Fun For All and All For Fun, or Life is One Long Week on The Carnival Magic. Part 5

Honduras!  Belize!  

Honduras?

As it turns out, Day 2, in few ways pleasant, proved instructive.  I'd decided that I'd eat exclusively at the Pirate if that's what it took, and that I'd take Klonopin in the middle of the afternoon because the doctor, daffy, to be sure, yet perceptive, must have seen run-ins on the High Seas coming; heck, everyone else, even high school seniors, was tippling, so I would too.  To steal a cliche about maintaining an even keel, the duration of the trip would be smooth sailing, more or less, yet still with notable exceptions.  Day 3 came and went without recollection save playing putt putt golf, so my plan worked.

Actually, it occurs to me just now that one of the ship's defining events took place on Day 3; as such, I'd be remiss if I did not mention it (my plan worked that well.)  The cruise director, who'd be damned if he was going to let Honduras upstage him, planned a dance party that took place on the Lido Deck.  We were on the periphery of it, but why we were present at all escapes me; surely we were there for a reason other than the cruise director's dance party.  I'm speculating that my wife and I had just gotten out of the hot tub, only to wind up at the Cruise Director's Dance Party of the Damned (Attendance Mandatory.)

Paris Hilton would have fled into the arms of her mother and father upon seeing this spectacle; me, I sat and smoked cigarettes, utterly transfixed by it.  The tangle of bodies was such that it looked like one big undulating, tan mass, a frat mixer in which the punch was spiked with PCP and a moonlit voodoo rite that was Fun For All if there had been questioning about the affair later all rolled up.  At one point, the cruise director offered cold, hard cash to the partier who showed off his or her most lasciviousness dance moves.  That was when I met the acquaintance of a gentleman I'd encounter twice more before going back home.  Seated at a barstool, he turned to me and said, "They're workin' it!"  I agreed insofar that you had to call it something for brevity's sake.  I'll say this:  the prize winner's moves must have really been something, and that Paris Hilton had more moral rectitude than I did for fifteen minutes.  What did I care?  I was ripped on 'ludes.

Honduras?

On Day 4, we arrived at the first of our three destinations, Honduras.  I confess to knowing little about Honduras before our trip, other than the most vague suspicions of political unrest, American citizens mysteriously disappearing, and blood sacrifice.  "Honduras:  Vacation Destination" would have been among the last I would have imagined.  I did imagine myself heading a junta a la Woody Allen in Bananas, an idea that my wife looked upon with strong disfavor.

Having spent a few hours there, I can say that Honduras has a ways to go before it can be considered a bona fide tourist destination; however, I'll add that it's already a bona fide tourist trap where you'll pay fifteen American dollars for nachos with runny cheese and bits of meat (your choice of beef, chicken, or shrimp) you'll get sick of picking out.  I can also say that the phrase  "Don't worry - it's safe" means "Death is a strong probability" or "Your hat will be stolen" in Honduras, depending on the context.  In Honduras' favor, I can say that beach-going there is a lot like beach-going in Galveston, only with a Third World clean-up crew picking up everyone's Bud Light cans, Doritos bags, cigarette butts, and spent lighters.

If one sprung for a Honduran snorkeling excursion, one began that excursion from a pier constructed to look weathered, and, by the looks of things, did so at his unsupervised peril.  My mom paid for three, but we all declined due to time constraints (the cruise director wanted us back aboard the ship so we could watch him on TV), the excursion's being misrepresented, and by my desire not to drown.  It turns out that no one in our party wanted to jump off a rusty looking pier.

The water in Honduras looked like we'd washed our dishes in it. I wanted to a get a closer look at the waters the dolphins and snorkelers shared, so I took a walk down to the pier.  There, I saw a gentleman in a Tommy Bahama t-shirt.  The shirt had a slogan that read "Life is One Long Weekend."  Judging by his t-shirt, I guessed that the gentleman was a retiree or independently wealthy.  He's an older gentleman who, nevertheless, looks to be in good health.  Blessed with time, money to blow, and vigor, what was he doing in Honduras?  Maybe he was living the life of the narrator of Jimmy Buffet's Margaritaville, a man whose biggest problems are torn flip-flops, pop-tops, and hangovers of such ferocity that he has a hard time piecing together the events of the past evening.  All of those problems are easily remedied for the narrator and the bon vivant in the Tommy Bahama t-shirt. Their hangovers are cured with margaritas, and their flip-flops can be replaced without too much hassle.  The clean-up crew has seen to the pop-tops, so Tommy Bahama can continue his endless bender without the risk of tetanus.

Both gentlemen seem to have adopted the slogan "Life's a Beach," or some variant of it.  Indeed, both lead the charmed life of the eternal beach bum, the life of enviable insouciance free from concern over the bills, the boss, the consequences of drinking too much, or applying sunscreen.  If you're like me, you've wondered how they finance their devil-make-care lifestyle.

I also saw the elderly woman whose likeness is the spitting image of Maxine's, the greeting card character best known for her grouchy musings on aging.  I'd seen her once before, in the ship's dining room.  Someone had smashed one of those paper crowns on her head, and Maxine's face indicated that she didn't like that thing on her head one bit.  In Honduras, however, she was really living it up.  It turned out that my initial impression of her couldn't have been more wrong.  One night before bed, my wife and I turned on the TV, and there was Maxine, older than the Tenth Commandment, shaking her rump right in everyone's faces, and why not?  Hallmark must have compensated her quite handsomely, so handsomely that she could live on the ship in her own special suite.

Belize!

Everyone in our party had full run of the ship the day it anchored at Belize.  We took a pass on that excursion because the destination was a forty-five minute boat ride away.  The Lido Deck was deserted.  It was the most glorious afternoon I spent on the ship.

I'd had my fill of questionable pork, and since all the chubby kids  were off picking on  foreigners (secretly, I'd prayed that they'd all be kidnapped and forced to clean beaches), I took my place in line at the Mongolian Wok.  The Tell Us How To Make Your Burrito line was shorter than usual, too, so I enjoyed a lunch of stir-fried noodles and a burrito that afternoon.

We had the pools and waterslides to ourselves that afternoon, too.  I figured that if I couldn't go snorkeling, I'd slide down the Twister, a waterslide whose name I should have paid more heed to.  I slipped in and shot down the slide like Jerry Lewis in a tear gas chamber.  I agreed that the experience was much more efficient and pleasant than embarking the ship.

I'd looked forward to the expedition to Belize most, and with everyone gone, I was having the time of my life.  I ate like a heathen, and I enjoyed my afternoon nap without interruption from the hubbub on the Lido Deck or announcements from the cruise director.  For a few hours, I enjoyed the vacation I wanted.