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- read Canadian newspapers (quite an experience) - have 60 minutes in Montreal - run in Montreal for about 1 mile - find a transit USA connection (it is in the hole in the wall of the big hall and is very difficult to find ) - take our luggage - go through the US customs (home, home!) - drop our luggage - go through security again - run about 1 mile more - find out that the plane to Hartford would not leave because there were no passengers yet - run to the bathroom (the plane does not have one) - jump into the plane - don’t care anymore. Folks, to whoever reads this; if I tell you that I still love Canadians, make a correction for Air Canada. Fly through Seattle. As for the ship itself I don’t think that is was classier than the big ones in Royal Caribbean. Through the whole first day the air inside was unhealthy. It was also very humid inside. And smell, oh my God! Not only on that first day but every morning there was a smell of toilet and toilet chemicals all over the hallways. The crew people were running around all day long with cans of some disinfectant and poured it on everything so it always seemed to me that I was eating, drinking and breathing Windex. There were some sculptures but not that many. Apparently the management considered that there would be many old people (and there were!) so there was not much ingenuity in entertainment. The entertainment cruise director was a matron who called herself Cher. Of course if she was real Cher I would have nothing against her but she wasn’t, sorry. People should not call themselves by the names of great celebrities. Poodles Eisenstein, the comedian maybe enjoys his California home (as it was said in the newsletter) but I did not enjoy him. His jokes were boring and repetitive. There was also a ventriloquist with his black doll advertised as Brungilda from Jamaica. What Jamaica has to do with Alaska? Brungilda had some personal problems because she had only one topic on her mind. Make your guess. Correct, men. Did I mention the smell? There was also the sound. I could hear every toilet flushed from the Deck 1 to Deck 10. What a symphony!
A writer is a rogue goose. All other gees fly in a flock formation; every goose knows his place and time for honking. The rogue goose is undisciplined. He leaves the formation indiscriminately to have a look at it from aside. He roams back and forth, takes a peep at the leader, honks a little bit from behind, distracts everyone and writes on what he sees. Time passes and as he wants to return back to his place he discovers someone else there. Thus he either has to wait until they land for rest or join another flock in emigration. Those other birds could be cranes, storks or even crows. If he makes it he will become a rogue again. Whenever he goes and whatever he writes he never reaches a destination or enjoys a landing. There's only Kipling's God of Fair Beginnings and skies above and beyond. And the only way for a writer to make peace with the Deity is through the language of Poetry.
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