Cruising Ain't for Sissies

Silver Whisper Cruise

My husband and I have just returned from our second week-long cruise -- to the Mexican Riviera, six months after our very first, to the Alaska Inside Passage, and I can vouch for the fact that anybody who is unable to sustain a total lack of structure, and absolute decadence, for a whole week should definitely abstain.

Follow me, if you will, in this adventure which might be yours. It started six months ago, the first time you saw that characteristic gleam in your spouse's eyes, accompanied by the famous words: "Oh, honey, wouldn't it be wonderful to go to (fill in the blank), and relax and have fun together? We haven't had a vacation for, God, how long has it been?" You know your goose is cooked when you see that look, since you've historically always been the surrogate travel agent of your family. Ever since your first date, you've been the one to do the research, the planning, the reading, the organizing, the deciding, all bookings and reservations, not to mention the packing. 

However, you decide, this time, it's going to be different. You are giving up the old scenario of your previous car or plane trips, which you can recite by heart, after years of experience. You've spent months planning, researching, evaluating, calling, surfing, deciding, re-evaluating, making reservations, figuring out and changing again and again the best itinerary, booking excursions, renting cars. Now, the morning of the departure has arrived. Your spouse blissfully slides behind the steering wheel to go to the airport (or hit the road), after having dutifully loaded all the suitcases you packed into the trunk of your car. You take your appointed position on the passenger seat, and wait for the traditional onslaught of questions which, in addition to demonstrating his total faith in your travel planning abilities (his perception), also proves (your perception) that he doesn't get involved enough in the inner workings of your life in common and lets you do all the work: "OK, honey, just tell me where to go and how to get there. By the way what time is our flight? Where are we going, again? Do we have to connect anywhere?  Are we going to need passports? How long do you think it'll take us? Where are we staying tonight?" The clincher, where you're concerned, is, of course: "Oh, aren't these vacations fun? They are so much nicer than those organized tours!!"

After you've suppressed the urge to hit him/her over the head with the frozen water bottle you just put in your carry-on, you calmly mention, in passing, that it might have been helpful for him to at least read the flight itinerary e-mailed by the airline, and study the road atlas to have an idea of what we are doing when and where. You then don your navigator/tour guide's hat, which means you don't really get to see anything because you've got your nose buried in road maps, city maps, tour guides and excursion brochures, so you can direct your spouse driver to the next stop. This, of course, in addition to depriving you of the pleasure of admiring the scenery, also gives you the dubious honor of being blamed for the lack of hot water in your hotel room, the lousy food in the restaurant listed in the Fodor's as a real find, the long lines to get in the scheduled attraction, or missing the tour bus because you forgot to set your watch to the local time zone.

No, siree, this time, things are going to be different. You are going on strike, and make the official announcement that you will not work at another freelance vacation again, that you're entitled to enjoying yourself and being waited on -- just as he's always been. So, unless he wants to take over all the planning responsibilities (you can tell he doesn't just by the look of apprehensive confusion which suddenly suffuses his face) so you're the one who's just going along for the ride, the only solution you can see is going on a cruise.

"A cruise?" he answers, puzzled. You can tell that, now, he's torn between his relief at his getting off the hook for having to plan your next vacation -- about which he has no clue whatsoever -- and his disappointment at your unwillingness to go through yet another six months of planning, researching, organizing, (see above), which he thought (meaning "hoped") you really enjoyed and wanted to do forever. "But what is there to do on a cruise? I'd go stircrazy, with no place to go, and just looking at four walls and the same people all the time." He's never gone on a cruise before, and you know you have to educate him before you can convince him this will be the vacation of his lifetime (and yours).

That's when, armed with the knowledge you've surreptitiously accumulated while doing your homework for the past week, you whip out the brochures you've collected to prepare yourself for the frontal attack. This is your moment, and you're ready.

For one thing, you tell him, you get to see 3 (or 4, or 5, depending of which cruise you book) different cities/ports-of-call. In each one, there is a wide choice of land tours, which allow you to enjoy what interests you among all the options available at each location (you've done your homework well, and practically memorized the whole brochure). All you have to do is pick the one(s) you want, book them ahead of time on the Internet, and voila! 

Besides, you add with the smile of the person who has thought of all the angles, you don't even have to go ashore if you don't want to. Wouldn't it be nice, sometimes, to stay on board while everybody is ashore, just to see what the ship feels like by yourself?

