For some reason, unbeknown to be, this journey home I decided to choose the ferry option as my mode of transport. Yes, it was more economical if you take into account luggage costs, transport costs city to city and general ease of only having the burden of one mode of transport. But still, whilst these factors may be considered, what still remains are 20 hours...on the same boat...with nobody to talk to as I travel solo.
So, in order to conserve my sanity or at least share the burden of such an arduous journey, I thought it was best to log my 20 hours on the glorified floating titanic replica.
To begin with I felt like somebody had played a cruel trick on me. The journey started at 9, we had been travelling for an hour...and it was still 9pm. Obviously, this was due to the time difference, but to have it moulded into your psyche that you will be travelling for 19 hours and for this to change to 20 is just not cricket. I had a mini exploration of the boat, cunningly conserving certain locations for the latter part of the journey when I would be in need of different entertainment rather than my books or iPod. I did start to feel like a slightly lonely alcoholic though as already I had had two drinks whilst sat by myself. My first in the ferry port café, being wooed by the waiters as my blue eyes were constantly complimented. The waiters were even nice enough to give me a sandwich for free to take with me; I didn’t have the heart to tell them I had already had a substantial food supply in my luggage. The second drink was in the ferry bar where I slunk off to a corner hoping nobody would notice that the lonely British girl was sat by herself drinking because she had nobody else to drink with. In fairness the scenario allowed me to people watch for minutes on end and also to remember how embarrassed British men get when you catch them looking at you. It may sound like I’m bragging but I was literally the only woman under 30 sat without a husband; I could have been bucked toothed, acne ridden and with a hunch back and still been deemed as the most acceptable thing to look at on the deck simply because I was alone and had a vagina. Rather stupidly however I started drinking before the ship left the dock so subsequently when I finally arose one hour later with a pint of cider swirling around my orifices, it was no wonder the world felt like it was spinning and my legs were involuntarily doing the can-can. Naturally I went to sit down in the hope that when I next stood I would have miraculously acquired sea legs.
However, having realised that the only company I was going to have for my journey was a group of older gentleman and the four walls that enclose my oh-so-comfy reclining seat, I decided to return to the bar once more, remembering that there was ‘entertainment’ on for some of the evening. To my delight it was a magic show so I stuck around hoping to be amazed as despite seeing lots of tricks and shows on television I had never seen a magic act before my very eyes. Unfortunately I was disappointed. Don’t get me wrong, the man had talent. His ability to flip balls between his fingers was a marvel if not somewhat juvenile and full of innuendo. But the only ‘trick’ that really amazed me was his ‘tearing up of the newspaper only to put it back together again’ trick. I was admittedly slightly dumbfounded as I found no plausible way how he could have done it but still, that was as good as it got. Even his jokes on oranges weren’t enough to raise a tickle from my gut; that said if I had been laughing I would have been the only one, as the silence in the room was deafening. After hearing that the next act would be cabaret, I made a quick getaway.
When I arrived back to my humble abode for the night, time has apparently (but thankfully) slipped away rather quickly and the big hand had hit 11pm already. Little did I know however, this also meant lights out. What then transpired was an on board one man show re-enactment of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ as I awkwardly shuffled side to side, up and down attempting to find my seat, my belongings and worst of all, my contact lenses. After haphazardly plonking myself down, the task to remove my lenses began. I had already disturbed the whole room by stumbling in with my jelly legs that I thought it unkind to leave the room again for the bathroom and inflict my cumbersome walk on them once more. So I poked, I prodded and eventually found the contact lens, only to realise any cleaning implement was lost in the chasm of my luggage. Needless to say, common sense has never been one of my strongest attributes. 10 minutes later along with my useless sea legs, I was now blind searching for my glasses. I had been on the ship for only three hours and feared for the sanity of other passengers being stuck in the same room as me...all the more considering that I had to start trying to sleep...knowing full well that I’m notoriously bad at sleeping on any form of transport.
Thankfully, out of the approximately 500 passengers on board, only 20 chose the reclining seat option which meant I had the lavish option of the leg over. Let me explain. In the room I was sat there were about 40 seats therefore if you were a lonesome traveller like me, it’s possible to blag a whole strip of seats to yourself; a whole strip of seats with immobile arm rests. Consequently, in order for one’s legs to go in any other direction than forward for a moment of comfort and to avoid inevitable cramp, an awkward shimmy and leg over must be instigated. It starts off well. The leg is over, the seat is reclined and the head is snugly nestled into the chair. The comfort lasts for about 5 minutes. What follows is a series of twists, turns, leg swings, pillow bashing with huffing and puffing; by the time I had finished I felt like I had taken a late night trip to Burgos Castle, stuck high up on a hill, for a little ‘adventure’. After about two hours of pretending I was comfortable I resorted to the solution that always works best; taking a horse sized pill of ibuprofen. Despite this however, I still resorted to peculiar lengths in the hope of getting at least two consecutive hours of sleep. My scarf became a blanket, my leather jacket became a button filled pillow and the floor became a wonderfully comfortable option for approximately 30 minutes until the moment I realised it was like sliding between rows in a cinema and I was the late night creep lurking in the dark.
Despite my horrendous efforts to sleep, morning surprisingly came early and even though I had had a relatively sea sick free journey so far, the morning brought a head that felt like it was swimming in tequila and a stomach so tender a fruit cup felt like eating a full English breakfast covered in whipped cream. As a result I strolled around the deck in a ghostly manner, clutching my stomach and trying not to make eye contact; as if I needed to look more peculiar. Seemingly being the only person on the whole ferry to be travelling solo, it’s easy to be noticed. So having a face as white as snow and a demeanour that screams: ‘You prod me and I vomit’, makes it somewhat difficult to blend into the background. Nonetheless I spent the last few hours staring at the wall in the hope for the sickness to pass. When the ferry finally docked I was the awkward loner in the crowd accidently dropping my suitcase on people’s feet, twitching with the exciting thought of a decent cup of tea in my near future. I had somehow survived the 20 hours with my sanity relatively intact. Also, with the realisation that whilst I will take 2 novels, a Sudoku puzzle book and a selection of obligatory work I will still choose to endlessly listen to my iPod, day dreaming about the soulful and unforgettable renditions of musical classics that I would perform with my nonexistent vocal talents. It wasn’t a dream nor was it a nightmare, however the prospect of completely this journey again is filling me with a slight sense of dread...I might just have to drug myself with more cider and ibuprofen next time.
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