"Person Of Interest" Part One...

I started to strip off as I usually do… at the airport obviously.. not just randomly in the street or anything. Removing my outer layers of clothing, watches, belts, the obvious accoutrements. 

The security were ultra clear and concise with us today , as was to be expected. But where I would be anticipating a harsh demeanour and an authoritarian tone, I found it to be quite the opposite.

“I’m sorry, love” the lady behind the security belt expressed.

“We’re having to be a little stricter than usual with the liquids thing. You can’t use your own bag now. It has to be the clear resealable ones we provide… Look… here… if you take the lid off your hairspray we can make it fit”

I ws heading out for such a short trip I had elected to take only hand luggage. So trying to squeeze all of the toiletries and cosmetics I require on a cruise into a sandwich bag had proven to be difficult. 

I sacrificed the miniature shampoo and conditioner in lieu of the essential make up items and as I headed off to pass through the body scanner she shouted after me...

“Have a nice day!”

I turned to look at her. And for a split millisecond as our eyes met her expression said it all

. 

We are Manchester.

We smiled at each other and I walked away.

After being greeted with a similar approach by all of the staff in the airport that day, which was also the day after British Airways had experienced a system failure and there were tens of dozens of passengers stranded in Departures.. the mood wasn’t sombre, or tense, or even inciting discourse as i had expected. It was one of solidarity and understanding. 

I spend a large portion of my working life in airports and more often than not these days the experience is less than pleasant.

Waiting in line and packing and repacking my hand luggage is par for the course but my experiences in airports at the other side of the pond this winter season made the whole experience of travelling from one ship to another virtually impossible at times. But I’ll come back to that.

Today I watchfully observed the demeanour of the other passengers, the faces of the staff at the airport, and the general air of understanding that floated fluidly above the ordinarily chaotic scene at terminal three. But today wasn’t one of those days.

I approached the supervisors desk towards the back of the security area and ventured a tentative  “Excuse me” over the edge of the lofty and virtually unreachable vantage point from which he surveyed all he was required to manage.

I perched my chin on the edge and stood on the tips of my toes so he could see me. I hardly EVER wear flat shoes, but today I was anticipating a bit of a walk at the other end so I’d opted for a more sensible footwear option, bedazzled of course, but not so helpful in my current situation.

“He looked at me expectantly, with an expression that portrayed more of a ‘Please don’t give me any grief.. its hard enough today’ than a ‘Can I help you Madam?’ sort of face.

I took a breath

“I just wanted to say that I know you are operating under heightened security measures at the moment and understandably this is a hard time for everyone. I know you’re going to get a lot of complaints from people today because of this but I just wanted to say that I think you and your staff are doing a marvellous job”

His face immediately softened as I continued. His furrowed brow unfurled and he allowed the tension in his face to pass as I  finished my point.

“Everybody has been cheerful and helpful and I just wanted to let you know, just incase nobody else tells you that today. Thanks for all you do.”

As he replied my face suddenly began to flush and I instantly felt a bit of an idiot for being so open with a veritable stranger. I gathered my things and literally bolted with his reply ringing in my wake 

“Thank you… he offered… I’ll be sure to pass that on to the staff” And I legged it. 

Its a little over two weeks since the terrorist attack on Manchester’s concert arena. 22 died and 59 were injured.

 I live about 10 miles outside the centre but like many other Northerners and then subsequently Londoners, indeed Brits collectively this last week, I feel inextricably linked to every single person involved in the awful tragedies. Be it victim or survivor, family or observer. And the emergency services that responded so quickly and efficiently to what for them must have been one of the hardest nights of their lives. 

I know what its like to have tough times and to a large extent my own personal losses in the past half year have kept me from my writings. I felt unable to even attempt to bring humour into anyones life let alone try to share it with the world. But the people of Manchester have inspired me. And as I open my laptop for the first time in over six months to start my most recent rumination I dedicate this blog to them.

WE are Manchester.

As is usually the case for me I have spent the majority of the winter cruising season hopping in and out of the United States and the Caribbean manoeuvring my way from one vessel to the next, barely ever really spending any length of time in any one place. And as much as I love the US and in particular, Florida, I have had very little time there per say other than the odd hotel night in transit here and there and a short six day vacation with Steve seeing friends at the end of January. But disembarking the beautiful Celebrity Equinox in Fort Lauderdale on this occasion on my way to join the Celebrity Eclipse in Aruba proved decidedly more difficult than I had imagined. 

It appeared my frequent ‘in and out’ visits to the US on my visa waiver status had raised some alarm bells with immigration and CBP (Customs and Border Protection) and I had been flagged up as a ‘Person Of Interest’ 

Subsequently I had been ushered into a side room in the port before a brusque and statuesque lady official came inside to address me.

She left no doubt in my mind that she was less than impressed about my constant comings and goings in and out of the United States and whilst I had made it abundantly clear to her that I was only ever 'popping in’ on my way to another ship, she was quite adamant that I had, in her words “Been abusing the terms of my ESTA” (this is the visa waiver programme for Brits travelling to the United States)

Allegedly leaving the US to travel to the Caribbean wasn’t considered a 'significant enough departure' and I apparently needed to be in possession of a B1/B2 visa. 

