleslady wouldn’t stop chattering, I hung it back on the rack and left without buying anything. That felt good.

After looking around in the other shops, I went back to the beach and rented a horse. Wearing nothing but a yellow bathing suit, I rode bareback along the shore and after galloping miles away, rode right into the water for a mutual cool down, horse and rider. The horse couldn’t wait for the refreshing water and swam far out with me still on his back. Hanging on to his mane for balance, here I was, in the Gulf of Mexico, happy as I’ve ever been.

We rode back and dipped into the water here and there for cool downs. It was just me and the horse and the ocean. At the stables, the horse kept nudging me. The groom said it was unusual, because he didn’t want his oats. He still wanted to play.

I still wanted the blue dress.

But I put it out of my mind and went on to dinner, dancing, a night’s barbecue by the beach, some swimming, the usual celebrations at the resort.

Exhausted, I fell asleep as soon as head hit pillow.

Did I dream about the fun? The horse? The gorgeous azure waters of Cancun? NO. I dreamed about the dang dress.

When I woke up the next morning, keenly aware that I had dreamed about that stupid dress, I decided it would be OK to go and get it. If it preoccupied my thoughts that much, maybe it was meant to be mine. So what that it was too expensive. So what that I didn’t need it. I wanted it. And it did look nice on me. Better to get it and regret it than to pass it and want it later, I justified.

After breakfast, I went to town again and back to the same shop. My dress was gone. Someone had bought it. The end. I looked and looked, hoping somebody had put it back on a different rack, but no. It was gone and the saleslady was a different person, so I couldn’t even ask about it.

Sad that I had passed it by, I looked around at some of the other choices, but I knew I didn’t want anything else.

The bell on the door chimed as another woman came in. I overheard her tell the clerk she wanted to return a dress. From behind a row of clothes, I watched from afar as she pulled my dress from out of her bag and handed it to the clerk. My heart thumped hard. How is this even possible?

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Yes, it’s only a silly dress. But still…. What kind of timing did I have to have to be there at that very moment; to happen into the store at exactly the same time a lady comes to return what I wanted to buy? It’s a different day. It’s a tiny wish I carried along a beach on the back of a horse and into the night within a dream. Small miracles become bigger wonders when they personalize so smoothly, and fall into place after a dream. Five minutes before or after and I would have missed this moment. These sorts of events do not escape my notice. Synchronicity. It’s weird and wonderful, simultaneously, and I never miss an opportunity to be grateful for the unexpected or the unexplainable, no matter how insignificant it may seem.

I hid behind the racks, not wanting to interrupt the transaction. The clerk asked if she’d worn it and the lady said, “No, I bought it yesterday and decided it’s not really for me.”  Indeed! I thought. It’s not for you, because it’s supposed to be mine.

After the customer left, I popped up unremembered from the rear of the store. The dress was hanging alone on a rack behind the counter, just waiting for me.

Without any undue fuss or emotion, I walked up to the register, asked for the dress and bought it. All the lady said to me was, “Wow, that’s funny… another lady just returned this.” I nodded without a word, keeping my story to myself.

I still love that little dress. I’m glad I got it. And I love the story too.

Just Another Lori Story

Happy Easter 2020

Tons of Nuns

Santiago de Compostela is the capital of northwest Spain's Galicia region. The cathedral in the main square centers the town and is the ultimate destination for those completing the popular route of the Camino de Santiago from France to Spain. A grueling journey, pilgrims have been determined to conquer the winding route for centuries. The walk takes about a month, if you walk endlessly every day. I arrived in Vigo, Spain, by cruise ship, because walking endlessly on any day disrupts my preassigned pampering schedule, prearranged by an onboard concierge. Cruise ships are more comfortable than gravel roads through tiny towns.

A fancy air-conditioned limo bus whisked me from the ship to the church. The countryside of Spain, mesmerizing enough, is nothing compared to the first glimpse of the Cathedral de Santiago. I wasn't prepared for the magnificence.

I'd been given instructions. I'd been told by the ship's crew who knew: what to wear, how to behave, even who to light a candle for and what to pray. But the splendor of this church, the size and significance it carries within the Catholic religion, the crowds gathered ... something about the atmosphere signaled that this church might be the Mother Church. It is knock-you-over stunning at first sight, and though I'd seen pictures and been coached about everything (because I was leading a passenger group tour), the initial entrance into the square and the first glimpse of the enormous church caught me more than off guard.

The traditional first thing one does is stretch out flat on the several thousand year old pavement stones in front of the church and look backwards up and over your head. Literally, lie down on the dirty pavement and look upside down at the church. Not keen to do this, nor did I believe most people would do it (except lemmings, of course), or that there was anything to see. But there they were. Throngs of people, every shape and age and size, rows of them. Lying on the ground in every manner of clothing, flexing in all kinds of contorted positions to stare up, over and backwards at the church. They looked locked on something.

