Ferry ‘cross The Med

Giant jellyfish swarmed in the sky.

Lisa and I were slumped in the cafeteria of the Sardinia Regina Express II, half-way through a six-hour ferry crossing from Nice to Calvi in Corsica.

After a debilitating night’s non-sleep in Nice, it was blissful to be on our way in the sharp light and new hope of a holiday morning. We bagged deckchairs, put our pale faces up to the sun and lost sight of land as the Riviera disappeared in a blue haze with our memories of yesterday.

Half an hour later we were in woolly hats. What had been a bracing sea breeze became a concern. Muffled tannoy announcements warned passengers to stay off deck and not to use the lifts (that there were lifts on ferries was news enough to us). Then came the worrying inquiry as to whether there was a doctor on board. A woman we later met on Corsica  told us that her ferry from Marseille had been forced to turn back because two passengers had been ‘beheaded’. Or at least so we understood from a year of failing to learn French with Michel Thomas.

Health and safety forced us inside, right into the horror of a man attempting to comfort his wife as she threw up down herself. Balancing bravado at being a seasoned Calmac sailor and regret at not packing seasickness tablets, I ordered a coffee from a jolly crew member. Barely five-foot tall, resplendent in his Butlins-style Corsica Ferries livery of yellow jacket and dinner suit trousers, he appeared unperturbed by the ferry’s slow earthquake shudder. Ham baguettes wrapped in plastic lay unloved on the shelves, takers for lunch few, allowing the crew to congregate for an extended break and a smoke in the lee of the lifeboats.

A couple slept with their fallen hair touching across the plastic table. Three marine biology students, two young men and a woman, prevented from partaking in cetacean studies, notebooks empty of dolphins, passed the time by making roll-ups.

A stagger to the toilet, as if six pints down, ran the gauntlet of the afflicted – the lower decks a hospital tent in Sebastopol. I was no Nightingale. There was nothing I could do for them. I just cowered from the vomit slopping under the toilet door and shut out the harrowed sounds of the sick.

Adjoining the cafeteria, the ship’s lounge, where ‘Captain’s Cocktails’ were listed on a blackboard, the Saturday Night Fever dancefloor scattered with staccato shoots of light from the mirrorball as the ferry jarred its way on in a jerky slow dance. There were no takers for the ‘floor, no band struck up, yet the music played over the tannoy. There were no more announcements.

Back at base, in my sleep-starved state, the ceiling lights of the retro-futuristic cafeteria fuzzed through my head and hovered over the waves in a heaving, rolling, wallowing nightmare.

We made it, fortunately without any beheadings. But the jellyfish will always be with me. Next time, we’ll fly.

An Alcoholic Abroad

Everyone’s laughing at me. My southern English phonetics render the required Basque-lilted pronunciation an impossibility. It should be a peaceful morning wandering around the agreeable old Basque town of Bayonne. Lisa and Rudi are off shopping for the morning. That leaves me free to drink. All that stands between me and the bar is the need to change traveller’s cheques.

I queue up repeatedly, which at least gives me time to practice my lines over and over again while a sweat develops in various unsavoury places. No luck. Not possible here, old chap, but here are directions to somewhere that will. Listen carefully: left, right, straight ahead… right, got that. Appear cool, calm and confident. Just nod, mumble ‘oui, oui, d’accord’ and stride purposefully out the door. Turn left, right, umm… I’ve forgotten everything. Where the heck is the blasted bank then?

Gotcha! At last, travellers’ cheques secured with half my drinking time elapsed. Time for a celebration – only one thing for it: beer. Resorting to alcohol is, of course, the natural reaction to a traumatic morning on foreign soil. Then everything will be fine, unless you’re a bit dodgy in the downstairs department. But that’s the seafood, surely.

Prior to the onset of stress, sweat and paroxysms of self-consciousness, I had been dreamily planning to prop up a quaint local bar with a Pernod, chatting to some monolith-nosed, beret-toting local about Didier Drogba. Maybe I was in too distant a daydream when I tripped up a tot whose spectacular fall and screams prompted a polite, yet seething and derisory response from its mum, and similarly scornful stares from passers-by, who all seemed to be immaculate old dears in gold lamé sandals.

Having somewhat lost belief in my ability to even order a drink in a bar without severe embarrassment, there’s only one place to go: Monoprix – France’s super supermarket where there is, despite the name, more than one price. Two cans of Desperados for lunch. I hand over my euros, smile awkwardly and off to, errr, where do I go to drink my joyous tequila-flavoured lager? A park bench, that’ll do. Public drinking, and drunkenness, seems acceptable in this wild frontier land. The locals sport eight-packs of Kronenberg and heat-struck dogs slumped at their feet that look like they’ve had a few too.

So sitting alone on a park bench with a can at 12.30pm is perfectly respectable. Look, I’m reading a phrasebook. I am attempting to integrate into your culture; at least I’m trying. I’m not ignorant; I’m not wearing white socks and sandals like the teacher in our hotel from a posher part of Edinburgh than us. He does, however, have the advantage of being able to speak the lingo like a pro (not to mention the ability to roll his Rs).

A tramp asks me for a cigarette. That’s the company I keep on holiday in the south of France. Cannes… Cassis… back to the yacht for a Crème Yvette? My associates are wild-eyed roughs fresh (well, not exactly ‘fresh’) from the carnage of nearby Pamplona’s bull-running madness. At least I get to practice my French: “They’re menthol, is that ok?” I ask, stupidly. What am I thinking: “This guy’s got standards? Perhaps he’s a cigar man?” Hang on a second… Oh no, I need the loo.

Senses rocked, idyll shattered, beer-induced spell broken. The nearest one’s at the tourist office. Five minutes max, relax, it will be fine. Ahh, made it… shit, it’s bloomin’ locked. The tourist office staff are too busy watching the bull running on TV to think about opening the toilet. It’s too embarrassing to ask for help. Oh well, stiff upper lip and all that. I’ll just have to hang on. At least that’s a vague option. It isn’t beyond my control. Little do I know that that particular joy will follow tonight’s fish soup. For now, let’s just crack open another beer, feel the sun on my face, and head for the kebab shop.

 

(written July 2004)