My Principality

Please excuse my awesome tan. We just got back from a  SeaDream II voyage. The vacation team included: me, hubby, his parents, my parents, and my younger siblings. There were only a hundred other guests/strangers on the boat, a third of whom I never saw. But then again, I spent most of my time at the “Top of the Deck” Bar.

The SeaDream Cruise is all-inclusive. Between my father’s seventh helping at the caviar tasting table and my bottomless lemon drop martinis (liquor soothes my sea sickness), I think the Knaus family might have come out ahead. 

Always the gossip hound, I tried to pressure the handsome European staff into giving me dirt. I wanted to know who was roommates, who was dating, who had a girl back home, what could get you fired, etc. They were so professional and nice and attentive and respectful and warm; in short, they were lame. I couldn’t get any drama out of them. They took to calling me: Erin Brockovich. Julia Roberts: I can see. But consumer advocate Erin Brockovich?…Then, the bartender whispered to me: “On other cruises, guests have to PAY for booze.” Quelle injustice! [with a Texas accent].

Old Farts need not apply. The SeaDream is not for the faint of heart. Everyone on the boat seems to have just completed a marathon or a stage of the Tour de France. In order to leave the yacht, you must teeter down a steep staircase on the outside of the boat, and then leap onto the TENDER, the tiny boat that takes you to shore. [See photo below]. The crew is present with a helping hand, but people with morbid overactive imaginations or vertigo, beware.

Americans tell you not to do stuff cause they’re afraid of lawsuits.

Europeans tell you not to do stuff cause you might die.

WARNING: When the beautiful Hungarian black jack dealer/water sports rep Maria considers shutting down Swim Time because of the current, don’t blatantly ignore her, jump feet first into the water, and swim away from the boat in order to get a workout. When you see a dingy pick up swimmers drifting a mile away, maybe don’t judge the rescued people as wimpy ‘leisure’ swimmers. Don’t decide that you will tidy up the water and swim a stray foam noodle back to the cruise, thereby inhibiting your freestyle stroke. Perhaps, instead, swim harder.

I’m embarrassed to say that a little rescue boat had to fetch me which sealed my reputation on the ship as: The wimpy girl who nearly got whisked away before cocktail hour.

Our ports of call: (a partial list)

• Venice: Disneyland by day, stunning city by night.
• Hvar: Nantucket of Croatia
• Dubrovnik: our second date won’t be in late summer.
• Itea: chatted with the Oracle of Delphi.
• Corinth Canal: felt like she gave birth to our boat.
• Mykonos: I tripped in late night puke. Let me rephrase that: Glamorous I slipped on European trust-fund spittle on a narrow Grecian stone path.
• Santorini: beautiful, but I’d rather be vespa’ing in Mykonos.
• Athens: go to the stunning new Acropolis Museum. Wander the Parthenon at noon. You’re sure to lose ten pounds in sweat and realize just how insignificant your time on earth has really been.  And then go back to this Hotel Grande Bretagne and stop worrying your pretty little head about things like Civilization and Democracy.  

SUPPLEMENTARY (i.e. BETTER) READING:

If you are considering a Christmas cruise, or just came home from a summer cruise, or you have aqua-phobia/agoraphobia/gerontophobia (fear of old people) and would never step foot on a cruise: DOWNLOAD this brilliant essay on cruising by the late and great David Foster Wallace.  Shipping Out: On the (nearly lethal) comforts of a luxury cruise. Harper’s Magazine. January 1996.