Two days ago I walked through a park in Stockholm heading towards the city from the port. It was a glorious day and I was drastically over dressed and under prepared. It was a scorcher, and dressed in jeans and without any kind of refreshment I stopped to look at the almost deserted park and thought how lovely it would have been to while away a few hours there on a blanket in the grass… doing my most favourite thing. Daydreaming. And I did stop a while.. and lay in the grass… but today in 'Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen' I had my heart set on doing it properly so I headed out from the ship early with my trusty ‘goes everywhere with me’ backpack stuffed to the brim with everything I could possibly need… and much that I didn’t. A change of clothes, a bikini???? sunscreen, a towel, my lap top, wet wipes, tissues, water… I looked like I was voyaging to the pole.
I wanted to find a quiet space to untangle my busy brain. A full-on few months travelling, working and renovating the house with all the trials and tribulations that come with that, have left me a little frazzled of late so stopping to buy cherries and strawberries for breakfast… I headed in a slightly different direction than usual and low and behold I found a perfect spot at the top of a small but steep hill.
The grass was freshly mown and the towel now laid I set myself up to write this.. allowing myself an occasional moment to stop.. chomp a cherry and revel in how incredibly contented the simplest of things can make a person when its exactly what your heart desires.
I saw him in my periphery at first.. then on closer inspection I realised he was staring at me menacingly as he came into clear view
“Hurdy gurdy blah blah blah” I had absolutely no idea what the Danish soldier was saying to me.. but he didn’t look happy and was in possession of a very large gun.
Smiling sweetly I replied “I’m frightfully sorry… I’m English” donning the most ridiculously over the top anglo-royal accent and gave him my best toothy smile in the hope I hadn’t unwittingly broken the law.
“You can’t sit on the grass” He grunted, bluntly and to the point.
“Seriously??” I replied? “I’m not doing any harm.” I dared to suggest
“It is the rule. Please move” he retorted, emotionless and watched me whilst I hurriedly stuffed my copious belongings back into the trusty ‘goes everywhere with me’ backpack and followed him back to the path.
Sulking with my strawberries I scuffed my way along the gravel like a petulant school child. It was the perfect spot. I had JUST got settled. I had everything I needed. It took me about twenty minutes to find my way off the windy path and back down the hill into the public domain where I am now residing under a decidedly less desirable tree. Its next to the main road. There are dozens of passers by and I have just removed a rogue intruder from descending into the back of my trousers. I had actual ants in my pants.
I’ve spent the majority of the summer season this year traversing the Baltic sea. I haven’t spent a lot of it thus far in the mediterranean in comparison but it doesn’t bother me in the slightest. I love this part of the world. I think on the whole its my favourite region of Europe. Everyone is beautiful. The ports are beautiful. The sailaways are beautiful and being surrounded by such a stimulus you can’t help but be beatific oneself. Stockholm, Tallinn, Warnemunde, and especially for me, Copenhagen are places I can happily while away the entire day purely meandering.
Last cruise I sailed out of Southampton on the Celebrity Eclipse and was fortunate enough to be able to travel with my Father. My Dad has seen me perform on a ship before. In fact those of you that have seen my matinee show will be aware that my parents were indeed passengers on the first cruise I ever did. I was 24.. too scared to go alone and so they stumped up the fare and came along with me. But though they have travelled with me since, he has never seen me perform in a theatre before .Other cruise lines I worked for in the past never deemed me a ‘theatre calibre’ act and many a time I was scheduled to perform in a lounge that held at best 250 guests… a thoroughfare with a busy bar and a bar tender with impeccable musical timing. It was almost as if he would WAIT for me to take that little break before the big key change in “I Will Always Love You’ before blitzing the hell out of a frozen Pina Colada. My Dad is my biggest fan and he wouldn’t care if I sang to him on the fire place in the living room as was oft the case as a child. Indeed, my Dad toured with me for many years before I made the lengthy transition to full time cruising. I think he misses being my road-man.
This was a special week for us and as you can imagine, the staff and crew went the extra mile to ensure my Dad had the holiday of a lifetime. We dined in the speciality restaurants, watched the sail away from Stockholm from the Helipad, had a bridge tour.. it was truly magical. As the voyage ended and we prepared to make our transit home my Dad said he was planning to change his moniker.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He is known as Bernard which is in actual fact his middle name. He was born Samuel Bernard but he changed it as a child. He had been taunted by his peers over some saying or other that had driven him crazy. Everyone but the passport office knew him as Bernard. I thought it would be very odd for him to change his name at this time of life.
“I’m going to change my first name to ‘You Must Be’” he added.
Bewildered, I dared to ask why
“That’s all anyone has called me all week” he boasted. ‘You must be' Jayne’s Dad or ‘You must be' so proud” he chortled. “I’ve never been more famous. I love it. “ He said.
I roared laughing at him
“This is my life though Dad. As much as I enjoy talking to guests after my show and its almost 100% of the time that they are lovely to you, it can be hard being on show 215 days a year” I suggested.
“I wouldn’t mind.” he said “When I retire I’m going to become a professional cruiser. I’m going to come everywhere with you” he beamed.
“No you’re not." I thought to myself. I love him to bits. But he snores like a locomotive.
We made our way down the quayside to wait for a taxi after an amazing morning together in Tallinn, Estonia. It was everything my father loves. Viking ancestry, craft markets, traditional home brewed ales and a feast of grilled meat for two at a local restaurant that could have fed a Nordic army.
