Jill Cruises.

In 2004, I went on a cruise. Then, I wrote about it. Then, I revised what I wrote about it. Then, I revised what I wrote about it again. And again. I could never make it work the way I wanted to. I recently decided that the only way this essay is going to see the light of day is if I revise as I publish. It's long, so it will be posted in sections. You are welcome to comment, reply, discuss, and speculate upon the content of future installments. If it wasn't for you all, this would probably stay on my hard drive for eternity.

Day 1: Friday, July 2, 2004.
Departure: Cape Liberty. Bayonne, New Jersey.


“Oh my God, it’s like the freakin’ Death Star!”

You see, I tend to get right to the point when I’m jet-lagged.

We’re driving toward the Cape Liberty Cruise Port in Bayonne, New Jersey, and Royal Caribbean’s Voyager of the Seas looms in the distance. It’s big—even in comparison to the just-passed Bayonne Bridge.

Especially in comparison to the Bayonne Bridge, normally the focal point of this less attractive side of New York Harbor, now reduced to… Welllllll, “the ugly friend of the hot chick” comes to mind, especially since sleek feats of engineering are always referred to as women. But for me it’s more like “that dork I dated in high school until his mommy made him dump me, but just in time for me to hook up with the hot drummer.”

Yep, that’s Voyager of the Seas. Totally the hot drummer. Or the Death Star.

My boyfriend marvels at (or is it “mocks”?) my ability to make anything relevant to sci-fi; my father, our chauffeur, laughs. If I had stopped to consider the logistics of a floating fifteen-story hotel with my math-loving geek mind, I ‘d have realized how imposing it would be before we were barreling up the Jersey Turnpike. But the past month has been nothing but writing, the Italian Renaissance, Tuscan food, and shopping—in other words, heaven. I’d somehow gotten the bright idea that a post-graduate study trip to NYU’s campus in Florence would afford me ample time to write. It hadn’t taken much convincing to get my friend Kim—also a playwright, and my partner in all things procrastination—to join me. Not even two days home, and all that’s on my mind is the Italian fashion lovingly rolled, tucked, and packed in my small bag, and the two notebooks of nonsense that need revision.

*****

I had wanted the BF to join me in Florence so that I could show him around the city that had been my favorite since my first trip abroad in college, but it soon became apparent that his work commitments wouldn’t allow that. I still felt a pull, though, and spent a whole lot of time trying to convince him that he shouldn’t take it personally, and a whole lot of time trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t feel so terrible about the situation. So we decided to set aside some “alone time” upon my return. We researched all-inclusive resorts and Caribbean destinations, none of which I had ever been to. I couldn’t choose, so BF suggested a cruise with multiple ports to cure my indecisiveness. Though I generally consider “tourist” to be a four-letter word (and what’s more “touristy” than a Caribbean cruise?) the idea did seem intriguing. Next round of research: cruise lines.

Of all of them, Royal Caribbean seemed… ummmmm… the least likely to… uhhhhh… their ships are the prettiest?

No, seriously. I’ve spent a lot of time stuck in traffic all over New York City, with views of the ships cruising into the harbor. Royal Caribbean’s are absolutely the best-looking ships at sea. And they don’t require a spokesperson who’s a child-labor-exploiting saccharine-oozing morning-television-bobblehead Stepford wife. Oh crap, did I publish that?

And even better… to have mainstream America, blissfully ignorant of the actual lyrics to Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life”, humming along as if it were the theme song to The Mickey Mouse Club? Yes, I would give these people my money, if only to perpetuate the irony.

Besides, their “get out there” philosophy was encouraging: yoga, rock wall, in-line skating. BF and I had recently begun rock-climbing together, and I had eased him into yoga (trying to avoid mention of all the same-sex attention he’d be getting), but I hadn’t yet convinced him to let me teach him to rollerblade. (Hey, two out of three ain’t bad. Unless you're counting that... ummm... do I really have to call it a song? How about "wrist-slittingly power(fully torturesome pseudo-)ballad"?) If nothing else, the trip would be like my life at home. Only, with a Jacuzzi. With a state-of-the-art theater that I could nose around in. Without New York City public transportation. And at sea. I’d never been at sea—which is strange, because I’ll try anything once.

And I fucking love the ocean.

*****

A Caribbean cruise: probably a third of what I spent in Italy.
A stateroom with a balcony: several hundred dollars more per person than an inside room.
A stateroom steps away from the ship’s library, with internet connection: priceless.
My geekdom knows few limits.

*****


Note to all of you arriving here via web-search for Royal Caribbean and/or Cruise Director James Andrews: Though I have not yet finished publishing this serial, I will state that I have nothing but the best things to say about my cruise experience and only the highest praise for James and the job that he does. My sarcasm is strictly for entertainment purposes.