OK, I thought. I can do that too. Then I did. It made me giggle. There is something to see. But I won't spoil it for you and tell you what, because like me, you'll want to experience that moment for yourself if you ever get to Santiago.

Time to go inside. As ours was a prearranged tour, we had access to a special side door, and I'd been instructed to enter through that different door to check in. The front door to the church had lines that stretched for blocks around the town square. It moved slowly. Worshippers threaded in through the huge, oddly slender front doors, and walked the length of the long church, with their mouths held agape at the majesty and sheer expansiveness inside the towered church, which is filled with relics and color and smells and older set back sections, unseen splendors everywhere an eye lands, even above. Especially above.

I went to the side entrance exclusively used for VIP visitors or clergy of the church. This early afternoon, clergy clogged that side door portal into Santiago. There were tons of nuns. I never saw so many nuns at one time, indistinguishable from one another, except for the different color wimples worn on their heads.

I looked out of place. Gathering my headscarf tight, covering every hair on my head, I tied it up as Marcus had instructed. He said I had to be covered up completely to go in with the nuns.

As if I were going to innocently blend in with tons of nuns. My sins smelled. I felt so out of place. But I stood there, all swaddled in my secret sanctity.

Meanwhile, it was warm. Getting hotter by the minute, as I stood solemnly, waddling side-by-side along with the line, perspiring nervously, moving inch by inch, quietly ahead, all wrapped up like the only person who didn't belong in the nun line.

As we approached the arched entrance, I saw each group of nuns enter and then go off into their own groups or disappear deep into the church to pray. Looking around, the red glass of the hundreds of lit candles cast an eerie glow over the entire church. A smell of old and holy mixed with man-made fabrics and tourists from everywhere and new candles being lit flooded my nose, right before I saw two priests swing the largest incense burner I've ever seen, filled with fiery incense, across the entire length of the church. Intense! Both the incense and the scented assault, not necessarily unpleasant, just too much at once on my various senses. There were many sights and sounds and smells all at once. My covered head needed to burst forth and experience all these surreal scenes. Icons and saints and windows and throngs of people and tons of nuns. Nuns were everywhere. Praying filled the sanctuary with a buzz, words in every tongue imaginable.

But only one tourist was covered up like a nun. Only one looked completely out of place in Santiago de Compostela that sunny Monday afternoon.

Me.

It was a joke. Marcus and the others had set me up to look like a religious zealot, but there are no official dress codes to come into Santiago de Compostela. I took off the scarf that covered my malleable brain.

My group laughed. Strangers laughed. I freed my hair and my soul at the same time. With a laugh, of course.

And among those tons of smiling nuns, I hope at least one of them offered up a prayer for hapless me.

We are all just struggling to make it. To do the best that we can. It's good to have fun. I know. Because I asked a nun. 

Just Another Lori Story

The Man With Swagger

The Man With Swagger

His walk of confidence cleared the air ahead of him. I saw him from afar the minute he came into the cruise ship’s colorful casino, his swagger, his attention-getting stroll, not a rolling posture of arrogance but of certainty. That’s why I watched. That’s why I never looked away.

He sauntered across the casino floor towards me.

Heads turned one by one to follow the man’s footsteps before quickly snapping back to see cherries ding loudly or screens flash wildly in front of their faces, machines demanding more money for more lights and more sounds. 

People, mostly older ladies, sit for hours and dump coins into the ever-hungry slot machines. Smoky semi-circles of crusty card players sit side by side grunting and waving coded hand signals which are anything but coded if you watch for more than five minutes.

Not me. I like Roulette. I understand Roulette. Many people do not understand it and many more don’t know quite how to conquer those kinds of odds. Still others prefer to play with other players while I like to play alone. Just me against the house. I don’t want to wait for you to make a calculated bet, double down, scream at your spouse, or worst of all, blow cigar smoke my way from two seats over. No thanks. I’ll play roulette. Not many people stick around there. That, I can handle. The house doesn’t always have the upper hand if you know what you’re doing. I thought I knew what I was doing. I won money at roulette.

But when Mr. Swagger walked over and stood right alongside me, immediately commandeering the roulette table where I sat, I knew I knew nothing at all. Not about roulette, not about confidence, not about a casino and how it works, nothing. Especially on a cruise ship! Something told me I was about to get a master lesson.

Land casinos have a defined percentage of advantage, are closely monitored, each state instituting their own laws. Cruise ship casinos bend the rules a wee bit. The odds can be different and the house absolutely commands a higher percentage. In either case, somebody occasionally gets to win. Has to win! Otherwise, the gig would be up and no one would put another quarter into an Incredible Hulk glowing green Double Diamond slot machine with double payouts for maximum play, or sit for hours at the edge of a tattered stool dumping quarters into a coin machine waiting for the towered piles of quarters to drop … the pile wrapped inside a $100 bill!

