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What do you say to a group of thirty scared, exhausted, but excited people who have flown 5,000 to 10,000 miles from home to start a new job at sea? What words can simultaneously console both a macho Bulgarian man and a timid Indonesian woman? Upon joining Carnival Fantasy’s restaurant training, I heard the following spiel, more or less, and found it engaging. “Let me welcome you aboard,” said the trainer. “We are going to have a lot of fun, and we are going to do a lot of work. I guarantee this will be a new experience for all of you. It will not be easy. Let’s start with why you are here. You’re all here for the same reason: money. “So to make money, you first need to learn about serving Americans. It doesn’t matter what things were like back home. The majority of cruisers are American, so you need to learn what they like and what they don’t like. Americans are the easiest people to serve in the world. They’re not interested in fine service. They eat out all the time there, so being in the dining room is not a special occasion for them the way it is for most of us. So they don’t want a servant: they want a friend. They will ask personal questions about you and your family. They’ll ask where you’re from, but don’t be upset if they don’t know where that is. Most won’t. “This is an American corporation with American guests, which means American standards. That doesn’t mean you must eat hamburgers every day, but it does mean washing with soap and water every day. I’m from India, for example, and lots of Indians smell bad because they don’t use soap. That may be fine back home, but it can’t happen here. America means deodorant. “And ships mean English. In guest areas always use English. Even if you are talking about cricket scores in your native language, Americans will assume you’re talking about them. Nobody knows why. I guess it’s their big sense of personal identity. “Now let me tell you a true story. A waiter from the Philippines once had a table of old ladies who refused to leave after lunch. He needed them out so he could set up his station for dinner. Finally they ordered more coffee, which was long gone. He had to brew more. It meant he was going to miss preparing for his dinner guests, which probably meant hard time for the second seating, too. He stormed away swearing in Tagalog, using very bad words. He assumed he was safe. But one of the ladies was married to a military man stationed in the Philippines. She understood every word and told the hotel director. The waiter was forced to apologize and was sent home the very next port, mid-cruise. “Carnival has over sixty nationalities that get along very well. If we don’t, we get sent home. That means no money. If you fight with anybody because he’s different, you will be sent home. No money. Even if someone hits you and you don’t fight back, you are both going home. Carnival takes it that seriously. Revel in learning about the world, but don’t forget why we are here. “Look around,” he said. “These strange foreigners are all here, just like you, for the money. And though it may not seem like it now, by the end of training these strange foreigners will feel like family.” He was right. When the four weeks were up, there was not a dry eye in the class. By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Pics of the people and places I blog about are on my website and FB pages, join me! www.BrianDavidBruns.com https://www.facebook.com/BrianDavidBruns

I’m talking about a man of a different sort. A bird whisperer. The Bird Man of Conquest. I prefer the latter name because it evokes the cramped, sparse living conditions of Alcatraz. That’s closer to a crew’s experience than, say, comfy suburbanites with enough expendable income for professional pet counseling. I’m not judging, but rather reminding that American attitudes towards animals are puzzling to the majority of the world. American pets are part of the family, receiving the same affection and accommodations as our children (certainly mine, anyway!). But many people around the world coexist with animals in a way I can scarcely conceive. I saw some of it on Conquest. We were docked in Montego Bay. The sun shot through the clouds in bold shafts, I remember, and the air was heavy with moisture. Those of us in the Lido restaurant denied shore leave were consoled by the nearby presence of damp green tree tops, mottled with shadows yet lively with colorful birds hopping to and fro. It was a quiet afternoon of dazzling beauty. Apparently we were not the only ones dazzled. A solitary bird, perhaps lured by the scent of food, had flown into the restaurant. He was a small, gaily-colored little bird. The poor guy fluttered about, unable to find the exit, confused by the overhanging mezzanine that refused to act like a jungle canopy. He zig-zagged through the dining room, zipping this way and that, growing more and more agitated by the minute. We gleefully kept the doors open and tried to herd him towards freedom. There was much laughter, but we were ultimately unsuccessful. After a while, now flapping in pure desperation, the bird disappeared