1 Shore Excursion (4 page)

I
stood
and stretched in the stuffy murk of the 747’s business class cabin about fifteen minutes before the lights went up for the breakfast service.

Right on schedule.

That fifteen minute slot is just enough time to get myself together and sneak back to the tourist section before my charges start looking for me.
Surely you didn’t think that Itchy Feet would
actually
pay for me to fly in business class
, did you
?
In your dreams!

I suspect that thos
e
who have traveled with me before have begun to catch on to the fact that I have friends among the crew on most of my regular routes, pals who don’t mind
letting
me in the front
late at night
if there’s room and no one makes a big deal about it.
I put my shoes back on, got my stuff together, and headed back to freshen up before the aisles were blocked with breakfast carts.

As I
moved down the aisle
I noticed that Mr. Klein was not having quite as good a time this morning as he
’
d
been having
last night
when
the drinks were served.
He massaged the bridge of his big beak
of a nose
with manicured fingers
, the
n ran his hands through his freshly barbered
gr
a
y hair, slicking it back into place.
The huge diamond ring he wore flashed in the overhead light.
He wore a custom-made
black silk shirt, now rumpled, and
gray
pleated pants with an alligator belt.

His little baby-doll wife
, Sylvia,
was applying
orange lipstick
without a mirror.
Strands of her platinum blonde hair had fallen from her stylish up-do. She brushed the
m out of her big blue eyes and stretched. That
move caused Abe Klein to smile
in
spite of his hangover
. He was
admir
ing
her abundant bust
, made even more prominent by her
pink angora sweater.

The Murphy family looked
as if they felt
pretty ragged, too.
Gladys and Muriel, mother and daughter, were
both
huge
. T
heir
enormous
bodies
were
wedged
into the
overcrowded
coach seats.
Pete Murphy wasn’t
as
wide
as
his wife and daughter, but he was
well over six feet
and rangy
, with a big head full of white hair and small, deep-set eyes under thick brows
.

“He reminds me of an old polar bear standing on his hind legs,” whispered
my colleague, Jay Wilson,
as we boarded.

“Hush, he’ll hear you,” I whispered back.

“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
in
to the overhead compartment,
ignoring a litany of instructions from Gladys.

Pete’s
lo
ng 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 d
oubted 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 the
se clothes
on since yesterday and I know how I look.”

Maria Petrone
, who had
probably
been
a knocko
ut 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 cloth
ing
.
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
. T
he 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
. B
efore 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, h
e 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.
M
y 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 t
he
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 Macc
hu 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 dri
ver 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
. T
hat one over there is not my bag
.
”

“
I really don’t like strangers handling my things
.
”

“W
ill this be my seat the whole time?
”

“M
y new luggage was very expensive, I hope it’s not damaged
.
”

“
I need a front seat, I get carsick
.
”

“W
hen do we eat?
”

“W
hen will we get there
?
”

“D
id you say this
w
ould
be my seat
for
the whole time?
”

I tapped on the mi
crophone
.

“Ladies and g
entlemen,” 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 I
tchy Feet Travel
leader
.
T
his 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.
W
e 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.