I feel Dirty

Shipmates,

Last night whilst closing the Pequod’s library for the evening, a man with a German accent stopped me to ask about books written in his native tongue. I happily stopped my duties to show my new Teutonic friend the appropriate section. A few minutes later he had picked out a book and made his way to my desk. As happens in these situations, we fell to chatting. It turns out the man was Canadian, and we discussed sundry matters related to our beloved Ontario. Then the conversation took me down a yucky road of implied complicity in some rather odious practices.

Now, my position demands a certain level of tact; one needs to be willing to remain silent in the face of overwhelming ignorance and outright stupidity. People routinely complain to me that they cannot enter their email account because they cannot remember their passwords. I, in my humble position as living doormat/librarian, am forced to treat these complaints as serious concerns rather than quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. Just now I had a “serious” discussion with a woman about the upcoming generation of young preachers writing such wonderful works of biblically-informed fiction—and I maintained a straight face! I truly do have the skill set required to make a good cruise ship librarian.

But my German friend crossed into a whole new country of compromised integrity. Our conversation, after dwelling upon matters of the hearth, turned to our present location and future destinations. Then we started talking about Cuba. It turns out that he was an avid lover of Cuba but had recently soured on the island. Since I’ve been to Fidel’s fiefdom several times, I was interested and we touched on various points. Then he said, with a glint of brotherly bonding atwinkle in his eye, “I really like the entertainment.” As I answered, “yes, I went out every evening to imbibe and listen to the great music,” I could see the twinkle fade, and it was then that I realized what he meant. I’d seen the gross old men with Cuban teenagers on their arm in the Havana nightclubs, but it took that moment of recognition denied to make me realize I was speaking to a sex tourist.

My point here is not that I find sexual exploitation vile*, but that I was forced to remain friendly with this fellow. Certainly, we didn’t set a date to get together for wiener schnitzel and beer, but at the same time, I have to greet this reptile every day. I’m sure an extra shower today will help.

*For the record though, I do.