Crying Like a Bitch Can Get You Places

Things don’t really ever go to plan with me. It’s a gift, really. Yesterday’s travel to L.A. wasn’t an exception. I arrived at LAX with very little drama, and despite foggy conditions, we arrived 45 minutes early. It was getting pretty late (on the East coast) and I was tired. All I had to do was find the little red sign for hotel shuttles outside of baggage claim, and go to my hotel. Which I did. When I arrived I was told that there was no confirmed reservation and all cruise employees were being sent to another hotel. So I left Hotel A, waited fifteen minutes, took the shuttle BACK to LAX, and waited in the cold and rain. (What the hell? This is NOT the L.A. I had expected) Finally, thirty minutes later Hotel B’s shuttle arrived. A bellhop took my bags, told me to check in and let him know where my bags needed to go. Sweet relief would be mine! I just wanted a shower and bed…maybe some dinner, but that was negotiable.

Yeah…not so much. No room at this inn either. You see the company has a contract with the hotels and all the rooms were used up. Shit. This wasn’t good. They called the port agent to see what they could do. The port agent was to send an email authorizing a room for me. The front desk attendant wanted me the hell out of his way, so he told me to wait. Fuck that, I got a beer and some chicken. An hour later, I went back to see if this had been taken care of. I was peeved, knew I shouldn’t be angry at anyone at the hotel as a. I’m a new employee and the last thing I need is to have a record of being a troublemaker, b. Customer Service is a bitch, and it’s not the hotel front desk’s fault that I’m having a really bad day… No email. I continued to wait. Guest Relations took pity on me, and that’s when the trouble/loud voices started.

I called the port agent, and they hung up on me. I called Hotel A and wanted to know what was going on. They bumped me first, if I was going to get angry, it was at them. They absolved themselves of any guilt and blamed my company. That may be, but I wanted their help in getting me a bed. The front desk clerk told me that I could have a room there, but I’d need to take the shuttle back to LAX and wait for their shuttle. I told her that I was tired, and there was NO way I was going back into the cold/rain to wait for a shuttle and get to their hotel 45 minutes later. I didn’t explain nicely. I said that as they’d bumped me originally the least they could do is pay for a taxi, as I didn’t think I should have to pay for a taxi, as I’d already paid for my own dinner (theoretically that was to have been taken care of for me). Yeah…nothing I wanted could happen without the manager and he just wasn’t “available.” Well he wasn’t available and after ten minutes on hold suddenly it was okay for me to have a room…he’s there, he’s just being a dick. I waited some more. Finally I talked to Alphonso, the manager at Hotel A, who said there were no rooms at the inn, and that there was no way he would authorize a taxi for me. So I hung up.

I was super embarrassed as all of this was happening in the lobby…I was crying…and I’d raised my voice loud enough that everyone walking into the hotel knew my situation. Guaranteed fellow crewmembers I’ll be meeting tomorrow TOTALLY heard it all. At some point the manager of Hotel B came out when I had finally gotten ahold of the port agent. She was horrified that I’d been there for as long as I had, and while she was pissed with the port agent that she’d have to go on good faith that they’d pay, she gave me a room. A mere four hours after all the drama began.

Probably not the right tone to take, according to Brian’s rules. However, I was proud of myself for not shying away from the confrontation. Although I probably should have just spent the twenty bucks and gone to Hotel A when the front desk miraculously “discovered” a room. Which is odd…as the manager still claimed they were full. Bitches.

All Aboard...Or the Ship Equivalent

As my two loyal readers know by now, I’ve gotten the call. I’m going to whore it up on the high seas. I had already begun to make alternative plans, and it seems that my vague initiative (making a passive inquiry—there was nothing very proactive about it) to seek land-based employment, made shit happen.

I’m going to be rocking a version of the uniform previously mentioned—with a twist. Could it get worse? You bet your ass. Ask any woman what style of pants do the most damage to exacerbate their body flaws and I think you’ll likely hear, "tapered, pleated-front, and khaki." Oh yes. Feast your eyes on these choices for a cold weather climate:



The web belt ala the Boy Scouts is required. The black shoes, baby I bought myself some unfashionable Reebok Princess sneakers. Between the costumes worn by a legion of cruise staff females before me, with their rank sweat and questionable stains, and my own super sweet uniforms, I’m going to be beating the waiters and bar staff off with a stick. It’s going to be a great six months!

Task Number One: Flirt and make eyes at both the Bar Manager and the Food and Beverage Manager. Free drinks are a moral imperative.

Coming to Terms With the Ugly American...In the Mirror

So, I have been lax in posting, and I’m sure my massive audience of two is terribly upset. I wanted to make the next blog about the job offer, the itinerary and the ship I’d be working on. However, the official job offer hasn’t been made yet, so you’ll have to settle for this.

I’m anxious to go, although there are aspects of the job that make it a tad...interesting. The wardrobe leaves a lot to be desired. First, there is the day to day uniform of an oversized polo shirt often in jarring and objectionable blocks of color. Think rugby jerseys without actually supporting an established team to justify it. Then there are the khaki shorts. My fear is that I will look like Walter Sobchak:


The last aspect of the daily uniform are the requisite white sneakers. My fear when traveling outside of the United States is to be outed as an American. I didn’t speak in public in the Netherlands as a result of this irrational fear—unbelievable but very true…and very crazy. Moving on. This job will give me the opportunity to wear the unofficial American tourist uniform every bloody day for six months. Thankfully the belly pack and the sports team sweatshirt are not part of the required attire. Maybe I’ll be able to exorcise some of my neurotic demons. Although I doubt it. The crazy goes very deep indeed.

Then there is another element of the job which is entertaining the guests onboard, part of which is done via theme nights. Now I used to do musical theatre, so I don’t mind embarrassing myself (hell, most of my best stories involve large helpings of public humiliation), but I do have to say that “Country Night” frightens me. I find the idea of actually owning cowboy boots to be an unsettling idea. Worse is doing a line dance while wearing them. If dancing doesn’t involve a pole, then I’m not very good at it. However, if I get to look like Dale Evans while doing it, it might not be all bad.