Of our three excursion days, it was this day that I found most memorable and exciting, as we signed up to go ziplining in Puerto Vallarta! I had previously ziplined for the first time in Puerto Rico, and absolutely fell in love with the activity. As this excursion was Matt’s first time ziplining, I was so excited for him, and I knew he’d have a really wonderful time!

I seem to recall that this was another somewhat early day for us, but—unlike the previous day’s morning preparing for a lethargic and uninspiring bus trip—I was already feeling the adrenaline of flying through the air kicking in, so waking up and getting started on this day felt quite easy. Since we had quite a strenuous day ahead of us, we quickly fueled up on breakfast sandwiches at the Promenade Cafe followed by coffees from the Princess Live Cafe before disembarking.

As we exited the ship and onto land, there was a festival atmosphere greeting us. There were two long rows of tented canopies under which stood tables stacked with souvenirs, eager vendors enthusiastically trying to make a sale. There was aso a mariachi band, its players dressed in traditional charro suits and wide-brimmed sombreros, excitedly playing “Tequilla” (among other tunes) to get us all energized for the day. The scene felt like something straight out of some movie, and I couldn’t help but find myself enjoying everything. I was also struck by how polished and shining Puerto Vallarta was compared to Cabo and Mazatlán. When we originally signed up for this cruise, I thought all of our ports of call would feel as stereotypically polished as Puerto Vallarta, all preconceptions about what a resort town should look like made manifest in this city.

Soon we were huddled together with our fellow zipliners, and the mood of the whole group was markedly different from the schlubs we traveled with on the bus tour from the previous day. Today’s group was a crowd that was ready for some real adventure, young and old, including a spritely grandmother who looked to be in her 60s. Matt definitely did not feel bad ju-ju today as he did yesterday. All fifteen of us eventually boarded a large van where we got to get to know fellow passenger and zipliner Cindy from California who said she had never gone ziplining before but had been to Puerto Vallarta before.

As with Mazatlán, when we started to make the hour-long trek inland to Extreme Adventures in the heart of the Mexican jungle, en route we got to see some more crazy, crazy traffic patterns the likes I had never seen before: speedy daredevil left turns across multiple lanes of busy traffic; so many tractors with trailers trundling along; countless madmen on motorcycles weaving in and out of traffic with reckless abandon; speedbumps and more speedbumps failing to fulfill their function.

Also en route we got to meet our guide for the day, a handsomely bearded young man and self-admitted adrenaline junkie, Hector, who told us all about our day while pointing out various landmarks on the way, referring to the local jail we passed by as a great hotel if you’re looking for a cheap, extended stay. He also told us that we’d be ziplining deep in the dense Mexican jungle and that there may be poisonous plants and trees, giant spiders, and boas. So basically, “Don’t touch anything,” he warned.

Eventually, the relatively smoothe, paved roads—speedbumps aside—gave way to a single, gravel so-called “road,” washed out from heavy rain: rough, rugged, and rutted, the van thrown about, its passengers flung from side-to-side. When we got out, there was a yellow jeep parked on the road, and I immediately felt like I was on the film set for Jurassic Park: dense and impossibly green foliage, giant leaves and intertwining vines obscuring the horizon, the sunlight lighting the ground in dappled patches.

Nestled within the jungle was a rustic, wooden building that reminded me of a style of construction you might see at a Minnesota state park, where we got to meet the rest of the staff who helped us get into the ziplining gear, complete with a hardhat that we labeled with our names using sturdy tape and a thick marker. Once we were all set, we made our way to some rows of wooden benches amongst the thicket away from the visitor center where we were given a crash course in how to properly zipline. And before we knew it, we were off!

When I ziplined in Puerto Rico, my adventure there felt quite truncated compared to what we got to do in Puerto Vallarta. Instead of the two lengthy routes I reveled in over the Puerto Rican jungle, the adventures outside Puerto Vallarta involved nine separate tracks, each with their own individual eccentricities and personalities. Most of them were relatively short jaunts, but enjoyable and exhilarating nonetheless. However, a particularly memorable track was a longer, roller coaster style zipline where we got to glide through the air, zoom around 90 and 180 degree arcs, dip down and immediately back up along thrilling parabolas built along the track, the drops simulating momentary weightlessness just as we’d plunge downwards.

