on florida's shore

The morning sunlight hitting the skyline of Miami has always been one of my favorite sights.

That was going to be my opening line for today's essay, but it is patently untrue. I have never seen the morning sunlight on the Miami skyline. I have seen the skyline several times when boarding afternoon cruises. But never in the morning.

But it is quite a sight, isn't it? I guess most cities that nestle against vast bodies of water can make the same claim. Manhattan in the morning is a prime example.

What that sight meant for me, though, is that another cruise was over. Even though I have nearly a week of travel in front of me before I return home to Mexico.

Today I am in Orlando. It was simply a stop over for the night before I head on to Reno. I will spend a few days at my legal residence in Nevada, and then head to Boise to Portland to Los Angeles for my return trip.

I needed to take care of some banking this morning. I tied it in with my morning walk. And I am glad I did. Otherwise, I would not have seen this sign that reminded me of the last cruise tale I will tell you. At least, for this cruise.

Each morning I would walk my paces on deck 8 -- the promenade deck. In theory, between the hours of 7 AM and 4 PM, the deck is designated as a quiet zone. To give readers the space they would not have in other public areas.

But it was hardly a quiet zone. In each group of couches, there was at least one guy who mistook the readers as a potential audience at Hyde Park speakers corner. Usually, an American.

One guy in particular was a serial violator. But there were always plenty of international listeners in his amen corner. Most of the time, it was the standard left litany. Wealth is too concentrated. Trump is an idiot. Israel is a menace to world peace.

One day, though, he headed in an entirely different direction. He was listing cities that his European audience should visit. On each of my laps, he frommered his way through a new city.

I was almost done when he made it to Miami. "Miami. If you want to see Americans, there are none in Miami. Just Cubans and Jews."

I nearly stopped in mid-stride until I noticed the Europeans were nodding in agreement. That did not surprise me. Almost all of my leftist friends in Europe have a strong streak of anti-semitism. But, then, so do a lot of my conservative European friends. And sentiment for refugees has certainly declined on the continent.

Choosing when to mount one's moral dudgeon stallion is a necessary art on cruises. That is probably true with life in general. The fact that the Cubans and Jews that were being reviled were American citizens would not have mattered to that particular blowhard.

But facts do not seem to matter much in politics these days. And that is true for a lot of the world beyond the borders of The States. Just try having a rational discussion about Mexico's current president. It ain't going to happen.

Thus, I take comfort in looking at pretty skylines. Miami yesterday. Orlando today. Reno tomorrow.

And then my little village by the sea reflecting the sunset across the bay. Where I will be home. For at least a month or two. 

finding my space

Here we are, at almost the end of the cruise, and I have not told you anything about my spacious cabin.

The wag in me says that is because there is nothing to tell. Or very little to tell. But Señor Wag is wrong. There may not be much space in my cabin, but there is a lot to say about it. Or, at least, the concept.

Norwegian Cruse Line knows how to read the free market. There are a lot of cruisers who travel solo. For many reasons.

Some are married to spouses who can no longer travel or have no desire to do so. Some are widowed. Some are young with under-developed social skills. Some are just lone wolves.

The typical cruise ship cabin is built and priced for at least two people. That means when I head off to the high seas, I pay a fare that assumes someone else will be in my cabin. Perhaps, Señor Wag. I have passed up several cruise "deals" for that reason.
Norwegian has a better idea. On its new ships, it has set aside two decks of inside cabins for solo travelers. They are called studio cabins. For good reason.

They are designed around the same concept as those sleeping cubicles that are popping up in international airports. Enough space for a bed, a shower, a toilet, and minimal storage space.

But Norwegian has taken the concept a step further. A singles lounge connects the two decks where only the studio guests can congregate behind a securely-locked door. A gated community for the socially awkward.

I spoke with an American widow on her first trip out of The States. She bought a studio cabin for the sense of security. I did not bother pointing out that the single foxes are locked behind the same door with the single hens.

The concept sounds as if it was designed for single twentysomethings. It probably is. But the solo travelers in their 70s and 80s found it just as inviting. Maybe because the concierge organized dining and entertainment events for those who felt more comfortable in a herd instead of striking out on their own.

And the great thing about the lounge is that when you encounter the retired American military man who insists all of America's problems could be resolved by setting up a Danish welfare state, nationalizing all of America's businesses, and putting all the lazy slackers to work in government jobs, you can return to your cabin and write an essay about him. After all, people I encounter are simply potential writing exercises.

As clever as the Studio Lounge concept is, I prefer a bit more space when I travel. But, if Norwegian ever expands its studio concept to balcony cabins, I will be up front in that line with the grannies and widows.

getting my ducks in a row

I cannot get my hands around Bermuda. And I do not know why.

Three of my traveling companions were absolutely besotted by the place. They are planning a return trip as we sail away to Miami.

