This is the pedestrian exit from Cruise Port Falmouth to the actual town of Falmouth. Thereʼs a security guard to keep the town touts out of the port, which is private property. There are also a couple of police officers milling about.
A big, fat Texan waddles up to the very young 85-pound Jamaican security guard asking whatʼs on the other side of the fence. She tells him itʼs the town of Falmouth, with shops, and bars and restaurants.
In his slow, southern drawl laden with Texas twang he loudly inquires, “Is it safe?” I didnʼt hear her response, but he turned around and flip-flopped back into the warm bosom Royal Caribbeanʼs simulated suburban sanctuary.
I guess Falmouth is safe enough for an 85-pound girl to live in, but not safe enough for a 300-pound Texan to visit.
I can imagine him back in the bar on the ship talking up a storm about what a tough guy he is, and how proud he is of his three-quarter ton truck and hunting dog, and how he won the high school football championship in West Farkwad back in ʼ89.
I liked Texas better back when I was the only one who was all hat and no cattle.