Back in February when I tried to explain to Katie that the Rio cruise, for all its intense fun, was often incredibly exhausting, she poo-pooed me with comments along the lines of “Yeah, right. I’m sure it was really rough hanging out on a cruise ship on the coast Latin America.”
Last night at about eleven, after a thirteen hour embarkation day spent entirely on our feet with our mouths constantly opening to direct people, answer questions, chat, and soothe anxious gay boy egos, her perspective had shifted. Let me allow her to put it in her own words, as she lies prostrate in our stateroom after a desperately needed afternoon medical nap:
“Oh my god, I can’t feel my feet…I can’t even think right now…The words ‘Drama Queen’ have taken on a whole new meaning; I didn’t realize how much drama would be involved solely in the process of getting people through check-in, onto a gangway, and into a boat. Seriously!
“For example, there was Alex who came up to me rather calmly at the port saying, ‘I think I’ve just left my wallet in the back of my taxi.’ I said, ‘it had your passport in it?’ He said, ‘yeah, passport, money, ID, credit cards…the only thing I did not leave was my car keys.’ Alex’s little “friend,” Jerry—who probably shouldn’t have been let into the gay male club given how nerdy he looked in his high khaki shorts, with belt, his snow white skin against his white socks, with black Reeboks—had already taken it upon himself to return to the Barcelona airport, from where the taxi had just come, and track down the taxi driver. My attempt at calming Alex by saying, ‘you know, I think all Italian taxi drivers are really honest,’ did not pay off when he reminded me that we were in Spain. After I talked to Atlantis’s producer, who called the port manager, who in turn raidoed all taxis in Barcelona, I waited, worrying, with Alex, until, two hours later, Jerry the Nerd, who’d been studying the Catalan language from a textbook for months, shows up with the passport and wallet, having actually tracked it down personally at the airport. Then I’m the Drama Queen, jumping up and down hugging Alex in celebration.
“Our ship, the Navigator of the Seas, is a beast. My first impression upon entering the Royal Promenade, which spans three levels and is the length of two football fields, was that I’d died and gone to Las Vegas hell. So much freaking lights and noise and stimulation, that you feel like you’ve been trapped inside a casino, and you have no idea what time it is. And then instead of seventy and eighty year-old grannies sitting around wasting their money, all you see are hunky guys in tank tops—did we mention 2,800 of them (minus 37 women)? The reason we can barely walk today is that we criss-crossed the length of this mother about twenty times last night in the span of six hours.
“Every time we got in the elevator, some genius would make a deck/dick joke. Someone pushes a button and goes, ‘Dick eleven; I wish!’ But Nancy got ‘em all back during the safety drill when, with everyone’s necks jammed uncomfortably into orange life jackets, she goes, ‘this is like: too much cunnilingus!’”
Okay, sorry moms for that one.
Don’t get me wrong; we’re having a fantastic time, but the activity exhaustion/sleep deprivation factor has its undeniable side effects. Today, after maybe five hours of rest (albeit in a fantastically dark, windowless stateroom with the potential to render fantastic sleep) Katie and I were lucky enough to take excursions to the charming town of Aix en Provence. (With one Atlantis person per bus required, we had to ride in separate buses; a small concession.)
I stumbled into the bright morning sunlight from my bus and blinked at the huge 17th century cast iron fountain near the central square. How could I possibly be in France at nine on a beautiful Sunday morning? Katie’s bus nowhere in sight, I wandered up the street as artists set up their tables for the weekly arts walk. Selecting one of many shady sidewalk cafés, I managed to order and pay for a hot chocolate (chocolat sounds more delicious, doesn’t it?) in French—well, sort of. After the warm deliciousness brightened my senses and I thought about how much the town seemed right out of the movie Chocolat, I wandered tight, angled, old streets along walls and buildings whose 2,600-year history shows in the pockmarks of its signature limestone. At a tiny and fragrant corner bakery, I found myself a quiche and devoured it cold. Mmm.
Two corners later I lucked upon Katie’s group admiring a famous fountain festooned with greenery, and Katie and I then ambled around together until our buses departed. My goal was to limit myself to ten Euros today, nearly all of which I spent on succulent treats. I wish you could taste the chocolate mousse, half of which I have tucked into our stateroom fridge for later. Or the fresh croissant and raspberry torte Katie got. But, perhaps best of all, the fresh cherries, nectarines, cantaloupe, apples, and peaches we sampled at Aix’s Sunday food market, so fresh, juicy, pesticide-free perfect. We may have been practically sleepwalking, but what a sumptuous daydream it was. 
