Through all three of my contracts I’ve heard of this little restaurant in Nassau where the food is good and the internet is free. I’ve never had the opportunity to eat there until yesterday. Down a cozy little street, filled with idyllic Bahamian shops and street vendors selling their tin can creations, there is a little bistro known as Olives Mediterranean Grill. My friends have been there many times and sing its praises often. So I finally had a chance to get off with a friend and pay a visit to this place I’d heard so much about.
Now before I go into too much detail, let me tell you a little bit about Nassau. For those of you that have never been, the first thing you probably picture in your mind is Atlantis. The towering pink stone resort home to Aquaventure and many Dolphin Cove experiences is in Nassau, and it’s dominating on the skyline. However, the cruise ships essentially park in the ghetto and it’s a fifteen minute taxi ride to Atlantis with a driver who learned to drive by playing Grand Theft Auto. So when I think of Nassau, the picture I get in my head is the water lapping against the docks and a multitude of Bahamian men shouting about tours and offering free rides if you’re pretty.
The first street you come across is dotted with knock-off souvenir stores selling everything from “official” Harley-Davidson merchandise to duty-free liquor and cigars. Go down a side street and you’ll pass Starbucks (the saving grace for Disney Cruise Line crew members) and Hard Rock Cafe and then you get to the main street. Here you’ll find a tropical version of Rodeo Drive splashed with Bahamian flavor along the way. Example, in between Cartier and Versace is a Bob Marley tribute store. The further in you go the crazier things get. Eventually you’ll come across Fort Charlotte on the east side and Adastra Gardens & Zoo further up and in. Somewhere there is a Pirate Museum, which I have yet to find. Everywhere, there are random shops and plenty of people willing to sell you black market knockoffs.
So now that we’ve established Nassau, I return to my disastrous lunch. When the waitress handed us our menus I immediately scanned for anything claiming to be meat. I am not stupid enough to order beef from a street side Bahamian cafe. I know what happens. It’s equivalent to drinking the tap water in Mexico. So I found something safe, Grilled Ham and Cheese sandwich with seasoned fries. Okay, simple enough. To be fair it was prosciutto, provolone, and tomato on ciabatta bread grilled panini style. But still, a completely safe choice... or so I thought. Cut to three hours later as I’m sitting in the workshop teaching a table full of little girls that cup game (see Anna Kendrick in Pitch Perfect) when it hits right in the pit of my stomach.
“We’re gonna have a situation.” I say to the GA (essentially the floor manager) and run to the bathroom. I’ll spare you the details here. Use your imagination. So I do what I must and go immediately to my room where I have to call the duty nurse and report my ailment. She has me come down to medical where I am informed that I will be put into medical isolation.
Crazy lady say what? I ate something weird. I was just doing what I was supposed to by reporting it. I fully expected you to hand me some tums and tell me to go back to work. But medical isolation!? Are you kidding me?
So here I sit, alone, in a legit hospital bed, NOT SICK, but still isolated. I had another bout this morning (after effects of Nassau) and I get locked down for another 24hours. SERIOUSLY?! When I came to you last contract with the flu, you gave me some Advil and a shove out the door. This time around, I report eating nasty meat and you put me in lockdown!? Where exactly did you people get your medical licenses?
Speaking of the kind people working in medical, let me first say they are NOT Disney employees. They are hired from outside the company and are brought in without having to go through any Disney training or qualifications. So the cheerful, kind, and gracious doctors you may be expecting are not what you get here. There are a few on the team that are nice. But only a few. Most of them have the bedside manner of an angry German Fräulein. In fact, this morning while I was in a dead sleep, Fräuleins 1 and 2 burst through my door without so much as a knock and turned on the overhead lights so they could root through the supply cabinet in my room. At this point, I’m having a spasm in bed trying to shield my eyes from the blinding light. Then after they’ve shouted a while they leave, without turning off the lights. WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE?! You better be happy I was too busy trying to protect my eyes and not awake enough to yell at you. I probably would’ve been taken to HR for the things that would’ve come flying out of my mouth. But you deserved them. Please know it was a scathing description of your actions followed by an attack on your bedside manner and a blistering dismissal of how you were raised.
So here I sit. Still. If I could dig my way out with a plastic spoon and cover the hole with a giant poster of Ryan Gosling I would. Please someone rescue me.
Until next time (if they ever let me leave...)
See Ya Real Soon!
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
Back for Thirds...
So we’re two days into my third contract working for Disney Cruise Line. Some exciting news, my manager is putting through the paperwork and such to make my Entertainment Host role a permanent one. Boom! For anyone wondering, I am technically still classified as a Temporary Assignment, or TA Line. This means that I am just filling the gap until a Permanent Host become available. Before now, if that happened, I would’ve been stepped back down to a counselor position. But once everything is cleared and signed off... they’re stuck with me. Win.
