I have had nightmares about missing a cruise ship in a
port. Not that it would ever happen to
me, because I’m anal about checking details.
Usually.
However, that’s exactly what happened in Malaga on our recent
cruise. Loitering back to the dock after
getting off the ship ‘just to stretch our legs’ - the irony is that we didn't even want to get off - we heard a familiar double
blast of the ship’s horn and then stood dumb-founded as OUR ship appeared to be
moving.
‘Hang on, our ship’s off!’ I cried to the kids. Surely it was a mirage after that funny flat-looking
chicken breast in the café. But no, it
wasn’t. It was a living nightmare – one that
every cruiser dreads. And it had
happened to me. And how many times have
I said ‘how can anyone miss the ship?’ because we have been onboard when people have done exactly that - the idiots.
Oh boy – the mother of
the year awards are just queuing up to sit on my mantelpiece.
When something happens like this, your future appears in
bite-sized pieces. You can’t think ahead
more than one step at a time. My elder
son, who appeared to have been smoking pot (because there was no other
explanation for a thirteen year old boy to appear so calm) pushed us all
towards the security guards where a load of smug Royal Caribbean passengers
were going back to their ship with their el toro souvenirs and sombreros.
(Oh and a point here – our ship waited as long as it could,
but there are massive fines if they don’t leave after a certain time. Our fault.
They couldn’t have done anything else. )
‘Oh God, what is the Spanish for “I’ve been a tw*t (insert
your own vowel) and missed the Azura”?’ I pondered, trying desperately to recall
some schoolgirl Spanish. The words for two
beers and a toilet – and ‘on the table’ (don’t ask) are all that remained in my
language arsenal. Not much good when your
head is thinking ‘Pants. Pants – How can
I cope without clean pants?’ Clean
drawers and a make up bag were somehow on top of my immediate want list in my
panic – even above the passports, cleverly left on the ship.
‘Mi shippo gone-o,’ I managed in Spanglais. However, my wiggling hand movement was
obviously an international symbol as a non-English-speaking port man made a call,
led us all to chairs and a few minutes later handed over his phone so I could
speak to the P & O representative in Malaga – Eduardo (which I now believe
is Spanish for ‘superhero’). He arranged
a taxi to a hotel, where he had made a booking for us. A clean, friendly and not too expensive place
nearby (and trust me, this little adventure was ker-chinging by the
minute). In the morning, we would have
to see the consulate in Malaga for emergency passports. But a night in Malaga beckoned – and the hunt
for supplies.
‘I don’t suppose you have a phone charger?’ I asked the
hotel receptionist. All attempts at
Spanglais were gone now. My gestures
were far more successful not that Marcel Marceau would be worried for his job. I wasn’t expecting a ‘si’ (excuse the pun) but
he pulled a box out from under his desk FULL to the gills (lot of ‘sea’ imagery
in this piece) of phone chargers and the first one I picked up fitted my phone
like Prince Charming’s shoe fitted around Cinderella’s bunion.
As bad luck would have it – it was a Bank Holiday Monday in
Spain so all the shops shut early. We
headed off down to get something to eat (which turned out to be a café were the
speciality of the day was long black hairs and chips) and passed by an open
shop which appeared to have clothes in it.
As good luck would even things out a bit - this shop could have been
called ‘ The Ideal Shop for Idiot-women who have Lost Their Ship.’ This shop had everything a hapless traveller
could have – undies, socks, shorts, toothpaste, deodorant (tension makes you
very unfragrant) and a dress that I, Pavarotti and Demis Roussos could have
easily all fitted in together and still had room for a party. And if you think my Spanglais was bad – you should
hear my Chinglais. However, the Chinese
woman who ran the shop and I communicated like there were no language barriers.
That emergency wardrobe cost me £30. We aren’t talking catwalk but when you’ve got your
hands on emergency drawers – you don’t care if they’re Prada or Primark. 'Have they got any hair gel?' my elder son asked. 'This is a time for emergencies,' I returned. But I sympathised because I know how he felt - that was his luxury missed item, as red lipstick was mine. The little one's was an ice-cream. God he's so low maintenance. Where the hell did he come from?
There is a less than flippant side to all this. I’m asthmatic and seeing as we were supposed
to be off the ship for 2 hours max, I didn’t take any medication out with
me. So I had to try and stay calm. I did but I had a migraine from hell as a
result because that tension has to come out somewhere. Everytime my head touched the pillow, I saw
that ship sailing off – I think that image has been tattooed on my brain I’ve seen
it so many times. I had a lovely night
throwing up my hairy Spanish meal and how I managed to sleep is anyone’s
guess, but I did and woke up with a
surprisingly fresh head. The air conditioning in that room was so strong it sucked our lungs out - I found them stuck on the ceiling fan in the morning. But I have it to thank for kicking that migraine's ass.