There were other parts of the adventure that required quite a feat of stamina and willpower, especially for those of us who have a fear of heights. My fear of heights is particularly strange: it becomes activated when I’m in tall buildings like the Empire State, the Eiffel Tower, or the Fire of London monument, a fear that I might lose control of all my senses and throw myself off over the edge. However, when I’m riding the Roosevelt Island Tramway or, well, going ziplining, this fear isn’t activated. (It doesn’t make sense. I know. That’s why they call these fears irrational.) That said, there were two moments during this round of ziplining where my fear of heights were tested like they never were before.

The first such moment came when we had to rappel down a tree, which was especially terrifying because we had to first make our way around the tree along a narrow walkway as if we were Ewoks, all the while gazing in terror upon our fellow zipliners ahead of us who were lowered slowly down to their death, er, doom, er, long, long pleasant life ahead of them. When it was my time, Matt was behind me, and he described and indescribable fear in my eyes as I was securely roped in, asked to slowly sit backwards into nothing but the open air below me, and try my best to put a strong face on for the camera as I dangled from the tree 20 meters high.

But this was only a preview of more terrifying things to come. Later on, we were faced with a decision to climb 22 meters up a tree using a roped climbing net, and the staff were very clear on the consequences of our decision: “Once you decide to climb up, there’s no turning back. You must continue.” I made the decision with a feigned confidence that I would challenge myself to this task before I realized that after we finished climbing up a tree, we had to literally tightrope walk about 25 feet to another tree. I was already halfway up the climbing net when I realized what was going to come next, and I started to severely doubt my abilities to carry on.

Climbing up the net itself was quite scary on its own, and at one point during our climb one of our guides asked us to hang back as far as we could and flex some biceps for the camera. I tried as best I could to do this, but all I could think about was the tightrope walking ahead of me and the fact that I was climbing up this ridiculous net in the first place. Not before long, however, I found myself staring out at the burdensome tightrope assignment: two ropes drawn tightly between two trees, one for my feet and one drawn above the other for my hands to hold onto for dear life.

I honestly couldn’t believe what I was about to do, but I did it regardless. It was the most surreal thing I ever found myself doing; more surreal than swimming with dolphins; more surreal than seeing Ian McKellan on stage in London in a one-man show; more surreal than seeing any famous landmark with my own eyes for the first time rather than in a picture in a book. I made my way slowly yet with some semblance of assurance, staring in disbelief of the sheer drop below me, nothing but two ropes keeping me in the air, a safety rope attached to one of the steadying ropes. But the amazing sense of accomplishment I felt that I conquered this task sent me such a lift of confidence and such a rush of adrenaline that everything that remained on our ziplining adventure seemed easy and effortless. Indeed, following the tightrope walking we immediately had to hop across 15 or so tall logs standing about 3-4 feet apart that brought us back to stable land, the logs deliberately planted into the ground to wobble ever so slightly as we made our way.

There was one final moment that would test anyone with a fear of heights, but by this point there was so much adrenaline rushing through me I felt such confidence that I could do anything: the task involved jumping off another platform affixed to another tall tree in order to swing back and forth a couple times, a giant human pendulum eventually coming to a rest with the aid of our trusty guides on the ground ready to catch us. I felt so proud and so happy that I worked up the courage to complete all these tasks, and I found myself appreciating a renewed meaning of the word bravery: that being brave involves conquering some tantalizing fear, working up the courage to carry on regardless in the face of something that seems inexplicably insurmountable. And the rewards that follows in doses of adrenaline is unlike any feeling of bliss that cannot be replicated in any other way. I found myself understanding Hector even more when he earlier described himself as an adrenaline junkie.

The absolute trophy of all our adventures, though, was the very last activity we got to do, a zipline aptly named the Superman. We got to position ourselves in the Superman pose as if flying through the air, our bodies in the prone position parallel to the Earth, flying along 1200 meters of cable, through open air, through corridors of trees, nothing but the gorgeous Mexican jungle around us. What a joy and a delight it was that we signed up for this excursion. It was probably my favorite thing about all the things we did on our travels, and I would do it all again in a heartbeat, even the tightrope walking.

Following our flights through the trees, we were brought back to the visitors center by way of a large truck, all of us huddled together in the back of the vehicle sitting on long benches, the vehicle tossing us all about as we traveled the wild, unkempt roads in these hinterlands. When we arrived, we were treated to some real Mexican food, not the gringoized slop we had just the previous day: real quesadillas and real nachos with real spicy salsa—zesty and fiery, a tasty reflection of the fierce and intense activities we just completed, all topped off with refreshingly cold beers. We also bonded a little bit with Hector, who we discovered was also queer and who confided to us about the difficulties he sometimes encounters amongst some of his coworkers just because he is who he is.