But not me. And it is not that I found anything unlikable about the place. It was pleasant enough. What it reminds me of is my first visit to San Miguel de Allende. It took me several visits to find the pulse of San Miguel.

Most port calls on cruise ships are a couple of fumblings in a back alley before the cruise ship sails off to another brief encounter. But that was not our schedule in Bermuda. We were there for two full days.

This map may give you some idea of the lay of the islands in Bermuda.

Most people think of Bermuda as a single island. It isn't. It is a series of volcanic outcroppings surrounding a huge caldera. Because the various sized major islands are so close together, they are joined by causeways -- giving the impression of a fishhook-shaped island.

And because the entire structure has been submerged and pushed up again, the islands are covered with limestone over volcanic rock. A geologically interesting combination that we will discuss a little further.

We were docked at the former Royal Naval Dockyard -- on the tip of he fishhook at the western end of the islands. At one point, especially after the unpleasantness with the American colonies, Bermuda became the site of British naval power in the western Atlantic.

The dockyard was the center of that power. The battlements and several buildings have been refurbished to give visitors an idea how complex it was to run an enterprise like the British Empire.

A twin-towered building has been turned into a tourist shopping area. It is a stunning building housing local traders of rather shoddy goods. It is almost an inevitable result when government dumps money into improving a tourist attraction without any real thought of what visitors might be interested in buying.

Our first day, we visited Hamilton, Bermuda's capital. Hamilton is the economic center of the island. Bermuda makes its money off of selling insurance and reinsurance -- and being a tax haven for individuals and corporations. There is no corporate tax. But the banks make a good deal of income from protecting those sheltered funds.

That appreciation for wealth is apparent in the houses around Hamilton where the average purchase price for a house runs about $1.6 million. And the houses reflect, in a very tasteful manner, their cost. Most are nestled along the shore accessorized by sail and power boats.

The second day (today), we went to the other end of the island chain -- to St. George's. After a quick look through a somewhat charming village, we hired a taxi to take us to Crystal Cave.

I have visited a lot of caves in my touring days. But the Bermuda caves have their own special beauty.

Like many caves, those on the islands are limestone-based. As I mentioned earlier, the limestone formed while the islands were submerged. After they emerged, rain water started seeping through the limestone carrying calcium carbonate. When water drips in a cavern, the calcium carbonate is deposited on the roof or floor of the cave. Over time, the buildup will result in a stalagmites and stalactites.

The process takes thousands of years to produce the rock sculptures that amaze viewers. The Crystal Cave has an additional attraction. They are filled with sea water so clear that is is often difficult to see where the water begins and ends.

Our driver then drove us into Hamilton to a restaurant he recommended. By sheer chance, it was next door to a restaurant where I have wanted Io eat for some time -- the Barracuda Grill. We were too tired to take the ferry into Hamilton last night to eat dinner there. But here we were, and even though it was lunchtime, we decided to eat there.

It was one of the best dining experiences the four of us have ever had. The restaurant is well-known for its fish chowder that was featured in Bon Appetit. I have never tasted a chowder so refined in its layerings.

But my main course outdid the chowder. I am not fond of most fish, but I have always liked swordfish. The grill was featuring it for lunch as a special accompanied with kale and wild mushrooms along with a risotto. The combination was perfect.

And, though I am not a dessert guy, the strawberry and goat cheese with filo was just the right combination of sweet and savory to top off the meal. (Unfortunately, I had consumed my first two courses before I thought to shoot them.)

It was not an inexpensive meal. For the four of us, the lunch tab was $320. But we all agreed, the meal was worth every penny.

If I return, one of the draws will be the Barracuda Grill. Next time, I will go for dinner.

So, there are my thoughts. As you can see, I enjoyed each of our outings. But I am still trying to work out how I feel about Bermuda in total.

And that is probably a good enough reason to return for another stab at trying to understand what Bermuda is.

it's only water over the edge

"Why is there no water in the swimming pool?"

She was a passenger. Blonde. Middle aged. Trim enough to be a hobbyist swimmer. But the look on her face was one of disabused privilege. Someone had inconvenienced her.

If she had bothered to visit the pool deck the day before, she would have discovered who had tar-babied her day. The sea.

When we left Copenhagen, our captain informed us we might face some rough weather around The Azores. He was correct. Even though he managed to steer a course away from the worst part of the low pressure areas, we still experienced some moderate swells.

And when the ship is tipping back and forth like a teeter tooter, the water in the swimming pools does not stay in the pools. Just like turbulence in the ocean,. the energy builds up into waves and splashes over the edge. Sometimes quite dramatically. The kids on board flocked to the edge of the pools to be doused by the cascades, despite the screams of hysterical grandmothers.