A breakfast of Spanish bread rolls (this was no time for
Atkins) and lots of coffee and I felt almost human again – well as human as you
can with no lippy and no hairbrush – which we had - alas - forgotten to buy from the
Chinese magic shop.
Talking of Chinese magic.
When I pulled my new drawers out of the bag, I had moment of
horror. I’d only gone and managed to
pick up some small boy’s drawers instead because those things were never going
to fit me. They should have been in
Mothercare in the premature baby section.
Nothing ventured – I put my leg in a hole and experienced
magic. These drawers didn’t just stretch…
they were capable of closing above my head and knotting. I could have used them as a sleeping
bag. I don't know what they were made out of - but NASA should be informed. Never underestimate the magic of
Chinese knickers.
The P & O rep had arranged a taxi for us to go to the
Consulate. The lady at the desk, I
thought, looked too nice for me to start off her day with my Spanglais so I
asked her if she spoke English. ‘Yes, I’m
from Rotherham,’ she said. (Who said - 'well that's a matter of opinion then'??)
We needed flight times before they would issue emergency
passports, we needed emergency passports before we could fly out. The ship had to send confirmation that our
passports were on board, our lovely friends at P & O booked late flights
for us. All the pieces somehow fitted together
and our emergency passports were issued.
Bright yellow things which highlighted to all and sundry that we were ‘special’
– but not in a good way. And my
emergency passport picture in my Pavarotti frock and no make up isn’t one of my
best. With my sullen, tired face and bouffanted
hair, I looked like a dark version of Myra Hindley. Put it this way – I wouldn’t have let me into
the next country. Then again on the proper red passport I look like Rasputin. Even the watermark is expertly placed over my mouth so it looks like a beard.
Eduardo handed me over to the Dubrovnik agent Maria
then. I thanked him for being so
kind. I’d have kicked my own sorry ass
had the situations been reversed. Eduardo
summed it up rather sweetly. He said that
had it been his wife in this situation, he would want her to be treated well –
and I SO was.
We went off to the airport.
It would have been easier to fly to Venice as there was no direct flight
to the next port - but really, I couldn’t miss a day in Korcula – one of my favourite ports of call. We had to hang around the airport
drinking coffee before our flight to Barcelona was called. Tez was itching to get through check-in
because there was a Lacoste shop on ‘the other side’. What a
shame just as we did get through, it shut.
My metally sandals set off the security alarms and I had to be frisked. Fair really because under that Pavarotti frock I could have been carrying a cannon.
We couldn't hang about food-wise so we headed for a Burger-King - hopefully to get something without hairs in it. We picked the wrong queue which didn't get any shorter until a supervisor realised and sent our server off to clean some toilets. It was the slowest fast-food I've ever had in my life. By the time we'd got served, the kids had gone through puberty.
I’m a nervous flyer and the anxiety was setting in a bit,
but as soon as I was sitting on that plane preparing to order a vino tinto I
was fine. The flight was smooth as a
melted Galaxy and we landed at Barcelona where I told the lads that the 6 hour
wait would fly by as Barcelona airport was just oozing with shops.
They were – but at midnight they were all shut.
We slept in the only café open like tramps on a park bench - only slightly upmarket ones who had ordered croissants - and then prepared to board
the plane to Dubrovnik. This time I took
off my metal-studded shoes and put them through the security machine. Our hand luggage seemed to be attracting a
bit of attention as a couple of security guards were drafted over to look at
it. ‘Oh God my shoes are going to be
confiscated’ I thought. Turns out that what
was of interest was a folded up page 3 of the Sun which my son had ‘saved’ from
a paper we had bought to catch up on some news and waste some time. He said there was an interesting article
about politics on the reverse.
And I’m Keira Knightly.
Is it wrong to have a vino tinto at 6.45 in the morning on a
plane? No – because there are no clocks
on a plane. Or calories. We landed in Dubrovnik at 8.30.am and as the plane doors opened the heat hit us like a smack.
God I’d have killed for some lippy.
Anyway – we plodded around a very very very hot Dubrovnik
with our bag of emergency supplies – which had now been joined by a ‘Hello Kitty’
hairbrush we bought in the airport. Every
five minutes we were forced to take a pit stop as it was boiling. It's so beautiful in Dubrovnik though. We were due there on the ship in a few days. I thought when we returned, we could wear the same clothes, go to the same cafes and see how many waiters thought they were having a severe attack of deja vu. We had to wait around until 3pm when our bus
to Korcula was leaving. There was a lot of waiting around in this adventure. Anything that broke up that interminable waiting around - like going to the loo - was a welcome diversion for three travellers with boredom thresholds as low as Barbara Windsor's neckline in Carry on Camping.
