The day started off just like any other. It was sunny and hot out- but we were stuck inside. We had a fake smile on our face as we listen to our early morning ramble, pretending you're more than awake to listen to it as 8 a.m is harder than you think. Coffee and sugar granules were left on the crew mess counter, a gift no doubt for a stewardess to clean. With all this normal however, came a birthday. And as the day went on, the bounce in everyone’s steps grew and their fake grins faded into real ones. Oh yes. Everyone knew what 5 p.m. would bring.
“Shots. Shots. Shots. Shots. Shh-shots.”
The LMFAO party anthem entered my brain as the clock hit 4 p.m.
Four- o'clock? That’s it? I quickly let out a huge sigh as I realized I still had a whole hour left in my workday. I slowly vacuum a wall and wipe it with water and vinegar- I do this so frequently that I don’t even realize my life is passing me by anymore. Surely this would have taken me more then half an hour. 4:15 p.m. glows on my iPod as my hope gradually shifts to the fact that this day couldn’t be going any better unless time was going backwards. I was daydreaming about how good my acting skills were in order to fake a 45-minute stomach flu when these sweet words came over my radio and hit my ears.
“Alana, Alana. I think that you should start packing up your things and make your way to the galley. Kate is cutting up fruit for the punch we are making. She needs your help.”
“I believe in miracles” rung through my head as even I shocked myself to how fast I could put the vacuum cleaner away.
Now, this is where my Canadian comes through. I thought punch was what they show in the movies. Where it’s ¾ fruit punch [hence the name] and ¼ alcohol with some rando-pieces of fruit floating around. I was starting to contemplate the name of this so-called ‘Punch’ when hours later it hit me like a literal punch to the gut. If it wasn’t the champagne, berry liquor or rum that was kicking my ass, then it was the gin, vodka or some strange Mexican liquor. Either way, it was already up by 10 points before we even made our way to the bar.
The Filipinos karaoke was in full blast as R. Kelly tunes played as our exit but soon to be entrance to Nelson’s. Our walk had accumulated a gang of about 10 people, which just so happened to be the ratio of people that were sitting in the pub. Boring! We quickly left after the strongest rum and coke I’ve ever encountered. Alcohol, 12. Alana, zero.
Next stop. Mediterranean. The old cougars bar where I immediately start looking for my silver fox DJ. He was no where to be found, however my new love for saxophone players was quickly being established. It may have been the vodka and red bulls x 3 or the fact that it was Kate’s birthday, but some how or another lemons were stolen from behind the bar and placed in my bra in attempts for me to snag an Italian Beau. Always fantasizing about a bigger chest, and finally getting a rather cheap attempt to live it out, I did the only reasonable thing I could think of – balancing my drink in between them. That event was followed by a surprising [on more than one level] bush presentation to the birthday girl. Then the mother of all drunk conversations. The one, the only, the infamous One-Eyed Cover. I know we are drunk when we start laughing uncontrollably, and acting out how we can see much better if we cover one eye. God we must look like complete reh-tards when we are out in public.
The last four hours of my evening ended with a Spanish dancing display in the dirtiest pub in Livorno, Frankies. On the 3km walk back to the boat at 5 a.m. some serious discussions of hanging around till McDonalds opened came close to becoming reality.
Needless to say, the morning was rung in with a stretched bra thrown on the floor [damn you lemons], my eyes still needing to be half covered, and some crew members sporting sunnies in the lights of the crew mess – they needed more coverage.