Jet-lagged and cranky, I lingered more than two hours in line waiting to trade my passport for a cabin key. When I finally unlocked my shipboard stateroom, I found the quarters dolefully furnished in a '50s motif of faded Formica and stuffed Naugahyde. It reminded me of the Bates Motel in Hitchcock's Psycho.
I would have chanced a shower, but my luggage hadn't yet arrived. It seemed to be as lost as Jimmy Hoffa, interred in a mausoleum of satchels, duffels, trunks and suitcases that stood floor-to-ceiling in the reception area.
Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, I learned that the executive chef was English. I envisioned four months of dining on kidney pies while waiting for clean underwear to arrive.
Such was the inauspicious start to my trip of a lifetime -- a dream cruise around the world.
Since Ferdinand Magellan captained the first globe-encircling voyage in 1519, travelers have longed to circumnavigate the planet by sea. Several firms now offer world cruises. Itineraries vary, but most have one commonality-- they are palatially expensive.
Then along came the now-defunct World Cruise Company. By chartering older vessels and abridging amenities, the Toronto-based outfitter planned to offer around-the-world voyages at down-to-earth prices. With rates starting at about $100 per day, a lifelong fantasy could become reality.
But nightmares came first. Needle-jabbing nurses used my arms as immunization pincushions. I had to order extra passport pages and a slew of advance visas. Suitcases needed to be packed, unpacked and repacked until they squeaked under airline weight limitations. Ultimately, hurried good-byes and a flight to Athens led to one long-anticipated moment.
Along with 600 others, I boarded the Ocean Explorer I in Greece. After a frustrating initiation, the journey began.
Tunis, capital of Tunisia, became our first port of call. Formerly controlled by the French, this North African coastal city offers European-style prosperity springing from Arab, Roman and Phoenician roots. Islamic but liberal, Tunis is where sheiks come to be sinful.
A tour guide led us through the ruins of Carthage, a Phoenician city so old it had been sacked by the Romans before the birth of Christ. Next came the Bardo Museum and its collection of ancient mosaics. For one shopper, this was too much sightseeing. She dashed into the museum's book shop in a desperate quest for souvenirs. To pay, she flashed American cash. When the clerk said he could only accept Tunisian dinars, the woman became indignant.
"I can't believe they wont take real money," she moaned.
"This is a foreign country," I suggested. "I doubt Barnes & Noble takes Tunisian currency back home."
Exiting the Mediterranean, we passed Prudential's Rock of Gibraltar on our way to Casablanca, Morocco. There, I signed up for a 12-hour bus trip to Marrakech, a vibrant city whose buildings echo the ruddiness of desert clay. As we wended our way there across the Saharan emptiness, our tour guide, Mohammed, bragged how Islamic men could have up to four wives. Eventually, one of the passengers had enough.
"That's nothing," the man shouted. "In North America, there is no limit to the number of wives we can have."
"Really?" Mohammed looked puzzled.
"Sure. We just have them one at a time."
Serial polygamy was even promoted onboard the ship. A plaque on the bridge assured potential newlyweds that marriages performed onboard lasted only for the duration of the cruise.
This ship's initial passengers did not have such options. Built in 1944, the vessel began its life as an American troopship hauling soldiers to World War II. Since then it has been refitted and refurbished into an ocean liner.
Old enough for AARP membership, the craft showed its age. Plumbing sputtered and ventilation wheezed. Threadbare carpets revealed years of stains, and paint barely concealed bathroom rust. The shabby conditions caused some to cancel passage and leave in disgust. Others shared their unhappiness, whining to anyone who would listen. I took it all in stride. For what we were paying, I could not expect opulence. Besides, the scruffiness reminded me of home.
On day 10, we reached the Canary Islands, a Spanish beach playground off Africa's northwest coast. Rather than take a tour, I opted to spend the day sauntering solo through the port city of Santa Cruz de Tenerife. Its sidewalk cafes, fountained parks and shady promenades provided a refreshing touch of Europe. Even though most places took dollars, I found an ATM and bought local currency. It felt liberating to escape fellow passengers.
The worst culinary disaster was the coffee. The muck brewed onboard came from beans that must have been ground beneath Juan Valdez's mule before being dumped aboard as bilge ballast. Greenpeace would have never allowed this foul substance to be spilled overboard for fear of killing whales.
Our last stop in the eastern Atlantic was Cape Verde, a former Portuguese island colony located off the coast of Senegal. In slave-trading days, African natives came through here on their way to Brazil.