As we dragged our bags we were stopped no less than five times by guests saying goodbye, wishing us well and asking for a photo or two. It wouldn’t have mattered to my Dad if it were five or five hundred times. He was having his fifteen minutes of fame and he wasn’t going to waste it.
On the journey to the airport I reflected on what had been such an incredibly special week for us both. Quite nonchalantly we headed to the check in desk, relaxed and full of food and excitedly chatted about the family barbecue we had planned in my garden for the following day. It would be all hands on deck to prepare everything in time for the commencement at 4pm and the arrival of our guests. Because of the home improvements, all of mine and Steve’s wardrobe currently resided in the conservatory. It all had to be rehoused.
I handed our passports over as we chatted and it was at this point it became apparent there was a problem.
“Excuse me, Mrs Parry” the pretty lady enquired politely
“The passport name for your Father doesn’t match that on his ticket”
Immediately I thought I’d booked him as Bernard Samuel instead of Samuel Bernard
As I tried to explain she interrupted me
“No no Mrs Parry. You have booked his ticket as Mr Samuel Parry”
“WHAT?????” I exclaimed. “Are you sure? Why would I have done that?”
A trip to the ticket desk and a conversation in Estonian between colleagues I was clearly not privy to, we were told that ‘Adria Airways’ wouldn’t have a problem allowing my father to travel on this ticket on this leg of the journey as their policy was to allow up to a three letter error in spelling, which as my maiden name and married name are so close in composition, would enable him to fly. They told us however that when we got to Brussels, where we already had a tight connection, we would have to ask the Brussels Airlines ticket desk their policy as they withheld the right to refuse him permission to travel. We wouldn’t know until we asked.
I don’t mind telling you that at this point I felt very sick. I knew that the Brussels-Manchester flight was the final one of the day. That already we would be pushing it to make the connection and that surely the gods had shone their luck on us so much so far this week that I couldn’t possibly be that fortunate.
How could I have BEEN so stupid? I was really really angry at myself and whilst I did everything I could to disguise this to my Dad, I was filled with utter dread at the possibility of what was to befall us in Brussels.
“I can tell you’re fretting” he said “Don’t. Worse case scenario I’ll buy another ticket.”
It did nothing to appease my panic. Just as I was about to effervesce right there in airport departures the ground staff announced that our flight would be delayed by at least 30 minutes.
MELTDOWN
I have been travelling for 14 years on my own. As regular readers will attest I have missed flights, been stranded on random caribbean islands, lost luggage, chased ships, regularly met my near demise in taxi’s.. but this is honestly the most worried I have ever been. Because it wasn’t me. It was my Dad. And it was my fault.
I wriggled a lot on the flight. I couldn’t sit still.
On arrival in Brussels we set off running.
Brussels airport is HUGE. I have made a 45 minute connection here (from wheels down to wheels up) as the Venice-Brussels-Manchester flight allows only that window. If you don’t run, you don’t make it and its over a kilometre from one gate to the next. In this instance we were delayed AND had to stop at the ticket desk whilst attempting to make the connection.
Sweating like a pensioner at Bingo, and with my trusty ‘goes everywhere with me’ back pack loaded to the brim with sheet music and the likes, I pelted as fast as I could to the customer service desk. My Dad in tow.
“I’m going to kill him” I thought. “He has high blood pressure. I’m going to stress him to death” I was genuinely fraught.
“This is a problem” the stiff, terse and incredibly vertical representative told me.
“This is a very big problem”
I tried in vain to explain
“You are not LISTENING TO ME”. he raised his voice with such hyperbole that I was that child again… the one that danced on the fireplace .. and I had been scorched. Not by the flames but by his tone.
I listened to him lecture me. Unable to fit in a single word I took the berating and waited for him to finish.
“Please help me” I whimpered, my eyes glazed and utterly bereft of any other offering.
He made a phone call.. in dutch… to a colleague and the musicality of his inflection left me in no doubt he was less than pleased with me.
He hung up. And grimaced at me.
“Run. To. The. Gate
See. Security.
And hope.”
“Thank you thank you” I bawled and set off again… ‘legging it’ as we would say in Lancashire.
The queue for passport control was BEYOND ridiculous. One person for the whole line. Now I was on the verge of palpitations.
Eventually we reached the gate with minutes to spare and I waited my turn to be seen. The gentleman in front of me was having an even worse time than me it seemed. The flight was overbooked and his ticket had been refunded by his travel agent without his knowledge. There were no more seats on the flight! So Dad wouldn’t be able to buy another ticket if they wouldn’t let him board.
MELTDOWN!
I waited patiently for my turn. I tried to speak. I spluttered and flustered and fumbled an erratic spew of literal nonsense. As I attempted to explain my predicament she interrupted me
“Mrs Parry. Jayne. Its fine. My colleague called. I have amended the manifest. No need to panic”
That awful, rotten, needlessly mean spirited man, I thought. But I dispelled it immediately. No negativity I reasoned. Not after I had been so very lucky. I went back to tell Dad and burst into tears.
“bhbvlrhygherlgbhl” none of it made any sense.
“Jayne. calm down. Its fine. Its sorted”
It had been a self induced, completely unnecessary, panic ridden nightmare. We were both beetroot-red and panting for breath. And there he was. calm as a cucumber.
I hope I’m that laid back.. when I’m Sixty Four.
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