The Lyngbakr, or, I should have known when she ordered the shark’s fin soup and chicken feet

Lyngbakr

 

The Lyngbakr, 

or,

I should have known when she ordered the shark’s fin soup and chicken feet      

By PenguinScott

From the airplane window, I looked out over France. There were towns and villages with roads meandering from one direction to another. It looked lush and inviting from 29,000 feet. I wished I were down there sitting in a café enjoying some wine with bread and cheese. Oh, and butter. I remember how delicious the butter is in France!

                For the past six days I had been in Barcelona and was flying back to America. Stress was heavy on me, which is odd, having been on vacation for three weeks. Barcelona was but the destination of an Atlantic crossing on a luxury cruise ship which left from New Orleans with stops in Miami and the Azores. I boarded with five friends and left Europe with over thirty new ones. We had all been through a lot, maybe not so much on the ship, but for the five of us in the apartment, Barcelona sure was trying. For me, the entire journey was epic.

                I fell in love with Spain. This was my first visit and long overdue, having resided in my bucket list for years. Was it possible that I enjoyed Barcelona more than other European cities I’ve been to? The architecture was exciting. The food was fresh and creative. The people were vibrant and easy going. We had complimentary weather and getting around the beautiful city was a breeze—even on bike. I choked up when viewing the steps upon which Columbus climbed to inform Queen Isabella that he had just returned from what wound up being America. And staring up at the spires of architect Antoni Gaudi’s Sagrada Familia was mesmerizing. 

               As France passed below I was of two minds of the past three weeks—such an epic vacation. I had truly seen both sides of the coin on this trip: the good and the bad. Sure, I had my camera and travel wallet stolen. Gone were all the photos from the cruise, my time in New Orleans and of Miami, Ponta Delgada in the Azores, and the first two days of sightseeing in Barcelona. That’s what I cared about most—not losing my travel wallet with two credit cards and about a hundred dollars cash. Not the feeling of being violated for having someone’s hand inside my front pocket without my knowledge…or enjoyment. Many of the adventure had been captured by my friends, but many—my artistic shots, selfies, and photos I took—cannot be replaced.

                When asked, it wasn’t having my pocket picked that was behind my answer, “I had a great time. I had a horrible time.” The real reason behind the stress weighing me down was that the date I shared a room with on the cruise, and then an apartment with in Barcelona, turned out to be a Lyngbakr. Others called her the Kraken, but Lyngbakr is more appropriate.

                You see, Lyngbakr is an Icelandic mythical sea monster known to bait seafarers by posing as a fantastic island, and when a crew lands on her back, she sinks into the sea, drowning them. This is a more appropriate illustration of my experience; as I was lured into a lovely relationship and then, once safely at sea, this woman turned into a monster, and sunk us into the darkness of a volatile sea of crazy. I’ve researched how the Lyngbakr was felled. I can find no such story. Lyngbakr is alive and well and I’m lucky to still be alive after bedding one.

                We met briefly six months prior on a camp out with a group of friends. I didn’t spend a lot of time with her, mostly because I avoid smokers. She was easy to remember: walking with a cane after an illness left her partially paralyzed for a brief period of time. And she appeared to enjoy the attention of being surrounded by our caring group of friends. Her name is Beth.

Fast forward a few months, I organized a Sunday Dim Sum lunch on Christmas Day. She responded immediately and was so excited that I noticed her posting to encourage others to join us. In the end, maybe because it was Christmas, it wound up being just the two of us. This being the case, Beth suggested a Chinese place in Oakland near her apartment. Two things hit me when I walked into the restaurant: This was going to be a good meal. Everyone was speaking Mandarin. And finding Beth would be easy. We were the only two non-Chinese in the whole place.

                Beth was a fairly attractive woman. She was a few inches taller, with straight black hair, and was now off of the cane that had assisted her when we met. She moved slow and methodical, which is also the manner in which she spoke, pronouncing each syllable of every word; sometimes over-pronouncing them. I assumed this was related to her accident. She wore a sun dress with flat sandals. She was also all smiles.