A start of contract would not be complete without a trip to Wardrobe and an epic battle over who is right (me) and who is wrong (them). It’s like they could sense my presence on board and thought to themselves, “Let’s see how difficult we can make her life this time around!” So there I am, waiting in line with all the people who embarked with me, repeating the mantra, “I will be patient with Wardrobe” in my head. All is going well, the line is moving fairly quickly, which is a rare occurrence indeed, and I’m just starting to think things are going to be okay. That when I see it. Sitting in the pile of returning crew members name badges is mine. Spelled, A-L-L-I-S-O-N. Fail number one. It is at this point the dark sense of foreboding begins to creep over my shoulder and pierce my soul.
I get up to the desk, and in a weird twist of fate, it is the same woman I had so much trouble with last time. I inform her that my name is misspelled and she has me add my name to the long list of others that need to be redone. Okay, maybe this will be the only mishap. She goes to get my costumes and returns with clothes fit for a resident of Munchkin Land. Sweet Lord above, it has happened again. They still have me in their system as the other Alison. The one who NO LONGER WORKS FOR DCL! She actually realized her error at this point and start to shake her head and smirk. “We’ve been here before,” she says. I concur and we go through the ordeal of getting the correct sizes.
So it comes to asking for my pant length, “I’m a 34.” I say and wait for her to go get them. She doesn’t move though. She stands there, starring at me in disbelief.
“I’m a 32. There is no way you can be a 34.”
“I have long legs. I’m 5’ 10”.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Trust me, I’m a 34. You can give me 32s but they will be too short. I had 32s last contract and my manager made me come down and change them out for 34s because they were high-waters. Can we please skip all that and you just give me 34s?”
“You are not a 34.”
“Yes. I am.”
“Come back here, I need to measure. There’s no way you’re a 34.”
Now at this point, that little mantra I was trying to hold fast to has shattered into one million pieces, caught fire, and begun smoldering. My patience is gone. After talking to some other crew members, I have yet to find a single person that leaves wardrobe in a good mood. This is why. I go back into the sewing room where she gets the head seamstress to measure me. She pulls out her official DCL measuring tape and finds my natural waist line (cause that’s where we have to wear our pants) and measures down to the top of my foot. Low and behold, the number she came up with was 34! She then stands up and stares at my legs like they are aliens and finally mutters out, “I guess you were right.”
You think? You think I’m not right about the length of my own pants? I am 5’10”, Woman. I do not joke about pant length.
After that huge ordeal, I went to Safety Familiarization, commonly referred to as Safety Fam, and prayed to God I didn’t get a safety duty. My last two contracts I have been given a Traffic Controller duty somewhere in the uppermost decks of the ship. This means that every single embark I have to climb 11+ flights of stairs in a limited amount of time and then direct the thousands of guests on board to their Assembly stations. This is a very important job, don’t get me wrong. But I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in the event of a real emergency I wouldn’t make it up 11 flights of stairs, fighting against the flow of panicked guests. So I am praying hard for something a little closer to Deck 5 (where the YA spaces are located). They pass out the safety cards and the Lord gave me a gift. No drill duty. The rare and coveted safety card. The only thing I have to do is show up at the life raft in the event of an emergency. I expect to hold on to this safety card for roughly two cruises. There is no way they’ll let me keep it. I don’t have that kind of luck.
My luck has already been received in the form of my Ent Host costumes. Not only did everything arrive on the same day I did, it was all the right size and quantity. I haven’t seen my wigs yet, but they have been restyling most of them. And when I say all of my costumes, I mean all. Lab and Club. Which is unheard of. I got to see my pajamas for Pluto’s Pajama Party. They come with the best slippers. They’ve got baby ducks on them. I am beyond excited. It’s the little things that make me happy.
Little things like getting an awesome roommate. Well, truthfully that’s no little thing. In my time on board I’ve had every type of roommate from “I need complete silence and darkness to sleep. Do NOT wake me.” to “Hey, it’s 4am and I’ve brought a boy home. We’re gonna be noisy.” So having a good roommate is a HUGE thing. My new roomie is a girl named, Juliette. She is amazing and I love her. We were friends last contract and kept trying to room together and it just didn’t work out. So she requested me before I even got back and our managers sorted everything out for us. Praise!
Things are going well so far. I’m getting back into the swing of things. My feet hurt. Spending the majority of your vacation sleeping and lying in bed with hours of Netflix makes you forget about long hours on your feet everyday. I have been reminded. I will be buying some Dr Scholls insoles the first chance I get. I will also be buying some trash bags. Apparently our housekeeper has a distaste for trash bags and refuses to leave us any, opting instead for a simple paper liner that sets in the bottom. He also has a distaste for toilet paper. But he changes our sheets and vacuums, so I will just suck it up and buy stuff at Wal-Mart.
More updates to come, with hilarious shenanigans to ensue! Until next time...
See Ya Real Soon!
