Avoid these questions, OK?

I love travel surprises, and the best are delivered by locals who most often please, but may also ambush visitors. Case in point: Our guide on an island tour in French Polynesia could not contain his curiosity about tourists in his charge.

Our guide, seated on the bus step during a rest stop, evaluated the belly of a rotund man, not pictured, and asked, "How many babies you got in there?" The bus fell silent and all eyes turned to the unfortunate guy who's in the harsh spotlight of a taboo topic - weight.

This could go either way. But the man rubbed his belly, and, with comic timing, shouted, "Two!"  Then he guffawed and the mood on the bus turned light. Gotta give that guy credit for his sense of humor and comfort with self deprecation. 

The still-curious guide turned his attention to the man in the yellow shirt, and I'm probably not the only one who wondered how many babies he's carrying. But instead the guide asked  "How old are you?" 

Yes.  How Old Are You??

Yellow shirt quickly replied, "I'm 71." I guess he was relieved not to be asked the "how many babies in there" question. 

In the span of two minutes, our charming guide had waded into mine fields (or is that mind fields?) of the American psyche: weight and age. 

And where will his eyes alight next?

Oh no! He's looking  at me!

"How old are YOU!?" he asked, cocking his head like a quizzical bird. A crow, or a raven.

It's not a hard question, but I paused. I'm among the senior citizens of the world who are reluctantly getting used to being senior citizens. It's not easy to spit out my real number. So I say, like my mother before me said decades after she really was this age: "I'm 39."

Sadly, this caused more levity on the bus.

"Ok, ok, I'm  71," I confessed. "But," I asked the guide, "Don't you know you're not supposed to ask people, especially American women, how old they are?"

Versions of that issue have surfaced over the past 30 years when my sister Monette Johnson and I are out and about together. It doesn't seem to matter where or when, or which one of is having the worst bad hair day, of which there are many. Here's how it goes.

My sister was born in January 1937. I was born in December 1944. I'm on the right, by the way. You do the math. Clearly, I am so much younger. Well, apparently that is not so clear. Truth is, once you get past the forties, age differences matter less and less. If that's the case, then I should have stopped being rattled by these unthinking questions 20 years ago. June 2015 photo.

Waitress in Duluth, MN
Oh! You must be twins!

Retail clerk in Medford, OR
You 're sisters, right? Yes. sisters, we confirm.

Whew! I'm in the clear. Then the clerk feels the need to press,  About a year apart?

AAARGH! I could cough up a dozen examples of such questions, and my sister could likely recall more, as they excite her pleasure centers.

I should be happy for her that she involuntarily glows when this happens, and doesn't rub it in. But, on my side,  the inquiries continue to prickle.

It's our sick youth-possessed culture and celebrity-worshipping media that have some of us clinging for dear life to what remains of our fleeting youth, if even a shred remains.

When I get really old, I know I'll get over it.

Years ago, before my hair was as gray as hers, someone assumed my sister was my mother. I withheld that bit until the most recent incident in Medford (see above.) But she did not believe it.

Age and weight may be at the top of the cruelest/clueless-questions list, but other better-left-unasked ones lurk as day-wrecking bombs to be deployed by ignoramuses.

Such as....

When is your due date? 
Not pregnant.

How much do you make? 
Not telling.

You gay?
You're not?

How much did you pay for that?
More than I'm willing to say.

Why don't you have children? 
Really, you're asking me that? You ass.

Have you had an abortion?
Perhaps the most private of all areas of inquiry. Could result in waterboarding

Are you a Jew? Muslim? Christian? etc.
Yes, no, or maybe. And you?

Are you a Trump supporter?
If you are, be careful who you tell.

Did you have work done? Asked with a knowing (or assuming) nod toward your eyelids, jowls, nose, lips, breasts, tummy or other unreconstructed features.
If no, be flattered.
If yes, suggest the questioner might benefit from such a procedure, perhaps to sew his or her big mouth shut.

Do you dye your hair?
Doesn't everyone?

The last one, below, is for women whose blessed event occurs near the end of her child-bearing years. That was me.

You're a little old to be having a baby, aren't you?
A male stranger asked as I shopped for groceries in Grants Pass, OR, at age 41, eight months pregnant with Chris Korbulic, who turned out to be a magnificent human being.

I was a tad old (others had asked if I knew what causes it), but his deflating question left me speechless.

I can report that Grants Pass, Oregon, in 1989 was home to the world's rudest person. That asshole.

Do you have a rude-question moment to share, one of those "I'm speechless and can't believe you're asking!" moments? If so, please share on this blog or on Facebook, wherever you're engaged. 

Dreamy French Polynesia

This image says it all; French Polynesia is the quintessential tropical paradise. The water and the air seem to be about the same temperature and texture; warm and silky.  The sea is absolutely clear and magically sky-colored. This photo was taken on the atoll Fakarava.

Damn lucky, that's how I feel after 10 days cruising islands and atolls in French Polynesia in the vast and spectacular South Pacific. By invitation from relatives, we relished experiences, saw places and interacted with people we could not have imagined. I would love to be back in the photo above, or floating on the turquoise sea, smiling at the heavens, which seemed very close to earth.