                Our server handed me a sheet with the dim sum options for us to choose. I marked a few items of interest and handed it to Beth. She asked a few questions, marked a few things, and then paused. She regarded me intently, then asked if I’d ever had shark’s fin soup.

                I immediately protested, “Of course not. They cut the fin off and toss the shark back into the sea to die a horrible, painful death. I could never eat that.” My inside voice continued, “And how dare you even ask.”

                Silently, she looked back at the menu. Her gaze returned and she asked if I had ever had chicken feet. Now, I’m sure they don’t cut off their feet and toss them down to die a horrible, footless death. But the thought of eating animal feet... I don’t eat pig’s feet, ergo, I don’t eat chicken feet. I made my point, but not as strongly as that of shark’s fin soup. After all, someone might as well eat the feet; it just won’t be me.

                I watched her make two final marks on the menu order form and she explained that she likes to try new things. Beth was ordering both the fins and the feet. I was invited to try them as well. I assured her that as much as I love new things and the spirit of adventure, she was alone on this one.

                Beth didn’t like the soup and asked that it be taken off the bill. She said the chicken feet was disgusting and didn’t finish as much as an instep. Nice waste of animal appendages; she should have listened to me.

The rest of the meal was wonderful and with time to kill before a party of a mutual friend, we went to her place and talked. Our conversation meandered through our separate medical issues as well as our interesting lives and experiences. There was never an awkward silence or an acrimonious word. I soon forgot all about the shark fins and chicken feet.

                Several weeks pass and I found a great deal on a thirteen-night cruise to Spain and posted it on line. She replied immediately. Was she serious? I was leery about sharing a room with a smoker, but she assured me that she was quitting, and would not be smoking at all before setting sail in six weeks. She was OK with the time line, the expenses and being at sea for so many days. I warned her that once I put down a deposit, there was no backing out. Even though it was her first cruise, she assured me that I need not worry. She was in.

                I booked the cruise and we started making plans. We got together several times at her place over lunch or dinner. Hours flew by as we chatted in person and on-line, joking and flirting. It looked like this would be a grand voyage.

                Our exuberance attracted the attention of a few other friends. Beth invited Kit, a mutual friend of ours who I’d known for years, and Will, a guy she knew from Burning Man. Will was in his sixties and lived in Boston. I mentioned the cruise at a party and the host started asking questions. His name was Jerry, and after a recent separation from his wife, a cruise is just what he needed. The sixth member was a guy I met on line from a cruise critic forum I had joined. He had a lot in common with our gang and proved to be a lot of fun. He was the stage manager on the ship, but wanted to spend a few days in Barcelona with us. His name was Nathan and he lived in Vegas with his partner of nineteen years.

                Much time was spent on line making plans in the weeks leading up to the voyage. We discovered that the Jazz Festival was occurring the weekend we set sail from New Orleans, so we planned an extra night in The Big Easy to soak that in, as well. I adore New Orleans and Kit’s daughter was in school there. Beth and Jerry had never been. It was perfect.

                Jerry invited those of us living in the bay area to his place for a few planning parties, which included dinner and a soak in his hot tub. We were all getting along famously and we were so excited; it was better than Christmas—but this one would be an unusual one with shark fin soup and chicken feet.

Things changed the day we left San Francisco.

                Beth complained about the airport in New Orleans. There was construction, requiring us to go outside and back in to get our bags, then back outside for the hotel van. It was late. It was humid. Beth may not have been feeling well. I paid little attention to the complaining and tried to be accommodating. I know what it’s like to have pain cause a bad attitude.

The following morning we returned to the airport to meet Nathan. I know a place that serves great beignets, so I suggested we eat breakfast there, then from the airport, a bus could take us downtown for the jazz fest, saving money hiring a cab. Beth didn’t care for the beignets, which confounded the rest of us who nearly melted from the decadence. Nathan couldn’t join us downtown until dinner, because he had business with the ship’s entertainment group. Once downtown, Beth, Jerry and I entered Bourbon Street, which was full of festive people. Beth needed a restroom break and Jerry wanted a beer, so the first bar we came to, in they went. I would wait outside for them. After all, this was Bourbon Street and I wanted to soak it in.