I don’t mind telling you I was quaking in my wedges as I tried earnestly and fruitlessly to explain to the Grace Jones look alike that I was indeed only following the same course of action as any other guest entertainer in my position and that I was completely unaware of the visa prerequisite. I assured her I would rectify the situation at my earliest possible opportunity. 

This didn’t seem enough for ‘Angry Grace’ and my protestations were largely unheard. 

She was such a meanie. I could feel the hot tears beginning to well up in my already tired eyes. I genuinely thought she was about to deport me.

The last 15 years of my career flashed before my eyes as I panicked that everything I had worked so very hard for was about to be snatched from under my nose.

I allowed her to finish her spiel before i offered my explanation, muted and tentatively.

“I have three more cruises to complete before I have a month at home. I promise to book an appointment with the US Embassy in London the minute I exit this room. Please don’t deport me. I’ll lose my job. Its taken me 15 years. FIFTEEN YEARS to get here!!!”

“Who said anything about deportation?” she retorted. 

“But… But..” I whimpered

“I’ll stamp your passport but not for 90 days. Just for the time left until you leave for the UK. And you need to get a visa”

“I will I will” I answered, hurriedly collecting my possessions and following ‘Angry Grace’ back to the desk. 

In the car on the way to Miami airport I felt woeful. I allow myself an occasion self indulgent moment in this line of work… when I sometimes think about how life might be if I had chosen a more vanilla existence. I was headed to Curacao. And whilst I knew it to be a lovely Island, I would be spending two days in a hotel there alone. And with my new ‘Person of Interest’ experience looming over me I felt a little low and less than excited about my day.

I dragged my cases out of the ‘Uber' and to the check in desk where i wearily presented my passport to the attendant.

“This flight has been cancelled” She said. “Didn’t you receive the email?”

Befuddled I answered “No, my company book my travel. It wouldn’t come to me. What do you mean cancelled?”

“Yes you’ve been rebooked on the afternoon flight tomorrow and we have taken the liberty of booking you a hotel here in Miami. We apologise for the inconvenience” she offered.

As a complete knee-jerk reaction an excessively loud “YAAAAAYYYYYYYYY” spontaneously erupted from my lips before I caught myself and covered my mouth. People around me in the same situation were clearly distressed at the disruption to their travel arrangements but my automatic response was to cheer. I had friends in Miami. LOTS of friends. And now I would have a day to shoot about and see as many as I could. Everything happens for a reason I thought. And I skipped off with my vouchers to find my shuttle bus and call my pals.

It was a great day. A truly great day. I lunched with friends, shopped at Lincoln Road, made plans for dinner and took my first ever ‘Uber Pool’

If you’re unaware, ‘Uber' is very similar to a taxi service. You order the driver online, punch in your destination and a fully vetted person in their own vehicle turns up to take you where ever you ask to go. Its cheaper than taxi’s and though the drivers, especially in Miami don’t always speak English too well, I’ve never had a reason to complain. 'Uber Pool’ is where you do exactly as above but agree to share your journey with other possible passengers on the way. Its much cheaper and you meet some REAL characters.

I’d taken this option several times throughout the day and on my journey to meet my friends for dinner in North Miami ‘Josef’ the Uber driver proved to be a real hoot. Granted, he picked up and dropped off so many passengers on my journey that I was half an hour late but I met a pregnant nurse, a Brazilian honeymooning couple and a young Russian student on the way to meet his parents. He didn’t say much.

I had a blast and I think Josef did too. I’m pretty sure this job was as much a social life for him as a source of income. He had us in fits of laughter the whole journey. His constant declarations of “Come on lets go paaarrttaaayyy” may have given it away.

 This was a good day I thought. A really good day.

The next morning I rose to discover I had an email from the airline asking me to contact them about the days travel. I promptly called to be informed my 12.45pm flight would now not be leaving until 9.45pm but that I would still have to check in for the flight at the original time.

I tried to remain positive, drawing on the memories of the epic day I’d had before this and assuring myself I could busy myself for nine hours in the airport no problem.

As the day wore on so did my patience and the airport staff informed us that my onward flight from Aruba to Curacao had been cancelled and that the airline would be putting us in a hotel in Aruba.

I called my Curacao hotel and cancelled the reservation and dutifully boarded the plane.

Wearily I dozed until the landing in Aruba. This was a SERIOUSLY dilapidated plane. I forced myself to sleep to avoid thinking about the actual physical signs of rust in the fuselage and the decided lack of carpeting anywhere on the plane.

As we disembarked, now utterly exhausted an announcement over the public address system caused my ears to prick up.

“Passengers scheduled to fly to Curacao please wait outside the plane at the foot of the stairs after disembarking”

Confused I joined the group…..

The supervisor, trying desperately to organise the now exhausted passengers caught my eye and I asked him

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be on this flight. My flight was cancelled and the airline are booking me a hotel”

“No ma’am. The flight has been rescheduled. We have chartered a small plane to take you to Curacao tonight.”

