Our ship left Naples and moved north along the Italian coast to dock at Civitavecchia, beyond the city of Rome.
I had noticed at Pompeii, a man from our cruise, looking pale-skinned and extremely ill, and when someone asked him what was wrong, he said he was awfully sick but refused to miss seeing Pompeii, it meant so much to him.
Before we reached Civitavecchia, I became extremely ill too, and I knew that I had what that man had, even though I had been nowhere near him.
Half of the ship's passengers became sick at the same time. It hit fast and powerful.
The English doctor, who was young, male, blond, and handsome, loved to drink, so I refused to see him. The steward, on our state deck, ushered in a female doctor who was run ragged seeing so many people day and night, giving shots to put them back on their feet.
The buses left, for the tour of Rome, the pier of Civitavecchia without me on one of them.
I did not see Rome! I was so looking forward to the ruins and watching my high school history come alive. That made me sad.
I slept for two days and couldn't get better, so the flush-faced Englishman was brought in by my steward and I got a second dose of medicine.
By the time I could stand, the ship had sailed north past the island of Corsica, through the Tuscan Arch and into the Ligurian Sea, and had docked in Nice, France.
Here, I missed the evening bus ride to Monaco, up winding mountain roads in the treacherous dark, the tour of the world-famous casino in all its opulence and grandeur, where only the super rich came to gamble.
By the time I could once again be a fairly normal passenger, the others had all recovered, so when I quietly walked into the dining room, I heard cheers and applause of welcome, because I was the last one to get better. Food tasted good again.
By then, we were sailing across the Mediterranean Sea, east towards Majorca, an island tucked between the two small islands of Minorca and Ibiza, a vacation spot for the British back then.
The ship tucked in at Palma, a beautiful city on a wide, curving bay of water. We went to a nightclub, a huge theater of Spanish entertainment on stage. It was packed and exciting and became my last great memory of my cruise.
Then the long cruise back to Malaga and the dead hills that surrounded the airport, and it was over.
Our plane flew in from Toronto and was serviced without its engines being shut down. We boarded and went home, back across the Atlantic Ocean and the east coast of Canada, and back to reality.
I had noticed at Pompeii, a man from our cruise, looking pale-skinned and extremely ill, and when someone asked him what was wrong, he said he was awfully sick but refused to miss seeing Pompeii, it meant so much to him.
Before we reached Civitavecchia, I became extremely ill too, and I knew that I had what that man had, even though I had been nowhere near him.
Half of the ship's passengers became sick at the same time. It hit fast and powerful.
The English doctor, who was young, male, blond, and handsome, loved to drink, so I refused to see him. The steward, on our state deck, ushered in a female doctor who was run ragged seeing so many people day and night, giving shots to put them back on their feet.
The buses left, for the tour of Rome, the pier of Civitavecchia without me on one of them.
I did not see Rome! I was so looking forward to the ruins and watching my high school history come alive. That made me sad.
I slept for two days and couldn't get better, so the flush-faced Englishman was brought in by my steward and I got a second dose of medicine.
By the time I could stand, the ship had sailed north past the island of Corsica, through the Tuscan Arch and into the Ligurian Sea, and had docked in Nice, France.
Here, I missed the evening bus ride to Monaco, up winding mountain roads in the treacherous dark, the tour of the world-famous casino in all its opulence and grandeur, where only the super rich came to gamble.
By the time I could once again be a fairly normal passenger, the others had all recovered, so when I quietly walked into the dining room, I heard cheers and applause of welcome, because I was the last one to get better. Food tasted good again.
By then, we were sailing across the Mediterranean Sea, east towards Majorca, an island tucked between the two small islands of Minorca and Ibiza, a vacation spot for the British back then.
The ship tucked in at Palma, a beautiful city on a wide, curving bay of water. We went to a nightclub, a huge theater of Spanish entertainment on stage. It was packed and exciting and became my last great memory of my cruise.
Then the long cruise back to Malaga and the dead hills that surrounded the airport, and it was over.
Our plane flew in from Toronto and was serviced without its engines being shut down. We boarded and went home, back across the Atlantic Ocean and the east coast of Canada, and back to reality.
No comments:
Post a Comment