We are well past that portion of the trip. For the past two days, we have been sailing through mainly calm waters in the Sargasso Sea. At times, it feels as if we are docked in Hamilton, Bermuda -- which we will be tomorrow.

So, for now, I am enjoying catching up on my reading, while I sit on deck watching the same ocean pass as did admirals of the Spanish fleet and the British privateers who preyed on Spanish silver.

The only pirates to be found on this cruise are the concessionaires who run the gaming tables. And that is not one of my vices.

Tonight is another dinner and show night. The dinner will be at Cagney's. The Honolulu Star-Advertiser commented, when one of the Norwegian Cruise Line ships docked in the Hawaiian capital, that "Cagney's was the best steak house in town." The compliment is still well-deserved.

And that isabout four reasons why I like to cruise.

the can in the can

Nothing seems to stir up expatriates in Mexico as much as where to dispose of used toilet tissue. (The far more important question of which direction to put the roll on the holder will wait for another day.)

Most of the restaurants in our area have signs posted in their rest rooms informing users to not place used toilet paper in the bowl. A handy wastebasket is supplied for the dirty deed.

I do not know if that is the genesis of the myth that a shred of toilet paper will blog the area's primitive sewers -- causing a flood of biblical portions and necessitating the expert ministrations of a plumber.

But the myth  is prevalent in our little community. I have several expatriate and tourist friends who are disgusted by the soiled tissue in the dust bin solution, but they dutifully instruct their guests that compliance is mandatory as any other form of penance.

I have taken a different swipe at the problem. I do not want to be responsible for topping off our land fill with dirty toilet paper. Not when I can contribute to filling the laguna with it.

Hank, a frequent commenter here, has built and lived in several houses in the Barra de Navidad area for the past three decades. Neither he nor his family have ever felt the need to resort to the wastebasket method. Nor do I.

I do suggest to my guests that they limit the amount of toilet paper they attempt to flush down at one time. Three sheets is the suggestion. But that is simply to lessen the danger of a toilet malfunction, not a sewer clog. I did the same in Salem where plumbers were far less affordable.

And that is why I was a little surprised to see a waste basket in an Azorean toilet. It is simply not an accessory I would expect to see in western Europe. Not even on an island in the Atlantic.

Come to think of it, there is a wastebasket in the bathroom of my tiny cabin, I toss my used Kleenex there. What other guests do, I leave to them. Only housekeeping knows the truth.

But enough toilet humor -- for now. It is time to listen to a classic pianist, followed by dinner, a romp through the comedy club, and topped off by a movie: La La Land.

Toilet paper will not be a topic of further discussion tonight.

ship of tongues

Transatlantic cruses are like riding the Circle Line on the London Underground. You never know what language the people standing next to you are going to speak.

Because the ship departed from Denmark, the guttural tones of Scandinavian and Germanic languages abound. Along with almost every permutation of English. Romance languages, sprinkled here and there, act as the herbs and spices for this linguistic olio.

Each morning I take my 6-mile walk on the promenade deck. Most of my walking habits have been formed in Mexico. When I go into Daniel Suarez mode and overtake slower walkers, I request permission to pass ("con permiso").

On the ship. my request is met with Nordic stares. My subsequent "gracias" does nothing to bridge the gap.

Except one time. I whisked past a smartly-dressed strolling couple with my traditional "con permiso". Instead of an American stare, my request initiated a torrent of Hispanic cordiality.

I slowed down only long enough to establish that we all lived in the same country. I then sped down the deck with my Colombian "con mucho gusto."

Here are are three tongue tales. All at sea. And just for you.

Story number one. I was standing in line at the Guest Services desk to recover my lost reporter's notebook -- the same notebook on which I am now recording this tale. I started flirting with a girl in line. It did not bother me that she was at most two years old and was in a stroller guarded by her father.

I took a gamble from the dad's features that Spanish might be his primary language. I was wrong. He was from Brazil, and my Portuguese is almost non-existent. But he knew enough Spanish that we were able to patch together a decent conversation about the basic things two guys discuss when they chat. Starting with his daughter.

This is not the first time that Spanish has come to my rescue when I encountered a language where I was clueless. I had a similar experience with Portuguese earlier this year on my Australia trip (on the road with duolingo).

My second story involves Spanish. I stopped by one of the many trivia games on the ship knowing full well I was unequipped for the task. The category was television theme songs. I had as much chance of winning as Congress has of enacting tax reform.

And I was correct. Out of twenty questions, I got one correct. Cheers. And I knew that only because my friends Ken and Patti Latsch regularly watched it when I would stay with them during my Air Force reserve assignments.

The game host is also the DJ at the ship's disco, and he is well-suited to the task. Cool. Good-looking. Humorous.

I could tell he was from Latin America. Something about his accent in English. It turns out, it is not just Latin America, but Mexico. Originally a Chilango, he has made his living making certain visitors to Mexico's tourist pots enjoy everything Mexico has to offer.