We eventually made our way back to the ship, and I wanted to bring back a souvenir of a bottle of real, proper, Mexican mezcal. So we made our way down and back up all the canopied tables of wares before setting on a particular vendor who had bottles of mezcal, one potent potable with an entire scorpion resting in the bottom of the bottle. I did ask if there were any bottles of mezcal that didn’t have any critters in them, but he explained with a knowing smile that having critters in a bottle of mezcal is the point. When he told me that one bottle was ten dollars, I couldn’t believe the price. So he wrapped up the bottle, but his phone was having a hard time running the transaction. So, he had to call another friend who took a couple minutes to arrive. I actually very nearly gave up on buying the bottle as we waited, but I felt determined all the same.

When his friend arrived, he said that the bottle cost one hundred dollars, and I was abruptly surprised and said, “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I thought you side it was ten. One hundred is too much.” (Honestly, though, what an honest mistake to make—although perhaps I’m being gullible—as I could tell he was trying his best to speak in English. After all, from my perspective, in Spanish the words for ten and one hundred are diez and cien, respectively, so I very well could’ve made the same mistake if the roles were reversed.) All this said, he remarked, “I really want to make this sale. What if I sell it to you for $80?” While I still thought the price was too high, I grudgingly conceded and purchased the bottle. All things considered, everything really was fine, and I was so happy to bring that bottle back home while giving this vendor a notable sale.

And so, just like that, our third and final excursion day on land came to a close. And while the next time we’d set foot on land would be when our entire cruise would come to a close, ahead of us we still had two more days at sea. And the evening that awaited us would give us a glimpse of the pampering and relaxing and jolly good old time that would fill our remaining two days at sea.

Those jolly good old times continued, naturally enough, with a visit to the LGBT meetup at our favorite bar, the Take Five Lounge. We had a really good time seeing Mike and Sonny again (Mike commented that he had read the first post about our nautical adventures, remarking that it felt like he was traveling along right with us as he read it). We also had a relaxed meal at the Marketplace buffet, which continued to be reliable, but I had to remind myself that the Marketplace was not going to ever be any kind of fine or high dining, only that it served its function to provide somewhat mildly tasty yet handy and accessible sustenance.

After three pretty packed and scheduled days, Matt and I were really looking forward to our final two days spent entirely at sea to lounge about and revitalize ourselves while admiring stunning views of the sea. And our last two days aboard this ship certainly did not disappoint in the least…

Stray tips and observations:

1. Something Matt and I didn’t consider when we decided to go on this cruise was how we’d travel through three different time zones while aboard, but it makes sense when you study the map. By the time we got to Puerto Vallerta, for example, we were back on the same time zone as Minnesota. However, sometimes I don’t think the ship time actually matched the actual time zone we were in, as clocks would only shift overnight. This makes sense, as it would be challenging for the cruise director to create the schedule of events if suddenly the clocks shifted forwards and backwards an hour during the day.
2. As our ship made its way back north to Los Angeles, we and others noticed how much more rocky the ship was compared to the original trek south. I was so grateful for the dramamine, prescription motion-sickness patches, and the wristbands I wore to combat any woozy feelings. But even with these precautions, I still couldn’t help but feel a little lightheaded, but not so much so that I had to cancel any of our frivolities while aboard.
3. There was one moment where we overheard on two separate occasions people complaining really loudly to waiters about the bar hours and the Princess phone app. (Encountering unpleasant people like this was something I feared when I signed up for this cruise.) This kind of behavior just really turns me off, and I would advise other passengers to express those sentiments more quietly amongst fellow passengers and to please leave your loud protestations for the end-of-cruise survey that you’ll receive via email.

The thing about traveling on such a luxurious ship is that being on the ship is—in many ways—more exciting than being ashore, especially if it’s your first time traveling by such a ridiculous mode. That said, our dolphin excursion yesterday was nearly perfect (apart from our ethical wranglings). Since that adventure occurred in the afternoon, it allowed us time to pamper ourselves aboard the ship before departing for land. However, for our second port of call, Mazatlán, we chose to do an all-day tour of the city, which required meeting in the expansive Princess Theatre by 8:00 in the morning (if I’m remembering correctly; it felt early and we had to set an alarm, which I don’t generally like to do when I’m on vacation) in order to get everyone organized to board the correct bus once ashore, so there was no time to enjoy the spa or take it easy by indulging in brunchtime cocktails.

