Some Nights (Intro)

part two

The cruise ship was cold at night. I often had to pass through the outdoor pool deck to get to my chosen haunting grounds, because I kept taking the wrong staircase. An elevator would have taken me directly to the Solarium, but I quickly stopped using elevators; I always wanted to be alone and the elevator walls were made of glass and the ocean was always so very dark and close.

I'd pass the pool attendant shivering in his windbreaker, which might be enough during the day but at night the Baltic Sea feels freezing, even though it's far from that. We were sailing on the first crossing for the spring, and although the Baltic hasn't frozen over completely since 1987, it's still too icy to travel through until May.

I always tried to greet him pleasantly, the poor man on top deck duty, but all that would come out was an awkward half-smile as I hunched over and slowed my steps for the automatic doors. It was warmer inside, the Solarium artificially heated, jungle sounds playing softly and the spa jets humming even though by 9 pm I'd be the only one around. I could never quite pin down the theme of the Solarium, some mix between safari and wilderness and India, but it didn't matter because there were green chaise lounges and no one to bother me except the passing attendants.

So one night, like every other, I sat down in one of the lounges and turned on my Kindle and turned up my music and settled down to pretend I wasn't in the middle of the ocean. It took longer to get to Russia from Estonia than I would have thought, so these nights grew common, and I learned that George R.R. Martin is great for escapism and between fiction and Fun. I always managed to forget about the ship for a while.

I'd read for hours, stay out longer and longer each night, and feel relieved that I refused to carry that walkie-talkie my step-grandpa tried to force on me the first day of our trip (“I am twenty years old,” I told him, and the subject never came up again). I did have a cell phone, a red flip phone like the ones we had in middle school, but it barely got reception on the Baltic. So I'd read and listen and eventually come across some profundity beyond fighting and politicking and that night, like so many others, I paused to collect my thoughts. And like so many other nights, I thought the same things:

The people I wish would talk to me won't, because I'm a tourist in a group of so many camera-toting t-shirts and they are native and I can't leave the group, as much as I want to turn down a cobblestone street and just disappear. So instead I try to meet the younger crowd on the ship, but to do so in earnest would require me to visit the clubs and that's not my scene. Instead I just keep wandering by myself and reading for hours in the Solarium and going up to climb the rock wall, shuddering away from every accidental glance at the oceanic whitecaps.

If only I had the guts to stop the young girl I keep passing in the elevator and ask if she wants to hang out. I imagine exactly how the conversation would go:

"I know this sounds weird, but you're literally the first person I've seen in a week who wasn't 50-plus," I'd say, raising my hands in a gesture of peace.

The girl would regard me closely. "I'm 20."

"Me too," I'd tell her. "You don't look it."

"Neither do you," she'd answer, starting to smile.

"A fact I've been constantly reminded of since I left London," I'd sigh and roll my eyes.

"You're from London?" She'd ask, her own accent making it clear she's either American or Canadian. "I would have guessed America."

"I'm from California," I'd shrug, closing the gap between us and holding out my hand.

The girl would reach out and shake it briefly and then pause for a moment, wondering about the proper follow-up question. "So where are you headed?" she'd ask, settling for a change of subject.

"Well, it's dinnertime, so I guess I'll go eat."

"You know, if you want to wait, the buffet opens in half an hour." Her implied invitation would be clear, yet smooth in the way I never manage.

"I like the food there much more than the fancy shit in the dining room," I'd grin.

She'd laugh and agree, "And none of that ridiculous assigned seating!"

We'd continue to chat as we climb the staircase and spend the rest of the evening hanging out together. She wouldn't try to talk me into going to whatever party was happening on whatever dance floor and I wouldn't talk too much about things that don't matter, all those things that tend to spill out when I’m desperate for company, like obscure movie trivia and my favorite trends in young adult fiction and why I don't want to be from California anymore. We would just walk around the ship and laugh and agree to Facebook each other the moment we found working wifi, no pressure, just laughing and sharing our misery together.

But at some point I would always stop imagining this beautiful fictional friendship and remember that I don't "hang out," not with strangers on ships that I'm too shy to talk to. And I definitely don't use elevators anymore.