1 Shore Excursion (5 page)

The one fairly attractive man
—
thirty to forty
years old, I guessed—
just
stared
out the window.
He look
ed
a lot like
a
Latin
Johnny Depp,
with
long straight
dark hair
, dark
eyes
and a
mischievous,
wicked
air
about him
.
He
was
attractive, swarthy
,
maybe
South American
, with
a
runner’s build
—l
ong-legged and slender with lean muscle
.

What
i
s his name?

I plunged on.

“We
will soon
approach central London
,
where we will enjoy
A Quick Peek
at London, the included half-day tour described in your Trip Bibles.

“
At the conclusion of the tour, we will stop for a delightful lunch at the Stout and Snout, an authentic English pub.

“
After lunch, we’ll
make
a
specially arranged
visit to
a woolen mill where a private demonstration of the ancient art of weaving has been
scheduled
just for our group!
And, if time permits, you might just
enjoy
a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to hunt for bargains in the mill shop.

“
Then finally, we’ll go to our day rooms at the Duchess Hotel
, where you can
freshen up and maybe squeeze in a little nap before boarding
the
ship in Harwich.

“
But before we begin our adventure, let’s get acquainted.
I know that some of you have traveled with
one
an
other and IFT many times before, but others are new to us, and we all want to know you better.
So let’s introduce ourselves.
We’ll begin with you, Mrs. Goldstein.”

Mrs. Goldstei
n, beaming, reached for the microphone
.

“High Steppers,” I s
aid, still holding onto the mic
, “this is Ethel Goldstein, from White Plains.
She has traveled with us many, many times, all over the world.
Now Ethel, tell everyon
e all about yourself ...”

There.
We were off and running
.
N
o documents missing, no bags lost, no one sick or injured or feeling neglected yet.
This trip was going to be a piece of cake.

I had just wrapped myself in that comforting thought when a
dirty
white box truck hurled around us, horn blaring, its left front fender scraping the length of our bus.
Everyone screamed and Devon fought the wheel as the bus lurched sideways and slipped off the left shoulder of the road.

W
e were lucky.

The bus
sustained
only minor damage
—
a long, ugly scrape on the right side. No one inside was hurt, just frightened and furious.
Devon
did
a masterful job, but he, too, was angry.
Angry at the “sodding lorry” and at himself for not getting the tag number.
No one else had noticed it either.

In fact, two of the men, the youngish strangers in the back, didn’t seem
even
to have noticed the accident.
I
still hadn’t
memoriz
ed
their names, so I
checked
my list.
Johnny Depp’s
stand-in
was really
Fernando Ortiz
and
the
muscle-bound
guy in the Polo jacket next to him was
Jerome
Morgan.

Ortiz
continued reading
a newspaper
, with only a glance toward the window, while Morgan tapped away on a laptop as if nothing had happened.
But my old honeys were all shook up.

“O
kay
, Jay,” I murmured
, “it’s Show
t
ime.”

Let me tell you about Jeremiah Parker Wilson II.
He prefers to be called Jay
, he says because it rhymes with gay,
and he is absolutely the best traveling companion that anyone could wish for, especially when escorting a tour group.

He was named Jeremiah after a stern and fortunately long-dead grandfather, a
quiet and
devout Quaker who I am sure must be constantly whirling in his grave
over some of Jay’s more
colorful
speech patterns
and
outrageous
antics
.
Grandpa w
as counting on Jay to
grow up
, marry a nice girl, have a bunch of kids to carry on the family name,
and head the family dry-cleaning business
in the his
small
home
town in Pennsylvania.
Jay’s made it pretty clear
that isn’t
happening
. He
moved to Manhattan just as soon as
Grandpa died and
he could slip the leash.

Jay
has been in this
wacky
travel business
for
the last
sixteen
years
and loves it
. H
is wardrobe is ten times nicer than mine,
because he spends every dollar he can scrape up on it. Sales at Bergdorf’s, Barney’s and Saks are circled on his calendar. He shops outlet malls and sample sales and haunts all the off-price stores for big-name bargains. Jay would do without groceries for a month to buy a Hermes belt. A
nd his
loft in
Hell’s Kitchen
could win
interior design awards
.

I think h
e’s
nine or
ten years older than I am—I’m twenty-six—but I’ll never know for sure, because he
’ll never tell.

Because of the time he puts in at his gym,
Jay
is as strong as a professional wrestler, and not much escapes either him or his wit.
At 6’2” and over 200 pounds,
he
has defused many a dicey situation
with his sheer bulk
.
He has
smiling
brown eyes, wild red hair, and
is currently wearing a
Van Dyke beard.
He loves
designer clothes and
outrageous costumes
. Halloween and t
he Fifth Avenue Easter and Gay Pride parades are high points
in
his year.
The old ladies adore him, and
so
do
I
—
a fact
I would eat glass
rather than
admit. I beg to be paired with him on my trips, and most of the time I get my wish.

“Laaadiesss,” he yelled
,
“
a
re your panties in a wad or WHAT?”

The tension shattered into waves of laughter.
One sentence, and he had them all calmed down, happy again to be on the bus, happy to be anywhere with him.
I was, too.
Only Miss Shadrach still stared, white-faced, out the window.

Jay bounded down the aisle.

