The Unfinished

In November of 2016, I was asked to host a tour for a few dozen people transiting the Panama Canal. We sailed from San Diego and headed down to Mexico, Guatemala, Nicaragua, though the canal, and then to Cartagena, Half Moon Cay (Holland America's private Bahamian island), finally disembarking in Ft. Lauderdale two weeks later.

I did not know the group before boarding the ship. Because they used a travel agent to book the cruise, their agents provided them with a "Distinctive Voyage," perk which entitled them to a cocktail party, a private excursion, and me.

I'd done a few of these gigs and they're simple—in return for a mostly free cruise, I welcome everyone aboard, host the meet & greet cocktail party, escort them on the excursion and maintain some office hours where I'd answer questions as best I could. The great irony of this program was: no one in my groups ever knew what Distinctive Voyages was, and it certainly didn't influence their purchase of the cruise.

No matter. I had a job to do, and I took it seriously. On this voyage, we were sailing on Holland America's Volendam, a smaller, older ship perfect for this itinerary. This was back in the day when Holland America was just beginning to get "Carnivalized," which means they were abandoning the model that gave them their "old and stately" reputation, and replacing it with "loud upscale fun." Or something like that.

As such, the ship still had a nicely stocked library with daily papers, a thousand or so books, recliners, and gaming tables. I spent a lot of time there watching people come and go, and I paid special attention the puzzle table. This was a community effort. People would come in, wander about, and place a few pieces. Then someone else would do the same. A few people spent an hour at it—others only a minute or two. But in a matter of 8 hours or so, the puzzle would be complete. It would stay on the table until someone took initiative and put it way, replacing it with another.

Jigsaw puzzles, though I enjoy them, seem a bit silly to me. There's no puzzle really—you know what the end result is. It's on the box! But one must put the pieces together to complete the picture. The work must be done. It's it harder than it seems.

Miraculously, the puzzles seemed to be complete. I did my part placing a piece here and there. Sometimes I'd just sort the loose bits by color to make it easier for others to join in. It was more interesting to watch people find a piece and place it than to do it myself.

As it was my job to be social, I made an effort to get to know some folks. Favorites of mine included a group of school teachers on sabbatical who seemed THRILLED to be away from the kids and spending time on themselves for a change. They chatted happily as they snapped pieces in place. There was so much satisfaction to be had in filling a vexing hole or the last section of border.

One of them was wearing a flowered sweater and a Hillary pin, which didn't surprise me at all.

Yes, this was early November of 2016, and the election was happening while we were on board. In my role as host, I never mentioned anything religious or political, but I did hear some things. The school teachers, all women, made comments about "first woman president" and "imagine all we'll get done now!" Others had different ideas.

After the teachers left for an activity, a man with a fresh cup of Starbucks-esque coffee wandered into the library and addressed a man in slacks and a polo shirt reading the paper, printed on board.

"You voted Trump, right?"

Polo shirt considered, and with a shrug, replied.

"Yeah, but I wish there was someone else. The guy's a blowhard." He looked up at caffeinated man. "But Clinton? No way. I can't stand her."

"Good man. I think we're going to win this."

"I dunno. We'll see."

I had my own opinions, of course. None onboard knew them, except the school teachers. I let myself slip a bit to join them in their anticipation of better things to come. But I wasn't wearing a political pin, had no stickers on my laptop, and I didn't see too many others displaying politics either. It was nice. The chaos of the 2016 election cycle was over, and now we could relax and get on with our lives. We'd be rid of Trump as anything other than the butt of jokes to come.

The night of the election, I hunkered down in my cabin to watch Trump lose. I tuned to MSNBC (it was that or Fox on the limited option of channels) and watched the results. I specifically remember watching the moment when MSNBC called North Carolina for Trump. I typed into the chat room I was in "This isn't how this night is supposed to be going." And for the next several hours, I watched in shocked horror as the unthinkable happened. My wife (back in Chicago) and I exchanged some concerned texts, and I turned the TV off in disbelief.

The next morning, somewhat dazed from lack of sleep and the cold realization that the United States was forever altered, I went back up to the library with my own cup of coffee and had a seat. An unfinished puzzle sat on the table. I didn't recognize it from the small part that was complete, but I found the box and saw that it was Mount Rushmore. I half-heartedly looked for a piece to place, but gave up quickly.

