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Cruising
Cruise ships docked in St. John's Antigua.Waking up on our first morning aboard, we hadn’t even had time to digest our first banquet, let alone our thoughts, and we were already at our first destination. The previous few nights roughing it in a tent contrasted so markedly with the onslaught of rich food and warm fluffy duvets that we emerged a little later than planned from our air-conditioned cabin, sauntering out into the full glare of the midday sun and down one of the many boardwalks serving the cruise ships that towered overhead, toward a brightly-colored parody of colonial Caribbean architecture.
Life quayside at St John’s, Antigua, gives just enough of a feeling you’re exploring somewhere new to make it seem adventurous, when in reality you’re captive in a one-stop shopping mall, complete with diamond shops and casinos. No surprise then, that within this little enclave, all the businesses are foreign-owned, the managers come from Europe or the USA, and the locals work as cleaners, shop assistants or bar staff…meaning that on this and most of the other islands (minus the obvious exception), eighty percent of the profits from tourism are whisked out of the Caribbean altogether.
If you stray just three streets beyond the
pale, the glitz is replaced by hardware stores, supermarkets, mechanics and locals generally going about their everyday existences. But stray we did, and we found what we were looking for in the form of a moped for hire, and we drove ourselves on out of there with the faith we could escape the crowds on an island all of 11 miles wide.
Back on board we joined our allocated dinner companions and relived the day’s experiences. I made it a personal policy not to divulge too much of my travelling past, so as not to seem like an impostor or some voyeuristic anthropologist. Though as our ship set sail for a six night transatlantic crossing, the consensus reached around our table was that Antigua was ‘a bit dirty’...I shuddered to think what the general reaction to our next stop would be…
With no land in sight we eased into the joys of nothing doing, no schedules, no stops and no excursions…or for that matter, any ships or sea gulls... Days would invariably start with a late and leisurely breakfast reading the newspaper or working through the crossword whilst sampling the delights on offer at the breakfast buffet. I’d
Ibiza?
...where are all the ravers? usually keep it light and healthy at this stage to delude myself I wasn’t an incredible eating machine, when in reality this was more of a tactical measure to pace myself.
If there were any interesting activities, lectures or movies we were interested in we’d attend at no extra charge. These were usually interspersed with a dip in the pool or some sunbathing on deck. Not being a huge sun worshipper myself, I’d usually go for a walk around the ship’s track to catch some rays, and then pop into the gym in an attempt to burn off some calories and get my metabolism revved up for the unabashed gluttony that lay ahead.
Though it is perhaps worthy to note that Frenchman, Benoît Lecomte, SWAM across the Atlantic Ocean in 1998, consuming 8000 calories a day to maintain enough energy for his marathon journey. I can virtually guarantee you he wasn’t able to pack in as much cheesecake as me.
If we were feeling slovenly we’d take lunch by the pool, which was the usual fast-food fare of burgers, fries, tacos and the like. At the back of the ship there was more of an Italian-themed pasta
and pizza offering. Then there was the buffet banquet option in the main eating areas, or the more formal sit-down service, complete with maitre d' and waiters. And, of course, there's always room service.
We sampled all of the above options, though after a while, queuing at food lines can make you feel a bit like a pig at a trough. So when we could muster the organizational skills to smarten up between activities, we enjoyed the formal lunches the most. Here the menu is smaller but of a higher standard and, unlike at dinner, the seating arrangements were random. We met an older crowd of mostly retired people, who these days preferred life at sea to exploring ports.
These were not our usual dinner companions whilst traveling, it has to be said. However, with full and interesting lives behind them, typical conversations stretched far beyond the well-worn gap year trite shared around banana pancakes at the local hostel.
Despite trying to convince ourselves we were way out in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean in one of the most isolated spots on earth, the fact that you’re floating on a five star hotel staffed with a
Barcelona
Side street in the Gothic Quarter thousand people dedicated to making your stay as comfortable as possible, quashes any feelings of isolation or vulnerability.
Divorced from nature, I’d still get a rise out of popping down to the lobby every morning to view the big map charting our position in the blue nothingness. Not quite the same as plotting one’s position by the stars on Columbus’s maiden voyage, but then, he never had access to a spa and three Jacuzzis, the poor heathen. The only tie to reality would be a wind-whipped nighttime stroll around the deck of this giant floating chandelier, until the Siren call of piped-in jazz music beckoned you to queue up behind other tux tails and chiffon gowns for entry into the grand dinner salon.
Each morning we were informed via the newsletter delivered to our room which of the three designated dress codes -- formal, informal or casual - was in order for dining in the spectacular two-tiered Orion Restaurant that evening.
Celebrity X Cruises positions itself as a premium level cruise line with some of the best food on offer at sea. They’ve adopted the culinary creations of an internationally renowned celebrity chef I’d never come across
In the souq
Agadir, Morocco backpacking before; Michel Roux, the Michelin-starred owner of Waterside in London.
