Wicked, the Sequel

Did the author of The Wizard of Oz, have the plot of wicked in mind when he wrote his book, Alex asked after the performance.  Wyona explained to him, probably not.  Rebecca said later that Derrida and Foucalt might disagree.  In this instance, I am putting my money on Wyona -- not because she is right, but because that is the answer that I understand best.

Our seats were good -- a restricted view on the side, but we were in the stalls on row L, which was sweet.  When I saw Wyona come in before the performance, taking a chair in the middle of the stalls, I went over to spend the last 5 minutes  before the curtain went up, talking to her.  An usher asked, "Are all of you together, for if you are, I can find you better seats so you can all sit together. 

 "Actually, this is not my seat at all," said Wyona.  "See the large man over there.  He is in my seat.  I gave it to him, for he is 3 seats over and cannot possibly fit into the one he has purchased."

"I will get you all together in good seats," he said.

We ended up in the centre of the stalls with 3 empty rows in front of us.  How is that for having an absolutely unrestricted  view of the stage.

I spent a lot of time looking at the costuming again, catching lines that were thrown away on me before, but now added depth to the play, watching the singing and dancing skills of the new Elphaba and Glinda.  I saw the best scarecrow/empty head-ed prince ever.  His legs were still weak and wobbly when he played out his final scene and walked into the wood.  Fantastic, especially after watching the equally amazing performance of the scarecrow in the original version the day before.

The boys needed a debriefing at the intermission, having just seen Andrew Lloyd Webber's production of the The Wizard of Oz.  Who is good?  Who is bad?  Who is only pretending to be good, but is bad?  Who is bad but pretending to be good? Will evil triumph over good?

Theatre at its best!

Istanbul

Istanbul --  “To the city”

“These are historic waters we are sailing through,” said Greg as he gazed from the balcony, onto the Aegean Sea.  He was waiting for Wyona to get her shoes on so that they could go to their dancing lessons – today is the rumba.  Wyona had bubble bathed all morning. “Whenever am I going to have a bubble bath in a balcony suite on a boat, again,” she said to us as Greg and I hurried off to the destination lecture entitled Istanbul, not Constantinople.  I met the lecturer while standing in the specialty omelette line-up for breakfast.  “I enjoyed your lecture two days ago.  My brother-in-law and I were saying how we had wished your lecture had been longer when you talked about Corfu.” 

“It is difficult”, he said, “since I am only allowed 35 minutes of presentation time.  I submitted two lectures and the people on board choose the second one, so I have plenty of material.  But the problem on board is just that there are not enough rooms to run all of the programs people want.” 

The people who gathered around the lecturer post-presentation had questions to ask and answers to share.  Most agreed that the best source of information for a traveller is Rick Steven’s Guide to Istanbul, one man there having read 100 pages of it in another Rick Stevens book.  Greg and he went on to chat about good books to read about the history of the Golden Horn.  The lecture had covered the etymology of the name Istanbul, the best reading on it being that in Turkish it sounds a bit like “to the big city”, which would make sense given the rural roots of the people who  finally ended up living in the city.

That was the historic destination lecture.  Later in the morning and better attended was the shopping lecture, highlighting the way to purchase Turkish leather coats (lightweight for their cold winters of 70 degrees Fahrenheit), rugs, coffee (better at waking people up than Red Bull), apple tea, Turkish delight candy (created for a Sultan with a sweet tooth but no way to eat hard candy) and tourist paraphernalia, all decorated with the sign of the evil eye.  I am going to a market with 4009 shops and 16 entrances and exits, hoping I can buy at least one pashmina, a wool scarf that is so fine it will pass through the circle of a wedding ring.

I took my early morning walk.  The sun rose from behind the distant horizon and lifted its face over the right over the water in the time it took me to only walk one length of the boat. I will be that sun rose in less than to minutes.

We had been promised a stormy sea with high winds today.  I wanted to beat the turbulence and the water on the deck by getting up early.  The wind had already beat me to the deck. I had to lean forward to stand upright.  A few chairs slipped across the deck in front of me.  Some of the backs on the deck chairs banged forward. I casually wondered if I shouldn’t have brought a whistle with me, in case I was blown overboard.  Soon I was thinking of wearing a life jacket in case no one noticed I was gone for a few days. 

Wyona and I came back from the Turkish Grand Market without buying anything ... a sad comment on the shopping energy Wyona and I had. Oh, that is not to say that we didn’t find a beautiful red silk scarf, wider than the usual scarves, but when we went back to get it, we couldn’t find that shop again.  That is what is wrong with shopping in a place where there are 4009 shops.  Not that there are that many kinds of shops – there was leather (coats, purses, shoes), gold, diamonds, silver, ceramics and the usual tourist paraphernalia (the evil eye on key chains, ash trays).