But we still wanted to at least have breakfast, so I seem to recall arriving at the Skagway dining hall sometime during the 7:00 hour to quickly enjoy some coffee, fruit, syrupy figs, and French toast. (The ever reliable Skagway was ever delightful as ever.) We did manage to enjoy a little conversation with two ladies from China who were sat next to us. They both told us that they now live in Pennsylvania and New York and that they enjoyed a hiking excursion the previous day. We also gabbed a bit about weather patterns in our respective cities and talk about Prince, or course, who invariably always comes up when you tell someone you’re from Minneapolis.

As I said, there wasn’t much time to dawdle in the morning, so we arrived timely in the Princess Theatre to start the day’s excursion. It was immediately at this moment where I started to worry a bit that our day was going to be a bit, er, off. There were hordes and hordes of people lining up outside the theatre to be stamped, labeled, and cataloged (we had to wear color- and number-coded stickers which efficiently informed staff where we were going and what group we needed to join). While it was a very slick operation and we got where we were going pretty quickly (I don’t know how else the Princess staff would manage this), there’s just something about big group activities like this that just doesn’t sit well with me.

And the teeming hordes of people didn’t let up from there. Once we stepped off the ship, there were more endless lines of people queueing up to board one of many countless coach buses. By the time we got on the correct bus, it was crowded with more wretched masses, the lady sitting in front of me reclining her seat all the way back so that I could, if I so desired, inhale follicles of hair. (Why she needed to fall asleep right away again after presumably having just gotten up is beyond me.) Matt smartly suggested we head to different seats, which we promptly did, sitting next to other strangers who at least had an understanding of personal bubbles.

But as our excursion continued, things continued to just feel ickier and ickier. I think part of the problem is we misunderstood what we signed up for. I had envisioned that we’d be taken into town by bus and then we’d have hours and hours to spend in town just lollygagging and exploring. Unfortunately, this excursion was a rigidly guided bus tour, our knowledgeable tour guide—as nice as she was—imparting facts and figures about Mazatlán, Mexico, its 33 states, and the sites we were seeing. But we were trapped on this overcrowded bus, a bunch of privileged white people staring at the brown people toiling away in the fields, as it were. It just felt, well, icky. All this said, the tour guide told us that the main economy of Mazatlán was tourism, with agriculture and fish and shrimp following next. So it was because of us tourists that the folks we were seeing had a job. But even still, it all still just felt, well, icky. Welcome to planet Earth, I guess. This is how we do things.

On the ride to our first stop (traffic patterns of a type I hadn’t ever seen, cars recklessly stopping and going, so many motorcycles weaving in and around and about, a chaotic pattern of barely recognizable order), we rode past a fish and shrimp market (popup canopies lined down the street under which stood tables and tables topped with crates filled with huge, huge shrimp and juicy, juicy tuna), a florería (a flower market brimming with blazing colors, a gentleman coming aboard with a flower arrangement in the shape of a poodle), and the Monumento a la continuidad de la vida (a metal monument of a pod of life-size dolphins emerging out of a flat dais, giant mammals jumping out of the sea, forming graceful arcs against the bright, blue, clear sky), before eventually arriving and getting out of the bus at El clavadista (literally, “the diver”), where we zigzagged through a gaggle of street vendors aggressively forcing jewelry and sombreros in our faces. All of this to bizarrely witness a mini show where some fit men dove off an impressive cliff several yards high and into the sea and who then came to us asking for tips. It all seemed so strange, and I was just somewhat taken aback that we signed up for this tour and that we live on a planet where people sign up for a tour like this.

With barely a minute to spare to quickly take a selfie, the gorgeous seafront in the background, it was time to board the coach and carry on to the next stop. The bus took us along Paseo del centenario, a winding road that traced the rocky coastline. While we were afforded views of more statues and monuments standing tall and elegant against the deep blue sea and clear blue sky and also were afforded a view of Isla el creston (a majestic island rising imposingly out of the sea off the southern coast, the highest point in the city atop which stands the highest lighthouse above sea level built on natural terrain), the views were all from the confines of a cramped coach bus that didn’t allow us quality time with anything that passed us by.