                It was a beautiful day: clear, a few billowy clouds, and warm but not too hot. The people filling the street were having a great time. I stood in the shade and watched. After fifteen minutes, feeling a bit flustered, I wandered inside the bar. It was empty except for my two friends sitting at the bar drinking. When telling them they could leave the bar with their drinks to join in the festivities of New Orleans, they had no interest in such things.

                I was near crazy. Who goes to New Orleans—on Bourbon Street, no less—and sits in an empty bar? Apparently only those two. Everyone else was in the street. You can sit in a bar at home. Kit texted that he was at the Napoleon House. Unable to pry them away, I told Beth and Jerry that I’d meet them later, so off I went. Alone.

                By dinner time we were all together, except for Will, who was arriving later that night and would miss out on our jazz fest experience. Nathan brought along a guy he would be working with on the ship and Kit was with his daughter. The seven of us enjoyed a sumptuous dinner at a trendy eatery. The trip was getting off to an awkward start, but things were looking up.

Then the bill arrived. It was passed with each making their contribution. When it got to Beth, she pulled out a piece of paper and a calculator she carried with her. She began to query everyone on what they had ordered and began dissecting the bill with the skills of a hybrid mad surgeon/book keeper. It was the most thorough going over of a bill in history. If the dinner had us going at 90MPH, this brought us down to a school-zone twenty.

                Looks were shot from one to another. It was decided that we’d meet her later; we all had our phones, after all. Beth looked cross at me and probed whether I had left enough money. My reply? “Well, dear, I’ve put in $5 more than my meal including tax and tip. If you discover that I owe more, you know where to find me.” Motioning towards the large picture window, “Look at all that fun...I gotta get out there.” The entire group were all smiles as I led the way out the door, leaving our good doctor with the bill and a wad of cash.

                After the spectacular fireworks display later that evening. We found ourselves in yet another crowded restaurant—Italian. Seems we were eating our way across this fine city! Along with the bill came a loud exclamation from Beth, complete with expletives, about the price of her hurricane. Heads turned from all corners. I wanted to crawl under the table and hide. I might have met Nathan under there had he followed his impulse to do the same. Will explained that a hurricane is a large drink full of much alcohol, and was served in a discriminating restaurant during a festival. She slowly accepted this and began to calm down. At least she didn’t dissect the bill this time.

 

Past experiences have taught me to arrive at the cruise terminal early. It’s better to leisurely wait an hour in the lounge prior to boarding than arrive later to then stand in line for an hour. We arrived at 11AM and got our bags checked. Beth and Jerry needed to make a grocery store run. Will was now with us, and had a mission of beignets and coffee from Café du Monde, so he was off as well. I wondered why my plan to arrive early had met so much resistance if they were now running errands.

                An hour passed quickly and I received a text from Jerry and Beth—Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They had decided to go into the city and explore a voodoo museum and have lunch. The plan had been to have lunch for free on board, but I reminded them to be on board by three. Jerry can be like a child and Beth had never been on a cruise. The people around me were a bit concerned. If they missed the ship, they could catch up to us in Miami in two days. The funny thing is, the ship left an hour early. A few people were left behind. Dee and Dum were not among them, but it was close.

                In Miami, Jerry’s parent’s and brother, who lived a few hours away, came to meet him. They invited Beth and I to come along to South Beach for a few hours. It seemed like 6 people in the small car would be crowded, but South Beach wasn’t very far, and with a laugh, I was ordered to get in.

                Jerry’s dad needed navigational assistance so Beth got on her phone to bark directions that I knew would take us on a longer route than necessary. She did not need my help, which left me little choice but silently submit to being in spectator mode. Despite her directions we wound up on the causeway to South Beach. Our ship was visible to the right, yet a confused Beth instructed Jerry’s dad to turn around, which he promptly did. South Beach was but a mile in front of us, and now we were headed back to downtown—our ship laughing at us to our left. I was unsuccessful in convincing anyone otherwise. This new route across the islands instead of the causeway would add another thirty minutes to our field trip. Beth realized that her phone was giving walking instructions instead of driving. I remained silent while enjoying the scenic route with impressive homes on the bay islands.