“So theres no hotel here in Aruba for me?” I added

“No ma’am. You’ll be taken to Curacao very shortly.”

“But I’ve cancelled my room. And the Island is tiny. Its 1am now… will there even BE any taxi’s in the airport in Curacao at this time of night?”

“No ma’am probably not” he muttered sheepishly under his breath

“But I’m a woman travelling on  my own… with no transport and no accommodation. I’ve been awake 18 hours already. What am I supposed to do?” My voice now raised I implored him for a more suitable answer.

“i can’t help you. I’m sorry” he answered and began to walk away

At this point I could feel myself starting to sweat. That uncomfortable kind of inner heat where you feel you may well just turn green and burst out of your shirt.

Enraged, I now began to shout impatiently.

“YOU HAVE A DUTY OF CARE TO ME. YOU HAVE MESSED ME AROUND FOR TWO DAYS AND I HAVE PATIENTLY ACCEPTED ALL OF YOUR MISDEMEANOURS TO THIS POINT. BUT THIS IS BEYOND THE JOKE. YOU CANT DO THIS. YOU CANT. YOU HAVE TO HELP ME.IS THERE NO ONE YOU CAN CALL?"

But he was gone.

I stood there utterly bereft trying my best to weigh up the options available to me. It would be pointless to call my agent. It was 5am in the UK right now. How could he help me? I had HAD a hotel and cancelled it on the bum advice of the airline. And now I was stuck. With no idea where my luggage was and no idea where I was going to sleep tonight.

What was I going to do?

To be continued……….. 

Newman and the New Shoes

I pulled into the Car Park of the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester early last Sunday Morning, filled with the usual sense of excitement and slight trepidation. I was here to sing some of what would hopefully be the final vocal takes on my new album. This is a project I have been passionate and nervous about in equal measures since its inception a couple of months ago. This anxiety was temporarily relieved however when, as I entered the underground facility I was greeted with the not entirely unpleasant sight of Four Eastern European gentlemen fake tanning a fifth gentleman with sponges.. as he stood there… in his speedo’s… in a parking space. 

I was aware of their origin instantly as it had been a lovely sunny start to the day and I had travelled into town with the soft-top down on my Mazda.. singing to my hearts content along the motorway, filling my lungs with the fresh morning air and warming up the old vocal chords ready for the session ahead. This also meant however, that I couldn’t avoid making eye contact with the said gentlemen who were chattering away in their native tongue quite nonchalantly as I stared open mouthed at his albeit incredibly attractive but now somewhat tea-stained looking physique. This wasn’t a ‘weekend in Monaco’ kind of tan. This was a ‘he’s fallen in a chocolate fountain’ kind of affair. A stripper-gram maybe? I thought. I laughed to myself and gathered my things.

Usually when I come to the college to work on the album I am greeted with dozens of students half my age.. milling about the café area… carrying their instruments… wearing vintage knits and hipster glasses and more often than not eating Quinoa from a plastic tub. It’s their space after all and I am merely a guest.. but teetering past in my stiletto’s with a full face of ‘You can do this, Jayne” confidence boosting make-up I stand out for all the wrong reasons. A bit of me wishes I was effortlessly cool like them or that I had persevered more with the Trumpet. Though I’m pretty sure the rest of the human race breathes a regular sigh of relief I didn’t. 

Today however brought a whole new sense of inferiority as upon entering the building I was greeted by not one but literally dozens and dozens of Men and Women who had apparently coloured themselves in with the dark brown body stain. Bewildered and bemused I began to realise that all of them were as beautifully honed as our European friend in the car park.. but not that crazy, massive bulked up kind of muscly.. just really really fit. And really REALLY brown. Some were so brown they just looked like a tea bag with eyes. And some had omitted to tan their face all together. One guy had left an obtuse looking line around the top of his neck… almost as if he'd been dropped in a cup of gravy and drank his way out.

Its transpires that the College holds the 'Annual UK Natural Body Building Championships' here and whilst I scurried amongst the competitors, up the stairs to the safety of the vocal booth it was in fact I who felt weird. I have been cruising the Baltic region for the last three months and by my standards, have little or no tan to speak of really. I felt like an overstuffed bag of marshmallows, all puffy and white, bouncing embarrassingly from pillar to post trying to avoid accidentally contacting Adonis or Narcissus for fear that I might leave a streak. 

Today I head out to the fabulous Celebrity Silhouette in Helsinki. It is the fifth time I have been here this summer, yet I’ve seen literally none of it. I usually arrive late having caught the 17.55pm last flight out of the day or have transhipped here from somewhere else in Europe and because Finland is two hours ahead of UK time Its usually close to midnight by the time I reach the airport hotel. Today however, I fly at 10.25 am and my accommodation is more central to the city than of late so I’m hoping to see a little of what the area has to offer. Who am I kidding? I’m going shoe shopping.

“OOOHHH Jayne I like your shoes… where are they from??”

