The King of the Cruise Collectors

As some of my five readers may know, last year I took a cruise to Bermuda and was baffled by the subculture that is the cruise ship. I quickly learned that cruise goers are in fact collectors, racking up trips like more sophisticated people might rack up original art. Not only do these collectors show off the number of cruises they’ve been on, vessels they’ve boarded, destinations they’ve ended up in and days at sea, they also feel the need to compete with other passengers by asking “how many?” (For more on this past trip and categories of collectors, read my post from last year.)

Well readers, you will be happy to know that this summer I embarked on cruise number 2, officially launching my career as a confirmed collector. No more would I lower my eyes in shame when asked how many I’ve been on.

Or so I thought. The piano lounge of the Norwegian Star, my recent Bermuda-bound cruise ship (I can now say I’ve “done” Holland and Norwegian), was filled with cheesy cruise goers. Everyone came to hear ‘The Piano Man’, an incredible piano player who sang everything from Billy Joel to Elton John to . . . well, whatever, you get the idea. Each night after my three course meal and bottle of wine I’d stop in to listen before the onboard entertainment started. Being increasingly anal with age, and distraught over the fact that Norwegian has no fartin clocks anywhere on board because we are supposed to be “off the clock”, I leaned over into the space of the large old man next to me and tried to read his watch.

“You’ll never see the numbers,” he said, unclasping the monstrosity from his wrist. “The face is transparent . . . check it out.” The five-pound watch was subsequently thrust into my hands. Panicking over the sure spread of norovirus, I did an obligatory look over and handed it back.

“It’s REAL porcelain,” he said proudly. “On my last cruise my watch got wet and broke. Nothing is going to break this sucker. It can go under 100 feet of water.” My eyes widened.
“Where did you get it?” I asked, feigning rapture.

“Home shopping network,” he said, making a face as if I should have known that. Where else? My interest in the watch opened a can of worms and the next thing you know, he’s asking the magic question. “So . . .uh . . .how many?”

“Two!” I say, excited that I can say more than one. “Last year I did Holland.”

“Pfft, that’s an old person’s cruise,” he said, dismissing me with a wave of his hand and obviously unaware of his own advanced age.

“Well, how many have you had?” I asked, crestfallen.

“This is my 64th cruise,” he said. No readers, no typo here. SIXTY FOUR FAHREIKEN CRUISES.

“Holy shit,” I said, forgetting my manners.

“I am a VIP on this ship. When I get onboard, the waiters know my name. You wanna know who I had dinner with last night? The captain, that’s who. I don’t pay for a single drink on this ship. All of them are on the house. Guess what happened to me last night? The captain asked me which I like better, Norwegian or Holland. I say, and this is the truth, I like Norwegian better but Holland offers king crab on their menu. Guess what I get delivered to me tonight at dinner. You’ll never guess.”

“Um, King Crab?”

“You're goddamned right.”

“But how does one rack up 64 cruises?” I asked, bewildered and feeling inadequate.

“I take one a few times a year. And then there are “repositioning” cruises. When the ship makes its way to a destination to start a new trip. You get BONUS points for those,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “My grandson is five, he’s already been on five cruises. A few months ago I got home from a Caribbean cruise, stayed a week, got bored and tired of snow, called them up and said, put me on another.”

Leaning toward me, winking like a used car salesman, he moved in for the kill.

“If you listen to me and take my advice, you take those repositioning cruises, become a member, and take advantage of their onboard kickbacks for booking next year’s cruise, soon enough you’ll be at my level.”

My eyes light up like a slot machine as a voice inside my head says yes . . . one day you can be at his level. On your 64th cruise. Showing off your home shopping network watch to a cruising newbie while your seemingly mail order bride half your age and size sits primly beside you, letting you regale other ladies in the piano lounge with tales of your great sea adventures.

Let me end this tale by issuing a Cry for Help. Please readers. If you ever hear me bragging about hitting double digits . . . if I start to reposition, demand king crab for dinner or spend more time on a boat than on land . . . help me. Oh lordy, help me. And organize an immediate intervention. Preferably on ‘Royal’– I haven’t tried that line yet.

The Cruise Collector*

So sorry I haven’t written sooner, my dear Reader(s). It seems I’ve been lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Or something. To my dismay, summer is over, having only just started. Wasn’t I just on a cruise to Bermuda a few days ago? Or has it already been a month?