We sat down to eat.  What are the chances that someone you had eaten breakfast with would be at the table with  you – but there they were, Frank and Joan on the side of me, and on the side of Greg, a couple that he calls his chicks.  They were fabulous – older women on their first crew and full of lots of interesting chatter. The dinner companions are always interesting because they have had as many adventures in the market as we have had.

Arta

Corfu, Greece

We walked through the square, through the local church, stopped to take pictures at a typical square surrounded by dining establishments, and then we walked through the streets of markets, looking at the precious gems, the gold, the shawls, the wooden salad tongs and the toys. I tried on a one-armed black shawl, well worth the price of 40 euros and though, “If I only wear this to the Ward Christmas Party, it will be well worth the price.” When I walked away and left it in the shop, Wyona asked, “What happened there.”

“The handsome Greek clerk insisted on helping me with shawl. I knew I could do it alone, but he was insistent, I slipped the sleeve on and then went to wrap the rest of the shawl wrapped around me. But he stood a little too close to me. And when I had the sleeve on, he took his hand and smoothed out the rest of the material on the left side of my body and around my hip, giving me a massage along the way that was just a tidge too familiar. Am I imagining this, I thought. But no, he wrapped the other side of the scarf through my midriff and over my shoulder the same way. All that went through my mind was – I am used to getting a massage like this for free. It is not going to help him sell me this scarf this way, even though I really want it I am going to leave it here.” So I scarified and and went away empty handed. “You should have told him, You would have bought it, without the familiarity.” ” said Wyona when I told her. “I know. I know. But I am not quick enough and besides, I am on holidays and so I will find that scarf somewhere else on this trip.

At a Venetian Well

“Go that way, if you want to see a real local sight,” a local said to me as I was waiting outside of a grocery store for Greg and Wyona who needed some cool refreshment. The Donair Shop had offered her a coke for 2 ½ Euros. Too expensive. In the grocery store it was only one euro. So with a Fanta Orange her hand, we climbed some stairs to an empty courtyard where the well was a two step platform of white marble and inscribed 1693. I wondered how many families had drawn their water there.

A bougainvillaea tree was splayed against one of the apartment walls. A grape vine rose two stories and then branched its vines out over the windows. A woman sat on a balcony hanging her laundry out over the street. School boys came running by, empty handed, hiding in the niches of the wells so they could scare the girls whom they knew would be coming after them. The girls walked by, shrugging their shoulders with disdain at the silliness of the boys who were trying to attract their attention. Their mothers all followed behind them in a few minutes, backpacks over their shoulders. “Did you notice,” said Wyona, “things are the same all over the world. The girls all carried their own back packs and the mothers were carrying the backpacks of the boys, one of them having 3 sets of shoulder straps slung over her shoulder.”

So nice to see down so many streets in Corfu.

Arta

The Disgruntled Table Mates

Pre-planning works when there are three people and eight suitcases to move out of the hotel, down La Rambla and onto the Blue Tourist Bus. That was about the last thing we planned as we went to bed last night. Greg noted that our walk turned many heads – we hope other tourists who were wondering how they were going to make the same trip. And in fact, one couple stopped our progress for no reason other than to ask, “Are you going cruising?” and “Why are you getting to the ship so early. You know you can’t board until 2 pm.” But we had this special knowledge: table changes are done first thing at 11:30 a.m. So our journey to the boat was easy and we were left with only one last item to plan. Wyona has wanted a window seat for the dining room experience and the only way was to get to the Dining Room right at 11:30 am and ask for that change to be made. The waiter led us to our middle table which gave us a great view of the staircase, in the middle of which sits a Grand piano and a small stage for dinner performances. Still the desire for a window view prevailed, since sitting for a formal dinner with a window view and at the same time having the ship leaves ports seemed like an attainable dream. Wyona and Greg made the desired switch ... while I watched the luggage and had lunch. 

“Are you the three Canadians we were told would be at this table,” the first people we sat with asked. “Yes, “ said Wyona, we asked for a table change. “So did we,” said Marilyn and Ron. We are here with our relatives, and the four of us don’t want to talk to each other over every meal. Fine. The next couple who sat down said, “Are you the Canadians we were told would be at this table.” 

“Whoops,”said Wyona. “Did you ask for a table seating change?” “Yes,” said Barbara. “What is this,” asked Wyona. “Is everyone at this table disgruntled? Is that what they do? Put all of the complainers at the same table?”

And so the evening of conversation began – all of us ready to discover who our dinner companions would be – Barbara and Sam from Maryland (where apparently the 600,000 who live in that State have no right to vote for their president). Politics is usually a topic we leave for the last day of the tour, but at the disgruntled patrons table, anything can happen.

