by Marie Moore
“Not a chance,” Jay said, “Not over that monologue.”
Gladys Murphy talked incessantly to her husband, yammering away, giving advice, giving orders. Pete’s height and strong arms had served him well as he silently struggled to jam all their stuff into the overhead compartment, ignoring a litany of instructions from Gladys.
Pete’s long legs looked mighty cramped after the uncomfortable night. The Murphys had already exhibited all the sure signs of first-timers, lapping up everything on the dinner trays, watching the entire movie, buying duty-free, staying up most of the night, too excited or scared to sleep.
Today they looked as gray as the London weather was predicted to be. I knew they wouldn’t be ready to roll when the plane landed. Newbies never heed my “drink lots of water, sleep on the plane” mantra, part of the sermon I preach before every trip.
Flight attendants and travel agents agree with scientists who say that long flights increase dehydration, a major factor in jetlag. Drinking lots of water in flight helps to alleviate it. Seasoned travelers know to do this, and to go right to sleep, as soon as possible after dinner. I also included this advice in the printed itinerary, but I seriously doubted if the Murphys had even read it. They clearly had not slept much.
“Angelo says that we won’t get to change clothes before we go on the ship, Miss Marsh, and I just can’t meet all those fancy English people in these rags. I’ve had these clothes on since yesterday and I know how I look.”
Maria Petrone, who had probably been a knockout before all the pasta, had booked this trip in celebration of her fiftieth anniversary with her Angelo, a plumbing contractor from Queens. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, fell in abundant waves below her shoulders. Whatever she is worrying about, I thought, it can’t be wrinkles in her clothing. Her new teal easy-care pantsuit, studded with gold trim, looked indestructible.
“Now, Maria, Angelo is just giving you a hard time, aren’t you, Angelo?” I said, smiling, patting him on his massive shoulder.
Even at his age, Angelo’s muscles bulged beneath the black rayon knit of his golf shirt. His hair was thick, gray, and brushcut. A gold Rolex bordered the Navy tattoo on his forearm. He looked up at me and grinned, flashing a gold crown.
“And, Maria,” I continued, “You look just as lovely as always. But don’t worry; we are going to have a day room so you can freshen up before we go to the ship. Itchy Feet Travel wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Itchy Feet Travel would, too, if they could get away with it and stay competitive. Sometimes I nearly gag myself with mendacity, but hey, I’m a travel counselor, not a priest.
* * *
There was a slight mix-up with the luggage in baggage claim at Heathrow. The luggage was a long time coming. The bag that had gone missing was finally found. Jay Wilson, my tall, red-headed partner, directed the skycaps with the baggage handling while I helped the High Steppers through immigration and customs. Before too long we were getting the whole group and all their stuff settled on the waiting bus for the transfer to the ship.
Jay and I make a good team. Even Diana—our boss, who Jay calls “the bitch queen of the universe”—agrees with that. Jay enjoys people and can see the humor in even the most difficult situations. His warm brown eyes and wide smile make him a favorite of the High Steppers.
Ruth Shadrach grabbed me by the sleeve. She was bristling with righteous indignation. “Miss Marsh, a foreign-looking gentleman tried to steal my new red train case from the baggage cart. It’s brand new. I just bought it yesterday at Macy’s sale, remember? Well, he tried to steal it, but I just snatched it right back out of his hands and scolded him. He might not speak English, but he understood that, all right!”
I’m sure he did, I thought. My experience with Ruth thus far had taught me that her daily existence was filled with little dustups. The man was probably just being kind, trying to help an old lady lift her bag. Now he knows better than to try and assist an elderly American tourist.
Not getting the horrified response that she wanted from me, Ruth moved on to the others. She soon had them clucking in sympathy and shuffling toward the bus with death grips on their handbags, watching anyone vaguely exotic-looking with suspicion.
We were moving slowly that morning, which was, given our average age, to be expected. The crisp outside air was welcome after the stuffiness of the plane and the airport. As the thick mist lifted, so did their spirits.
Elderly people are much tougher than most people realize. I’ve found on my trips that just when I think I am really living on the edge, panting up the last few feet of the Inca Trail into Macchu Picchu, some seniors can easily round the corner ahead of me, forcing me to abandon my assumptions about myself and them.
The skycaps and Devon, Itchy Feet’s regular bus driver for the British trips, finished loading the luggage in the storage section under the bus, and I stood by the steps and helped those who needed a boost. There was the usual confusion of choosing seats and getting settled, stowing hand luggage, and of course, questions, a million questions.
“Miss Marsh, I didn’t see my bag go on. That one over there is not my bag.”
“I really don’t like strangers handling my things.”
“Will this be my seat the whole time?”
“My new luggage was very expensive, I hope it’s not damaged.”
“I need a front seat, I get carsick.”
“When do we eat?”
“When will we get there?”
“Did you say this would be my seat for the whole time?”
I tapped on the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I began, “For those of you who are new to the High Steppers, WELCOME! Most of you have already met my colleague, Jay Wilson, and I am Sidney Lanier Marsh—Sidney, please, to all of you—your Itchy Feet Travel leader. This is our bus driver, Devon Holbrook. Devon will take good care of us today as we begin what I’m sure you will agree is the trip of a lifetime.”
Jay saluted the group and they clapped.
“On behalf of Itchy Feet,” I continued, “allow me to welcome each of you to Golden Heritage of the Land and Sea, a two-week adventure that we will be enjoying together aboard the magnificent Rapture of the Deep. We want to especially welcome those of you who are new to the High Steppers. We High Steppers really know how to have a good time, don’t we?”
Most nodded enthusiastically. Al Bostick wolf-whistled. Some clapped again. Angelo Petrone was asleep with his mouth open. I could see his gold tooth. A few of the rookies closer to my age looked as if they’d suddenly realized they were on the wrong bus.
The one fairly attractive man—thirty to forty years old, I guessed—just stared out the window. He looked 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—long-legged and slender with lean muscle.
What is 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 another 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. Goldstein, beaming, reached
for the microphone.
“High Steppers,” I said, 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 everyone all about yourself ...”
There. We were off and running. No 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.
4
We 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 memorized 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.
“Okay, Jay,” I murmured, “it’s Showtime.”
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 was 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 hometown 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. His 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. And his loft in Hell’s Kitchen could win interior design awards.
I think he’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 the 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, “are 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 fanny 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.
Besides drinking lots of water and sleeping on the plane, the 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 walk 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 still 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 evidence. 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 shoveled in his food.
Pete’s wife Gladys did 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.
Daughter 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.
Muriel had longish fuzzy red hair with bangs. Her bulging pale green eyes seemed to be having a hard time focusing. Jay said those eyes looked like green grapes.
Muriel wore a purple knit blouse two sizes too small with a deep v-neck. Her tight orange skirt had wide green horizontal stripes, an unfortunate choice. Mother Nature had not been kind to Muriel, and her fashion decisions only made it worse.
In doing my duty as shepherd and host, I had turned down an invitation to dine at the captain’s table. Jay said I was out of my mind. We had been introduced to Captain Stephanos Vargos for the first time on deck at the lifeboat drill.
“You’ve got to admit it, Sidney, that captain is absolutely gorgeous.”