“These??? oh just a little something I picked up in Finland.” Hee Hee

However two Helsinki’s ago I flew here from Southampton having disembarked the awesome Celebrity Eclipse there earlier that day. It was an unusual journey for me as the flight had me transferring through Manchester… not something I have ever done before as its normally where I would begin or end my journey. I transfer flights in airports so regularly its like second nature to me but I must admit I found this experience to be less than straight forward. There was signage but it wasn’t abundantly clear and upon reaching the area where you would transfer terminals from T3 to T1 I was told I would have to wait until all the passengers had cleared security before I would be allowed to proceed through the locked door. This seemed odd. 

‘There’s loads of them!” I exclaimed to the lady at the customer service desk. “I Might miss my connection”. 

 I was hoping she wouldn’t ask to see my boarding pass as this was a blatant embellishment. I had plenty of time. I just knew there was only that one seemingly pointlessly locked door between me and TAX FREE shoe shopping. I was frustrated.

The journey hadn’t be altogether hassle free to this point either. On arriving at Southampton I had discovered no baggage had been added to my reservation and so I joined the queue at the enquiry desk to rectify it. Patsy recognised me waiting patiently in line.

“You again??!!” she smiled. “Whats wrong this time?”

Patsy had kindly helped with the exact same scenario two weeks previously although on that occasion a glitch in the system had threatened leave me with a £350 ($500) charge to take the luggage on the flight. Patsy persevered however, and eventually the problem was solved. 

I try not to stress out when traveling these days unless its absolutely mandatory or unless I fear I might have unwittingly stranded my Dad in Belgium (see previous blog).Primarily because I would then be spending at least two days a week ‘wigged out’ of my mind about things I can not control but also because nine times out of ten the person in front or behind you in the queue is most probably having a way worse day than you.

The two Italians that were now screaming into the faces of the two markedly taller Swede’s over who’s turn it was to be seen next was indeed a much more dramatic scenario than my lack of baggage allowance so I smiled back at ‘Patient Patsy’ and gesticulated that the crazy Italian miniature person may indeed take my place in the line. She didn’t know what I knew. That Patsy from ‘Swissport’ handling is indeed a superwoman in disguise and that no problem is too big for her to solve.

When they eventually let me through the door in Manchester, and I EVENTUALLY managed to buy a pair of shoes that were very beautiful but I do not in fact need at all, I headed to the gate to board the flight. The chaos at Southampton and the lack of a usual transfer system in Manchester left me doubtful that my bags would make the connection and I realised that 'bleary-eyed morning Jayne’ should have packed more things in her hand luggage incase the bags did not indeed transition to Helsinki with me.

On arrival I waited at the belt for my belongings and lo and behold everybody elses came and went and mine were nowhere to be seen. I headed, downtrodden to the baggage handlers desk all too aware that tomorrows flight landed well after the ship was to depart the city and that friends of mine had been in a similar situation with their guitars a few weeks previous and had ended up chasing them around Europe from port to port. 

“Oh well” I thought “Even if I have to go on stage in these stinky jeans, at least I’ll have a new pair of well-good shoes to wear” I chuckled to myself.

At the desk I explained my predicament and started to compose an email to the ship to warn them that if I was scheduled to perform the following day, I might not have my luggage. At this point the colleague of the lady dealing with my enquiry popped his head over the desk to ask if I was Mrs Parry

“yeessssss” I sighed, forlorn looking up from my phone “That’s me” 

“Your bags are here.” he retorted. ‘But they have been sent to another belt. Number 33

“I could kiss yoooooouuu” I squealed. He recoiled. I decided not to.

As I headed to number 33, there, in a glass case in the centre of the luggage belt was a stuffed Beaver. A rather dominant looking creature. Odd to say the least,  he looked like he was about to pounce. And as my two bags made their way into view, independently of any other luggage, they came to a halt right in front of the Beaver.

“The Beaver saved the day!!!” I thought “Hoorah for the Beaver” and I immediately took a picture of it and sent it to the Cruise Director and the Stage and Production Manager on the Silhouette merely stating

“Don’t worry. The beaver has saved the day” 

It made me laugh. I grabbed the cases and bounced to my hotel full of beans, not realsiing at that stage that I hadn’t in fact sent the first email to the ship telling them that I had lost my bags at ALL as I had been distracted from the task by my joyous luggage news. 

So that was all they received. An an email from me saying that a Beaver had saved the day. 

" I could try and explain”  I thought to myself.

" NNNaaaaaaahhhh… they know I’m a nutter. I’ll tell them tomorrow” 

Footnote:

Since ‘Beaver-gate’ and now thoroughly convinced that Beaver’s are indeed my lucky animal, I subsequently purchased myself one on Amazon. (Other websites are available) He is a small stuffed version of the somewhat more grimacing example I encountered in Helsinki and I have named him Newman. He has been a big hit on the ship… especially with the dancers in the crew bar and has developed quite a penchant for red wine. 

