Brisbane to Los Angeles - Grounded: A Down to Earth Journey Around the World - page 99

prices that are beyond the realm of affordability for all but a few), life is much different. Regent ranks high
among the top-drawer luxury cruise lines, and the Mariner carries only seven hundred passengers instead
of the four thousand that get crammed onto those waterslide-equipped cruise behemoths. The Mariner is
filled with accomplished retirees who are generally smarter and fitter than I am, and who are for the most
part clothed in attractive, understated fashions.
I've enrolled in an onboard yoga class, in which the other students are all sinewy fifty-something women
who look like they own multiple NPR tote bags. I've been attending fascinating lectures about the history
of the Middle East, delivered by the retired Beirut bureau chief of the Washington Post . I never miss after-
noon tea—served in dainty porcelain cups on the rear observation deck, as a live jazz combo plays quietly
in the background. Rebecca and I have even double-dated with a charming retired couple from Beverly
Hills, discussing art and politics over dinner in the ship's gourmet French restaurant.
Granted, not all of the Mariner 's passengers are cultured sophisticates. We've eavesdropped on our share
of shipboard conversations, and most have centered on the following topics:
1. Elective surgery.
2. Nonelective surgery.
3. Bridge. There is an ongoing, seemingly endless bridge tournament, which everyone on board be-
sides us participates in. Each morning's bridge results are dissected for hours afterward in every
public (and presumably private) space on the ship. The main tone of these discussions lies some-
where between ill-concealed envy and open, snarling resentment. For example: “The Shapiros won
again today,” says a dour-faced woman to her dour-faced friend as they sit near us at teatime.
“That's a shame,” says the friend. “Because they are not nice people.”
4. How poorly certain other passengers have been treating the crew. This is without a doubt every-
body's preferred topic. Upon witnessing another passenger acting rudely toward a crew member,
people will positively sprint to tell their friends. Then they'll tut-tut together, barely suppressing
their pleased smirks. They'll agree that the best sort of people—meaning themselves—would never
treat the staff with anything less than the utmost kindness and warmth. My fellow passengers so
clearly relish these conversations, and bask so luminously in the glow of them, that it seems like it
might almost be worth it for me to arrange a fake scene with a bartender or waitress, in which I'd
purposefully play the cad—thereby providing conversational fodder and dramatically boosting the
overall satisfaction levels of the shipboard population.
Some passengers get particularly hung up on enforcing the ship's exclusivity. One evening, in the Hori-
zon Lounge, we overheard a jerky fellow complaining that “every time they offer one of these repositioning
discounts, it lets on the riffraff.” His ire had been en-flamed when he noticed someone committing a minor
dress code violation in one of the ship's restaurants. It might have been me.
These dress codes are presenting a real challenge. “Informal” nights mean jacket and tie. “Country club
casual” seems to also mean jacket and tie—but the tie can be more daring. As for “formal” nights, Rebecca
and I have taken to just hiding in our cabin.
Even during the day, when anything goes, we feel out of place. Everyone else's clothes look newly
bought from high-end department stores. Meanwhile, our clothes have stains and broken buttons, and look
pretty much exactly as you'd expect clothes to look after they've circled the earth inside a backpack.
IN a stroke of incredible luck—or possibly because I mentioned that I was a journalist when I booked our
cabin—Rebecca and I have been invited to dine with the ship's captain at the Compass Rose restaurant.
Dining at the captain's table is the rarest of cruise ship privileges, coveted by all on board. In honor of the