We took a taxi to the bus station. The driver had obviously escaped from an
asylum because that was the only explanation for his driving. He didn't see the need for hands on the steering wheel because he
needed them to use his mobile or to thump down on his horn at anyone on the road however far in front of him they were. I just closed my eyes and prayed to the magic
of our Chinese pants to deliver us safely - and they listened. We stumbled out of
the taxi glad to be alive and bought the tickets as directed by Maria who had
given us an idiots guide: ‘the bus leaves at 3pm. It’s 14 euros. Stand 2.’
Only a complete berk could have missed it.
Well...
Only joking.
Anyway – at 2.30pm we were sitting on the bus and I woke
myself up snoring just as the bus set off at 3pm scaring the poor bloke sitting
next to me to death. I comforted myself
with the thought that I’d never have to see him again.
That two hour journey across Croatia was something I wouldn’t
have missed for the world. Stunning
countryside – I only wish I had enough juice in my battery left to take pictures. The bus drove onto a ferry and across to
lovely Korcula, where we were picking up the ship the next day.
Slight problem in that there were no hotel rooms in
Korcula. Were we okay roughing it in an
apartment, said Maria?
Er… yes.
Maria had arranged for us to be picked up and taken to the
tiniest, most darling apartment at the side of the harbour. This apartment was complete with its own cat –
a gentleman with cat-plums the size of aubergines. And the name of this testosterone-heavy
beast? Mitzi.
The rep who picked us up had to fill in forms for the police
and arranged to meet us the next morning.
The evening was free for us to wander around that gorgeous island and
soak up the first pressure-free night in what felt like months.
After a shower which felt like rain from heaven.
We found a café overlooking the sea, ordered icy drinks
(alcoholic in my case) and 3 spag bols.
We sat and watched the world go by, the moon rise, holidaymakers shop in
the markets. It was bliss. I think I slept the best sleep of my life in
that little apartment.
The next morning we had to go and see the police and the
customs people – who were satisfied we were just daft holidaymakers and not
international drug traffickers. And
joined the long list of very kind people – I can’t tell you how lovely everyone
was to us. Then – after a lot of
hand-shaking – we got on the tender to the ship and tried to look like
holidaymakers who had just had a morning in Korcula like all the other
cruisers.
Which we managed until there was a very loud announcement on
the tannoy ‘The Johnson family are back on.
I repeat, the Johnson family are back on.’
‘Try to pretend it’s not us,’ I said to the lads out of the
corner of my mouth, donning my Jackie Onassis glasses. Although there is a fine-line between those
and Carlos the Jackal specs.
Once on board I could have hugged our cabin. Oh the sight of clean undies and my much
missed lipstick. I started to shake
violently – delayed shock I imagine – so it was only wise to go to the Glass
House and calm my frayed nerves with three glasses of Icewine drunk faster than
Usain Bolt racing down a track.
Then the leg-pulling started once everyone knew we were all
right. 'I've got a title for your next book "When the boat comes in"' - and I couldn't get off the ship without someone tapping their watch at me. But you have to take it – and I
did, and I rather enjoyed it. If you can’t
laugh at yourself, then you shouldn’t miss the ship you’ve left your passports
on.
The lovely captain - Paul - and the cruise director Neil were happy to see us back and I got a big hug from them both. They're my two favourites - they helped me write my book 'Here Come The Girls' and apparently have signed as many of those books as I have. My cruises always are a lot happier when they're on - and this one, in a strange and roundabout way - was no exception.
So, that’s my little adventure. It was daft, it was careless, negligent and
bloody expensive but I’m going to have to stand that. But I’m a believer in things happening for a
reason and I have a lot to take away from that little diversion. I saw parts of Croatia I would never have
normally seen and they were beautiful. And
I spent a night in Korcula – something I really have wanted to do for a long
time (though next time I’ll do it on a more organised basis). I experienced how kind people can be to
others – even if they do consider them berks of the highest order. If you find yourself on the shore waving to your ship - at least I know the recovery system works... I found out that you might make mistakes but
it’s how you resolve them that matters.
I discovered how bloody fantastic a cheap Croatian house white wine can taste when it's enjoyed al fresco. I discovered that I got too comfortable in big floaty frocks and could end up going back to Malaga to buy more. (Only joking kids) I also saw how grown-up my son had become (although half an hour after
being back on ship he was scrapping with his brother again). I realised how many simple things count in
life – a flannel, a hair-brush, a bed with white sheets on, the calmness a
big-plummed non-judgmental ginger cat can bring when it plonks itself on your
knee. And above all – clean pants. You can survive anything when you’ve got
those.
It’s all given birth to a new Yorkshire proverb. ‘When your ship has sailed, may your paths
cross with a Chinese knicker saleswoman.’ Neil the Cruise Director said that 'The Chinese Knicker and Sock-Selling Woman' should be the title of my next book. I'm seriously considering it as homage to her.
Oh the Delicious Ice Wine from Slurp!