Prior to joining the ship, his last venue was Cancun. When he leaves the ship, he is thinking of scouring Mexico's west coast for a job where he can bring joy to visitors.

I wanted to speak in Spanish. He wanted to speak in English. So, that is what we did -- with him correcting my Spanish along the way.

His name is Jorge. Who knows? He may even make a guest appearance in a future episode of Mexpatriate. But, he already has, hasn't he?

Story number three does not involve Spanish. Perhaps, it should have.

Most of us in our group have been eating lunches at the buffet. The food is just as good, and the service is certainly faster when you fetch your own vittles.

But, one member is very fond of the dining room. So, all five of us shuffled into one of the ship's many dining rooms at noon.

I did not find anything interesting on the menu. I am not very fond of hamburgers, but there was a hamburger listed with a beef patty topped by pulled pork.

Being a resourceful guy, I asked the waiter if the kitchen could hold the patty and serve the sandwich with just the pulled pork. He said he thought it was possible. I could not imagine what difficulty would arise. After all, it was the same sandwich. Just without the beef patty.

It turns out that even though the Filipino waiter spoke English, my request must have got lost in the translation. What arrived is pictured at the top of this essay. The sandwich -- without any meat whatsoever. No beef. No pork.

My friend Gary runs two restaurants in San Patricio. He tells his waiters they are the last line of defense before food gets to the table. If it does not look right, it should not be put in front of a customer.

In all fairness, my waiter on the ship has undoubtedly faced a number of very odd requests -- according to his palate and eyes. So, he may not have given any thought that the sandwich he served would have made even a vegetarian wince.

There was a time when most Filipinos could speak Spanish -- a remnant of the days when Spain was the colonial master of The Philippines. But, Filipinos tell me that day has passed. The most common second language is English. And that is one reason there are so many Filipinos on cruise ships.

It turns out my waiter speaks no Spanish. Not even my Duolingo-limited version of the language could have helped out with the meal.

But the common thread in all of these stories is that there is always the possibility of communication dividends by learning a second language. Out of necessity, most Europeans know two or more languages in addition to their native tongue.

For me, I will have to be satisfied with learning Spanish bit by bit. All of the other languages I have either dabbled in or once knew (German, Russian, Greek, Italian) have all, in the words of Billy Collins, retired "to the southern hemisphere of the brain,/ to a little fishing village where there is no phone."

Unless, of course. I need to one day discuss Hegel with Vladimir Putin while visiting Mykonos with Sophia Loren.

casting the first stone

The question usually comes the second or third day.

When northern guests visit me in Mexico, it takes just about that long for someone to notice the groups of shovel-carrying men filling potholes on the highway. "Why don't they buy some equipment and cut back on their labor costs?"

The question, of course, is posed as an economic one, and I respond accordingly. With an economic answer.

The low cost of labor in Mexico and the high cost of machinery would preclude an employer from recapturing the capital outlay during the depreciable life of the machinery. Even my economic nemesis Paul Samuelson would not disagree with that analysis.

The social answer is a bit more complex. And it is best answered with another question: "Then, what would the unemployed laborers do?" (A question we defenders of liberal globalization too often fail to pose.)

Most of western Europe and the northern portion of North America no longer face the labor cost-capital outlay question. Productivity increases are built into the economic system by the acquisition of more efficient technology. And that is why increases in the minimum wage usually end up with minority young people entering the ranks of the unemployed.

Mexico does not yet have the luxury of increasing productivity with capital outlays. Nor do The Azores.

Ponta Delgada is famous for the black and white mosaics that decorate its squares, sidewalks, and streets. The patterns are created by alternating the cobblestone-sized pieces of the two colors. Even with a limited palette, the possibilities are almost limitless.

But, everything ages. Even stone. Before it is turned to sand and water, the stones can be broken, dislodged, or swept away by its natural enemy: flooding.

That is where human labor comes into play. As far as I know, no one has yet built a machine that can carefully place each stone in a manner to capture the artistic outcome of these guys who repair the Ponta Delgada mosaics.

At least, I hope there is no such machine. I stood for a bit watching them restore a stretch of mosaic sidewalk. I have always admired seeing anything done well by an expert. And that is what these fellows were. Experts. Craftsmen. Artists.

It was almost as satisfying as watching the effortless arc of a Mexican machete clearing away brush along the road. Robespierre could only envy the skill.

One day Mexico will replace its road crews with machinery. After all, the world's 15th largest economy is going to mature soon.

And when it does, even those of us who look forward to seeing Mexico enter a new economic era will feel a bit wistful at the passing of an era.

I have no idea when Mexico moves on if the stone mosaic workers of Ponta Delgada will still be plying their artistry by hand. I hope they will.

After all, all change is good. But it is not always good that things change.