Beth commented on sighting a police officer we passed along the route, calling him a pig. Every time we saw a police officer, she called them pigs. I have friends and family in law enforcement and I found it quite demeaning. This being the hundredth time, I asked that she stop. She protested, stating she never called them pigs. Wait. What? Driving to Jerry’s house for our Bay Area planning parties, she called them pigs. Seeing a police boat as we arrived in the port of Miami that day she called it a pig boat. And just now, on our short, but detoured field trip, she called them pigs. In fact, I’ve never heard any other name come out of her mouth, when referring to the police. She apologized. Jerry’s mom turned and smile at me with approval.

Later, Beth asked that in the future, I not call her out in front of other people. She was upset about the whole pig thing. I had asked nicely. I used quiet tones. I even said please and thank you. I called less attention to it as than her protesting how she had not been doing so. I said I would do my best to not call attention to her shortcomings around others, but if I felt uncomfortable about anything she was saying, I would address it as discretely as possible without delay.

                As we walked along the pathway on South Beach, I heard mention of thirst from Dee and Dum. The first bar we saw happened to be the Ritz-Carlton Spa. A stop was ordered. I was beginning to see a pattern here, and regret in my selection of travel companions was growing. I so wanted to explore the Art Deco and actually see South Beach rather than a bar. Nathan, who was doing his own thing, texted to ask how things were going. We agreed that in Barcelona, these two would be left behind in a bar. I sit at a bar only when my body needs a rest from exploring.

                It was now crystal clear that Beth was...somehow different. The pleasant woman I had gotten to know the previous three months was gone. Good moments with her were few and far between. I’m not sure where that spirit of adventure was that roped her into fins and feet, but there was as much adventure in this woman as...well...in the fin of a shark.

                The next day we were at sea. With VIP status on board the NCL Spirit, I was invited to a small cocktail party hosted by the captain. Beth and I dressed up for the occasion to enjoy elegant canapés with caviar and shrimp as well as cream cheese on toast. The booze was flowing, while ship’s officers were dressed in dark uniform with gold trim. She lauded the rich experience numerous times. The sex that night was intoxicating, but in the morning, she was Lyngbakr waiting to drag me into the deep.

                Most days, Beth slept. One day she was only awake for five hours. Another night, I came in to go to bed around 2AM and she got up and went out. From what I could tell, time spent outside the room was to smoke in the lounge one deck up. She had not stopped as promised, so the room stunk to high heaven from her clothing.

                When she did come to dinner, she complained about the food. It was not as bad as the scene she made in the Italian place, but it was close. She’d take a bite and push her plate making the face of a child and exclaim, “Well, this is awful!,” letting all around understand her displeasure.

               My new friends asked what was wrong with her. Perhaps a drinking problem? Was she crazy? I know I was going insane. I explained that I had only known her for a few months. The general consensus was that she had to complain in order to feel alive. Before long, others complained about her as much as she complained about food.

Then Kit came to see me. Having known her a few years, the real reason he was on this trip was his torch for Beth. Not that it was his intention to steal her away (you can have her, Kit—really) but within our social community polyamory was normal; he had hoped to join our relationship. Recognizing the duress felt among our group, he confronted her and she confided to him that she had gone off her meds our first day at sea.

                “Off her meds?” I asked. “What meds?”

She never mentioned her bi-polar problems and I had failed to recognize them. I guess they were working. Why she would chose her first time on a cruise with a small group of frirends is beyond me.

                One of my favorite things about a cruise is feeling like a rock star. I love returning to the cabin to find the bed made, bathroom cleaned, and mess organized. This was but a memory of cruises past since I couldn’t enter the cabin and not find her in bed. My status on the VIP list guaranteed daily treats left in the cabin prior to dinner each evening. Beth mostly stole this perk because she was in bed with the ‘do not disrupt’ sign on the door. One day, I found that a plate of chocolates had been left and eaten. My fancy delicate chocolates with the ship’s logo emblazoned across the top. She ate them—after having told me how her roommate ate her food in the fridge at home, so to get even, she contaminated her food with Beth-cooties for her roommate to eat.