A start of contract would not be complete without a trip to Wardrobe and an epic battle over who is right (me) and who is wrong (them). It’s like they could sense my presence on board and thought to themselves, “Let’s see how difficult we can make her life this time around!” So there I am, waiting in line with all the people who embarked with me, repeating the mantra, “I will be patient with Wardrobe” in my head. All is going well, the line is moving fairly quickly, which is a rare occurrence indeed, and I’m just starting to think things are going to be okay. That when I see it. Sitting in the pile of returning crew members name badges is mine. Spelled, A-L-L-I-S-O-N. Fail number one. It is at this point the dark sense of foreboding begins to creep over my shoulder and pierce my soul.
I get up to the desk, and in a weird twist of fate, it is the same woman I had so much trouble with last time. I inform her that my name is misspelled and she has me add my name to the long list of others that need to be redone. Okay, maybe this will be the only mishap. She goes to get my costumes and returns with clothes fit for a resident of Munchkin Land. Sweet Lord above, it has happened again. They still have me in their system as the other Alison. The one who NO LONGER WORKS FOR DCL! She actually realized her error at this point and start to shake her head and smirk. “We’ve been here before,” she says. I concur and we go through the ordeal of getting the correct sizes.
So it comes to asking for my pant length, “I’m a 34.” I say and wait for her to go get them. She doesn’t move though. She stands there, starring at me in disbelief.
“I’m a 32. There is no way you can be a 34.”
“I have long legs. I’m 5’ 10”.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Trust me, I’m a 34. You can give me 32s but they will be too short. I had 32s last contract and my manager made me come down and change them out for 34s because they were high-waters. Can we please skip all that and you just give me 34s?”
“You are not a 34.”
“Yes. I am.”
“Come back here, I need to measure. There’s no way you’re a 34.”
Now at this point, that little mantra I was trying to hold fast to has shattered into one million pieces, caught fire, and begun smoldering. My patience is gone. After talking to some other crew members, I have yet to find a single person that leaves wardrobe in a good mood. This is why. I go back into the sewing room where she gets the head seamstress to measure me. She pulls out her official DCL measuring tape and finds my natural waist line (cause that’s where we have to wear our pants) and measures down to the top of my foot. Low and behold, the number she came up with was 34! She then stands up and stares at my legs like they are aliens and finally mutters out, “I guess you were right.”
You think? You think I’m not right about the length of my own pants? I am 5’10”, Woman. I do not joke about pant length.
After that huge ordeal, I went to Safety Familiarization, commonly referred to as Safety Fam, and prayed to God I didn’t get a safety duty. My last two contracts I have been given a Traffic Controller duty somewhere in the uppermost decks of the ship. This means that every single embark I have to climb 11+ flights of stairs in a limited amount of time and then direct the thousands of guests on board to their Assembly stations. This is a very important job, don’t get me wrong. But I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that in the event of a real emergency I wouldn’t make it up 11 flights of stairs, fighting against the flow of panicked guests. So I am praying hard for something a little closer to Deck 5 (where the YA spaces are located). They pass out the safety cards and the Lord gave me a gift. No drill duty. The rare and coveted safety card. The only thing I have to do is show up at the life raft in the event of an emergency. I expect to hold on to this safety card for roughly two cruises. There is no way they’ll let me keep it. I don’t have that kind of luck.
My luck has already been received in the form of my Ent Host costumes. Not only did everything arrive on the same day I did, it was all the right size and quantity. I haven’t seen my wigs yet, but they have been restyling most of them. And when I say all of my costumes, I mean all. Lab and Club. Which is unheard of. I got to see my pajamas for Pluto’s Pajama Party. They come with the best slippers. They’ve got baby ducks on them. I am beyond excited. It’s the little things that make me happy.
Little things like getting an awesome roommate. Well, truthfully that’s no little thing. In my time on board I’ve had every type of roommate from “I need complete silence and darkness to sleep. Do NOT wake me.” to “Hey, it’s 4am and I’ve brought a boy home. We’re gonna be noisy.” So having a good roommate is a HUGE thing. My new roomie is a girl named, Juliette. She is amazing and I love her. We were friends last contract and kept trying to room together and it just didn’t work out. So she requested me before I even got back and our managers sorted everything out for us. Praise!
Things are going well so far. I’m getting back into the swing of things. My feet hurt. Spending the majority of your vacation sleeping and lying in bed with hours of Netflix makes you forget about long hours on your feet everyday. I have been reminded. I will be buying some Dr Scholls insoles the first chance I get. I will also be buying some trash bags. Apparently our housekeeper has a distaste for trash bags and refuses to leave us any, opting instead for a simple paper liner that sets in the bottom. He also has a distaste for toilet paper. But he changes our sheets and vacuums, so I will just suck it up and buy stuff at Wal-Mart.
More updates to come, with hilarious shenanigans to ensue! Until next time...
See Ya Real Soon!
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