He is very soft and furry and though I am well aware I am 38 years of age and therefore it may not be deemed necessary or appropriate for me to be travelling with a plush toy, I must admit I find his presence very soothing. He doesn’t answer back, he is very reliable and doesn’t mind being stuffed into my ‘trusty goes everywhere with me’ backpack at a moments notice.

Other passengers on this particular flight seem somewhat disconcerted by his presence on my knee but today for once, I am not in a rush or horribly tired from my travels, so I intend on taking Newman to meet his Muse. Hopefully there will be photos to follow if I can work out how to attach the darn things. 

Newman may appear in subsequent blog posts as he traverses the globe with me. I don’t know how long this will last. Not because I am fickle and may discard him, but because I cuddled him so hard in bed last cruise that he seems to be bereft of any stuffing around his midriff at present. He may need surgery. I’ll keep you posted.

The menacing Beaver at Helsinki Vaantaa Airport who thankfully guarded my bags for me

The bags arrived protected by the Beaver

                                                               New shooooeeeessss

                                                         
                                                             Meet Newman

                                                          Newman meets his Muse

This is fellow entertainer 'Gareth Oliver' with his new mate 'Newman'

Bernard and Brussels... By the skin of my teeth !!!

I’ve found myself an amazing spot under a tree. Its peaceful, beautiful, with sun and shade.. away from the traffic and with very few passers by. I’ve taken up residence here with what feels like half of my worldly possessions as I was determined to be properly equipped today.

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.

Mykonos to Moscow… Mufasa and a Mad Man!

Departing the lovely Celebrity Equinox in Mykonos was bitter sweet. It had been one of those contracts that you know you will never forget. I was fortunate enough to work along an incredibly talented male vocalist by the name of Phillip Browne, who’s reputation in this industry already proceeds him. After ten years in the West End, appearing in the Lion king amongst other shows, it was no surprise that his voice was amazing and his performance flawless. It was my lucky day as he also agreed to sing a couple of duets with me.. much to the delight of the audience. As we both headed ashore that day to disembark, dragging our luggage onto the tender boat, we were greeted by smiling guests who were as happy as we were that we'd had the opportunity to work together. I hoped it was the first of many contracts. Phillip was heading home but I was winding my way to the Celebrity Reflection in Santorini. Knowing what I know about Mykonos, when the ship is at tender (there is only one small dock) the boats take the passengers straight into the town square and there is no taxi rank. We had asked the ship to arrange a transfer to the airport for us as most of this area is cobbled and pedestrianised and only cars with prior arrangements may pass. 

Granted, the process of disembarking had been longer than we thought. And spending the last few moments having pictures with the guests on the quay side, whilst in no way a chore may have contributed to the fact that the car was no longer there when we arrived.

We sought advice from the shore side staff but it became quite apparent that the taxi was not coming back and so we would have to find our own arrangements to the airport. Mykonos is a beautiful but small island, known for its breezes. Today those shallow winds were taking a day off and the prospect of dragging my two suitcases and a backpack across the cobbles to the square for a cab did not inspire me a whole lot. 

In preparation I removed my wildly inappropriate footwear and changed into flats. For those of you who know me you will be accustomed to the fact that I indeed wear heels almost all of the time and that my motto in life is that ‘Theres no such thing as being over dressed unless you’re a salad”

To that end, I had woken plenty early enough and washed and blow dried my hair, and picked an outfit that I thought said 

“yes.. today is a travel day but I am well aware that the passengers know who I am now so I am mindful to be smart and well dressed, even on a tender boat”

It soon transpired even after the first few yards that my efforts had been entirely in vain and even though Philip had been chivalrous enough to  drag one of my cases along with his own, we were both now sweating profusely, wandering aimlessly, had stretched our arms irreparably and were now cursing the whitewashed idyl that was Mykonos for not concreting the streets. Bump after bump and yard after yard, passengers stopped to wave us off, ask for a photo, tell us their stories as we became gradually redder and decidedly less glamorous. We reached the square we had been directed to with no sign of any taxis at all. I asked a local.

“Yes… taxi rank?? That way, across the beach and up the hill”

I saw the light fade from Phillip’s eyes. We had ample time to make it to the airport but nevertheless there was no 'Mohammed coming to the Mountain' about this scenario. By hook or by crook me, three suitcases, a back pack and 'Mufasa' would have to traverse the beach and the hill before any respite was coming our way. 

Phillip was an absolute legend... Carrying the cases over the beach one by one whilst I waited on the road watching our wares as he delivered them. We finally reached the foot of the hill ( I say hill for dramatic affect… it was an INCREDIBLY steep slope..honestly!) we steadied ourselves for the final furlong of the epic trek.

“Come on Jayne you can do this!” Phillip hollered

“rrraaaaaaaa” I roared in my best Lion king-esque voice and we pelted up the hill like we were veritable olympians.

Safely ensconsed in the taxi I looked over to Phillip who was still, as always, beaming with a smile. Small and perfectly formed beads of sweat appeared along his shiny shaved hairline. I resembled a sweaty Velma from Scooby Doo and he looked like he could appear in an advert for some rich body lotion at any given point.

