Cruising Down the River

     Our cruise ship was a great place for character study, and there were a few characters on board the ship.  Never mind that those people were forming similar opinions of us.

     Three of our family were on a Swiss river boat cruising from Budapest to Amsterdam, the culmination of months of planing that our family group would sail those rivers and canals and see the sights along the way.

     Our first impression of our fellow passengers was one of incredible senility and that everyone else was far older than we.  As we met them, people began to grow younger, and by the end of the cruise they seemed positively juvenile.

     Almost everyone had a story, some more interesting than others.  As the days passed, we heard many of them, and those we didn’t hear, someone in our party had.  The ones I liked most were the romances. 

Several honeymooning couples were aboard.  One pair found each other after marriages of almost half a century were over.  It was wonderful to see their quiet pleasure in each other. 

     Another couple of newly-weds told of their recent wedding.  They described the ceremony in which their combined seventeen grandchildren preceded them down the aisle, the little boys in navy blazers and the girls in matching flowered dresses.

     One somewhat younger couple seemed happy enough together, but the lady confided that if she had it to do over again, she wouldn’t.  His three teenage daughters made her life a misery, and she would forego the pleasure of his company to dispense with theirs.

     One attractive lady with a highly developed southern accent chewed gum and displayed an inordinate amount of cleavage.  This love of decolletage extended to sweaters, tee shirts, and dresses.  Her husband, a retired pilot, liked to talk about his landings.  It interested us the first time, but after that the subject paled. 

     We observed the unusual friendship of two older ladies.  One had a bad ankle and was somewhat physically dependent upon the other.  The second woman, ever solicitous, complained bitterly whenever she could escape.  She had bought her own ticket, but the first one treated her like a paid companion—-expecting her to fetch and carry on command.  In the cabin they shared, the old curmudgeon would not allow the doormat to turn on the lights and refused to share even one of her three clocks with the poor slave who had forgotten hers.

     Then we had the Texan and the Trophy.  He was a balding, middle-aged man given to wearing ten-gallon hats.  She looked twenty years younger, thanks to a superb facelift and a great hair job.  She liked form-fitting garments and bought a new sweater at every port—-purchases much appreciated by male passengers.

     We all avoided Jack the Rapper.  He talked incessantly and woe unto the one whose attention he captured.  He ranted on, hands waving in air as the unfortunate listener suffered.  We were surprised to learn that he was a psychiatrist.  His patients must have found their sessions unhelpful as he did the talking and they sat and listened.

     Few people smoked, but one section of the bar was reserved for those who did.  One of the most unlikely devotees was a dear white-haired lady who, as she sipped a martini, liked to tell about her childhood on the farm and her horse named Dick.

     Sightseeing often curtailed shopping time, much to the chagrin of many of the ladies on board.  The average male passenger preferred to find a sidewalk café to enjoy the native brew.  One husband could not elude his wife and sat forlornly in a front corner of the store while his bride made her purchases.  He looked at us sadly and pleaded, “Please buy me and take me out of here.” 

     The crew afforded us an opportunity to speculate.  Every woman on board admired the handsome young captain and wanted to take him home for a spinster daughter.  Some of the ladies thought he and the cruise director would make a pair.  Their husbands did not find that a subject of interest.

     The sightseeing was spectacular along the way.  Wonderfully preserved walled cities of medieval days with Disneyesque moated castles vied in fascination with storybook towns often photographed and painted for Christmas card scenes.  Guides pointed out ruins and spewed forth more history than we could absorb.  They took us to cathedrals dating back to the tenth century and threw about dates of events even older.

     Jet-lagged and weary, we arrived home to a mountain of accumulated letters, bills, magazines, and junk mail.  Our clothes were dirty, the refrigerator was empty, and the garden cried for attention.  Within a day or two we were restored enough to think back on our trip and all we had seen.  We also smiled at the memory of our fellow passengers.