We were additionally cheated of quality time when we arrived at the stop that I was most looking forward to, the center of town, to explore the Catedral basilica de la inmaculada concepción. We had a mere 40 minutes to use the bathroom, explore the cathedral, and—just for fun—try to get our passports stamped at the post office. After finding the building we thought was the post office (after doing some research, it was actually the city hall), I spoke in broken Spanish with a local to find the bathrooms (I caught enough to hear him say azul to help me locate a blue platform leading to los ba?os), and then right in the courtyard of the the city hall building, we stood in a line for a window labeled pasaporte. What could go wrong? Surely this is the line for the post office where we can get our passports stamped!

After waiting a solid five minutes or so, we eventually saddled up to the window, where I said, “Queremos unas estampillas para nuestros pasaportes,” while handing the women our passports. (If you speak better Spanish than I, you’ll already be chuckling about how I messed up. Read the stray tips and observations below to find out what I should have said.) The lady took our passports, which were now being held behind her glass window, and she typed into the computer for a bit while repeating my full name. “Si,” I responded. Then she proceeded to say that it was going to cost some money (I caught enough to hear her say some number and the word pesos). “¿Cuánto cuesta?” I asked, and she repeated the number. Out of desperation, I then just gestured a stamping motion with my hand while making a “chk-chk” sound. Confused, she disappeared from the window and spoke with her colleagues. Meanwhile, Matt and I were so perplexed what was happening and started to become worried that our passports weren’t retrievable at this point. Eventually the lady returned, and I was able to figure out enough in Spanish that we needed to go three blocks in a different direction to find a building con tres leones. (I think.)

While I was feeling defeated and embarrassed in the moment, I knew that this whole exchange would make a great story to tell. (And indeed it has!) I also somewhat enjoy experiences like this, as it helps me to feel empathy for others in the United States who may be in similar situations where there is no common language. It really is agonizing and embarrassing to not be able to express with ease what you need.

Moving on, we had mere minutes to explore what I thought was going to be where we’d spend most of our time on the whole excursion, the basilica cathedral. Completed in 1899, it’s not a terribly old structure, but it’s gorgeous nonetheless. Outwardly, three dramatically tall pointed trefoil arches frame an inset facade of white and grey rectangular stones arranged in a stair step pattern, and the arches were flanked by twin canary yellow bell towers rising tall and mighty above the city atop which soared golden spires. The inside of the cathedral revealed a much more Baroque style compared to its architecture on the outside: an elegant black-and-white checkerboard floor; elegant stone columns standing resolute like rows of soldiers, all supporting arches intersecting each other at right angles to support elegant vaults adorned with more grey and black stones in a stair step pattern. At the far end of the cathedral in the sanctuary stood a tall shrine for the virgin Mary, a recreation of the famous Our Lady of Guadalupe housed within a grand stone canopy rising high towards the ceiling with twin spires that flanked an impressive dome.

Time was running so short, however, so we quickly zoomed past the usual statues of Jesus looking bored (he always looks bored, for some reason) and boarded the cramped coach to make our way to our last stop, the Golden Zone, a sliver of land squeezed against the shoreline, packed with tourists and hotels and shops selling various chintzy souvenirs. We also were allowed a brief moment to check out the shoreline itself, changing quickly into swim trunks, but the waters weren’t the usual bright, clear, blue waters of the sea I remember from, say, the beaches of Puerto Rico, but instead dark and dank and brown, the smell of dead fish permeating the air and inhibiting any ability to enjoy anything about anything whatsoever.

We soon had a dinner show to go to over the lunch hour, so we headed to Hotel Playa Mazatlán in the Golden Zone where I experienced the worst two hours of my life. First we all lined up to a buffet to enjoy a so-called “Mexican dinner”—so-called because somehow we were in Mexico and the dinner they prepared was the blandest and most tasteless Mexican food I had ever had. And this is saying something, because I grew up in (and still live in) the Midwest where real, authentic Mexican food was (and sometimes still is) hard to come by. But honestly, the tacos served at my high school’s cafeteria were more flavorful than the slop they served us at Hotel Playa Mazatlán. But it was clear that they made Mexican food for gringos (and overcorrected, I must say), as one of the tourists with us asked the cooks, “Is it spicy?” (they couldn’t be bothered to learn the word picante) to which the polite servers shook their heads with a smile that might’ve been a tad sarcastic. The menu itself was also strange: along with the usual beans and rice and enchiladas, they also served us some kind of iceberg lettuce salad? And a noodle salad? And roasted chicken? It was so strange, and I wish I could have seen a photo of my face as I made my way through the line.

