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juushikaI did not record a daily log (and trust me, given the repetition of my experience you would not want one), but while on the cruise I did record a few thoughts over a few days. I'll post them here, as I find the energy to go back and edit them for public consumption. To begin:
Sunday, Day 1, Boarding
I discovered my own personal hell. The flights down to L.A. were, surprisingly, not that bad—the first plane was old and rickety and exceedingly cramped, but both flights and the layover were short. For the most part, all was unremarkable, and therefore well. It was on the journey to the ship itself that things began to go downhill: it was a bit of a wait for the bus, a bit of a drive, and the entire boarding procedure felt messy—a lack of apparent organization, a dearth of communication, and the crowds, oh, the waiting crowds. It was a long, slow climb to get aboard.
And once we had, I was of course exhausted: Devon and I had stayed up all night to catch our 3a flight, and sleep on the plane had proved futile (I couldn't babysit both my back and neck, which meant I had to sacrifice comfortable, potentially restful head positions in order to keep my back pain under control). I wore an oversized comfy shirt for the plane, which was great for the plane—but made me frumpy and uncomfortable in the heat, the crowds, the almost-a-cruise atmosphere of the ship.
And then it got better.
Because the rooms weren't available until an hour after we boarded, so instead of the necessary privacy, crash time, and change of clothes that I had expected, we were herded to the messhall for what would have been a large and varied buffet had not every item tasted the same: like nothing at all. Chewable air would have been a better offering, I think. The hall was crammed, packed and hot and noisy; there were no free tables so we sat at a bar where I couldn't even reach the footrest, inviting a new wave of back pain. Remixed techno pop played over the loudspeakers which—as a combination of repetitive sound and awful lyrics—is indeed the soundtrack of my personal hell.
And then my grandparents and cousins arrived and—hot, sleep-deprived, pained, frumpy, disappointed, and approaching an almost embarrassing level of discontent—I had to hug about a dozen people and try to act pleasant.
There could be, for me, no situation more fine-crafted to elicit my personal suffering.
Things did get better (in the non-ironic sense, this time) when the rooms opened up. I took a quick shower, and crashed, and napped, and by the time we gathered in a group for drinks and, later, dinner, I was much improved. Sunday actually ended on a pleasant note with a surprisingly enjoyable three-course meal, so while the cruise began in misery and I can still nitpick many more problems, I spent Sunday night in a huge bed with my beloved and woke to 18 miles of pure ocean stretching on outside the window.
And for the record: this is why the cruise was, for me, undesirable.
I know there are people that want to go on cruises. I am not one of them. I know that to speak glibly of this gift from my grandparents (who paid the way for all those that attended) is both to overlook my own luck and privilege, and to undervalue the important familial aspects of the trip. But speaking purely of my own comforts, desires, and preferences: I did not want to go on a cruise. And that first day isn't a bad example of why.
A big cruise ship is a floating, all-inclusive, isolated hotel. Even if it has a rock-climbing wall, it's nothing more or less. So, say: You're a vegetarian and a picky eater with certain standards for food quality (hey, you sound just like me!) Then: There will regularly be nothing for you to eat in the buffet, either because ingredients are unlisted, the only vegetarian option is iceberg salad, or all of the readily-available, self-serve food tastes like shit; not infrequently at the sit-down waited meals you will eat one more bowl of pasta with marinara. Say: You require certain accommodations in order to cope with or prevent chronic pain. Then: You may have difficult, limited, or no access to those accommodations (it took us three hours to get extra pillows for the room; the majority of the public seating was actively bad for my back), especially at the beginning of the trip when you need them most. Say: You are an introvert, or, worse, agoraphobic. Then: Outside of the safety of your stateroom, you will be surrounded by crowds without exception—any time you want to eat, take a walk, or consider engaging in a ship activity, you will be surrounded by large crowds of loud strangers. If you are traveling in a group of 24 family members, you will also encounter people you know, on a fairly regular basis; you will be required to attend family gatherings.
In other words: a cruiseship is, for me, not a plush floating island of amenities. Instead, it may leave me without sustenance, in pain, and traumatized. Of course it's not always a worse case scenario—there were good vegetarian options sometimes, even for me; sharing a room with just Devon gave me plentiful privacy and comfort in order to look after both my physical and mental health, and I am grateful beyond words for that. But there's big drawbacks, and an unending parade of little ones from uncomfortable sheets and towels to edible but unenjoyable food to the very atmosphere of the ship.
I don't know how quite to describe that atmosphere. It's ... it's the dining hall on the first day. People wearing skimpy shorts and bad, fruity perfume; people talking too loud and being too excited to go. It's the worst imaginable music, bland food, the bitter smell of a dirty sea and the edge of a big city. It's not quite the access or comfort you want, wrapped in the allure of an Exotic! Resort! Location! It's smarmy, almost, the very idea of the thing: visit new, exiting areas the in pseudo-comfort of your floating monstrosity of a hotel. I cannot personally think of a less pleasant way either to vacation (why not chose somewhere authentically comfortable, with more variety, with better food, with better amenities—or why not stay home?) or to travel (why not, and this is a crazy idea, actually go visit a place for a week or four?)
Yes, this is a matter of personal taste. It's also because I'm picky, I take my luck for granted, I don't know how to be grateful, and so on. Every time someone mentions how awesome a cruise sounds I feel that discomforting guilt: people want to do this—shouldn't I be glad for the chance?
