Close your eyes. Imagine you're slouching on a scratchy couch, your legs stretched out on the coffee table in front of you. The edges of the table are digging into your calves and you smell something unidentifiable, but not altogether offensive, wafting up from the couch around you. To your left, somebody is taking up the length of the couch by the port windows, the yellow lights of the harbor casting a sickly glow on the murky water. To your right, the recessed lights of the midships lounge are bright in contrast to the dimmer hallways. Over there, at the tables across the stairway and down in the lounge by Starbucks, that's where it happens- the sounds of the nightlife here.
They start out subtly then crescendo over the next three hours. It begins with the ever present mechanical hum of the ship, a game of soccer on tv, and the clicking of the keyboards in the internet cafe. The ceiling rumbles with false thunder- the tricycles, bicycles, and wagons on deck seven are racing bow to stern, hard plastic wheels grinding against the green metal flooring. Then people start to drift in downstairs, their conversations piercing the empty openness of the atrium. Various pianists take their turns on the bench- kids for lessons and crew to entertain friends. At some point you notice that between songs and laughter, there's more music coming from Starbucks. The metal curtains have rolled up and the whirs, clinks, and laughter fill the gaps. Traffic up and down the split stairway picks up- crew with laundry, computers, games, or just a need to be social. Suddenly the couches aren't big enough. People are perched on armrests and tables, and the air gets warmer and thicker. Snacks appear from nowhere, a crinkling mass of chips, pop, and sugar.
At some point, you remember how tired you were in the first place. You made the effort to escape the grips of a nap in your bunk and had plopped yourself on the couch, but now it's back. It's time for bed. It's time to pack it in and head downstairs. And even though you may not have been all that active this afternoon, you realize you've accomplished quite a bit. You've talked with a roommate about heartbreak. You've laughed with other nurses about work. You've chatted with random acquaintances about coffee, the ship's food, Cotonou, running, fellowship, grace, and "real life."
So you walk down into the room, hoping to avoid your roommates and crash straight away. But some small part of you also wouldn't mind seeing the people trickle away, leaving the lounge to its silent thoughts.
They start out subtly then crescendo over the next three hours. It begins with the ever present mechanical hum of the ship, a game of soccer on tv, and the clicking of the keyboards in the internet cafe. The ceiling rumbles with false thunder- the tricycles, bicycles, and wagons on deck seven are racing bow to stern, hard plastic wheels grinding against the green metal flooring. Then people start to drift in downstairs, their conversations piercing the empty openness of the atrium. Various pianists take their turns on the bench- kids for lessons and crew to entertain friends. At some point you notice that between songs and laughter, there's more music coming from Starbucks. The metal curtains have rolled up and the whirs, clinks, and laughter fill the gaps. Traffic up and down the split stairway picks up- crew with laundry, computers, games, or just a need to be social. Suddenly the couches aren't big enough. People are perched on armrests and tables, and the air gets warmer and thicker. Snacks appear from nowhere, a crinkling mass of chips, pop, and sugar.
At some point, you remember how tired you were in the first place. You made the effort to escape the grips of a nap in your bunk and had plopped yourself on the couch, but now it's back. It's time for bed. It's time to pack it in and head downstairs. And even though you may not have been all that active this afternoon, you realize you've accomplished quite a bit. You've talked with a roommate about heartbreak. You've laughed with other nurses about work. You've chatted with random acquaintances about coffee, the ship's food, Cotonou, running, fellowship, grace, and "real life."
So you walk down into the room, hoping to avoid your roommates and crash straight away. But some small part of you also wouldn't mind seeing the people trickle away, leaving the lounge to its silent thoughts.
No comments:
Post a Comment