Late Bloomer

Some things I've only gotten into in the last few weeks:

• Arrested Development - best show on TV, brilliant writing, why isn't it more blah blah blah. Eh, I just never bothered with this show. By the time the hype got so insistent and unavoidable that I felt obligated to watch it, there was too much backstory and I couldn't figure out what the hell was going on. Now that I've seen the first season on DVD, I finally get it. Unfortunately, I'm two years too late to discuss the intrinsic brilliance of Gob's magic show. And the dead dove in a bag in the fridge. C'mon, remember the dove?
• The Office - the UK version. I guess if I was into the American version I wouldn't be too (too) far behind, but no, I'm just getting around to watching the original. It's going to take me a long time to see the whole thing, too, because I can hardly stand to watch an entire episode. I have a low tolerance for humiliation comedy, so it verges on physically painful for me to watch scenes limp towards their excrucriatingly embarrassing conclusions. I also have a crush on Tim and alternate between wanting to smack him and wishing he was real so I could rescue him from his life of drudgery and sarcasm. Watching him limp off after quiz night, searching for his other shoe? tragic.
  
• Sufjan Stevens - All that crap about him making an album for each of the 50 states was really annoying. And really unavoidable for pretty much all of 2005 - just when it was dying down, it all got regurgitated for the year-end lists. The only thing I had ever heard from him was a song off an O.C. soundtrack. It's a good song, but who wants to admit they've been listening to O.C. mixes? I guess I just did. Anyway. Hearing him quaver oh my god as he sings about John Wayne Gacy made me forget about a year of annoying hype. He had a kind of honesty that makes me listen to every nuance, trying to catch his meaning. Ordinarily I'd just assume that a song about a serial killer must be bullshit. I mean, the world has already had all the ANSWER Me! it ever needed. But, somehow, by the end of the song, it's like he's erased the entire serial killer fetish that permeated 90s culture.
  

Pride

According to Shawn's father Clyde, the Carnival Pride is considerably tackier than the average cruise ship. I've never been another ship, so I can only hope he's right. If you're looking for taste and subtlety, then the Pride is a true floating monstrosity. But if you're open to nine-story reproductions of Renaissance paintings and glittering plastic mosaics, then the Pride is actually quite fun. I liked how the decor cheerfully strode over the line from gaudy into bizarre without a second thought. Poorly-rendered reproduction of the David overlooking the dining room? check. A repeating pattern of mermaid sculptures swimming overhead in the cafeteria? of course. A series of unfortunately suggestive images of a boy riding a dolphin with, uh, no hands? sure, why not? Plastic Rococco Renaissance Vegas doesn't quite cover it, but it's a good start.

One of the highlights is the aforemetioned nine-story reproduction of Galatea which you can gaze upon as you take the glass elevators. Apparently this blatant display of boobs garners endless complaints from the easily offended, who swear to never set foot on a Carnival ship again. If only the endless parade of Renaissance flesh could convince them to never leave home again.

Luckily the excess doesn't extend to the cabins, which were simple and almost scientifically streamlined. I thought it was cool the way everything in the bathroom was oddly angled, yet perfectly ergonomic - fooling you into thinking it was much bigger than it really was. I need that designer to work on my apartment.

After a few days, it got so I hardly noticed it all. Checking out the massive murals was just something to while I waited for the elevator. But there were always more details waiting to jump out - wait, is that mermaid pattern woven into the carpet? What the hell were they thinking with that massive plastic molding over the stairs? In comparison, the rest of the world looks rather boring and excessively restrained. I think my office would be much improved if we could just install a 10-foot-tall David next to the printer. And now that I think about it, my living room would be much improved with the addition of a sparkly red velvet curtain...

Viva Mexico

I used to have a tenuous claim to travel snobbery. While I've never spent years travelling the world on $5 a day, or devoted months to rebuilding war-torn villages, I felt like I had amassed a small amount of credibility. Backpacked Europe alone, ridden rickety buses around Central America, hitchhiked through the Gulf Islands. Enough that I could claim a modicum of knowledge and respectability. Well that's gone now.

And even if I had done all that trekking-solo-through-the-Himalayas stuff, I'm pretty sure that it would still be cancelled out. Posing for a photo in Puerto Vallarta whilst holding a donkey and wearing a Viva Mexico sombrero can do that. And that's not even mentioning the blanket draped over my shoulder, nor the fact that the donkey was wearing some sort of denim overall.

Really, we only wanted to take a photo of the donkey. Shawn saw him running around the port area, handler in pursuit, and had to take a picture. But, no sooner had we walked up than I had a sombrero slapped on my head and the donkey dropped in my arms. Shawn was fiddling with the focus and by the time he looked up, there I was - ready for my authentic Mexican photo opportunity.

I have to say, that was one damn cute donkey. I pet his head and he was as soft as a cat.

The tourist photo people have got a great set-up. I watched them hanging out around the port. Real live Indians in flamboyant costumes, chatting and smoking as they waited for the cruise ships to disgorge. Cute girls with handfuls of flyers for local bars, ready to pose in their bikinis with an endless stream of men. Some guy with an iguana. They positioned themselves at the end of the gangways so the tourists walk straight into the trap. As we left the ship, we bobbed and weaved our way around at least three separate photo ops before falling victim to the awwww factor of the donkey.

For the rest of the day in Puerto Vallarto, we kept thinking about the photo op donkey. Shawn thought that this donkey probably only had another month to go before being replaced by a new baby donkey. What becomes of a tourist donkey when it's no longer small and cute and malleable enough to serve as prop? It can't be good. I decided that we would save this donkey from his fate and bring him back to Canada with us. He would stay in our cabin for the rest of the cruise, and on the flight home I would stow him safely under the seat in front of me. Neither of us speak Spanish, so we struggled to string together an offer to purchase the animal. Had babelfish been available, I might have tried Hola, quisiera comprar su burro. But the best we could come up with was "Hey man, cuánto donkey?"

Unfortunately the little donkey, along with all the entire photo op brigade, was gone by the time we got back to the ship. So here's an insider tip for any hardcore travel snobs going to Puerto Vallarta: grab the donkey when you have the chance. She who hesitates will be left with nothing but a silly picture.