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“Nice, yes,” I murmur, plunking down on the side of the bed and staring out the windows at the wide river beyond. “Thank you, Lucas.”
“No TV,” he tells me. “No radio. But, yes, lights. Yes, A/C. Yes, bathroom. Everything you need. You see?”
“I see,” I offer wearily, pulling a twenty reais note from my wallet and offering it to him.
“Obrigado, senhorita,” he says, grinning at me. “We have caipirinhas for all the passenger when the boat leave. Welcome drinks with Rio! You come?”
“I definitelynotcome,” I tell him, lying back on the bed and desperate for a snooze.
He seems to get the message and lets himself out. I hear the door to my room click shut, and my eyes do the same.
***
When I wake up severalhours later, my feet are flat on the floor, my back is flat on the bed, and the setting sun is shining directly into my eyes.
“How long did I sleep?” I mutter, noting the gentle forward motion of the boat.
Sitting up gingerly, I’m relieved to note that my nausea seems to have passed. I stand up and pad to the bathroom, aware of the engine drone coming from somewhere beneath my feet. It’s soothing. I’m sure it helped me sleep.
After I use the bathroom, I tackle my suitcases, filling the bureau drawers and closet with a dozen outfits or more, many that are probably ill-suited to my voyage. But can a girl really have too many cocktail dresses, regardless of her surroundings? The answer is no. Cocktail dresses win. Every time.
Once I’ve hung up my clothes and settled the rest of my belongings, I take a long, hot shower, blow-dry my dark hair with a diffuser, and reapply my make-up, wondering if I’ll be too late for the ‘Welcome’ party Lucas mentioned earlier. It’s almost five o’clock now, so I’m sure I’ve missed it, but I’m eager to check out the ship all the same. Surely, I can order a drink at the bar and sip it on my own as I explore before dinner, right?
I choose an Alaia slip dress in apricot for my first night on the Sinfonia, and pair it with rose gold Fendi sandals and a peach-toned Coeur de Lion bracelet. Satisfied I look elegant enough to meet my fellow travelers for dinner, I transfer my wallet and lip gloss into a cream-colored leather wristlet and leave my stateroom, heading back to the stairs I descended this morning.
The first thing I notice is that no one passes me in the hallway or on the stairs. No one appears to be out and about. I know that the ship only has sixteen cabins, but that’s at least two dozen passengers, and another twenty crew members, right? How come I’m the only person moving around?
On the third floor, I peek into the dining room (empty) and boutique (dark – a sign on the door says it doesn’t open until after dinner) and continue up the stairs to the fourth floor. Halfway up the stairs, I hear the dull roar of ... commotion. Noise. Clapping? Yes. Clapping, stomping and... whooping, I think. And under the clapping, stomping and whooping, I think I hear music. Is there a party going on? Is this the party Lucas mentioned earlier, still in full swing?
I open the paneled wood door at the top of the stairs and instantly find myself in an elegant cream and gold lounge, with panoramic windows lining the walls. There are soft white leather chairs and loveseats set up in conversation clusters, and marble coffee tables with bud vases bearing single-stem orchids in purple and lavender.
Totally at odds with the refinement of the room?
The fact that everyone in it—all twenty or thirty people, crew and passengers alike—are clustered around a grand piano, singing at the top of their lungs or dancing to(groan)...theLambada.
I know “The Lambada,” not because my father ever played the Brazilian song for me, but because I once visited a friend at college in Boston, and she took me to a Lambda Lambada party; essentially, a fraternity party wherein a seemingly endless supply of beer was offered, and “The Lambada” was played on a seemingly endless loop all night.
I could die happily never hearing it again after that.
“A recordação vai estar com ele aonde for...A recordação vai estar pra sempre aonde for!” sing those who know Portuguese, while others dance a joyful, if overly enthusiastic, mix of the Tango and Patrick Swayze’s famous moves from “Dirty Dancing.”
From the number of red cheeks and empty glasses, which are quickly whisked away by cruise staff, I realize I’m probably coming in at the end of a long afternoon that started hours ago with Welcome Caipirinhas.
In short? Everyone who doesn’t work on this ship is drunk or awfully close to it.
Side stepping to the bar nearest me, I slip onto a stool, crossing my legs and facing the bartender, who has his back turned to me.
“Excuse me.”
When he doesn’t turn around—likely because the music is so loud—I try again.
“Excuse me!”
Still, the loud music and dancing. Still, the drone of the ship. He continues rinsing glasses, his back to me.
I cup my hands around my mouth.
“HELLO!” I bellow...