Not long after I returned to my chair, the group of teachers came in. They didn't visit the puzzle, but instead flopped into the recliners. A few words passed between them, and then they were in tears.

"I just never thought this could happen. What are we going to do?" Her friend in response, "I'd say it's going to be alright, but I don't think it is."

Teachers are smart.

I didn't say much to them, other than to express disappointment and to let them know that at least one cis-hetero-mediocre-middle-aged white guy was on their side.

Wednesday after the election was our morning in Huatulco, a Mexican resort town created expressly for tourism by the Mexican government. It has an amazing history including exploits by Sir Francis Drake and a possible 2nd coming of Christ (which very well may have helped the Spanish conquest of the Mexica), but very few tourists take the time to learn these things. Most head to a bar or beach.

This was the port with our private shore excursion, a visit to a turtle hatchery. It was a 90 minute trip along the Oaxaca coast, and as it wasn't available to the rest of the ship, I had great expectations. Alas, the local tour leader had other plans.

In my role, I am not the tour guide but I'm responsible for the group. I make contact with the leader (who is usually the guide), let them know how many people we have, any special concerns, etc. I also serve as the group wrangler. I saw him standing next to a bus, holding the sign for our group. He wasn't wearing a name tag.

I introduced myself, and let him know the group was all there. There were a few folks with mobility issues, so I asked about the restaurant listed in the description and how they didn't mention any access for wheel chairs.

"No." He looked away.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean. I have to find a way for these folks to get lunch."

"Never mind, we're not going there." he snapped, and walked away.

"That's what the brochure says. What's the new plan?" He kept walking, ignoring me.

If you want to make me angry, disrespect my group. It works every time.

I chased after him, sure he misunderstood what I was asking. "I'm sorry, but I need to know what's going on."

"No, just get on the bus."

This was not my first rodeo, but this wasn't bull riding: it was bullshit.

But I had to set the tone. I did as he asked, trying to hide this conflict from the group.

After several minutes, our actual guide boarded the bus with dear leader right behind. She was young, friendly and educated—exactly the person I expected to have on this tour. As we drove through villages along the coast, she told us about life in Oaxaca with impeccable English. But the leader—I'm not entirely sure of his exact role or title—watched over her like a hawk, frequently whispering to her sternly. I'm not sure what his concerns were with her, but I know what mine was with him: he had no interest in being where he was, and it was bleeding into the group.

Often groups will try to maintain a good mood for themselves and joke about things like a long bus ride. This wasn't that group.

"How much longer?" "We need a restroom break!" "I think we took the wrong tour."

The driver didn't speak English, so it was up to either me, Gloria or the nameless leader to respond. Ultimately, it was my problem.

I remained upbeat and assured them we were almost there, not knowing actually how much longer we'd be in traffic. Gloria, sensing the change in tone, tried to lighten things up by telling some personal stories. "I used to get ice cream there, but now it is a bank. That fountain is a famous spot for young people to meet without their parents permission. You know what I mean." She giggle demurely.

We finally got the to the Turtle Center. The bus parked across the street, and the doors open. The leader and Gloria got out and... now what? The driver didn't speak English, and I doubt he knew what was going on. People were desperate to get off the bus, but I didn't know the plan. And my passive-aggressive nature was heading towards full aggression.

I asked folks to be patient, and I left the bus in hot pursuit. I saw Gloria and dear leader as I crossed the busy street—they were sitting on a bench in the shade of the turtle welcome center. I approached and they said nothing.

"So, what are supposed to be doing now?"

"Whatever you want. We're here."

There was clearly something up this guy's ass, and as much as I would have liked to help it along its way with my foot, I remained composed.

"So I should bring everyone over here?"

"If you want."

And then I wasn't composed. I turned to Gloria.

"Look, this guy's useless. Can you tell us what we should be doing right now?"

With a nervous smile, she explained that folks should come over and get a sticker at the booth. Then they'd be free to wander the grounds and see the turtles. I thanked her, and ran across the intersection to shepherd folks across the street.

