I’m an Old Woman

What the cruise has taught me:  I’m an old woman.  I need hearing aids.  I can’t move to Portugal because I can’t walk on their stone-mosaic sidewalks without fear of falling, even with my cane, which I use to push me along when taking my longer walks.

This is not a happy state of affairs.  Like most seventy-nine-year-olds, I tend to feel as if I’m in my thirties, forties on a bad day.  So when reality smacks me in the face, my tendency is to snarl and fight back.  However, when our guide in Valencia was extolling the values of Spanish ham and I thought he was talking about Spanish hats, I know there’s a problem.  Also, where has the mind gone when I ask for a frozen strawberry daiquiri on the rocks?

But back to the cruise and our vigorous outings off the ship, where we were walking between three and six miles a day with no problem—until I hit Gibraltar, literally.  Somehow I was walking along the cut-stone sidewalk, with cane, when I tripped and found myself flying toward my daughter, who was only a few steps ahead. She heard my cry, turned and saw this pink blob (my sweater) tumbling toward her.  Fortunately, for me, she absorbed most of my fall, although I did land on the ground. Also fortunately, a very nice Spaniard, cigarette dangling a la Jean Paul Belmondo, pulled me to my feet with ease. I applaud his strength.  Neither Judy nor I were hurt so on we went, walking, walking, walking.  (Her idea was to rent one of those electric scooters that were everywhere, me riding behind her.  Matricide, anyone?)

Now I am home and am able to consider the cruise from a distance.  While it was good to get away, I found myself starved for something besides ports that welcomed tourists with boutique shopping.  Shopping, I will admit, is not my thing.  What do I need at my age?  I haven’t even bought an air fryer.

We did have a fun experience in Madeira when we went to the 3D Fun Art Museum and took photos of our distorted selves.  But I definitely could have done with something more to stir the brain.

Our Seabourn Shit Show ended the way it began, with confusion and dismay.  Because there were no flights out when we pulled into port for the final time, it was necessitated that we stay a day in Lisbon.  At 9:30 am, we left the ship and were driven to the Four Seasons.  Now, some might think, how great!  Not so great.  The Four Season is nowhere.  Lisbon is hilly, the Four Seasons is up on a hill with nothing around it.  And no rooms available.  If Seabourn knew, as they must, that no rooms would be available until afternoon, why didn’t they keep us on the ship, let us have lunch?  There weren’t that many of us, as the Europeans could make their connections.  It was just the Americans who were stranded.

A hotel cafe?  No. “Brunch” was $80 a person.  Time to taxi the hell out of there.  The concierge suggested an area that had restaurants and shops, and it was indeed a pleasant place.  We went for tapas.  I will admit to never understanding how to order tapas, but we had a delicious tomato/ham on bread for a first “course.”  Then came a speciality of the country, a slab of cod with potatoes and spinach. All I can say is that the spinach was delicious.  And, Portugal, you can do better!

Our room was quite nice when we got it, with a balcony overlooking the city.  Too bad we had no heat in the room.  Lisbon was chilly.  We had to call down for maintenance.

Up too early, we left the hotel at 4:30 am..  The man at the desk insisted I keep my key card as a souvenir.  Note my restraint in not commenting.

Our British Airway flights were underwhelming.  After the sardine-like nature of our flight from Lisbon to Heathrow, we were glad to get off the plane and then—go through security, where both my daughter and I were targeting for extra screening.  I guess makeup is now seen as a potential terrorist threat.  Only when I apply it, folks!  Then the lounge was so crowded, no place to sit, not at all the way I remembered it.  So I had my last bitter lemon, and we meandered around the airport until it was time for our flight.

Who designed business class seats for British Airways? Why, when the footstool is in use, does the person kitty-corner from you have to climb over you to get to the bathroom?

And my poor daughter.  First there was some idiot in her seat.  “Do you want me to move?”  “Do you want me to take my pillow with me?”  Did he think his good looks would make her give up her aisle for his middle seat?  Then her electronics didn’t work.  For her pain she received a bottle of Champagne and ten small bottles of gin.

Now we’re home.  My bathroom remodeling was not completed while I was gone and my poor daughter misses the, for her, excitement of the ship.  Life returns to its normal state of semi-inertia, trying to avoid everything we have to catch up on.

Yes, reality, here it is again.