                Things peaked a few nights prior to reaching Barcelona. I was in the disco with friends, enjoying late-night libations and dancing. When two uniformed security officers entered the club, I instinctively knew they were there for me. As their eyes landed on mine they approached; my heart sank. “Are you Mr. Penguin?” “Yes, that is me.” “Are you in a cabin with Miss Lyngbakr?” “Yes, I am that poor soul.” “We need you to come with us. It’s urgent.”

                They found Beth in a bar too intoxicated to function. Others stated that she had only ordered one drink. I explained that she was on medication for a health issue. While I thought she had taken too many, more likely was that she had started out drinking from the supply of vodka she snuck on board. Concerned about depositing an incoherent monster alone in our cabin, they asked that I check on her. Kit came along for support. Or perhaps it was in hopes that this would be his opportunity.

                I opened the door and was greeted by Beth’s bare ass. She was stuck, head-down and ass-up, between the bed and the wall. I grabbed the towel animal the steward had left on the bed and covered her up and asked for help. With Kit and the security lady, the three of us managed to get her back in bed. Beth had removed her clothes, and then fell, getting stuck, and passed out. Assessing the state of things helped me realize three things: The towel animal on the bed indicated that she had left the room long enough to have turn-down service earlier in the evening. The wetness of the bed indicated that after being brought back to the room, she had undressed and wet the bed. And for her to pass out stuck as she was, this was the smallest room on any ship I’ve sailed.

                I was over it. I was this close to asking for a new room. It was difficult having to ask the room steward to replenish all of our linens and bed coverings when possible. I made sure to leave a generous tip for doing so. But then, a hung-over Lyngbakr apologized for her behavior the night before. I apologized that I had given up on her so easily. Spending two weeks at sea on my first transatlantic voyage was a dream fulfilled. I wasn’t going to let her poor attitude bring me down; she had been warned. I assumed that she hated the cruise. This must be the reason she spent much of it in our cabin sleeping and why she stopped joining us for dinner after the first week. I was prepared to allow Beth to experience this cruise however she wanted. After making up, we spent time together, had dinner, went to a show, and gave the steward a more appropriate reason to change the sheets the next morning after making love half the night.

                The cruise was nearly over. My group of travel companions had formed a stronger bond after all that we had gone through (which included a suicide scare, but that’s a whole other story). And I had made so many new friends—many who would remain friends long after this cruise ended. I enjoyed the cruise part of this odyssey and was hopeful that things would change when we were on land. But Lyngbakrs make for terrible vacations and are hard beasts to

kill. So hard that a mere 24 hours later, things returned to what had become status quo. An agitated Beth had again over-indulged on the final night at sea, and before leaving the cabin, she relieved her stomach of its contents quite unexpectedly. The rest of the morning was hell, with her constant complaining.

We were now in Barcelona and eager to experience this wondrous city that none of us had been to. We easily found the neighborhood in which our apartment was located. While waiting for our host to arrive with the keys, Beth needed the immediate use of a restroom; only this time it wasn’t her stomach. In her sudden absence, I declared that effective immediately, I was breaking up with her. Nathan stated that the announcement was unnecessary. Everyone assumed that happened days ago.

The apartment could comfortably accommodate seven, with three beds in the one bedroom, two couches and a fold-away bed. The original plan was for me to share the larger bed with Beth, along with one person in each of the single beds, and then two could sleep on the couches in the living room. I stated that after the last two weeks, I was claiming the larger bed for myself and Beth could sleep in the living room. Nathan and Kit were quick to claim the two single beds in room with me. When entering the room, Kit called out that it was definitely appropriate that I take the room. There was a Picasso penguin hanging on the wall.

There were no arguments. Will was the only person Beth appeared to still be friendly with, and Jerry was her drinking buddy. I’m sure she was as over sleeping with me as I was of her. We got quickly settled in with enthusiasm and banter. Beth said nothing. She refused to join us on our initial outing that afternoon, instead, crawling under the covers of the fold away.

