The thing about people who cruise is that they are horrible tourists. They don't WANT to explore their destination. They don't want local food, or culture, or atmosphere. They have found their own perfect vacation: they are transported in a bubble of same-ness, to a "coach" (motor coach is one of my favorite cruise euphemisms. Greyhound Bus is more apt.) of same-ness, to a brief fish-bowl viewing of the local culture, to a coach-y return to the bubble of same-ness. The bubble where Lido buffets allow you to heap food upon your plate without embarrassment, where nearly alcohol-free girlie drinks allow you to act tipsy, and where the water is always drinkable and the bed always made.
Not that I'm complaining. An always-made bed is a novelty to me.
But the final mystery to me about cruisers is shopping. SHOPPING. It's the topic of on-board lectures and seminars, the boom of on-board stores, the heyday of port shops that earn "Cruise Line Approved" status, and the slow churn that keeps local economies afloat. What, oh what, is there to buy in Freeport, Bahamas? Shot glasses and piratey T-shirts, conch shells and starfish, diamonds of questionable provenance, and many cartons of cheap smokes. And nothing screams local like an obese man with a wedgie, wearing dark socks, sandals, and a "Show Me Your Booty" tee.
My favorite woman re-boarded the ship in front of us. Her blistered sunburn, girth, and fanny pack shouted tourist. But her new "BahamaMama" corn rows revealing her snowy scalp and jaunty pirate scarf attempted to proclaim local.
I'm glad she saw a new part of the world. She'll be able to knowledgeably explain to her friends that the Tropic of (skin) Cancer runs through the Bahamas. That latitude requires sunblock. Even in December.
