A good friend of mine who doesn’t speak a word of English

You’re a Zingara, he laughs
As he waggles an accusing finger at me
You have a beautiful life, a wonderous mind,
One that can think up of plentitude of possibilities
One that still believes in miracles and magic.

Sei intelligente, he continues
As he brings the beer to his mouth
The chatters of the multilingual tongue doesn’t faze you
You listen to its swelling and decreasing of tones
Your mind hears the ideas
And you express yourself.

And as every other nights, I sit
perched high on the Crew Bar’s stool,
swirling my tiny self around
and occasionally taking a sip of the bittersweet Jaegermeister.
But tonight is different-there is a Friend,
A like-minded who takes my spirit into different levels of consciousness
Challenging my plethora of personalities to unite
To form the spiritual Me,
the essence from deep within that I’ve always wanted to express.

dark haired and skinned, strong jawed, rough hands
a pair of expressive eyes that sparkle
like the bio-lumiscence of the ocean,
wispy grey strays fringed his crown,
He smiles.
I never knew that I could find myself in him.

I chat in both sweet Italian and mundane English,
feeding my personality and ideas into the language
In return he murmurs understanding and acknowledgment.

I tell him that I am no adventurer
merely a collector of experiences
one who wishes to bottle up the every dream, every encounter and every emotion
moments of love, joy and serendipity.
I share that I am looking for something
finding myself while changing environments
Hoping that as soon as I’m completely whole within
I will stop.

He continues to smile and offer a similar exchange of conversation,
telling me of his dogs, his motorbiking adventures to Greece, his family
his country of beauty, his hatred towards the Berlusconi,
his Buddhist sister who’s also a backpacker and
a voracious reader,
his ex-wife who he still has a good relationship with,
the seas, the stars and the horizon,
the exquisite colours of dreams.

There was lack of fear in our sharing,
As we continue to burrow deep into our lives
searching for secrets that we could bring to surface,
There were no walls, nothing in between
twas was the greatest Crew Bar conversation
to find a true connection with a fellow colleague
of a much higher rank,
that I barely know.

Weekly crew parties in M.V. CAL
Usually Crew Parties get me pretty pumped up. I’d look forward to sharing tequila shots with Nikki or gulp down cheap (but good) white wine with Luca, Sylvia, Nick, Simon, Antonio, Valdemar and Ciro. I’d wear a simple black top with my usual denim shorts and dance the night away. Before I met Giorgio, my dance partners would either be one of the Italian cooks or the Honduras carpenter who would never fail to mesmerize me with his smooth moves. He got especially excited when one of his favourite Juanes or Gypsy Kings hit songs play. With thumping beats and potent alcohol coarsing through our blood, we’d sway and grind to the pulsating music as the ship continues its journey to the next port. Of course, it was all in good fun and nothing crazy would happen except for this time where Adriano, the 2nd cook, tried to make out with me after a dance. I had to push him away and look for a place to hide because he was damn convinced that I was interested in him.

New Year’s eve on the M.V CAL

But now, the usual crew that I hung out with are gone and so the former atmosphere have faded into colourful memories of a bygone. Now, the dance floor’s virtually empty. Every party goer just hangs around, check out butts/girls/boys/English dancers/officers/breasts and be pieces of furniture. No one pranced, jigged or got got down with it.
So, opting out tonight, I put on my headphones, turned up the volume and danced to my own songs in the comfort of my own cabin. I rocked to The Killers, swayed to Juanes, hummed to Room Eleven, grooved to The Black Eyed Peas, discoed to Mika and frolicked to Regina Spektor.

Delicious!