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Some people were just born to make an indelible first impression.

There’s something about getting up at 3:30 in the morning when you know you’re departing to go on a cruise that’s different than getting up at 3:30 for almost any other reason. Still, it’s pretty damn early.

Two airports, hypersensitive metal detector, repacking my computer and video camera cables TWICE, over-priced airport coffee, jam-packed flight, baggage claim hell, taking a cab to the cruise port… Yep, there’s definitely a reason I prefer driving.

Still, we are getting ready to take a cruise ship across the Gulf to Calica, Mexico. And when you know that you’re only a few hours away from Nirvana, you can put up with a lot of irritating crap. Wish it worked that way coming home!

Still, we are getting ready to take a cruise ship across the Gulf to Calica, Mexico. And when you know that you’re only a few hours away from Nirvana, you can put up with a lot of irritating crap. Wish it worked that way coming home!

 

Things get LOTS better at the Miami cruise port (which is beautiful, by the way). One indirect advantage to my line of work is the VIP status that comes with taking so many cruises. Check-in for VIPS is a breeze, right up to the point where you get escorted on board the ship, avoiding all those lines.

 

And so the adventure finally begins.

I like to get on the ship before noon, if possible. Allows me to get into the grove that much sooner. Unload my gear and transform into vacation-mind-set before the ship sails. It takes about 4 hours for the housekeeping staff to turn around the staterooms, so one of the problems with boarding this early is that the staterooms are not usually ready for occupancy. In that case, the first person you’ll meet when you come on board is a junior purser giving the standard spiel about the cabin area not yet being ready and there will be an announcement when housekeeping has finished with everything. Uh huh.

 

Of course, you’ve got to be willing to walk through doorways that are closed off, and sometimes ignore the signs that say “Deck Closed for Housekeeping”, but if you are so willing, you can usually get to your stateroom without any problems. If it’s ready, you can drop your gear. If it’s not, you can just head up to the waiting area, which is what you’d be doing anyway.

 

We dropped our gear and headed up to our second-favorite bar on board – the Pool Bar. (Favorite Bar on most ships – The Piano Bar). Over the next 90 minutes we chatted up the bar tenders and whoever else grabbed a stool. Getting to know the crowd hanging out at the Pool Bar means you’re making friends for the whole cruise. They’ll all be back, because once you catch a buzz and make a few friends at the Pool Bar, you’re hooked.

 

And then she materialized out of nowhere.

The pool deck is full of people in various stages of dress and delight as the cruise gets underway. Through the crowd I can’t help but notice this very tall, very striking blond that is slowly walking through the crowd. (Gliding would be more accurate, but it sounds kind of platitudinous, so I’ll just stick with walking). Neck-length blond hair fashioned close to her head, great make-up right down to the dark purple lipstick, body-hugging tan-colored full body mini-skirt with dangerously placed zippers and decorative accoutrement – and black spiked heels.

 

Some women were born to walk around provocatively in high heels. This lady has got to be one of the top ten. Topping off the look is how she has her lips pursed. It looks like Ben Stiller in “Zoolander”, but it totally works. As she made her way to the bar it was more like she was making one of those slo-mo entrances in a Tarrentino film.

 

My first impression is that she’s an assassin or provocateur of some kind – The Spy Chick. She’s obviously aware of the impact she has on the crowd that seems to open up and let her through, but she emits this air of affectionate indifference about it all. In fact, it’s like she expects it. (Pop star? Foreign Dignitary? Playboy Centerfold? Well, not the centerfold, I’d recognize her if that was the case.) Can’t tell if she’s aloof or just supremely confidant, but either way, she acts like she’s been here before and she’s in control.

 

Her companion is a strikingly handsome, equally confidant black dude, slightly shorter that the Spy Chick in her heels, but clearly not the least bit self conscious about it. Shaved head (perfect shaped skull for the shaved head look), pleated pale blue slacks, cranberry colored silk body shirt with a green/blue pelican printed shirt, opened, of course, in such a way that you couldn’t help but notice the washboard abs. The image this couple broadcast was almost intimidating.

 

Turns out they were very friendly. Spy Chick (her real name was Elizabeth) had a great smile when she let it out. Her companion, Terrance, had an easy, relaxed way of relating to people and an equally great smile. And they insisted they were not celebrities or personalities of any kind. Damn, some modeling photographer is missing a huge opportunity with these two! They were very fun, though just short of hell-raising, and they drank some kind of sissy drinks, for which I made fun of them. (They did make up for that shortcoming in image two days later at Senor Frogs in Playa del Carmen. More on that later.) They completely played up the Spy Chick persona when I explained to them why I couldn’t stop looking at her and why I wanted those pictures of her shoes, especially with that dagger tattoo she had just above her left ankle. (Hmmm, where DID that tattoo come from?) Didn’t see much of Spy Chick for the whole next day as we crossed the Gulf. But then she materialized again when we went ashore in Calica.