Amazing how fast vacation bliss wears off once one is back in reality. As I sat on the train the other day, listening to yet another moronic conversation, I couldn’t help but feel like I was stuck in a version of the movie Groundhog Day:

Annoying commuter #1 (girl donning rock the size of Jupiter on finger): So, how's your new house? What have you done so far?
Annoying Commuter#2 (socially awkward guy who most likely works in IT): Nothing yet. But I have a plan. Electronics first. Then furniture. Rugs will be last.
AC #1: What about Curtains?
AC #2: Curtains will be last.
AC #1: What about art and stuff for your walls?
AC #2: Art will be last.

What?! So I closed my eyes and let the rocking of the train lull me back to the rocking of the ship I was recently on, sailing towards sun, crystal blue waters and cotton candy sand. I picture myself lounging on the coveted lounge chairs, a cool drink in hand. I'm already feeling better when another annoying commuter interrupts. But it's NOT the train commuter–oh no, it's a species far worse and more bewildering. The Cruise Collector.

“How many have you been on?” someone barks in my ear.

I adjust my sunglasses and open my eyes to the dizzying sun. “Excuse me?”

“This is my 15th. This boat has nothing on Princess. And Norwegian is much bigger. I mean, where are all the pools?”

I decide not to tell the collector that this was, in fact, my first. Instead I excuse myself to dip into the hot tub, in other words, the cesspool of human germs.

It doesn't stop here. On the beach in Bermuda, where one goes to escape the other passengers, three women frolick in the sand like a couple of sea lions, mysteriously rubbing sand up and down their legs with fervor.

“What are you guys doing?” My stepmother asks them.

“We’re giving ourselves a spa treatment,” one says in a thick Jersey accent. “Cheapa than on the boat.” We nod, trying not to cringe, while the other demands: “Which are you on?”

“Holland,” we reply.

“Oh, I went on that last year. Too small. The best is Royal, but Princess isn’t bad either. This is our 10th.”

And so it goes. At dinner:

“How many has it been?” (The Cruise Collector never has to define “it.”)

“Um…my first?”

An embarrassed glance as if I'd just admitted to being the 40-year-old cruise virgin. “Oh really? We've been 'cruising' for years." (The Cruise Collector uses 'cruising' as if it's an activity such as running or hiking, when in fact, it's really just 'slothing.') "This is our 25th. Not so much food on this one. On Royal (the cruise collector never has to give the full name of the ship) you could ask for TWO entrees. Here they only let you have one.”

Glancing around at the predominately obese passengers, it’s no surprise to me that most are here for one thing: the abundant food.

“One entree is usually good enough for me!” I say cheerfully.

At the disco:

"Have you 'done' Carnival? It's much more lively."

By the end of the week, I had classified the collectors into the following categories:

The Food Collector: racks up multiple cruises for one thing only: eatfest. These collectors not only gorge on the breakfast and lunch buffets and three-course dinners, but attend the midnight buffet and hoard food in their room.
The Cheap Collector: likes to "cruise" because the price of a cruise is cheaper than getting a hotel and buying meals separately.
The Fearful Flyer Collector: Or, me. Those who want to travel but are at risk of getting stun-gunned by an air marshall as they run down the airplane aisle screaming 'we're all gonna die!'
The 'I Have a Boring Marriage' Collector: These couples spend the entire trip separately whether it be in the pool or at the casino, and are the ones most likely to lean into your personal space and say "So, how many?"
The Priveleged Collector: Thinks cruises are a luxury (when in reality they're kind of cheesy) and has no problem shouting at the already stressed waiter "Put me some more mustard, would ya?" or "Get this wine OUT of my face, it's terrible!"
The Geriatric Collector: My personal favorite, and omnipresent on my ship, these golden oldies throw all shame to the wind, boogie on the dance floor like tweens and are probably poppin Viagra more than Dramamine.

By the end of the week, if one more person asked about my sad collection, I was going to say "It's my 500th! The last one I took was Apollo. You haven't heard of it? I mean, how often do you cruise? It goes to the moon!"

But, we all need to start somewhere. Next year, I'll be able to say I'm on my second cruise. In time, I too will become a collector. In fact, one day you may find yourself on a cruise (Royal, of course). I will sit down next to you at the pool, staring probingly while you pretend to read. But the intensity of my gaze will be too much. You will make eye contact. And when you do, I will pounce, and say:

"So, how many has it been?"

*Dedicated to my father, who has been waiting with bated breath for this post.