It
was mixed, all right—at least for me.
The
Sun Princess cruise ship, which Rob and I and Chris and Betty-Jo boarded for a round-trip
from and to Sydney--with New Zealand lavished in between—stretched
to some 857 feet, with our staterooms beautifully plunked at the far end. Any farther back, and we’d have been in the
water. The view out our sliding glass
doors--past the neatly-furnished deck--highlighted a churning, aqua-blue
“wake.” The wake was a continuous flow of white and teal bubbles, reminiscent
of blue champagne . . . provoking fleeting thoughts of jumping in.
That
was the good news.
The
not-so-good news was that one of Rob’s and my favorite restaurants, basically a
buffet called The Horizon (aptly named), was at the opposite end of the ship,
meaning a destination thousands of miles away, clear to the bow and four decks
up. If you stood at one end of the blue-carpeted
hall, you couldn’t see to the other end.
I’d stare down that forbidding blue trail and ask myself if I really
wanted the food that much.
And
then we’d begin the trek. And I’d be
thinking, This is good for us, we need
this hike, then, God, how I hate this !
until we finally stumbled into the distant elevator, in what appeared to be a whole
different country. (My view, and mine
alone—but then I’ve never embraced pure exercise . . . unless, like tennis and
pickleball, it involves points. Still, I
may be the only passenger who came home four pounds lighter.)
Our
elegant Regency Restaurant was somewhat closer, with a significant section (“Club
Class”) reserved for passengers in suites. There we met two charming couples
from Tasmania—and
by the end the men were jumping back and forth between our tables, sharing
their favorite jokes. Happily, I’d brought a few of my books, soon given to
some of our newfound friends.
A
third restaurant, “The Sterling Steakhouse,” cost most passengers $29.00 extra
just to dine there, and served each patron such obscene portions, covering the
entire plate, that I swear each of them
received close to half a cow. Even
Chris, a steak aficionado, couldn’t finish his Porterhouse. While the others
sliced and devoured, I spent the time staring regretfully at my mostly-wasted
slab.
However,
the four of us were granted unlimited visits, thanks to unresolved leaks that initially
took over Chris’s and Betty-Jo’s suite—wherein a few days of rainstorms sent
floods of water pouring into their stateroom in and around the sliding glass
doors and even through the light fixtures.
Their emails to the family said, “It’s raining equally, both outside and
inside.” For days they traveled with a
plastic aqueduct lining the tops of their drapes, complete with various holes
leading to seven buckets spaced out along the floor. By the end, Luca, the officer in charge of
guest-services, granted them so many perks that Chris said, “I’d gladly
exchange some rain water for all those goodies.”
On
our third night, I was dutifully flossing over the bathroom sink, when I heard
a “clunk,” and looking down saw that one of my crowns had dropped into the
bowl. Horrified at first, I soon realized that nobody, including me, would
notice a difference. Eventually I
stopped approaching each new town with the thought, I wonder if they have a good dentist.
My
favorite impressions of the trip were three-fold---first, the Sydney harbor, with its perpetual flotillas
of every size boat. Two--that every afternoon about 4:15, we’d go to Team
Trivia, where we found various smarties
to join for a sixsome, then competed with dozens of other teams playing for
small prizes, but mostly for ego. Once
we came within one point of “winning,” but usually we did slightly better than
average. The third-- going to sleep each night in what amounted to an especially
comfortable queen bed, which quickly became a rocking cradle. After a while, Rob and I found we’d wake up abruptly
if the ship stopped moving.
Since
the trip, Rob asks everyone, “What’s not to like about New Zealand?” Anyone who’s been there mentions the green
and serene countryside, the looming mountains, the huge population of sheep, the
soaring albatross, the ever-gracious people, the roads you can travel without
seeing other cars. Driving or biking through the uncluttered countryside is a
trip through paradise. At nearly every
stop, Chris and Betty-Jo disappeared and managed to bike or hike for miles.
Rob
and I, confined mostly to cities, rode coaches, a train, a private car, and
eventually (at Chris’ insistence), a V-8 Trike—which is basically a
three-seated motorcycle with two side-by-side easy chair seats behind the
driver . . . a contraption that makes you a spectacle as you roar through town.
Besides that, we hiked a bit, shopped, and managed to “park” frequently on
dozens of public benches. But hey, we were once the Chris and Betty-Jos of our
travels.
Today
our grandkids brag to their friends about us—that at our very senior ages (and
I won’t admit to how senior), we’re still traveling the world. For me, the trip was something of a triumph .
. . that I managed to walk my way
across most of New Zealand.
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