 

A few short words about Calica. It’s not even close to being a port of call. In fact, the name is Mexican for “gravel pit”. It’s an industrial port that rents its pier (really just a slip carved out of the coastal rock) to the cruise lines three days a week. The rest of the time it is exporting sand. Yes, that’s right. Sand. Tons and tons and tons of sand. If you’re a construction worker, you’re probably used to walking through rusty metal scaffolding with dirty plywood serving as a roof, but it’s a bit startling as the gangway to a cruise ship. All of which is completely in keeping with the string of “shops” that greet us as we make our way off the scaffolding gangway. Said shops are nothing more that faded tarps supported by wooden and metal poles, filled with tables covered with local tourist trinkets.

Except the “bar”. It’s a real building with electricity. Of course, “building” is a generous assessment and the wood used for the tables and shelves was obviously salvaged from some torn-down establishments, and the spelling on the menu was a bit sloppy and not always correct (i.e., “Kold Beer”). And then there was the fine coat of dust that was everywhere. But, hey! We’re in Mexico on vacation. And the beer is “kold”, and the shop tenders are ready to negotiate (I saw a LOT of 75% reductions in price) and the dusty gravel parking lot next to the ship is packed full of cabs ready to whisk us about 10 miles down the road to Playa del Carmen, or Tulum, or any one of a number of other destinations for shore excursions.

 

On this trip, we’re checking out bars in Playa del Carmen. Sorry, I can’t tell you more about those bars because they are the subject of an upcoming book, but this story line is about Spy Chick, and it runs right smack dab through the middle of one of those bars, Senor Frogs on the waterfront next to the ferry docks in Playa del Carmen.

Mister Frog is probably best known for the ritualistic drinking spectacle that is the center of entertainment amongst the raucous, inebriated throng of tourists. Roving bartenders ply shots of tequila and tall glasses of rum punch around the crowd. A tequila shot is accompanied by a head-tussle-lap-dance-boob-jiggle-whistle-blowing extravaganza. A slash of rum punch is delivered from a long curved glass that is “supposed” to be a palm tree, but looks remarkably like a huge penis, especially when the server is standing on a chair next to the drinkee (almost always a woman) holding the glass at zipper level whilst the drinkee throws back her head and takes a swallow. Whew! This is NOT the place to bring the kids, or the preacher. But it’s the perfect place for us!

And apparently for Spy Chick.

She looks different now. Two days on a cruise ship will definitely soften the lines, even on a confidant international provocateur. The make-up isn’t so perfect (if there is any), the hair is more rumpled (I think it looks better, myself), and the clothes are way more casual, and way more revealing. But that dagger-tatooed ankle is still wrapped in a stunning high heel, this time white. And the lips still telegraph the promise of whispers that would make a pirate sigh, still full and dark purple. Terrance has donned a neon yellow tank-top (looks like silk) and a pair of black cargo shorts that perfectly hugged his waist and flowed loosely almost to his knees. Shoot, you could wrap a Trader Joe’s shopping bag around this guy and he would STILL look masculine and totally cool.

We hailed each other across the noisy bar and I made my way over to their spot. As I approached, Spy Chick had just finished ordering a “flight of shots”, i.e., a little colorfully painted tray with 6 shots of tequila arranged around the edges with a shallow bowl of salt and sliced limes in the middle. When it arrived, she offered me one and served herself, then started applying the lime juice to her hand between the thumb and forefinger. I started to hand a shot to Terrance, but Spy Chick stopped me.

“He doesn’t do tequila. This is for us.” (Us?) Was that a twinkle I saw in her eye? Was that a slight smirk that tugged at the corner of Terrance’s mouth? Aaaarghhh! Was I being challenged? Did this provocative blond smoothie think she was going do me in with tequila?! HA! Okay, I did make a few condescending remarks about the cute little pink drinks she and Terrance were sipping back at the pool bar a few days ago. Hmmm, was that gaze she laid on me at the time a reproach rather than a flirt? Naaaaahhh…

The next several hours proved to be as fun as it was debilitating. Spy Chick was charming and clever … and relentless. Terrance was a bit more quiet, though not reserved, and managed to nurse a beer for almost the whole time. (He was a serious body-builder and so he smartly limited the amount of toxins he voluntarily poured into his body. Hmmm.) By the end of our 2^nd flight, Spy Chick was back in charge. I was toast and she was as cool as ever. I could have sworn I caught a bemused smirk as she silently mouthed “Good bye” when she and Terrance strolled out of the bar.

And (sigh) out of my life.

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