I Take You to the Ship!

Christmas in Antarctica originally posted by Linda Lou Burton December 18, 2005 from Puerto Chacabuco, Chile – I found myself in the Loberias del Sur, address Carrera No 50, Puerto Chacabuco, Chile. Patagonia. The hotel perched high on a hill at the head of a narrow fjord, and every mountain around had ringlets of snow. http://www.loberiasdelsur.cl

When Marco drove away, attention turned to me. “The dining room is here, Ms Linda, the sauna and gym are there,” he pointed. I looked around the lobby, wood expanded with windows opening the view to water, hills, and trees. At one end a Christmas tree reached twenty feet into the air; at the other, a fire flickered under a mantel decorated with green. “Let me show you to your room.” Fancy-schmancy and the carry-on were wheeled away, just down the hall, 114. What luxury! I wanted a bath. A nice, long, hot, steaming, bath. I dug into the luggage for clean clothes, hairbrush, toothbrush, my makeup. What luxury!

After the bath, the next need was food. The dining room was not far away, just across the stone-paved lobby, past the Christmas tree. A windowed wall at the edge of the hill, just above the pier where, tomorrow, my ship would magically appear. “8:30 AM,” I was promised. “It will be here.” I ordered salmon, grilled. Potatoes, in crème. Tomato salad. A glass of red wine. Food began to appear, appetizers, cheese, rolls dripping with butter, garlic, forks and plates, the table filled. I almost ate it all.

Only one need remained. Sleep. Back into my room, the bed turned nicely back, the pillow with two candies, the curtains drawn. My watch said 5 PM. It had been 35 hours since I got out of bed in Los Angeles. Time to change, I thought, and move into the Chilean realm. 10 PM, Patagonia. I set my watch.

The telephone! “Ms Linda, your taxi is here!” My head was foggy with sleep. “I did not order a taxi,” I replied. “No! It is here. Please come!” I shook my head and tried to focus my eyes on the clock, but it made no sense. “Where do I need to go in a taxi?” I asked, puzzled. “To the ship! To the ship!” “I thought the ship would be here,” I mumbled, “just at the pier below.” “Yes, it is here. Now, hurry so you can go to the Park!” “I do not want to go to the Park!” I said, “I want to go to the ship. What time is it?” “8 AM! Please hurry!” “Let me come to the desk,” I said, not understanding anything at all.

Yes, it was 8 AM. I had slept for 10 hours, unmoving in the bed. I threw on yesterday’s clothes and hurried to the lobby. A man was standing at the desk, pacing foot to foot, in a hurry. I nodded to him and said “Who asked you to come?” “The tour company sent me,” he said, “to take you to the ship.” Yes, outside, just below the hill, I could see the red and black of the Nordnorge. “But I can walk,” I said. “And I did not expect it to arrive until 8:30.” “No! I will take you there,” he insisted. “Then give me an hour,” I said. “I’ll have to gather everything, I need to dress.” I didn’t have the starch to hurry any more.

“One ow-her,” he said. “I will wait one ow-her.”

Now I’m ready, fancy-schmancy zipped, teeth brushed, jacket on. The lobby bustled with my goodbyes. “Thank you for staying with us! Have a good trip! Please to come back!” I got into the taxi. He headed east, past a row of matching houses, corner turned, going away from the ship. “Where are you taking me?” I asked. “I want to go to the SHIP!”

“Is this way,” he answered, making more turns through the tiny village. Then we started down the hill, past trucks, loaded with cargo, to the security gate. He mumbled answers, flashed a sign. “Nordnorge,” is what it said. They waved us through.

Around the buildings, workers busy with the morning chores, people boarding buses, headed for the Park. Ah! I remembered. The first shore excursion from the ship was to Aiken Park from Puerto Chacabuco. I saw those sights yesterday, and more! The gangplank. A tall Norwegian in uniform stood by, helping passengers find their buses. He spotted the taxi, waved, came to take my bags.

“Welcome aboard!” he smiled at me. “I am Morten, the ship’s Purser. We have been expecting you.” Up the gangplank, fancy-schmancy now lifted ahead of me, stop, let me make your card.

Morten lifted the digi-cam and snapped my photo. In a moment my check-in was complete. I donned the necklace that would be mine for the next two weeks; picture ID, passport number, date of birth, country of origin; plastic on-a-cord, serving as both room key and charge card, bar-coded for scanning every need.

I had caught up to the tour.