But no. No, I was not, however awful a person that makes me; this is why. The cruise wasn't all that bad, and I'll get to the rest later. But for a bit of context, this is worth saying first.
Sunday, Day 1, Boarding
I discovered my own personal hell. The flights down to L.A. were, surprisingly, not that bad—the first plane was old and rickety and exceedingly cramped, but both flights and the layover were short. For the most part, all was unremarkable, and therefore well. It was on the journey to the ship itself that things began to go downhill: it was a bit of a wait for the bus, a bit of a drive, and the entire boarding procedure felt messy—a lack of apparent organization, a dearth of communication, and the crowds, oh, the waiting crowds. It was a long, slow climb to get aboard.
And once we had, I was of course exhausted: Devon and I had stayed up all night to catch our 3a flight, and sleep on the plane had proved futile (I couldn't babysit both my back and neck, which meant I had to sacrifice comfortable, potentially restful head positions in order to keep my back pain under control). I wore an oversized comfy shirt for the plane, which was great for the plane—but made me frumpy and uncomfortable in the heat, the crowds, the almost-a-cruise atmosphere of the ship.
And then it got better.
Because the rooms weren't available until an hour after we boarded, so instead of the necessary privacy, crash time, and change of clothes that I had expected, we were herded to the messhall for what would have been a large and varied buffet had not every item tasted the same: like nothing at all. Chewable air would have been a better offering, I think. The hall was crammed, packed and hot and noisy; there were no free tables so we sat at a bar where I couldn't even reach the footrest, inviting a new wave of back pain. Remixed techno pop played over the loudspeakers which—as a combination of repetitive sound and awful lyrics—is indeed the soundtrack of my personal hell.
And then my grandparents and cousins arrived and—hot, sleep-deprived, pained, frumpy, disappointed, and approaching an almost embarrassing level of discontent—I had to hug about a dozen people and try to act pleasant.
There could be, for me, no situation more fine-crafted to elicit my personal suffering.
Things did get better (in the non-ironic sense, this time) when the rooms opened up. I took a quick shower, and crashed, and napped, and by the time we gathered in a group for drinks and, later, dinner, I was much improved. Sunday actually ended on a pleasant note with a surprisingly enjoyable three-course meal, so while the cruise began in misery and I can still nitpick many more problems, I spent Sunday night in a huge bed with my beloved and woke to 18 miles of pure ocean stretching on outside the window.
And for the record: this is why the cruise was, for me, undesirable.
I know there are people that want to go on cruises. I am not one of them. I know that to speak glibly of this gift from my grandparents (who paid the way for all those that attended) is both to overlook my own luck and privilege, and to undervalue the important familial aspects of the trip. But speaking purely of my own comforts, desires, and preferences: I did not want to go on a cruise. And that first day isn't a bad example of why.
A big cruise ship is a floating, all-inclusive, isolated hotel. Even if it has a rock-climbing wall, it's nothing more or less. So, say: You're a vegetarian and a picky eater with certain standards for food quality (hey, you sound just like me!) Then: There will regularly be nothing for you to eat in the buffet, either because ingredients are unlisted, the only vegetarian option is iceberg salad, or all of the readily-available, self-serve food tastes like shit; not infrequently at the sit-down waited meals you will eat one more bowl of pasta with marinara. Say: You require certain accommodations in order to cope with or prevent chronic pain. Then: You may have difficult, limited, or no access to those accommodations (it took us three hours to get extra pillows for the room; the majority of the public seating was actively bad for my back), especially at the beginning of the trip when you need them most. Say: You are an introvert, or, worse, agoraphobic. Then: Outside of the safety of your stateroom, you will be surrounded by crowds without exception—any time you want to eat, take a walk, or consider engaging in a ship activity, you will be surrounded by large crowds of loud strangers. If you are traveling in a group of 24 family members, you will also encounter people you know, on a fairly regular basis; you will be required to attend family gatherings.
In other words: a cruiseship is, for me, not a plush floating island of amenities. Instead, it may leave me without sustenance, in pain, and traumatized. Of course it's not always a worse case scenario—there were good vegetarian options sometimes, even for me; sharing a room with just Devon gave me plentiful privacy and comfort in order to look after both my physical and mental health, and I am grateful beyond words for that. But there's big drawbacks, and an unending parade of little ones from uncomfortable sheets and towels to edible but unenjoyable food to the very atmosphere of the ship.
I don't know how quite to describe that atmosphere. It's ... it's the dining hall on the first day. People wearing skimpy shorts and bad, fruity perfume; people talking too loud and being too excited to go. It's the worst imaginable music, bland food, the bitter smell of a dirty sea and the edge of a big city. It's not quite the access or comfort you want, wrapped in the allure of an Exotic! Resort! Location! It's smarmy, almost, the very idea of the thing: visit new, exiting areas the in pseudo-comfort of your floating monstrosity of a hotel. I cannot personally think of a less pleasant way either to vacation (why not chose somewhere authentically comfortable, with more variety, with better food, with better amenities—or why not stay home?) or to travel (why not, and this is a crazy idea, actually go visit a place for a week or four?)
Yes, this is a matter of personal taste. It's also because I'm picky, I take my luck for granted, I don't know how to be grateful, and so on. Every time someone mentions how awesome a cruise sounds I feel that discomforting guilt: people want to do this—shouldn't I be glad for the chance?
But no. No, I was not, however awful a person that makes me; this is why. The cruise wasn't all that bad, and I'll get to the rest later. But for a bit of context, this is worth saying first.