“I used to like him” I thought. And laughed.

I flew from Mykonos to Athens and whilst waiting for my flight to Santorini I resumed my usual position of sitting on the floor in the airport because it was the only place I could find a power supply. In this instance it was behind a glass door and as people entered the gate area and saw me settled there with my fizzy pop, shoes off and humongous backpack I think they assumed I taken up a permanent residence there.

I had pre arranged my transfer from the airport to the hotel after researching it on trip advisor and many guests had said they had struggled to find it. So after a trouble free flight to Santorini I headed outside to look for the usual name on a board situation.

I have been called many things in my time.. and often on ships people muddle up my stage name and my married name. But his was the first time I had been called ‘Jan Purry’ I laughed heartily and followed my driver to his van.

As the vehicle climbed the hills through the narrow roadways of Santorini at dusk, I had chance to take a better look at the island. I have been here many times before, joining and leaving ships but I have never been here overnight. It was not yet dark and I noticed a sign on the road side for the ‘Industrial Tomato Museum'

I’m not sure if it was the thought of an industrial tomato, or the fact that someone deemed it interesting enough to erect a museum to the subject but either way, it tickled me. Maybe next time I thought.

My driver dropped me at the side of the road with my copious amounts of baggage and as if out of nowhere a slim, young indian gentleman appeared proffering his assistance with my luggage. 

"I take to the hotel” he said and before I could even ask who he was or where he had come from he had my suitcase on his head climbing the steep stone stairs through the streets.

“you wait here with bags. I come back” He said and about ten minutes later he returned looking rather less composed than after the first ascent. He grabbed the next bag which I am sure weighed more than he did and again with it placed firmly on his head he darted off up the steps and I scurried behind him trying to keep up. 

I got to the hotel and checked in to my room, marvelling at the breathtaking view across the bay of Thira from atop the mountain from which my balcony opened out. After a quick dinner and a much needed shower I went straight to bed in preparation for the journey the next day. The town of Thira is situated as mentioned on the top of the hill and the only way down to the ship is by dragging your bags through the cobbled streets and on to the cable car down to the bay…. or on a donkey. No disrespect to the Virgin Mary’s transport mode of choice, but I prefer my animals between two slices of bread. And anyway, I didn’t have an outfit that said ‘Utility Ass-chic”

The next day I woke to prepare myself for the unusual trip with all three bags, up the three quarters of a mile hill to the cable car station and then down to the bay and the tender boats and as I opened my shutters I saw it there, shimmering in the turquoise waters. Not only the Celebrity Reflection, the ship I was about to join…. but the Celebrity Equinox… the one I had just left!

The contract on the Reflection was most enjoyable. I was lucky enough to be invited to a Greek restaurant for lunch in Piraeus, Athens by the Cruise Director, the Hotel Director and some other senior officers where we would eat the most beautiful local cuisine that never seemed to end. More and more amazing tastes arrived for us to try. Aubergines in tomato, beef and chicken Kebabs, tzatziki, salads, cheeses, breads, everything you could possibly want. My mouth is watering at the memory. And so very reasonable. It was a great day.

The next stop would be my journey from the Reflection in Kusadasi, Turkey to the Silhouette in Tallinn, Estonia where  I would join her for the annual ‘Presidents Cruise’.

Once a year, the president of the company travels on a ship and meets and mingles with the loyal guests… taking them on special trips and excursions. I had been asked to perform there by my friend and colleague Lee Moreau who is the Director of the Loyalty Programme for Celebrity Cruises. I was excited, not just because it would be an honour to sing for the president of the brand I am so very passionate about, but because this cruise stayed over in St Petersburg for three days and I had been invited to perform on the special day trip to Moscow on day two. 

But I had to get there first. 

After troubles actually acquiring a taxi, I eventually ended up in the back of a mini bus heading on the hour long journey from Kusadasi to Izmir airport. A route well trodden by me and many other guest entertainers over the years, it’s an hours drive on a good day and as the ship hadn’t docked till 10am and my flight was at 1pm I was eager to make haste. I needed money for the journey and after initially missing the turning, the driver agreed to take me to the ATM. Now a little anxious about the tight schedule and clearly looking pained in the face.. my driver ‘Adams’ (yes, with an ’s') asked me

“Lady! What is your worry? I will have you to the airport in time for your flight. I am a good driver. I drive this road everyday.”

 So i relaxed a little and checked my emails and the suchlike as we headed out of town and onto the road through the hills to Izmir.

My serenity was short lived. Lewis Hamilton drives slower than this dude, I thought as I swung around the back seat from right to left, clinging onto my belongings in lieu of a seatbelt.

“I LOVE THIS RRROOAAAADDD” he shouted. 

I began to doubt the sanity of Adams.

“I am an actor” He roared and I looked at his expectant face in the rear view mirror, clearly waiting for a reaction he was not going to get. I didn’t quite know what he wanted me to say. Worried that I might be appearing on some hidden camera show he rummaged around in his pocket for his phone and flicked through his photos whilst still driving like a maniac.