Many of us crammed into pregnant minivans for an all-day, cross-island tour. In spite of cheek-to-cheek seating, the trip proved delightful. The island's arid, volcanic landscape reminded me of Arizona. Everywhere we drove, smiling, colorfully dressed residents stood by their homes and waved. Best of all, we did more sightseeing than shopping. It was a perfect "guy trip."
For six full days we crossed the Atlantic, and as it was throughout the journey, the time at sea was pure pleasure. Professional lecturers and retired professors gave talks about the science, culture and history of the places we visited. Passengers and staff taught classes on writing, dancing, painting and more. Between brain stimulations, there was time for reading, sunbathing and swimming.
At sunset, some poured drinks and gathered on deck. Eyes gazed westward in hopes of catching the elusive "green flash," a teal burst that can occur when the top of the solar disk touches the horizon. Those with stronger drinks claimed more sightings.
After dark, some of us searched for the Southern Cross. Others retreated to the lounges where musicians performed everything from Frankie Avalon to Frank Zappa. The ship's theater offered standard cruise-fare stage productions featuring magicians, comedians, cabaret singers or concert pianists. We even had guest speakers onboard.
Salvador became our first Brazilian port. Built on cliffs, this former colonial center features a color-splashed historical district. As I wandered around, a school-age lad approached. In his native Portuguese, he told me what I was looking at, but I failed to comprehend a single word.
"Obrigado," I thanked him, and walked on.
He followed, intent on providing a guided tour. Assuming he was freelancing, I offered money, but he refused the payment. The two of us continued through town. He explained the sights in his local language. I responded as best I could in a meld of pidgin Portuguese and Taco Bell Spanish. He grinned, graciously pretending to understand.
On world cruises, most port stops last only one day, and plans can be dashed if the weather proves uncooperative. Such was the case in Rio de Janeiro.
We arrived on Sunday, and I had hoped to go birding. Our onboard aviary expert said Rio's sugar-sand beaches should be rife with curvaceous, string bottomed chickadees. Unfortunately, gloomy drizzle greeted our arrival, and the only species I spotted were gaggles of Speedo-briefed beach roosters strutting plump plumage on shoreline volleyball courts.
Buenos Aires proved much sunnier. Parks, monuments and outdoor cafés fill Argentina's colorful and cosmopolitan capital. Here, fabric shrinkage seemed to be endemic. I encountered hundreds of young women whose apparel fit so tightly, if they had a peso in their pockets, I could read the year it was minted. It's no surprise that anorexia is rampant in this Paris of the South.
The windswept Falkland Islands became our first English speaking port. Looking at the barren landscape, I wondered how anyone but the British could desire such a desolate outpost.
But the Argentines apparently did. Two decades ago, their soldiers invaded the Falklands, battling the English in what one reporter said was akin to two bald men fighting over a comb. Temporarily victorious, the first thing the Argentines did was require traffic to drive on the right side of the road. A few months later, the British liberated the islands and restored left-lane motoring.
Steaming south, we crossed the Drake Passage, the 600-mile gap between South America and Antarctica that is billed as the roughest water on earth. Passengers downed Dramamine, wrapped wrist bands and plastered on patches, all in a desperate attempt to alleviate seasickness. Only when we reached frigid Antarctica did seas and stomachs calm.
In the South Shetlands, inflatable Zodiac boats unloaded us on a rocky Antarctic beach. There, we watched three-ton elephant seals lounge like lard-bellied couch potatoes while tuxedoed penguins strutted by like midget maître d's.
In the cool of Antarctica, our geezerly ship showed its years. A few cabins received enough heat to turn them into Finnish saunas. The ducts in mine, however, exhaled less warmth than a zombie's breath. I kept hoping the menopausal heating system would have a hot flash, but it never did.
We recrossed the Drake, passed Cape Horn and headed into the Beagle Channel off the island of Tierra del Fuego. After stops in Ushuaia, Argentina, the southernmost city in the world, wecontinued through the Straits of Magellan and on to Punta Arenas, Chile.
On day 48 we headed up the Patagonian coast through the incomparable Chilean fiord country. Its dark passages dripped with glaciers, ice chutes and waterfalls. Although temperatures hovered slightly above freezing, I spent as much time as possible on deck. With no cabin heat, it felt cozier outside.
As we turned to cross the Pacific, the journey dove to a low. Not only was the room colder than my ex-wife's stare, but the coffee quality tumbled from ghastly to worse. Rather than using beans, the cooks began making the brew from a bottled syrup that resembled crankcase-drained Pennzoil. I sipped the loathsome liquid only for warmth.
Fortunately, Polynesia loomed ahead.