We have returned!
As previously reported, we brazenly laughed in the face of odds (and disaster flicks) and embarked on a Carnival cruise. Surprisingly (sadly?) there was nary a floating poop on the Lido Deck so we will never be lifetime travelers courtesy of the cruise line. Shucks.
But, as duly noted on my Facebook status, we arrived home sufficiently brown, shamefully bloated and very, very broke (bar tab? No thank you, I’d rather just write out my daughter’s college tuition check instead since it is a lot smaller).
Honestly, it was a trip. A flipping hilarious, can’t-make-this-shizz-up trip.
If you think the best part about departing on a ship right out of the New York harbor was cost-saving on airfare you’d be brilliant, alas wrong. Saving money is superb but vacationing with 95% of passengers hailing from New York or New Jersey trumps just about everything.
The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire!
Naturally it was a joyous freak show of continuous people watching and I actually found myself jotting notes so as not to forget any of the cray-cray details. I’ve got to be good for at least two more full-length blogs but we’ll see how this goes.
Now don’t lick the stamp on that hate letter just yet. I happen to be a born and bred Long Island girl myself, and so is/was my sailing partner/former college roommate, Betsy. We were amongst our people. One of them. We had the right to mock.
And mock we did.
Maybe I could just get started on some bullet points:
* 2600 passengers on a ship and no less than 2500 tattoos to snicker at.
For me, the whole tattoo thing is a perpetual eyeroll. First of all, the 20-somethings with the deep, philosophical verses (or rap lyrics) emblazoned in swirly letters all over their body’s canvas. Really? What are you – seventeen? — You’ve already got everything figured out so decided to spell it out in a line from the mouth of Sylvia Plath or Ne-yo? Good job. Idiot.
And the middle-aged woman sitting at the bar with the face of Tony Orlando on her right shoulder? Oh sure, we barely had anything at all to say about THAT.
Or the dude with the faces of different Transformers on the backs of each calf? Seriously? You’re a bigger idiot.
We had a party of eleven and I believe I could’ve spent the week entirely alone just snarkin’ on the tats.
* The food thing.
Sweet Jesus. It’s actually easy to keep the pounds off while cruising if you simply follow some obvious no-brainer rules:
First, simply glance around the dining room at everyone eating as if it’s their last meal. All day long.
Or, grab a seat directly across from the old man with the tracheotomy netting politely covering his well, tracheotomy, because well, it turns out he will, in fact, start coughing if when something gets stuck. Kinda makes you put down the danish if you know what I mean.
If all else fails, park your lounge chair next to the Deli station that’s poolside. Besides the fact that nothing screams We Are New York like the lofty smell of sauerkraut all afternoon, you may even find yourself sick to death of Ruebens by Day 2 (unless of course you’re a 14-year-old boy — then you’ll still be eating three daily up until the final day). At the very least, sticking poolside and watching people eat in their bathing suits is calorie counting at its most efficient.
* Interesting people abound.
Good grief, I could go on and on with stories about all the fascinating folks I stared at for eight days but I shall end with the best (and maybe continue on with others in the next installment).
We spotted The Most Intriguing Man on Board the first day at sea. Now, if you combine Samuel L. Jackson, Issac Hayes and Linc from the 70’s Mod Squad, you might come close to how coolly scary this guy was. Completely tattooed up (including his bald head – I’m telling you: BADass. There was NO mocking here), he was walking around with neon colored bungee cords slung over his shoulder. Not the stupid little kind your husband keeps all over the garage “just in case” but enormous 8- feet ones with bright brass hooks. We assumed he was a worker. Shirtless, with jeans rolled up to his knees (“Come on, Eileen?”) and work boots, who wouldn’t have? But then we saw him that night strolling into the adult comedy show wearing (and I don’t even think I can even provide a proper visual but here goes) a bright red shirt, equally bright red PANTS, and a glittery jeweled belt, smack dab in the center. Like an international man of mystery: we couldn’t take our eyes off him.
Next day, there he was, strolling with the bungees again. At this point we were beside ourselves with curiosity (you know, because there were few others on board to fixate on. Laugh.)
Fast forward another day, another few buckets of beer and POOF! He’s hanging poolside. My gal Betsy made a beeline. It needed to be revealed: FortheloveofGod, why the bungees???
They were (wait for this) his on-board workout routine. In the coming days he went on to delight us by actually doing his resistance training routines on the deck rails above us because – along with being the Most Intriguing Man on Board, he was also a cool, good guy and seemed happy to accommodate our shallow lives by providing a little spark. Don. From Brooklyn. The Man.
I haven’t even gotten through half of my notes yet …
(… to be continued …)
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