“Here, see!” He offered excitedly “I am the president of Turkey” and he showed me the picture on his phone of a man in military dress sitting at a desk. Now convinced of his insanity it took me a second or two to realise that the picture was indeed of Adams, apparently playing the role of the president in some project or other. He roared laughing like a mad man.

Knuckles white and stomach turned, we approached the final stretch of, thankfully now, dual carriage-way before we could reach our final destination. He weaved in and out of the lanes and between the cars like the proverbial snake in a basket. I’d have questioned at this point why it is I always seem to find the lunatic taxi drivers… but its happened so many times now I am literally resigned to it. 

“Look… I am magic man” he laughed maniacally. "Every light is green!”

“Green… go… green” he shouted as he cast both hands forward as if performing a spell on the traffic signals and squealed with delight as each of them appeared to obey his command. 

Both hands now no where near the steering wheel he waved his arms in the air shouting 

“See!… 35 minutes to the airport… I am 62 I am 62!!!”

“You’re not going to see 63 at this rate mate” I thought and just defaulted to my usual closing of the eyes and saying a prayer for the rest of the trip. What I can’t see can’t harm me I reasoned.

I made it in one piece.. ready to fly to Istanbul and then on to Tallinn to stay the night before joining Silhouette in the Baltic sea. Quite a change of temperature in a day. I knew very little of what to expect on this voyage… only that I may indeed be singing in Moscow, in the city… for the president and her guests… without a permit to perform publicly. I’m going to be thrown in jail. I’m going to be the next 'Pussy Riot’

 I can just see it!

Flights, Ferries and Fjords..... the long way round!

I’ve seen some pretty obscure happenings on my travels over the years but the site of six Asian women with a full size kettle making cups of noodles in the Ladies toilets  in Amsterdam airport yesterday has to be right up there with the best of them. They took it in turns to boil the kettle and fill up each cardboard bowl with water before surreptitiously slurping the sloppy treat whilst a queue of bewildered ladies waiting to perform their ablutions formed around them. I don’t know what I was more baffled by… the fact they had bothered to pack a full size kettle in their hand luggage possibly in a vain attempt at saving a few euros or the fact that in one of the largest airports in Europe they chose to dine in the toilet. 

It was merely the beginning of what was to be yet another unusual travel expedition for me which was to commence with my disembarking the beautiful Celebrity Silhouette in Amsterdam, after joining her for the last five days of her baltic cruise and heading to Flamm, a blog favourite of mine for those of you who have read before, to join the Celebrity Eclipse during her Eight night Fjords cruise through Norway. 

Never straight forward, obviously or I wouldn’t ever need to write this blog. Feel free to peruse a map of Europe if you’re unfamiliar (I live here and I still had to take a look) but Latvia was not necessarily up there with my assumption of stop over choices en route from the Netherlands to Norway. However I headed to the airport and tried to settle myself for what was to be a 10 hour wait for my first flight to the capital Riga. 

Theres a baggage storage facility in Schipol airport and though I contemplated a trip on the train back into the city, to be honest I was truly exhausted. I never really sleep much the night before I disembark or travel to a ship for fear of sleeping through my alarm and having performed in the farewell variety show the previous evening I needed the ‘coming down’ time and chance for the adrenalin to disperse for hitting the hay anyway. So I decided I would pay for some premium wifi, stream some of my favourite UK TV shows and have a quiet relaxing ‘me’ day.

The only spoiler to this plan was the fact that I couldn’t find a plug socket. Anywhere. A soap opera marathon was going to require three things… a set of head phones, some snack food and a power point so as not to be disrupted at a crucial plot crossroads. I wasn’t having any luck. I checked all the bars and cafes in the departure area and in the end I could only find one on the back of the fire extinguisher station. Sporadically therefore I would have to leave the relative comfort of my seat and go and sit on the floor for half an hour to recharge my devices. Less than glamorous but hardly arduous. 

The day passed by relatively smoothly and after a painstaking slow check in process I headed to my gate for my flight to Riga, the Latvian capital. I wasn’t even sure what currency they used in Latvia. Good old google reliably informed me they had indeed joined the Euro and on my arrival, tired and weary I headed to the taxi rank with all my luggage to ascertain the quickest possible route to my hotel bed. A very grumpy taxi driver I can only describe as ‘lobbed’ my bags into the back of the car and before I had even closed the door set off at break neck speed through the airport car park. I deduced that maybe my hotel wasn’t that far away as he seemed rather disgruntled at my destination request. I felt guilty that the guy had got to the front of the taxi line for his turn to be taken up with my short jaunt but before I had time to apologise or indeed even fasten my seat belt he almost thrust me though the gap in the seats and potentially through the windscreen. He was swearing  (an assumption, granted as my Latvian isn’t my strongest suit) and swishing about between carriageways like a Super Mario Cart. The journey was literally a blur and only three Euros later I found myself castigated on the pavement outside the hotel with no receipt and the driver speeding off into the distance in a plume of exhaust fumes. 

I dragged my wares into the foyer and the much much friendlier hotelier helped me carry them to my room.

