Notes from the end of the world.

So we've been to the end of the world, well, so the souvenir T-shirts say. We headed down the coast of Chile, to Ushisia which is the most southern town in the world, around Cape Horn (a trip that earned us a certificate weather we bothered to awake for the navigation at all) and then to the Falkland Islands, interesting only for the fact that people actually died in a battle for what is primarily a rock with a fish and chip shop and a British red phone booth. The day trips have left a little bit to be desired. I'm not sure if it's the dull little port towns with little to offer other than a plethora of penguin souvenirs, or a seafaring strain of Stockholm Syndrome, but the family is opting pretty damn quickly to return to the tranquility of the boat. 

We are settling into the cruise like a comfy couch. There is nothing to think about, except choosing between TV Trivia at 3pm and Samba (just to prove that I still have a pulse I'm going to Samba). We finally made it to an origami class, however, like most things on board it was a let down, as we made a fish out of a piece of computer print out paper. No matter. It's a blissful, pseudo-catatonic state of wandering, slowly and without purpose, between buffets and organised events. It's just like a floating retirement village, and I think everyone knows how much I am looking forward to my days in a retirement home. It's Melrose Place, just with less sex appeal and more bingo. 

I'm trying desperately to upload photos to this site, but like the fashion seen at last night's formal evening, the technology on the boat seems a little bit behind. So, you'll just have to imagine them until we pull into port. Basically, if you picture a Depend ad on a boat you'll be getting the picture. Now, I've got to shuffle at a restrained pace if I want to get to the midday movie in the Vista lounge so I'll leave all the other interesting tidbits till later (and by interesting tidbits I mean seeing a man eat 14 corn cobs at the lunch buffet yesterday). Adios!

You can't make this ship up.

So this is where people go to die. This place is less Love Boat and more Cocoon. Except instead of invigorating the elderly, it seems to be dragging the life force from the young. We all can't stop sleeping, to my dismay as I have so far slept through the daily origami class, Spanish lessons with Jorge, Ballroom Dancing Fiesta and Sculpture at Sea. When we do venture out of our cabin fever, we spend so much time in a traffic jam of motorised wheel chairs and zimmer frames that we need to hurry back for a nap.

It's day three at sea and we're all starting to go a bit stir crazy. The weather is cooling dramatically and the sea is so choppy that they closed the pools this afternoon. We're yet to swim at all, and it's pretty unbearable to go outside. This morning we sailed past a glacier, which I guess was kind of cool (no pun intended). A lady next to us didn't seem to think so, and was planning to complain to the cruise director, citing false advertising as she was expecting an iceberg, similar to the one from Titanic. So I guess we're not the only guests hoping for a early way off the boat. We almost let out a cheer when the fire alarm was raised in the kids club yesterday, imagining a quick evacuation. It was, of course, a false alarm, which I guess is a relief, as with this crowd, quick is not really an option. I stood in line for hours yesterday at the sushi buffet as old, trembling hands tried to grab at California rolls with plastic tongs with the dexterity of Edward Scissorhands.

There's plenty to do during the day, you can't get past a geriatric without falling over a trivia game or a teeth whitening seminar. Interested in pearls? Jesus Robles is sharing his knowledge about them in the Wheelhouse Lounge at 2. Need to update your Excel skills? Try the Crown Grill at 1. Or if you're wondering if you're enjoying this holiday on any level, get hypnotised by Tim in the Vista Lounge at 2 (we did, and we're not). Thankfully there is a plethora of movies available either in the theatres, the cabins and even on the treadmills, so you can watch films seamlessly through out the day. Although it was hard to find a spare seat in Tuesday's presentation of The Bucket List. Like I said, where people go to die. Or at least go before they die.

It's the nights that really get you though. We've quickly distinguished ourselves as social outcasts, bunking off the captain's cocktail party (even through we were sent complimentary Carnation corsages) and rebelling against the evening dress codes. This of course keeps us out of all the reputable eateries, and so we eat off plastic plates in the general buffet, where at least we have a minimal contact with anyone. The staff on board are pretty damn horrendous, and I don't mean in the overly smiley, condescending American kind, but in the 'if you ask for a clean knife I'm going to shove it through your eye' kind. I always thought cruise ships paid pretty well and therefore would be full of competent, even perhaps friendly or happy staff. Instead we are greeted with death stares, served random items that rarely bear resemble what was ordered, or simply ignored. Everywhere you go there are signs warning of the spread of Gastro through the ship, and we have our suspicions that it's being spat into the food by the staff.

But we're having a great time of course! The Americans are as old, as fat and as clad in bad applique clothing as we could have hoped for, and their banal elevator chatter keeps us in endless hysterics. We've spotted numerous old men wandering the halls in their complimentary bath robes holding martinis in plastic cups, one of whom remarked to Courtnay and I that he was so pleased to see some teenagers on board. The breakfast buffet has endless smoked salmon and I've developed a serious cookie addiction (which I will hopefully be able to remedy with the hypnosis tricks I learnt today). The boat is so big, about 11 stories high, that we actually get a lot of exercise moving around it, not to mention improving our problem solving skills by finding new and ingenious ways around the zimmer frames. We're sleeping through so many meals that hopefully things won't be too scary once we hit warmer weather in a week or so and get the chance to use one of the six or so pools. And even if we do over indulge at the Trident hamburger grill or the Scoop ice cream bar, you can't help but feel pretty confident about yourself when you're about a quarter of the age and weight of the other passengers, and rarely, if ever, find yourself in sandals with socks. Even my parents are considered young and sprightly on this boat. So I guess it really is like Cocoon after all.

