To a gal who prefers vacations that involve either hiking in a red rock desert where we might have to divine for water or eating my way through cities where no one speaks English, a cruise sounds like prison.
Interminable.
Also maybe teeming with people with whom conversation could be excruciating, lengthy and filled with references to gross surgical procedures.
But I had never been on a cruise, and for a travel editor, it’s like being a film critic and not having seen Bergman’s “Cries and Whispers,” or a book editor and not having read Dostoevsky’s “Crime and Punishment.”
After considering many possibilities and begging several people to join me, I wound up alone on the Royal Caribbean’s Empress of the Seas for a five-night Western Caribbean cruise (Key West, and Cozumel and Costa Maya, Mexico) during a week my kids said they had to be away at camp.
That’s OK. They’ll pay when it’s time for the travel editor to see what it’s like to attend a Rotary Club Convention in Las Vegas.
Day One: We Board; I’m Already Bored. Wait, There’s a Rock Wall.
A lot of waiting is involved in the cruise experience. I flew into Fort Lauderdale to leave from Port Everglades, which along with Miami is Cruise Ship Central.
First we waited to get on a bus shuttle to the port from the airport. Then we waited to have our passports examined and our credit card information accepted. Then we waited to get our photos taken – twice – for identification. Then we waited for the employees to figure out how to make the photo scanner on the ship work.
Although one of the smallest in the Royal Caribbean line (11 decks, 692 feet long, 2,020-passenger capacity), Empress seemed pretty darned huge. Especially that first day, when finding my ocean-view stateroom repeatedly involved remembering what “aft” meant, what everyone on a ship says because “rear” sounds impolite.
Here’s what else you need to know about the Empress of the Seas: Its official godmother is Gloria Estefan. I don’t know why, or even what that means. I find it simultaneously disturbing and comforting, though.
Gross tonnage when we left Port Everglades: 48,563. Gross tonnage when we returned, after everyone ate 6.3 desserts per person, per day, for five days: 69,568.
One does, of course, hear a lot about the food on cruises, and on the Empress, plenty of dining opportunities presented themselves, sometimes at alarming times, such as the Chocolate Buffet at Midnight.
The food was above-average too, except, oddly, the desserts, which always sounded amazing but usually tasted like cream pumped full of air.
In the mornings, we had the option of eating a tasty a la carte breakfast in the formal dining room (eggs Benedict, French toast with fresh fruit, omelets), where we were seated by a maitre d’ with whomever else had straggled in, but a gall-bladder discussion on the second day put an end to that. My a.m. meal of choice became the elaborate buffet in the casual Windjammer.
I actually lost weight, though, on this trip. Because Empress is a small ship, it doesn’t have an ice-skating rink, a bowling alley or any of those big diversions other ships carry to keep passengers occupied on the dreaded At Sea days.
It does, however, sport a rock wall on the upper deck, and when I could beat out the kids for it, I was reaching for the sky. A lot. Between the three novels I read and the seven movies I watched, that is.
You think I’m kidding?
Day Two: Excursions, or Time Off the Ship for Good Behavior.
The biggest surprise about the cruise experience is who cruises. I’d always had this impression that it was honeymooners and retirees.
Not so. On my ship, it was families and big groups of longtime friends and their families, and everyone wears flip-flops. Kids had the run of the ship; they were allowed everywhere but the two hot tubs on Deck 10, where you were supposed to be 16. But even that was not strictly enforced. Kids were in the casino, the lounges, the fitness center, the coffee bar and the library (not actually reading books, but just lurking there).
Don’t get me wrong: I love kids. I found myself wishing I had brought mine. But sometimes the adult wishes to be kid-free, just for five minutes.
I maneuvered my kayak away from kids for three whole minutes in Key West, where I did my first excursion (extra cost: $62). I used to live in Florida and spent plenty of time in Key West, so I didn’t need to get drunk on Duval Street or buy conch fritters. I signed up for a half-day of upper-body work around the mangroves.
We saw a couple of cute nurse sharks, which aren’t particularly dangerous, as mostly they’ll just suckle you to death, and some barracuda, and lots of noisy birds, and we saw our guide get stung by jellyfish, which seemed to hurt a lot.
Back on the ship, it was formal night at dinner. Remember when it was a big deal, and everyone wore a tuxedo? Well, about a third of the men wore tuxedos. I wore a floor-length gown that I’ve owned for seven years, but, hey, at least it was formal.
Everyone else was in varying stages of funeral attire, including several wool sport coats that smelled of mothballs. And some people, I kid you not, wore flip-flops with their gowns. But if not everyone can afford to rent a tux, how did they wind up on a $2,000-per-person cruise?
Day Three: You’re Rich, We’re Not. But You Can Play With Our Dolphins. …
As we pulled into San Miguel de Cozumel, visions of finally being in a foreign port of call floated into my head. The buildings around the dock are painted bright yellow and lapis, and I had a ticket to swim with the dolphins. My dream come true.