The alarm went off at 5am and off I headed back to the airport, this time safely ensconced in the hotel shuttle bus. 

I tried to take a little nap on my flight from Riga to Oslo but the all too frequent shoving of the seat behind made that implausible. 

I had to collect my luggage AGAIN on arrival in Oslo and head back to check in for the third time in 18 hours and pay for my luggage again as all three flights had been with different airlines.

I had a couple of hours to kill in the airport and this was put to good use trying to choose a bathroom suite online whilst on the phone to Steve. We are renovating our new home whilst living in it which to be honest is not the most fun I have ever had. Though Steve is the one living in the disruption more than I am so I won’t complain.

I boarded the tiny propellor plane to find there were only three passengers. It was about as close as I’ll ever get to travelling in a private jet! I felt pretty sorry for the cabin crew member who had to repeat all the safety announcements in English just for me. My Norwegian is about as good as my Latvian. 

As the plane took off and became smothered in the clouds she came and sat next to me

“I hope you don’t mind me asking?” she enquired “But what are you doing going to Sogndal? "

 

I told her all about my journey to the ship, what I do onboard, the usual questions and we happily chatted the flight away. There was no view to behold as the marshmallow white of the sky had completely enveloped the aircraft.

I asked her about her life as cabin crew flying only in Norway with this domestic airline. She worked away a week at a time and was home every other week and had two children that her husband predominantly cared for. Every night she stayed in different town in Norway in a different hotel and therefore in a different bed. I pack and move every four or five days on average and I find this hard but compared to her I felt a little embarrased. She was utterly lovely and I really enjoyed talking to her. As the plane came in to land it became apparent that Sogndal was a very small place indeed. Throughout the caribbean season I frequently take island hooper flights on small aircraft in and out of petite airports but this was indeed the smallest airport I had ever seen. The guy waving the plane along the runway to its halt was the guy that opened the aircraft door and the same guy that unloaded the luggage and then drove it and put it onto the tiny conveyor belt in the arrivals hall. I say arrivals hall but the room was about the same size as the downstairs of my house. After asking a very accommodating big ginger viking whether or not I procure a taxi in this tiny hamlet he arranged for someone from the town to come and collect me. 

“it will be about 20 minutes” he said. Theres no taxi’s here. we have to call the next town and they will send someone. You can wait in departures.”

I thanked him and headed inside out of the damp and cold to discover that Departures was half the size of arrivals!! This place was so lovely and as I waited a guy casually strolled in off the street and enquired about when the next flight was to Oslo like he was catching a bus. I loved it. This, i thought, is real community.

When the taxi arrived another typically ginger Nordic gent helped me put my bags in the car somewhat more courteously than they had been handle in Latvia. I got into the back of the plush four wheel drive and enquired about the journey. 

“how long will it take to get to Flaam?” I asked politely. As per usual I was thoroughly embarrassed to death at being English and therefore having no command of the local language what so ever. 

“its about 15 minutes to the ferry. Then the ferry is about 15 minutes. Then about 50 minutes on the other side” he answered.

“Ferry?” I replied??

“yes. he said. Its the only way to cross the fjord to get to Flamm”

“ok I guess” I replied and settled in for the journey.

As we wound our way down the beautiful narrow causeway into the village at the base of the fjord, I started to feel a rather strange sensation. I was getting hotter I think… I felt a little flushed and after a few seconds realised the sensation was coming from my legs and my backside (insert delicate whispering voice here)

Worried for a second I thought maybe I had a blood clot or worse still at my ripe old age was losing control of my bodily functions in public. I saw a light on the door frame out of the corner of my eye and realised it was in fact a heated seat. What a numpty I am.

We rolled up to the dock for the ferry and quickly and efficiently boarded for what was a short and scenery-free trip across the water. The cars were packed in and the sides of the ferry built up very high. I didn’t see a thing. I literally had no idea where he was taking me.

At the other side we headed off on our way and I whiled the time away marvelling at the sheer grandeur of each hillside and mountain and the breathtaking beauty of the tumultuous waterfalls as they spilled their wares around us tumbling into the icy fjord below. In and out of tunnels through the mountains I could see we were following the base of the fjord around into the valley. A little tired now and somewhat oblivious of time we entered another dark passageway and didn’t seem to emerge. I day dreamed and contemplated, thinking about how hungry I was (no shock there then) and how much I was looking forward to taking a power nap once I got onboard. Eventually we emerged froth other side of the tunnel and it took me a moment or two for my eyes to adjust.

“wow that was a long tunnel” I said 

“yes” the ginger viking replied “the longest in the world. Twenty five kilometres through the mountain”

It was then it struck me. Even though this was an indirect somewhat crazy way to transfer from one ship to the next, it occurred to me that despite my fatigue I had embarked upon a journey that most people in their lifetime would never take. Three flights, the tiny plane. “Gunn” the lovely airline steward, the ginger vikings, the ferry across the fjord and the longest tunnel in the world just for little old me to get to a ship and seeing some songs.

I’m so blessed