(Hate to break it to you, but I’ve watched them load that coin machine. The hundred dollar bill is all but glued in. You aren’t getting it.)

Anyway, back to Swag, now that we know him, we’re on a first name basis, right?

He sidled up to the edge of the roulette table and a hush fell over the few of us sitting there. Someone immediately got up and left. The intrigue scaled up a notch. The dealer perked up from his boring two, five, and fifty dollar shuffle. Cruise passengers can be stingy (casinos require CASH) and they normally know very little about casino games or gambling. Passengers fritter money in small increments and win much the same. Small. 

I’ve worked on cruise ships for years and I’ve only seen a few big wins. While tourists spend money on stupid stuff in nearly every port, there are only a few of them on each cruise who gravitate to the casino on a regular basis and the others pass through once or twice, lose their money, and don’t come back.

Swag pulled out fifties and hundreds. A wad. He expertly peeled off two hundred dollar bills, spread them apart on the green-felted table and asked for chips in a particular fashion. I froze. I listened in and watched in calm silence, which stilted my breath a little so as not to interrupt the man’s train of thought. The few idlers left there watched closely too, but dared not make a play or move.

I tried to blend into the background. Disappear, hoping Swag would not notice me inside his apparently native habitat and I would then be able to stay close and observe a rare species: a REAL gambler. Caught in the wild. He stood right next to me, on my right side. He smelled nice. Like a winner.

Swag briskly and deliberately placed all of the chips within two seconds. I watched, stunned. He knew exactly what combinations he wanted and what numbers to play. No hovering over a number, then changing his mind, like I do, waiting for the “feeling” from the Universe that THIS, this number I’m randomly selecting is not at all random. Since that’s happened to me maybe once … maybe another time, I’ve convinced myself that I have some special ability. I don’t. I’m just another silly roulette player who understands the game, wins a bit occasionally, but mostly wastes a bunch of time being wrong.

Part of me couldn’t believe anybody would risk $200 so fast in one pop. Meanwhile that’s not even a high bet and I’d broken an occasional sweat betting anything more than $20. He’d done this before. I could tell.

He was the only player playing, all the chips on the table were his. It’s like we all knew. The dealer gave the wheel an aggressive spin. Hard. It went around and around extra times compared to when he was spinning it for me.

I tried to guess which number the little ball would land on, silently in my head. I missed.

It stopped. 33. Black. I swiveled my head and looked swiftly back to the table.

Swag had a 10 token on 33. At 35 to 1 odds, that’s $350 right there!

But he’d also placed $10 and $5 chips about that square and tossed another onto the outside perimeter, into the black zone, betting on any black number, 2 to 1. So there’s another $10 won, for any black number, plus $10 for the 2 to 1 “odd” number bet, plus the other bets surrounding his win and I lost track of the rest. Suffice to say, the one play won Mr. Swagger close to $1000, I think.

I was floored! It happened very fast. So fast, that the casino floor manager shifted dealers, a sure sign of house uneasiness. What would Swag do? Nothing.

With no visible reaction at all, the epitome of coolness, he accepted his winning chips from the equally unemotional dealer, while I sat there completely emotional inside, but maintaining cool on the outside, quietly and permanently storing every move and every “tell” I had just witnessed, mostly the swagger, the confidence exuded, the swiftness and sureness of play.

The man knew what he was going to do before he came to the casino. He’d done this before and he’d done it successfully. I’d witnessed my master class in casino gambling. A Swagger class. A class I aspired to try….

Swag immediately put the original $200 back into his pocket. Smart move. Then he did it again and again. Big bets, followed by putting the bet amount away, followed by bigger bets. The math grew complicated, I tried to keep up, but within approximately 10 minutes, this man of confidence pocketed well over $10,000 and then he walked out.

I think that pays for a pretty fancy cruise, say, for a family of four?!

He hadn’t come for fun like the rest of us or to pass the time. This wasn’t entertainment to him. Or maybe it was? He came to collect. He’d taken money out of the house. Ouch. (That’s why your margarita on a cruise ship costs $17.)

The leaving is key. Smart hitters hit and run. They don’t stick around to lose their place or their money.

It took me two days to mull over and digest what I’d seen. On the third day after I’d seen Mr. Swagger do the deed, I bravely went back to the casino. I went very late at night, early morning, really. I took $200. I had a plan. And I’d rehearsed it in my head for two days. The believing probably mattered.

I left with $3500 too. And I left fast. I didn’t want it to be a fairy tale. The next morning I looked over at the nightstand. The money, still there. It was October 1^st. I’d hit straight up on #1. My $100 chip, the last chip down on the table, after a flurry of $10 chips, placed in a hurry as the dealer started the spin, I plopped it down on the date. I seem to remember faint applause and a hushed “Wow” when I swaggered back out of the casino.

Just another Lori story.