Planning to have a whale of a time

So it seems all my crazed packing rants were in vein, as the word on the street is that I will be fattened up so quickly on this boat that all i should be taking is a tent and watching out for women in gingerbread houses. It seems that 24 hour buffets do not white jeans make. The bikinis that I so lovingly chased around Melbourne will be reassigned as a head band to keep my hair out of my face as I stuff more pastries in my greedy mouth. My poor heels will break under the weight of unlimited steak and seafood platters, my sarongs will bulge with the contents of the grand patisserie, buttons will ricochet off in response to the pool bbq.

The other night my parents had a farewell party (you would think we were sailing Titanic style off into the history books) and there I was educated by a few cruise aficionados on the harsh realities of luxury cruising. That no matter how much time I spend in the ship's gym, or swimming in one of the five pools, walking around an area the size of chadstone, eventually the buffet is gonna get me. But don't cry for me Argentina, if I get too big for my clothes I can stay in my room for the whole trip, and order from the 24 hour room service menu. It could be like Super Size Me 2 . In fact I think the Big Mac is the only food I will not be able to get my greasy little hands on, that and anything with a calorie count under 500.

This will all make life very interesting in Rio, a town famous for naming their swimwear after dental floss. Wish me luck and fast metabolism....

This blog ate my homework

Right now I should be crafting these words into a 1500 word essay on the effect of the Age of Enlightenment on art in the 18th century. But I would hardly expect that to interest you in this, my maiden post, so I'll try and keep things a little less high school art theory and a little more high school musical. Although, should you ever find yourself stuck in a pretentious art conversation, you could always say the effect was big, and then ask if anyone has been to a really good tapas restaurant lately (cos let's face it, everybody has).

I apologise if this blog in anyway resembles the pretentious shit I am imagining it to be. Right now I am using it as a tool to share the potentially hilarious escapades due to take place on the Star Princess as of next Monday, but I have to admit that I am hoping eventually it will lead to fame, book deals and of course, my oft described dream of a place on dancing with the stars.

So, I'm about 3 and a half days from leaving on the big South America trip. Which means 3 and half days to create a mathematical principle that will allow me to fill my suitcase with double the amount that is currently possible to get in. I don't understand. The last time a I travelled was with a backpack and a military style packing principle of one pair of jeans, one jumper, one pair of havaianas (a decision that felt at the time much like Sophie's Choice). So this should be easy. I am taking the suitcase I trekked around the US with during my summer camp adventure. It once housed a sleeping bag, a parka, clothes suitable for three months of camping and a pair of authentic Butler High Dance Team Pom Poms. So why is it now having so much trouble with a few evening dresses and a pair or two of heels? Ok, so the shoes now number nine. Ten including my sneakers (which really don't count because I only plan to wear them at the gym). Eleven including the boots I'll be wearing on the plane. That one's not my fault. In the middle of my idyllic summer holiday i will be spending a couple of days on land so cold that only the English will live there. But I guess nine pairs of shoes are still a bit excessive. It's just that because of the backpacking rationing, I am dying to be able to dress up on this holiday. And the cruise has formal evenings, giving me a chance to wear the dresses usually reserved for weddings and races. The gold dress which, after a drunken debutante, needs a glamourous comeback. The blue and white maxi dress that I swore would be the stable of my summer wardrobe and only made it to two Christmas parties. The truth is, I don't lead a particularly glamourous life, something I tend to forget when choosing formal wear. So if I have a chance to wear my floor length metallic gold dress, I have to take it. Even if it is formal night on a geriatric cruise.

And then there's the clothes that I have labelled 'summer outfits that as a thirty-one year old woman I may never be able to get away with wearing again'. Like, when are you too old to wear a hippie patchwork backless halterneck? It was the pride of my 20's, my favourite top to dance away Sydney summer nights to the sounds of Dimitri from Paris, live at the Playboy Mansion. I would consider myself too old to get away with most things Playboy Mansion themed, so chances are I've missed the cut off on this top, but like the ubiquitous hen boding farewell to her batchelorette days, i feel like I need to send these clothes off in a manner deserving of their memory. Not sure that hanging at a marine themed discotheque with aforementioned Geriatric Americans is exactly the send of they deserve, but I'll give it a go.

Oh, and the white jeans that I've been too scared to ever wear because of a) covering them in a condiment of some variety, or b) looking the exact opposite of how Elizabeth Hurley looks in white jeans. The poor things have been lying perennially at the bottom of my draw for a year, waiting for those days when I feel an undeniable give in the elastic of my trackies, and decide to try them on again, inevitably to be disappointed and shunned back to the bottom of the draw. It's not you dear white jeans, it's me! These pants deserve to fulfil their destiny, and what self respecting white jean does not dream of one day being part of a cruise collection?

I am also taking seven books, which also sounds excessive, but I am sure will provide good amour from nosey Americans by the pool. Film for a polaroid style instant camera so I can be sure of having some developed photos from my trip (my poor rolls from Europe still weep in a bag in the corner of my room). The homework that I should be finishing now but am putting off to right this (so I'll blame you). And a few basic toiletries. So how does a full suitcase this make?

And where will I put all the havaianas that I bring home to apologise for making my friends sit through a blog about packing my suitcase?