Service With a Forced Smile

There are many activities that I have to host onboard, some of which I really enjoy, others not so much. There is scrap booking, where ladies and some men, bemoan the color selections of the die cut palm trees and ships, while others find their inner five-year-old and happily glue and color, kibitzing with their fellow attendees. There is karaoke, where the junkies bring their own CDs, and ask for “two down” (referring to the key, apparently) so that they can show up their fellow passengers with their amazing talent, while others, full of liquid courage will belt out a female-empowerment tune out of their range, to the hearty applause of the audience. There is trivia, where the prizes are nothing better than plastic key chains, yet the bragging rights are beyond measure. There is line dancing, where we all pretend that we don’t mind country music, and blame our missteps on the movement of the ship.

At their best, these activities are great fun, and an opportunity to meet people from all walks of life, enjoying the simple pleasure of greeting someone by name from across the bar. When it’s good, it’s great. When it’s bad, it makes me want to step beyond my smiling façade and give the guests a loud reality check.

I simply do not understand people’s self-importance and their need to act rudely during events. This is not Olympic competition, neither the prizes nor the glory are worthy of a surly attitude and haughty know-it-all tone. What is deficient in their lives onshore that they need to show up their fellow passengers during activities that are supposed to at their core, fun? These questions are never more resonant in my mind than in my least favorite activity: ping pong (or as its called by the “pros,” table tennis).

Ping pong is supposed to be a simple activity to host. You set the people up, and no worries, in a half an hour or so, you’re on to the next scheduled activity. Except that’s never how it works out. There is always some guy who brought his own paddle, complaining that someone got a by (inevitable when there are only five passengers who made their way to the well-hidden ping pong tables), and lamenting the incorrect serving technique of their fourteen-year-old opponent.


I had been previously warned that ping pong tournaments might be a slight problem for me, because sexism rules in sports. This was stated with a straight face. It was not untrue, as I came to learn. “The other GUY didn’t do it this way. The OTHER GUY let us play until 21... The other GUUUUUUUY had us warm up first.” Seriously? No really, you’re serious? What about a cruise ship makes you think this is going to be a tournament worthy of warming up? The tables are uneven by the mere fact that we’re moving. We’re at sea. We’re ROCKING, for god’s sake. Oh, and by the way, sandpaper covered paddles are verboten in international competition, and a game is eleven points.

I know this, because after several negative experiences, I looked up the rules, thinking that it might actually settle debates. Yet, I soon realized that simply knowing the rules was not definitive enough for these people. After all, some sources claim that a game is to fifteen or even twenty-one points, and that may be, but I have a vested interest in these games only going to eleven points. It’s called a sixteen-hour day, and I’d like the opportunity to simply sit in my room and stare into oblivion without smiling for ten minutes between activities. Therefore, while on land, I have ordered myself the thirty page official International Table Tennis Federation rulebook, which underscores those very important eleven points that make up a game. (Sure a match is best two out of three, but I don’t have to show the guests THAT page, do I?)

I love my job, and I have met some amazing people, but ping pong gets on my last nerve. Now I have to figure out how to kindly, yet firmly, show my rulebook. It’s supposed to be fun, but I will not hesitate to beat these competitive bullies to a pulp with all the weight my paperbound rulebook can manage.