You also make sure you point out that, as you can see, the main attraction of cruises is that you are on a floating hotel, and don't have to pack and unpack every day. Which means that no matter what you do where during the day, you get "to go home" at night, in your own bed, your own room, and your own things. As if you'd rented a villa somewhere, with all amenities provided to make you feel pampered at all times (that's the part you want to emphasize, because that's what you're especially waiting for).

Of course, there is also the outstanding entertainment that goes on every night, in a variety of places. Plus the extravagant food!  You know you've got him there, because he loves to eat, and has always praised your cooking. Which you've honestly enjoyed, except this time, you get to sit back and be waited on, just like him!

Don't worry about being bored, you tell him, or having no place to go. The ship you have in mind has 17 decks -- including the 968' long Promenade Deck, providing an outdoors running/walking "trail"  which wraps around the whole ship, thus the equivalent of about 2,000' -- with a total of 8 lounges, 6 restaurants, 2 night clubs, 4 swimming pools, a library, a card room (you tell him you have your own travel-size Scrabble board ready to go), a casino, a movie theater. Oh, and there is a full spa (he sees the gleam in your eyes to get a full massage, and maybe even a reflexology session on your feet?), adjacent to a complete gym, fully equipped with the latest Nautilus machines, where he can go lift weights every morning to work off the gastronomic excesses of the previous night, while you walk on the Promenade deck. Touché! You've scored the last round.

OK, OK, you've convinced him that you want decadence, and that there'll be something in it for him, too.  He finally relents. You'll go on a cruise.

Six months later, D-day has arrived. You've packed for both of you, of course, but at least that's all you had to do: no travel books, road maps, B&B guides, ferry schedules. He even knows where you'll board your ship, what ports-of-call you'll visit, and what excursions you've signed up for. He was even impressed to learn that your tickets for said excursions will be delivered to your stateroom prior to your embarking. Wow! Is that service or what? We arrive at the airport via the local shuttle. I am feeling elated and eager to be pampered, coddled, indulged, fed, and entertained. We are ready for decadence. All is well.

Until the sky cap looks at our tickets, looks up at both of you and exclaims, quite embarrassed: "But your flight left 5 minutes ago!" End of bliss. Major panic. A full-bloom anxiety attack is launched, and the innocent sky cap is thinking he wishes he'd called in sick this morning. You soon realize that you mistakenly read the line showing the arrival time in Los Angeles, instead of the one for the departure time from Salt Lake City...  That plus two different time zones, well, anyway, you get the picture. 

Dealing with a hysterical middle-aged woman on a Saturday morning who insists that he has to call back the aircraft which is already starting down the runway so she won't miss her cruise, is not the skycap's idea of an easy day at work. Unfortunately, the airline counter agent is no more understanding, and declines doing anything to hold back the plane you should have boarded over 45 minutes ago. He might be kind enough (or was it his survival instinct? He could probably spot a killer at a glance) not to point out that you should have arrived at the airport two hours earlier -- which you were all too keenly aware of, after some 30 years of traveling experience...

Not a good omen, you think, even though the disaster is averted by his re-booking you on a later flight, which should get you to L.A. in time to board the transfer bus that will take you to the pier, 45 mns away from LAX. In exchange to an additional $100 for each one of you to be confirmed on said flight, instead of standing by, "just in case." Just make sure to pretend you don't notice (and don't care) when it turns out that the flight you finally board is only 2/3 occupied.

Things do improve, however, and after you settle in your stateroom, reality sets in. You plop heavily on the bed a few times to test the firmness of the mattress, and find it satisfying. You fling the sliding door opening onto your own private balcony, and take a deep breath. Yes! You've made it, you're in, you're going, time to relax. Finding your tour tickets in an envelope, on your bed, as expected, bodes quite well for the rest of the week, doesn't it, honey? Your husband is too busy figuring out all the channels available on your TV to answer you. He's already discovered how to use the safe located in your closet, so that's one more problem solved.     

A word of warning at this point, however. It's imperative at this time that you become aware of the following: From here on and for the next week, you must be able to withstand relentless attention, unfailing solicitude, uncontrolled merriment, harrowing enjoyment, merciless helpfulness, endless relaxation, ruthless courtesy and total freedom to do exactly what you want to do, when you want to do it. Of course, most of us aren't trained to be self-indulgent, and might have a difficult time switching gears after embarking. But keep trying. It'll happen eventually.

