The cruise.

The cruise was interesting and hilarious and cheesy. There were paintings on the wall of ballroom dancing polar bears. There were Botox parties and bingo. There were lounge singers and bad comedians and men in suits trying to sell you gold jewelry and liquor. There was a magician. He had a unicycle.

It quickly became apparent that Kay, Sarah, and I were basically the only people over 10 and under 45 on this particular cruise. The median age was approximately 72. This was actually kind of perfect, since our interests intersect nicely with those of retirees: naps, fruity beverages, and buffets. We took advantage of the club’s empty dance floor, the non-existent lines for the water slide, the abandoned arcade, the empty hot tub at night. We talked for hours on the deck. It’s shocking how little has changed since we became friends twelve years ago - Kay, practical and laid-back, Sarah, silly and wise, and me, still as insecure and boy crazy as I was in middle school.

The cruise ship was the sort of place made for middle-aged married folk who have taken couples salsa dance classes and want to show off their moves.  At once uncomfortable and touching, I spent a lot of time watching gussied up grandparents do the foxtrot to a live keyboarder (keyboardist?). The rest of my time I spent wearing an ugly sun hat, reading on a lounge chair on the lanai. I also happily lost at least twelve dollars in quarters at the casino.

We befriended a guitar player of indeterminate age (35? 40?) who wore a brocade suit and unironically oversized glasses, playing 90s rock to an empty piano bar. (The bar itself was in the shape of spiraled piano keys.) He gave us five CDs and offered us tequila from his flask, which we politely declined.

Every night except the last I slept in the top bunk, which pulled out of the ceiling. I am what you might call the opposite of claustrophobic, so this was pretty much an ideal sleeping situation for me. Everyone said “You’ll just glide along!  The ship’s so huge. You won’t even feel it!” Let me tell you: I felt it. The last night I spent hovering my face over a garbage can as the ship rocked back and forth. 

The islands were amazing. I was amazed, for what felt like the first time in a long time. I put my face right next to tropical fish and we sized each other up underwater. I drank pineapple mimosas on a sun-dappled catamaran and coconut rum on a white sandy beach. I took a taxi around the green hills of St. Thomas and a bus ride around the Bahamas. I dove into waves in St. Maartin, and got swept under over and over. I floated on my back over a coral reef in St. John. The water was turquoise and so clear. 

I came home with a painted shot glass, a souvenir wine stopper that I promptly broke, and more sand in my backpack than you can imagine. It was strange, flying back to New York, as the plane sailed down over the city. Queens looked impossibly drab - everything the color of concrete and apartment brick. But I had missed it, my grey, dirty city, as one misses a tattered security blanket - not because it’s beautiful, but because it’s home.