Arta

Barcelona, Spain

Greg and I flew through Frankfurt and landed in Barcelona.

Wyona is the one with travel status, which lets her take everyone (that is the two of us) travelling on the same ticket with her, into the elite lounges.

People sit on leather chairs and do their email, snacking their way through healthy vegetables and finishing off with cookies.

I tried to use the airport email to lure Rebecca onto the trip with us.  I was unsuccessful.

I have asked three other people ahead of her to accompany us in the fourth spot.  I was unsuccesful in each attempt.

Small wooden tables for patrons

"Nice to travel with Greg, eh," said Wyona. "He brings all of the right equipment." 

She is right. He carries the bags, has brought the electronic adaptors, brings the travel maps, and is sucessful in intervening when Wyona's luggage falls off of her trolley as she is driving it done the moving elscalator

Greg and I left Wyona sleeping in Quatre Naciones and we went out to discover Barcelona on our own, walking down to the pier, on the tree-lined boulevard of La Rambla.

We peered in small restaurants, waiting for their 9 pm customers. 

Greg studied the knives in a speciality shop.  We walked down the flea market at the harbour's edge.

Greg was looking for old lanterns that he loves.

Clams waiting to be cooked

He has an eye for architectural detail.  He would point out small alleys where there were 30 foot walkways, or where you could see the spire of an old church.

I am the one who has a passion for the beauty of the claims in this restaurant window.

Greg was drawn to the pastry windows -- and we both agreed, if Wyona had been with us, she would have purchased at least 2 of every kind.

"When I look in these windows, I am reminded again, of why MacDonalds doesn't cut it for me at home." 

Pastries we didn't buy

Greg has always loved churches.

On our walk we stopped first at a small church, and then at the big cathedral, where a service was going on.

As well, on the way home, we stopped at another church,in this one the lesson was led by different people and a guitar was initiating a musical call and response from the congregation.

If I am walking with Greg and there is a any sign of a church, he says, "Let's go in and take a peek."

If there is music going on that makes it even better for me.

... a stained glass window, high in a dark church corner ...

We saw gothic arches, Roman spires and steeples being refurbished.

We walked through the courtyard of the church that houses geese in one of its 

When Wyona is tired, Greg goes out to explore cities on his own.

The top of a celebratory wagon

Since Greg is a history buff, he can come up with the answers to my questions: 

• who was Garibaldi? (a politician who united one part of Europe)
• what is the difference between a ship and a boat? (a ship has at least 3 masts)
• what is the modern day word for gypsies? (Roma is what the Canadian government calls them Roma)

I am already having fun.

I do have some residual guilt about taking this indepth tour of the Mediterranean. Wyona tells me we are only doing it once which does not make me feel better.  It is 9 pm at night, 26 above, the streets are alive with excitement -- and this is my last time here?  Wahh! to that.

Arta

My Wrap-Up

Three things surprised me on the cruise.

The first surprise was that I  could order room service for breakfast -- at no cost.  At the appointed hour, there came breakfast – whatever my heart had desired and my pencil had checked (plus a few other items added by Wyona). There it was on the tea-tray, wheeled in at the appointed hour.  Then Wyona showed me how to take the lids off of every tray, one by one until there was no room left in our 4^th floor cabin space.  That is when I burst out laughing. 

Holy cow! 

All that food, all of those dishes, and no place in the cabin to sit and eat it once it is unpacked. 

Now I understand why Wyona is negotiating with the Royal Caribbean for a balcony on the next cruise.  We need the space so we can order breakfast in.

My second cruising surprise came when Wyona and I were exchanging pleasantries at mealtime with some couples who were at the same table with us, and in response to some question, I heard myself say, “Oh no.  We are sisters.  We have husbands.  We just left them at home.” 

The next question was, “And how do they feel about that?”  

Sassy!

I am always afraid of what Wyona is going to say in surprise turns-of-conversation.  She came through sounding like an angel.   “Well, my husband was quite happy that I was going, since he wanted to stay home and do some maintenance work on the house.  He did made me promise to take this cruise a second time, the next time with him.”  Mmm.  Maybe it is Greg who came out sounding like an angel.

Now there is a hard promise to keep.  She is going to have to go on the Baltic Cruise again when what she really wants to do next time is see the fiords.

My reply was easier. “My husband has limited mobility and is thrilled that I can get out and do things.”

I told Kelvin later, "I wonder what people thought I would say.  Oh, I left my husband at home, madder than a hatter.  He wants to me stay at home with my face turned to the wall so I will have no fun."

He said, "No, your reply was just fine." 

