With nothing out to wake us up finally, we all snooze through breakfast - a real sin when there's buckets of food being served somewhere on the ship - and pull our asses out of the room in time for lunch in the dining room.
It was the first of two full days at sea, coasting back to L.A., so why not try dining room for a light early afternoon meal. I pour over a menu that throws out four or five delectable choices for appetizer, main meal and desert. I could tell, the only thing light about this meal was the sun shining through the port - aft? ah who the hell knows? - windows. I pony the tummy up with some calamari - deelish - a steak sandwich and a banana split because everyday is a good day when you have a banana split (and a corn dog, but we can't have everything in life, can we?).
After cleaning up the remaining chocolate sauce with the last bit of banana so the bowl looks like it was never used, I decide its time to finally exercise. Maybe I can work off five nights of double appetizers and double entrees by lapping the ship a few times on the walking trail. I hook the iPod into my ears and get motoring. By Royal Caribbeans count, which I'm sure was wrong because they can't even count American ways they have to use silly metrics instead, one mile was 6.5 laps. Dude, I can do that in my sleep. I start strutting until I loop around the rock wall at the back of the ship and then the wind kicks me in the nuts. It's colder than pimp's heart and steals your soul with each step until the walking deck opens up over the pool. Six and a half laps are a mile, eh? Hmmm, maybe a half mile is better than nothing.
I stick to it, though, and pull out two miles, but damn was I thirsty afterwards. The dangerous thing about walking along the sun deck above the pool is watching all these pool freaks walking around with buckets of beers. It took all of four laps for me to decide that would be my post-hike deal. Who needs water to rehydrate the body? That's shits for sissies. Give me a bucket o' suds, and if I suffer from a lack of agua I'll either drink the ice or dive into the ocean for water. Unfortunately, I had to share some of the beers with Chris and Wife.
We soaked in the rays until the bucket was drained of beer bottles, ice and water (just in case any beer leaked out of the bottles. I'm not a wasteful person). And decided it was time for a snack. I mean lunch was only 90 minutes ago. We head over to the burger bar for hot dogs. Then, to top it off, we nab some Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream cones. Polishing off a chocolate-chip cookie dough cone, it dawned on me that I may have ate a bit much on this trip. The tummy looked up at me with it's one eye and said, "Dude, I need a break."
"I know buddy, just give me room for two more days, though."
"Agreed, but after those two days, friend, we're sitting on the toilet for sixteen hours."
"You got a deal, tummy."
That deal with the gut landed me three lobster tails at dinner that night, our last formal evening of the cruise. With all of us proudly wearing our Quest gold medals (because we're nothing if not a table full of dorks) we chow down on Royal Caribbeans lobster night. Mustafa is an enabler, too. We'd all gladly have settled for one tail, but that little Turk kept coming by asking if we wanted another. I heard my tummy's scream, "what the hell, dude," but luckily my pants and belt were riding high that night muffling it's cries.
Our servers, Mustafa from Turkey and Robert from Slovakia, were fun and within a night or two knew our quirks when dining. Wife likes a smidge of coffee with her cream, so Robert brought her a personal cream container. I liked the sour dough rolls, so when they were chucking the bread mine was always sour dough. And we, in turn, got their backs when trouble sprouted. Robert tried to pour some wine for me and left a few drops on the white table cloth.
"All is good, Robert," I said as I used my bread plate to hide the stain. Of course, Mustafa has radar for spilled wine and asked if Robert did it. I told him I couldn't rat out my buddy. Of course, when Robert returned I told him Mustafa sniffed out the stain.
"Just as long as he doesn't get a straw and suck it out of there," Robert said.
Mustafa was on a roll that night, too. With the majority of the table absent the night before for dinner, he pointed out just how easy we made his job last night and profusely thanked us. We told him we'd work his ass double tonight.
The people really made the trip, though. One month later, I find myself wondering how this leg went for Robert and Mustafa, and our boys in the Schooner Bar: Manolo, Ricky and Rowell.
According to the duty-free alcohol lady, the wait staff is big on alcohol - Vodka to be precise. We had become big fans of Robert because out of him, Mustafa and the tip mooch (Head Waiter), Robert works the hardest as the assistant waiter. So we decided to do a little something special for our Slovak friend and three of us go in on a bottle for Stoly. As we head over to the shop, we spot our man Mustafa coming out with a few heavy bags of his own, and I think tomorrow's dining will be interesting, that's for sure.
Not only was it lobster night, but it was also the gala buffet at midnight as well. Food carvings in any imaginable object donned tables in the dining room. Ice sculptured Chines dragons, half-naked (the best half) chocolate ladies, cacti, frogs, birds, villages, everything under the sun was carved out of food. And I got yelled at for making Mount Everest in my mash potatoes when I was kid, these chefs were designing their own mountain ranges complete with climbers and skiers.
And any time I thought about sneaking a hand under the half-naked lady chocolate sculpture's skirt, some dude on the mic would remind us picture takers: "Fingers are for clicking, not licking."
Man, that just ain't fair.
But my stomach didn't complain.
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