deeper into the galley. Suddenly we realized the little burst of joy that gave us a much-needed break in an otherwise rigid, exhausting routine had probably done so at the expense of his life. It was a sad moment. “I’ll get him,” said a waiter confidently. He was from Indonesia. His name was Bambang. “If he couldn’t figure out how to escape through all these open double doors,” I said doubtfully, “How can you expect to herd him through the small doors of the galley and the corridors?” Bambang just smiled and asked, “May I go after him?” Like I would say no. But then again, this could easily have been an excuse to sneak a cigarette while on duty. (I’ve had waiters literally claim their mothers’ death just to get an extra smoke). Nary five minutes passed and out from the galley came Bambang. We clustered around him, but he gave us a silent head-shake to keep us at bay. For perched upon his finger, tiny chest heaving, was the bird. Bambang strode to the nearest exterior doors, whispering softly to his new companion. He even caressed it with gentle strokes of the back of his fingers. Once outside, the bird flew off to its native Jamaica. “I’m from a small village in the jungle,” Bambang explained simply before returning to soiled plates and silverware. I was awestruck. Could I have made the transition Bambang had? Before ships he had not only been one with nature, but likely lived entirely defined by its caprice. How utterly different his life must have been, before this one of tight metal walls, recycled air, and artificial light. I was reminded that each crew member, regardless of duties or labels, was indeed an individual treasure. And it gave me hope that I could maybe, just maybe, hope to someday control my cats. By Brian David Bruns, author of national best-seller Cruise Confidential. Win a free autographed paperback of my newest cruise book, Unsinkable Mister Brown! Details at www.BrianDavidBruns.com

When cruise ships – or any maritime vessel for that matter – are no longer able-bodied to fulfill their usual itineraries, where are they sent to? We often think of these mammoth steel structures as indestructible and, like the legendary Titanic, unsinkable. But none of that is even close to the truth. Ships have an average lifespan of 25 years, and sooner or later it is inevitable that they are going to show signs of aging. Depending on how much of a beating they took during their prime, and how well they were originally constructed, they can enjoy a new lease on life, sport a new paint job, a fancy new name, or even explore new waters. Eventually, however, a ship will be too old to bring in sufficient cash or may even pose hazard to her passengers rendering her unseaworthy. Once in limbo, cruise ships await any one of these fates. Stripped to her core. A 40,000-ton vessel is bound to yield some useful parts and components even if her most important ones are starting to decay. ‘Ship breaking’ is a thriving industry in developing parts of the world, where salvaged steel, metal and other materials can be profitably reused for a slew of applications. In Alang, Gujarat (India), ship breaking is the prime mover of the region’s economy. Everything that can possibly be sold, in whole or in part, is dismantled, cut, melted and rerolled into metal rods and other useful industrial implements. Some ships, even legendary ones, face this inglorious end, and it would seem that Pacific Princess of ‘The Love Boat’ fame, a television show of the 1970s and 1980s that inspired many Americans to go on a cruise, is likely to be in for this fate. Beached. If there is nothing left to salvage, cruise ships are altogether abandoned in a dry dock and left to die a rusty death. Staten Island in New York is a well-known ship graveyard. Sunk. The Soviet navy was notorious for leaving their wartime vessels to rot in abandoned bays. While this is more convenient, sinking the ships is another way to go. When ships are sunk, they are done so to provide backbone to the marine life in the vicinity (think coral reefs) and serve as underwater laboratories for marine biologists. Sometimes, they are deliberately plunged into pitch-dark depths to provide diving attraction to scuba enthusiasts. Of course, they first need to be detoxified before they are exposed to the fragile ecosystem underwater. Refitted and floated. The highest honor that can be bestowed to an iconic ship, or even less popular one, is to dress her up another way and keep her moored in someplace historical or touristy. This is what happened to RMS Queen Mary, christened in 1934 and officially retired in 1967, the now 78-year-old ocean liner is still welcoming guests in Long Beach, California, as a floating hotel. The SS Rotterdam is put up on display as Holland’s must-see museum on water. The RMS Queen Elizabeth 2, presently moored in Port Rashid, Dubai, is being refurbished as a first-rate hotel and museum. Ships run the course of their sailing lives and, like all else, inevitably face their ends. When they do, the best an avid cruise passenger can hope for is for them to remain standing reminders of fond memories and journeys taken. View full article