Dear leader never changed his expression.

He was stopping her from being an actual guide. Bizarre. I'm sure there's a story, but a story is far from a reason, and there could be no reason for this treatment.

One gentleman required an electric scooter, and his elderly wife couldn't help much with it. The driver and I managed to pull it out from under the bus and set it up for him. He thanked me.

I walked behind as he rolled his away across the street. When we arrived, he said to his wife "these people can't get anything right" and I finally noticed his bright red Make America Great Again hat. It looked brand new.

I instructed folks as best I could, and they wandered around the somewhat disappointing facility. I heard a younger couple ask "where are the turtles?" and an employee said "sometimes, they're not here, but if there are any they'll be down that path over there."

I saw very little of the facility as I focused on keeping track of folks. Fortunately, their boredom led them to gravitate towards the entrance well before our meeting time and I didn't have to chase anyone.

Except the guy in the scooter.

He and his wife had left the facility and we're a block away among some vendors. I sent everyone back to the bus, and ran to fetch the wayward couple. I'm not sure what the beginning of their conversation was—maybe they saw a BLM shirt—but it was ending with...

"It's not Black Lives Matter, it's All Lives Matter. Who do they think they are?"

People, I thought. They think they're people. But I didn't say it.

I helped them on the bus and the driver wrestled the scooter underneath. No 'thank yous' this time. The bus made its way towards the unknown restaurant.

Lunch was similarly uninformed, but as this piece is growing long I'll skip the details. Suffice it to say that they only way we got fed was to be aggressive at the buffet, and I had to raise my voice considerably. It was rushed service at that.

Back on the bus, more grumbles, some snoring, and 90 minutes later we were back at the ship.

"I should have kept our beach tour. What good is a free tour if it just wastes your time?" I apologized and reminded those that complained that we had survey cards for everyone to fill out.

Tips for these trips were pre-paid, which is to say, I had a fund with which to pay them and the guests didn't have to worry about it. Usually, the guests will tip a bit extra, but not this time. I handed the driver an envelope with a thank you, and then got off the bus, where the leader came directly towards me. I ignored him, and made my way to Gloria and handed her the envelope instead. I have no doubt that he took it from her, but the message was sent. I also slipped her another $20 that wasn't in the envelope.

I climbed the gangway and wandered back to my room, dejected. I'd failed to provide the excellent experience I expected. All my preparation was undone by one boorish guy with a bit of power.

The comment cards came in over the next few days, and while most were blandly nice, many were brutal. For the first time ever, there were negative comments directed at me, suggesting that I should have known better than to lead this tour, and that I should have taken them someplace better or provided more information.

I agree, but none of those things were within my power.

But worse than that were the few that took time to write out a complaint about Gloria, who "shouldn't tell so many personal stories" and "might want to shut up sometime." The cards were anonymous, but I had my suspicions.

I reported everything to the folks in Miami who ran the program, and that tour was never offered again. I hope Gloria found a better gig as she was excellent and deserved better leadership and a better tour group.

The next few days, I focussed on my own interests, visiting Antigua, Guatemala and Lyon, Nicaragua. Many stories from there, but none pertinent to this tale. We crossed though the canal, spent a day in Cartagena (more stories), and finally had a couple of days at sea where I could just reflect for awhile.

The tenor on board had changed dramatically from the early days, as it often does, but the time spent crossing the Gulf was particularly subdued. I spent a lot of time in my cabin, watching DVDs (yes, they had a DVD library back then) looking forward to getting home.

I did still get to the library everyday, and I noticed something. The puzzle had half the border complete, but the pile of loose pieces remained unorganized. It looked more like someone was dismantling Mount Rushmore than adding to it.

At some point a day or so later, someone put it away and the table was empty.

I think it was one of the teachers. Teachers are smart.

On November 6, 2024, Trump will be on the ballot for the third time in eight years. I'll be leaving the country for Hungary, where a very Trump-like figure is already in power. Again, I'll be leading a group who will learn about the election while traveling.

I'll be leaving the country, but I hope that the country won't be leaving me. Like a puzzle, our republic remains unfinished, and there are times when people are taking it apart rather than putting it together.