“Ruthie-baby, am I going to have to dance my little fan
ny
down this aisle to get you to smile?”
He loomed over her, and
cradling
her tiny, wrinkled face between his enormous paws, forced her to look at him.

He waggled his hips and the High Steppers roared
.
Ruth Shadrach, the most buttoned-up person on the bus, glowed pink with pleasure.

Jay has way more than his share of people magic.
He really just loves life, and
that
makes him irresistible.

Two nice guys in a green
compact
car that had been just behind the bus when it was hit by the box truck helped Devon check the bus for damage, even opening the luggage compartment on the side of the scrape to be sure it wasn’t jammed.
They said
they
hadn’t noticed the number of the box truck either,
but
they offered to call the police on their cell
phones and
act as
witnesses for the insurance if we needed them.

The damage wasn’t too bad
,
and
the
reckless
truck
driver
was long gone
.
He had never slowed when he scraped us.
Devon
even
claimed
he
’d
accelerated. If there had been a name or any markings on the truck, no one had noticed it.

Everything seemed to be working properly, so Devon thanked the men, said no to the police call offer, climbed back into the driver’s seat, and eased the bus back onto the roadway, waving goodbye to our new friends.

“Nice guys.
Pakistani, I think,” Jay said.
“But we should have gotten their numbers and addresses, in case we do need them as witnesses.”

“Relax,” I said, reclining my seat, “We have a busload of witnesses.”

And indeed we did.
Most of the High Steppers had spent the entire time glued to the windows, speculating and complaining, some taking pictures, and all offering advice.

Ruth insisted loudly that one of the Good Samaritans was “the foreign-looking gentleman who tried to steal my new red train case at the airport
,
” but no one was listening to Ruth anymore.

We spent the rest of the day as planned
—
“Yes, there’s Buckingham Palace.
No, we will not see the Queen
.
”
—
thankfully without further incident.
The
High Steppers
kept
up
the pace
fairly well, despite the long flight.

B
esides
drinking
lots of water and sleep
ing
on the plane
,
t
he only way to deal with jet-lag
(
I preach over and over
)
, is to hit the ground running when you arrive. It’s really true.
If you don’t you are messed up for days.

I
also try to get my little flock to w
alk outside in the sun
.
That helps
the old
body-clock re-adjust. The
absolute
worst thing you can do is go right to bed unless it’s
already
bedtime when you arrive at your destination.
Even if you are really sleepy, hopping in the sack on the morning of your arrival
makes the
period of
adjustment much longer
.

When we finally reached Harwich, Pied Piper
Jay
led the High Steppers onto the ship while Devon and I sorted out bags and completed the housekeeping.

“It wasn’t an accident, you know,” Devon insisted, as I prepared to leave him in the ship’s terminal
.
“That bugger
meant to hit us.”

“Oh, Devon, don’t say that.
Of course it was an accident,” I said. “Who would possibly want to harm the High Steppers?”

“Just be careful,
Sidney-girl,
that’s what I say.”

I patted his arm, hugged him goodbye, and hurried through security and up the gangway.
When I looked back to wave from the top of the platform, he was s
till standing there watching me in his brown oiled jacket,
his
red
Yorkshire face
looking
troubled.

Dinner
onboard
that
first
night was terrific, even better than expected.
I
ordered
a starter of hearts of palm, lobster bisque,
a pear, walnut and romaine salad
with raspberry vinaigrette
,
then Dover sole with a fabulous mango sauce, followed by a rich chocolate dessert so beautiful that you could hardly bear to eat it.
I did, of course.

The
expertise
of the
famous gourmet chef
who
plans all the meals for the cruise line was
in clear
eviden
ce
.
No flash-frozen
pre-packaged
stuff here!
After our
overnight flight
and the long day on the bus, the
beautifully-served five-course
meal
was
more than
welcome.
I
resolved
to
try to
attend
one of the cooking classes
scheduled for
later in
the week.

Gladys
Murphy and her family ate everything on the menu.
I know this because
I was
stuck with the Murphys at a table for four near the kitchen.
During the entire meal
Pete Murphy
—
looking uncomfortable in a striped suit and
loud
tie
—
remained
hunkered over his
plate
,
elbows on the table
,
saying nothing
as he
shovel
ed
in his food
.

Pete’s
wife Gladys d
id
all the talking
, mostly about Muriel.

“Muriel’s real talented, Miss Marsh. You should hear her sing! She got her first singing part in the second grade at the school program and she’s been singing and dancing ever since. Some people said she got the part because the teacher’s husband worked for Pete, but that had nothing to do with it. Muriel won that part fair and square, didn’t she, Pete?”

Pete didn’t answer. He focused on his food, glancing up now and then at Muriel.

Gladys’ permed magenta curls
and dangly gold earrings
bobbed as she talked and talked and talked, chewing all along.
Between the talking and the gobbling I couldn’t
get a word in at all and quickly saw that it didn’t matter. She didn’t want conversation
.
I didn’t
see how she
even
got her breath.
She wore a lumpy burgundy pants suit with gold sandals
,
a matching purse
,
and a ton of jewelry
. The straps of the sandals were
nearly
buried in
the extra flesh encasing
her ankles.

D
aughter Muriel wasn’t listening.
She had come to the table with a large gin in hand and ordered two more before the soup was served. Each time she ordered Gladys rolled her eyes at Pete and he shook his
big
head.