French Polynesia is stunning, but in the context of the vast South Pacific, it is insignificant. I appreciate anew that 75 percent of the earth’s surface  is water, and the meaning of human life, and all life on terra firma, is dwarfed by sea life. We’re not inconsequential, as we sail along on the deep blue in our fancy ship enjoying five-star dining and air conditioned suites, but we are in a bubble separating us from sea creatures, and even from indigenous people whose lives are enmeshed with the sea. I found myself admiring such people, with a touch of envy.

We were on an Oceania cruise on the ship Marina. It carried 1,200 passengers, 900-plus crew members, and four 5 *****-star restaurants plus the usual over-the-top cruise amenities. It was classy and we felt pampered and spoiled. The little orange boat is a tender carrying passengers to the pier and back again.

 The best part, though, was that the ship visited remote ports that don't see a lot of cruise traffic. The only company we had in a couple harbors was a working cargo ship that made room for 200 paying passengers. The other ports we had to ourselves,  all 1,200 of us, always outnumbering the local population. The exception: Papeete, our embarkation and debarkation port.

This cargo/cruise ship carries freight to and from Polynesia atolls and islands while its passengers enjoy paradise. If we ever go back to French Polynesia, and I would love to, we'll look into this more affordable option. I also like the idea of fewer people, although we'd have to forego the gourmet restaurants, the casino, the gym, the pool, and the espresso bar. To name a few.

The view from the Marina's deck in Mo'orea's harbor. Note that few folks are in the pool area. Two reasons: it is late afternoon and guests are thinking dinner.  It will be dark soon - just a bit after 6 p.m., as we are near the equator.  But perhaps the most important reason; the ship's demographics tend toward senior citizens, not unlike PK and me. Many are members of university alumni groups. The last thing I want to do on a vacation in French Polynesia - or anywhere else - is lounge around a pool trying to get a tan, or work on my melanoma. This attitude occurred long before I actually developed the disease. 

I love this photo of my uncle, cousin, and aunt, our companions on this trip. Here they're getting a good look at where the
open ocean and the Bora Bora harbor intersect. Big surf! 

They may have been captivated by reef sharks, which were plentiful almost every place we visited. 

On another day, PK seemed oblivious to the reef sharks behind him. That's

because sharks surrounded him. He had plenty to look at! 

But nothing to worry about.

We opted to arrange excursions from locals on piers rather than prearrange from the ship, which meant paying half the amount but also not knowing until we reached the pier what we'd do that day. On this day, we scored the remaining two spots on a 20-passenger boat taking cruisers to the Blue Lagoon. This sounded intriguing, so within a few minutes of alighting on the pier, we were on one of the small boats in the background. The lagoon was shallow (we weren't quite there yet) so we need to walk a short distance. The boat ride out and back turned out to be a daunting three hours. But the lagoon was gorgeous and the company engaging.

We visited French Polynesia during the rainy season, and the daily forecast most often featured scattered thunderstorms. We had brief bouts of fierce rain and wind, but it rarely mattered to what we were doing because of the short duration. The clouds made for dramatic skies, much appreciated by photographers and drama aficionados. That's a heart and dove sculpture on the pier, by the way.

This is the atoll Raroia. I didn't have a clue about atolls, but learned that they were formed by ancient volcanoes, which, over eons, sank, eroded and eventually disappeared, leaving a coral ring surrounding a lagoon. The ocean rushes in and out of openings with the tides. Raroia was made famous by author and adventurer Thor Heyerdahl when he landed the Kon Tiki here in 1947. Heyerdahl aimed to prove that currents and winds could have propelled seafaring Peruvians thousands of miles to the South Pacific without navigational tools or steering. The Marina was scheduled to visit Raroia, but turbulence between the open ocean and the atoll's largest passage prevented it.

This is what Raroia looked like as we approached, mere wisps of vegetated land. Raroia's population is around 200. Residents farm pearls, cultivate coconuts, and welcome occasional visitors. I'm certain they were eagerly awaiting our arrival but, alas, strong currents prohibited entry into the lagoon. Drat! This atoll was the most remote on our 10-day cruise. We were all primed after a lecture the previous day about the Kon Tiki, during which the speaker noted that at least one cruise passenger had purchased a ticket based solely on visiting Raroia. Thus we had an unexpected day at sea as we made our way to the next stop, the atoll Fakarava. As a consolation, we watched a  Kon Tiki film. But many passengers chose instead to baste by the pool, enjoying tropical beverages.

This Fakarava pier was part of a resort that allowed cruise passengers to crash, so long as we didn't use guest amenities.

The resort had netted off an area in which a few fish and some corals lived. Water clarity, net reflections, and light made for one of my favorite photos. Below are a few more images from Paradise.

Sunset on the island of Huahine, known as the Garden Island. Actually, it is two islands connected by a bridge. This was the last port we visited, and one of the most engaging and surprising. We saw the sights from a Jeep tour that included sacred blue-eyed eels, a pearl farm, and a stop for the real-deal homemade vanilla ice cream. 

Here's a piece of the Hilton Hotel on Bora Bora, an island made famous by movie stars, lush scenery, and premier diving.

And here's an occupied Hilton unit in a prime location. These luxury suites
on stilts rent for at least $1,000 a night. Probably more.

COMING ATTRACTIONS

A guide staring at stomachs. What could possibly go wrong? Plus thoughts about the Polynesian personality.