My third general surprise is how little time there is in my day, even when someone else is making my bed, preparing my food for me, and doing all of my cleaning.  I was thinking about that fact this morning when I was making my own omelet for breakfast.  The chives and green peppers were sticking a bit when I was taking the food out of the pan and the thought crossed my mind, “This wouldn’t be sticking if  you had put the same amount of oil in the pan to fry the batter in, that you saw the cook put in the pan when you watched him make your omelet-to-order on the boat.”

Yes.   I just about had a heart-attack just from seeing how much oil went into the pan.

That is just about the best reason I know that a person should cruise less often.   

Cruising -- hard on the arteries!

More Baltic Cruise - Last Day on Board

We stayed up late last night to go under the long bridge again, the one that takes people from Denmark to Denmark, but in reality takes them to another country more quickly.  There was little wind on deck.  It was late, but still light enough to see the jagged silhoutte of the land in the distance, the lights of half-tons as they rolled across the bridge, and the concrete pylons flashed back to the water, the glare from the splotlights that were on them.

Wyona and I had been soaked on our first trip under that bridge.  The rain was falling, and try as we might (by standing on deck chairs under overhang of the floor above) all of the passengers were wet.  The Irish were singing songs we didn’t know and the Brits joining in.  They asked us for a Canadian song to sing.  I couldn’t think of one off hand … until I remembered teaching new ones to Mary’s kids this winter when I stayed with them.  Of course – “Four Strong Winds” – hard to get more Canadian than that and all of them knew the song.  There was even part singing, thanks to Wyona.

I walked the same deck we were standing on that night, but in the morning and not with any impulse to drive my steps forward. A long morning walk.  I stopped to look over the starboard side at the islands as they passed by.  Then I stood on the bow to see if I could find a way to turn my back to the wind so that I could both see ahead and backward and not be windblown. 

A small sign on the side of the ship reminded me that that six laps around the track make a mile and I count the first six, then the next six, but on each way around, when I pass a ship that says Goteborg on its prow I wonder if I have done a couple of loops without counting, for I am busy watching the seagulls pick up fish that the engine of the ship has churned to the top of the water.

A thirteen story building proudly holds a sign that says Volvo.  Containers full of cars line the dock, as well as about 120 Volvo’s lined up in groups of 20 on the dock.  The Volvo museum is a five minute walk from the gang plank.  “Who would want to see a museum full of old cars,” Wyona and I hear a woman complain to her husband on her return from the museum.”And we didn’t need to hire a bus or have a tour guide.  It was right across the street,” she went on to say.

Wyona and I didn’t leave the ship that day for we were so tired.

“Did you stay on your beds and rest?”, Bonnie Wyora asked.

Heavens no!   

That is not what we do when we are tired. The ship was empty since so many people had taken tours. Wyona and I went from floor to floor, lingering to look at the art work on the walls where the stairs turn on each flight and read the accompanying artist’s statements.  We never get a chance to do that when people are walking up and down the stairs, obstructing our view. 

We rode the glass elevator, looking at the water-fall installations that are 6 stories high.

We tried the line-dance class and then came back to the cabin to practise the steps we had learned.  I write down the moves, but Wyona makes me put down the pencil and practise.  Sachet, sachet, heel, heel, toe toe, heel-toe-stomp-stomp, heel-toe-stomp-stomp and that is where I get mixed up.  Just before grape-vine to the left starts. for we have switched legs. 

I practise at 20 minute intervals, dropping the packing we are starting to do and work again on heel-toe-stomp-stomp. 

We are going to teach this to our grandchildren, at least those we can manage to corral, for it will be a lot of fun at the next wedding, or baptism, or seasonal holiday celebration. 

The money that is being sorted out between us has to go in different envelopes for this is the last day to use any of that currency: the euros, the pounds, the Canadian dollars, and then we sort out the train tickets back from Harwich to London and the plane tickets to go back home. 

We have lunch in the Windjammer, a buffet style restaurant.  I take along my handout from the Bridge Lesson about “Defensive Signalling”, still excited to find that there are other ways to tell one’s partner the contents of my hand, other than by humming, “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend.”

We are doing two on-board-ship shows tonight.  The same show really, catching MoTown, not once but twice.  Last night was a Tango Duo: Luciano & Rocio.  Our friends at dinner aren’t really fans of dance, saying it was good, but a little two much Argentinian tango.  One tango dance would have been enough they said, though they had no idea what they wanted to see on the rest of the programme.  Of course that made me laugh.  The programme was billed as Argentinean Tango.  They didn’t like the night before, either:  ABBA Night.  Their complaint about that was there were only 5 ABBA songs.  

Too much tango.  Not enough ABBA.  I don’t care either way because I am enjoying everything.

Now, that was a restful day.