Since your luggage will be brought to your stateroom later on, there isn't much for you to do right now but to go explore your new home. Armed with the deck map and guest amenities book you found on your desk, you go exploring. Finding your way to anywhere from anywhere soon becomes your main preoccupation. There are three elevator banks, aft (that's the rear, or stern), fore (that's the front, or bow), and mid-ships (that's the middle). Easy, right? Not quite. When your cabin is in mid-ship, and you find yourself in the middle of a corridor 3 feet wide and long enough for a near-sighted person to think they've landed in an underground tunnel, with either side lined with identical numbered doors, right and left (or starboard and port, as they are called in marine jargon) means absolutely nothing. So you soon learn, not only to be tolerant of yourself for having to turn around and go back when you find out you're going the wrong way, but also to resort to mnemonic devices to find your way around the maze of corridors you have to navigate on 17 decks to get from point A to point B. 

You will probably keep in your pocket the small deck floor plan for the duration of your cruise, to cope with the many crises that will occur between you and your husband, such as "I know we want to go to the front end for the spa. But where are we now, bow or stern?", or "So do we turn right or left, now? Is right toward the stern or toward the bow?" To find your way around the entrails of the ship (those available to passengers, anyway, not like where most of the action took place on the Titanic), just remember the two following familiar words: P E R L, which will remind you that the Port side has Even-numbered staterooms, which are on the side with the Red-colored carpeting, on the Left side of the ship (assuming that you pretend you are in the driver's seat, thus facing the front or bow), and S O B R, which will tell you that the Starboard side has Odd-numbered staterooms, with Blue-colored carpeting, on the Right side of the ship. Anywhere you find yourself, you can either look at the numbering system (on all decks, inside or outside), or the color of the carpeting (staterooms corridors only) to find out which side of the ship you are on, and how to get where you want to go. 

Once you've got that mastered, and while you wait for the traditional whistle-blowing and music of the send-off from the dock, signaling you're on your way, you'll have to go through the mandatory emergency drill. The fact that all passengers have to participate, with no exception, is made amply clear. Since you vividly remember the horrific drowning scenes in Titanic, you comply and follow the herd to your own respective muster stations. Those are designated common areas of the ship where specific blocks of stateroom occupants are to gather, not only for the drill, but in case of a real emergency.

So you gather your lifejackets (stored in your stateroom) and proceed to your designated muster station, feeling like a stampede contestant. Once you've learned all you ever wanted to know -- and more -- about exiting a sinking ship, you go locate a "good spot" on one of the upper outside decks, and patiently wait for the whistle-blowing ritual, after ordering the first of many drinks throughout the coming week. And you're off! Time to sit back, and play. 

The first day at sea (meaning the whole day, without a port-of-call) will be spent getting oriented, finding your way around, exploring the various lounges, restaurants, shops, and other common areas. During one of those reconnaissance tours, you might be lucky enough to discover that the uppermost lounge/nightclub is, in fact, totally deserted during the day, and can be used as a most comfortable and quiet reading room, with the added bonus of an untenable view of whatever you happen to be going through or by: coastline, islands or just plain, endless, open waters. Thus proving to your husband that, see, you can find solitude in a quiet place aboard a 2,600-passenger ship.

The rest of his questions will be answered (you don't care because all you're interested in is doing laps in the biggest pool, soaking in one of the many open-air hot tubs, getting a massage, and shopping) when, that same evening, after your first gargantuan dinner followed by a late-hour stage show, you will find the ship daily newsletter in the wall-box located outside your stateroom door. It will itemize all of the planned activities for the next day. They range from classical music concerts in one of the lounges, to bingo in another, ping-pong tournaments on the upper deck, art auctions in the main lounge, a trivia quiz every morning at 11 am in another, a cooking demonstration in a third, a briefing on tomorrow's port-of-call yet somewhere else. 

If by any wild stretch of his imagination, he thinks he is bored, just give him the task of figuring out where you will eat lunch and dinner each day for the rest of the cruise. That should keep him busy for a good while.

All in all, you are both on your way to having the time of your life, whether you want to be constantly busy, or your thing is to lie on a lounge chair somewhere, with or without a book, and stare -- or pretend you're catching up on your reading -- at the wavelets and the sunshine playing with them.