We found the entrees to be fabulous, but then there was always the risk of choosing one that wasn’t quite as delectable as the others. The odds of decadent disappointment were greatly reduced when the waiter encouraged us and another indecisive table guest to order two entrees…I wasn’t sure if this was a good or bad thing… but I liked it!
With a mischievous grin on his face, half a dozen deserts would be offered up on a big tray by the waiter, who’d describe them in his colorful culinary language. We’d share some group ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’, retire briefly into little couple/group discussions, before publicly offering up our choices, to which the response from the waiter was always “very good sir”…anyone would think we’d made the things.
Our nightly pit stop to loosen the cummerbund and powder our noses made us witnesses to the miraculous transformation of our room, from a disheveled cyclone path to a somniferous haven, complete with plumped pillows and a silver water carafe on the bedside table. Our Bangladeshi stateroom attendant was uncanny in his ability to clean our room without
Ibiza
Terra cotta artisan us ever catching him in the act.
Usually meals of this magnitude leave one feeling lethargic, but the night had only just begun, and all dressed up as we were, the diversions offered by the Celebrity entertainment department provided us with myriad places to go. We watched most of the shows, which were a nice mixture, including a ventriloquist, magician and British comedian. His humor, along with the selection of performers at large, was clearly geared to a more mature audience...no obscenities or belly flopping contests here! The Celebrity singers and dancers performed a medley of Broadway musicals as well as a couple of original productions, which included some truly amazing aerialists.
During the day, we took dance lessons along with another couple at our table, getting the chance to strut our stuff at one of the Latin dance party nights that catered to the large number of Puerto Rican guests. One night, having won a bit of petty cash in the casino, Jennifer even managed to lube me onto the dance floor with a few too many G&T’s whilst the feasting as usual continued unabated into the small hours with waiters waltzing around offering delectable mini-burgers and
other ‘Gourmet Bites’ hors d'oeuvres.
You set your watch ahead an hour 6 times when crossing the Atlantic going east, meaning you lose 6 hours of eating/sleeping/drinking/ time over the 16 days. When we started out across the Atlantic six days seemed ample time to enjoy every facet of the ship’s luxury, but the days flew by and on our last night before landfall in Africa, it felt a little like the Christmas holidays were coming to an end…
We’d planned a covert backpacker coup upon arrival at Agadir. We’d bus it to Marrakesh, go AWOL from the cruise ship for a night and rejoin the following afternoon in Casablanca. Unfortunately the bearded bogeyman - who can be credited with thinning the tourist trail in recent years - came back to bite me in the ass, and our stop in Casablanca was ditched due to that old chestnut ‘an elevated terrorist threat’…We’ll still be stopping in Agadir however, which I guess is meant to outfox the terrorists, and instead of stopping in Casablanca, we’ll now be stopping in… Ibiza!?
Not to be deterred we decided to have a shot at Morocco in 5hrs. Deciding to forego the
day trips and the convenience of the Celebrity X coach parked at the exit, we approached a couple of taxis parked alongside the ship in a self righteous effort to prove that not everyone exiting the floating palace was intimidated by unshaven Arabs driving Renault-rust-buckets.
What we failed to factor into the equation, was the mindset of a taxi driver parked next to a cruise ship, which didn’t quite stoop to the penny pinching world of backpacker prices. Tails between our legs, we retreated up the stairs into the air-conditioned bus and donated a little more money to Celebrity X Cruises coffers, leaving the taxis to lure the bigger fish they’d clearly come here to catch.
Bruised but not yet beaten, our mission was still intact; cruise the souk, and drink mint tea. Looking perhaps a little lost we divulged our mission to a charming man whose brother coincidently happened to own a stall. Upon meeting his brother they both became rather irate when we failed to show interest in purchasing a herbal concoction it was claimed would cure the varicose veins we were, as of yet, unawares. To smooth things over we accepted the offer of taking
Showing off the Baked Alaska
Wasn't our favorite dessert but seems like quite a feat to pull off! a look at another brother’s stall, with similar results…At which point we pulled the plug on our new family friendship, and wandered around a little on our own steam, all the while partaking in a little more light-hearted banter with the people we met, and their ubiquitous brothers. We eventually did find a shop selling mint tea, ironically located outside the souk, jumped in a taxi to our waiting air-conditioned coach, and whizzed back to the ship… BAGGED MOROCCO!
Back aboard the bastion of gluttony, the waiter’s assistant drapes a serviette over my lap and grinds pepper onto my Consomm'e as we head towards Europe listening to stories of being prodded onto camels, held captive until a fifty dollar extortion was paid. We shared a humorous pity for our good-hearted tablemates, yet empathized that the locals had stumbled upon a cash cow they couldn’t really be criticized for milking.