We were whisked into taxis before we could get a look around the port, and escorted to Atlántida, a dolphinarium where $145 gets two hours of frolicking with the most amazing creatures on the planet. Sadly, these places are controversial and under constant picketing by environmental groups. But while we were there, the dolphins were affectionate toward us and their trainers, who seemed to adore them, and the dolphins played like crazy, head-butting us, giving us kisses, the whole works. I do wish they had a bigger lagoon.
We were whisked back to the ship, but then had hours left before we sailed. I wandered around the port area. A big mistake. Just getting through the terminal was a nightmare of sales pitches, from merchants shoving jewelry in my face to out-and-out sneering. “Lady, you buy this!” was a constant.
I felt claustrophobic in a way that a foot-wide slot canyon has never made me feel, and things weren’t much better outside the port area. That section of San Miguel is staggeringly poor, supported almost entirely by the cruise ships, with decaying buildings, garbage everywhere and people selling anything they can think of to the turistas streaming from the ships.
A line of people waiting to get work orders and food off the back of a pickup yelled at people coming out of the terminal, including me, and a man who had left the ship translated for me.
“He says you’re a rich. …” He cleared his throat. “Oops, I can’t repeat that.”
He laughed softly, and we were both momentarily stymied by a group of filthy children selling bottled water that had obviously been emptied and refilled.
Day Four: If They Build It, We Will Come, but First Tell Us How Long It Will Take to Get There.
Puerto Costa Maya is south of Cozumel and south of Tulum, a port of call only 3 years old, with beaches and tourist attractions still being built. The number of jewelry sellers is so low right now, a cruise ship passenger can actually walk through the terminal and hear herself think.
My shoulders were becoming chiseled from the rock wall, and I had already lost all my cash in the casino, so this time I decided to do a relaxing excursion (cost: $36) called the “Jungle Beach Break,” which was supposed to involve a shuttle to Uvero Beach, a beach chair, an open bar and paddle boats.
I met with a group of about 40 people following a man with a hand-lettered sign and was directed onto an air-conditioned bus. He said it would be about 10 minutes to the beach.
A half-hour into the ride, we were still hurtling through the jungle on a gravel road, having seen no other vehicles (not that we could have, for all the tree branches sweeping the windows as we flew past) and no sign of anything that looked like a beach.
Some of us started asking each other where it might be, and if the guy had said 10 minutes, and if anyone had looked at his identification. Several tried asking the non-English-speaking bus driver what was going on, and he kept saying, “No worry, no worry.”
After another 10 minutes passed, we were worrying, and I mentally said goodbye to my kids, and the woman next to me asked if I was religious. Then we pulled into this space filled with men just milling about and Jeeps, one of which was turned over, and I thought, “OK, we’re in a Contra camp.”
Then a cheery Aussie leapt onto the bus and yelled, “G’day, welcome to your Jungle Beach Break!” and we all almost started to weep. But where was the beach?
Well, once we walked past construction equipment and through a building, it was hidden behind the foliage. And it was being dredged, and part of it was still being built, and it turned out they are putting in a dolphinarium. But we could lie on this 20-foot-wide strip and drink terribly weak daiquiris.
On the way back, the Australian told us the good news. “They’ve built a new shopping mall, and for free we’re going to take you there before we take you back to the ship!” We all said no. Crankily.
Day Five: If You Want My Body and You Think I’m Sexy, This Will Help Pass the Time.
Perhaps in case Cozumel and Costa Maya were depressing, and to make sure the long day At Sea would be entertaining, the cruise directors offered 93 activities per hour on the way back to Fort Lauderdale.
Actually, the nightly shows always were entertaining, because the ships hire people who could perform off-Broadway but want to travel instead. And Disco Inferno Night had been enjoyable, but not in the way it was meant to be; some people should not be doing the hustle anymore.
But on the At Sea day, the Men’s Sexy Legs Competition was almost as depressing as the ports of call, and no one really wants to hear Rod Stewart anymore either. And bingo was fun … once, but expensive at $20 a pop. And I was afraid to go where people were scrapbooking.
That night I watched the same James Dean movie in my stateroom for the fifth time.
Day Six: Free at Last. But Customs Takes a Long, Long Time. …
They tell you customs can take anywhere from two to five hours; this time it took 2 1/2. We got up at 6 a.m. on Saturday after pulling into Port Everglades and relinquished our luggage, then went to sit in a public space on the ship.
We were entertained by folks trying to haul around cardboard cartons of duty-free alcohol bigger than their suitcases. It turns out all customs wants to know is if you’re bringing in stinky fruit or Cuban cigars.
So would I cruise again? Yes, but differently. I would pick different ports of call, I would bring my family or friends, and I would choose either a much smaller ship or a much bigger one.
And next time, I would bring my own climbing shoes.
Travel editor Kyle Wagner can be reached at 303-820-1599 or travel@denverpost.com.