Beautiful Spain. We found a quaint restaurant off the beaten path and enjoyed tapas and sangria. We had prearranged to meet a few ship mates who were also staying in town on the main drag for more sangria. We strolled to the harbor, took the gondola ride across town, and after dinner returned to our apartment by bus. We ventured into a wine shop a few doors down and discovered that Barcelona has some of the best wines for under $4. When we returned, Beth was furious at us for not leaving her with bottled water or a key so she could venture out to buy some. Poor dear didn’t understand that the water in Barcelona is safe to drink. But in our defense, she she was present when we agreed to these plans and she did refuse our invitation to join or meet us later.

As on the ship, she continued to stay in bed for most of her stay in Barcelona. She only went out in the evenings and usually to go to a local bar. She never went sightseeing. She didn’t go on any tours. She never left the neighborhood. The most she ever saw of Barcelona was the ride to the apartment from the ship, and then leaving from the airport. There was a day she never spoke to any of us but Will; and we later found out from him that she was being a Lyngbakr to him as well. One evening, she and Jerry were getting into it, as they often did at this point. Will, who had the misfortune of sharing the room with them, turned over in his bed and asked that they turn out the light. She commented that she should simply die then, since she wouldn’t be able to see what medicine she needed to take. The drama was too rich. We would have flooded the apartment with light to help her take happy pills.

And so it was that Lyngbakr had not only plunged us deep under water, but she next took us down into the darkest depths of the cruel, cold sea. One morning she informed us that the night before she was attacked and nearly raped. She struggled and made it back upstairs but did not call the police. It was quite a tale and we were all concerned. Her plan might have worked if not that the physical proof—bruises on her arms—were the very same she obtained from the night we unwedged her in the cabin and put her to bed. After logging onto social media we discovered that her story was quite different from the one given to us.

The following night came a new story: she heard a woman screaming, and fearing the woman was about to be raped, she went downstairs to assist and was again attacked. But this time she kicked the shit out of him. From victim to hero in 24 hours.

She posted her miserable experiences on the internet. One of the six of us had nearly been mugged on our first night. This was news to us. Did we have a 7^th that we were unaware of? From this point, we could not trust anything she said. She was more ostracized than ever. While sightseeing, we created a new game: guess what had befallen ‘Drama Central’ that day. More arguments with Jerry? Another attack? Maybe aliens from outer space. It was scary.

Our final day, I left Barcelona on a flight earlier than the others. Nathan and I departed for the airport leaving the rest in the apartment with Lyngbakr. (She and Will were actually going to Madrid next, and we’re told she enjoyed her time there.) I boarded the plane for my triumphant return to San Francisco. After three tense weeks, I could finally breathe. I looked down on French wine country and imagined riding a bike along one of the narrow, winding roads, pulling into a little shop, and ordering a nice glass of wine to go with cheese and bread. A silent wine; not the annoying whine that followed me across the Atlantic. I couldn’t wait to get home.

When she returned to America, she told everyone what a horrid place Barcelona was. She shared stories of rape and muggings and of being abandoned in the apartment while we all went out and had a rip-roaring good time. Meanwhile, the five of us felt victimized by her; our time together once spent planning our vacation was now spent in wonder of how we survived. As her stories spread to our shared friends, I couldn’t remain silent. I responded that she didn’t know Barcelona because she never saw it. She had not been abandoned once. She chose not to go out with us—even if we secretly hoped she wouldn’t. And while my pocket was picked, none of us were mugged. One night she’s attacked but never called authorities, the next she’s kicking ass?

Decrying us as evildoers and spreading lies, she unfriended all of us. I survived the Lyngbakr. She mostly ruined a perfectly good vacation. Other than my experience being victim to a pick-pocket, nothing bad happened on that journey. I made numerous friends during the two weeks on board the Spirit, and a year later many of us had a reunion on a second transatlantic cruise. But that first cruise, the one when I shared a cabin with a Lyngbakr, it had something in common with the Titanic. We left New Orleans on the 100^th anniversary of that ship’s infamous sinking in the North Atlantic. Maybe it’s an unlucky date to depart for an ocean crossing. I’m not superstitious, but I would gladly sacrifice my wallet to never come across, and be taken down so deep, by a Lyngbakr.