First impressions are worth millions in potential tourist revenue. Family and friends of cruisers will hear how Antigua is this, and Morocco is that, and will decide never to go there. On the flip side the sharks walk away even more convinced that cruise guests are complete chumps who
Ibiza
Festival vendor have a million times more money than sense.
Around noon the next day we left the Atlantic and passed through the Straits of Gibraltar into the Mediterranean amid a wave of excitement that swept the ship as everyone lined up on deck with binoculars and cameras at the ready for a highly touted glimpse of the distant Rock of Gibraltar through the sea haze. Yet our own sense of excitement was directed off the starboard side of ship, towards the barren mountains of Morocco, behind which lay our next destination, Africa.
The Med meant Ibiza, and with literally a boat load of pensioners, we hit the party island just after breakfast. A yearly Medieval festival was in the off to celebrate the recognition of Dalt Vila as a UNESCO World Heritage site. I have to be honest I never equated Ibiza with culture and was blown away.
Barcelona was a bit like the movie version of one of my old favorite novels, the highlights neatly packed into a couple-hour segment, just enough to dig from the attic chest of my brain the filler memories that complete the story. But apart from a few trips down memory lane
the destinations visited were naturally the same major monuments that everyone else wanted to see, so despite our ‘independent’ ambitions, we had to skirt the inevitable groups huddled around placards with the ‘X’ logo of Celebrity Cruises everywhere we went. And as they alighted from their buses back at the ferry terminal stress-free, we were sprinting down the street trying to hail a cab back to port leaving us within minutes of missing the ship’s scheduled departure for the second time in two days.
One might think this, along with the lessons learned in Morocco and the pleasant surprise of Ibiza would have convinced us to sample one of the organized tours available for The French Riviera. But we'd done our research, and, armed with travel guide photocopies and transport schedules from the ship’s excursion desk, we were sure to have a more rewarding independent trip.
Perhaps we should have clued into our plan's fate when we were sitting in the ship's theater for two and a half hours waiting for a tender boat to take us ashore. The people that signed up for shore excursions were the top priority for the cruise line, and as the minutes
and then hours ticked by with us and other go-it-aloners waiting to get the couple hundred meters from ship to shore, we started crossing things off our itinerary.
After boarding the local bus to Monte Carlo and winding our way along the corniche we arrived in Eze-sur-Mer in good time, but were dismayed when hearing a descending hiker’s report at the length of time required to climb the 1,407 foot Chemin de Nietzsche trail to Eze. This, along with the paltry Sunday bus services back to town, and the fact that we’d have to hike down again, resigned us to spending the day on the beach. Walking part of the way back into town to admire the red-tiled roofs tumbling into the azure Mediterranean and the surprisingly quiet winding stone roads of the hillside, we lamented the time crunch imposed by fixed departures, as this place clearly lent itself to unhurried ambling.
Back on ship, we had less than an hour to transform ourselves from hot and sweaty day trippers into refined diners, not batting an eyelid now at ordering two lobster tails and a couple of
filet mignons. Of course we wouldn’t be flustered at all had
Newly engaged!
What more romantic place for a proposal than the middle of the ocean? we succumbed to the will of the cruising gods and just gone with the flow for once, by taking an organized tour. But right up until the end we continued to fight the tide in a futile attempt to maintain our pseudo freedom, within an environment which warrants a surrender of one’s own independence.
Onboard, we had totally assimilated by now, handing ourselves over to people whose job it is to create a stress-free Utopian world of comfort and plenty. We still maintained, though, that our portside travel decisions shouldn’t be deferred to a system we’d long since criticized as superficial and constrictive. But the reality had by now started to dawn, that in the world of 5 hour day trips, they were clearly the experts and we the rookies.
Our own stopovers had also amounted to a series of photo ops with no single authentic cultural experience. This was the luxury version of Eurail/Interrailing, “doing” each country in a day, but returning to turned-down beds and chocolates on our pillows instead of a pull-out chair in a 6-person train compartment. As such our views of Antigua, Agadir, Ibiza and Villefranche are superficial abstractions; short and energy-charged, our
memories all the more vivid - the one-night stand of travel experiences.
This is the antithesis of travelling as we know it, a hyper-reality based on a false freedom and compulsive consumption at every turn. Spending a single night in restaurants of the caliber onboard, followed up by a musical and a little clubbing would likely eat up an entire month’s travel budget in even the most economical of travel destinations. For two weeks we got to indulge in exactly that
bon vivance we sacrifice for our nomadic lifestyle.
It would be a mortal sin to live without joy in the midst of such plenty...in fact for $649 per person… it would be a mortal sin not to go cruising again…
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Stephen Paul
o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Congratulations
I could see how cruises could become attractive- maybe! Looks as if the Aspiring Nomad is now unmasked! Formal Wear? yeah right, you know that you showed up at the Yurt in Kyrgyzstan in your Tuxedo! ok maybe not. Great Post!