As we sat down to eat, they also brought us margaritas that were also gringoized: so overly sweet and syrupy it made my teeth hurt. And then if things couldn’t get any worse, we were sat next to this nuts old lady from California who was talking about mediums, psychics, and channeling energy to speak to spirits. (“Oh my god. I’m in hell,” I whispered under my breath. “You realize none of that is actually real,” I wanted to comment, but I just smiled and nodded and let her carry on with her delusions.)

And then began the show. It was fine enough. I really wanted to like it, as It seemed to be pretty traditional Mexican songs and dances: men dancing forcefully with heavy boots that shook the stage to excited rhythms; a solo male singer singing a traditional Mexican tune with fiery passion; female dancers flitting about the stage lightly and elegantly in colorful, flowery dresses that flowed and floated through the air. But then there were a few moments that required audience participation (I just hate audience participation), that led eventually two unfortunate souls getting up on stage, yelling “Arriba!” and drinking some tequila. All this considered, I continued to feel guilty and insecure about the whole day, us gringos being carted around so that we may watch the brown people put on a show for us while we ate food that they certainly would never eat. It just all felt inauthentic and plasticized.

Soon the show was over, and we had to wait for what felt like way too long for the coach to depart to bring us back to the ship, Matt and I deciding to just sit on a bench outside on the driveway leading to the hotel. Eventually, we did board the horrid coach, and we got to view some more incredible views of the sea from the coastline. But by this point we both just wanted to excursion to be over, so it was difficult to pay attention to our tour guide tell us about the observatorio, the Mexican Revolution, the lighthouse, and the Bay of Mazatlán, all while the coach winded slowly and precariously along the cliffside road.

We, of course, eventually did make it back to the ship, and we were feeling a little deflated by our day. So we spent some quality time in the spa to recover (my gosh, did we ever love that spa), and then we retired back to our cabin and enjoyed some cocktails on our lovely balcony, taking in the incredible views of gorgeous Mexican sunset, blazing oranges and shimmering golds igniting the sky in a vibrant celebration of color. It was then that I realized (and as I remarked at the outset of this post) that I don’t think cruises are a good way to explore and experience foreign countries… at least not in the way I prefer to adventure through distant lands, throwing myself right in the thick of it, using the wrong verbs, spending hours and days in a single city or on a single island. Rather, cruises are a great way to pamper yourself, enjoy a floating resort on the sea, and truly relax on vacation. Feel free to go on all the excursions you want, but don’t feel obligated to sign up for all the excursion days available to you. Stay on the ship, if you want, and don’t feel guilty about hanging back. If you do sign up for excursions, then choose options that are truly adventurous like swimming with dolphins, or—as you’ll find out on my next post—ziplining. Steer clear of the guided bus tours, for sure.

As the evening carried on and as the ship began to depart for open waters, Matt and I once again checked in with the LGBT meetup group in the Take Five lounge. We got to see Sammy and Kevin again, and we spoke of the heat in California. The meetup group really was an lovely highlight of our time on the ship, and I’m grateful we went as often as we did.

We closed out our evening by enjoying dinner at the Skagway Dining Hall, and we had the most adorable waiter, Ramon: a short, stout, round man, fancily dressed and ever so charming, and who had the most enchanting accent (I think he was from Peru or Mexico, if I’m remembering rightly). As we would order, he would enthusiastically exclaim, “Jyeeeeeeeesss,” with a melodic flourish, a glissando from low to high in pitch, like some kind of stereotype out of a Simpsons episode. And then he’d furthermore gush, “Jyour welcome!” when we would thank him when he brought us our drinks or our plates.

It was Italian night at the Skagway, but it was the first time Matt and I both felt a little underwhelmed by the food. All I recall from the evening was the lasagna I ordered (I’m sorry, I didn’t take very good notes to help me remember), and the lasagna was dry and flavorless. I’m sure the same adjectives would describe everything else I don’t remember. What I do remember, though, is our dear water, Ramon, and his alluring accent and charismatic personality.

And so, just like that, our second day on land came to a close. And while we were both very underwhelmed by the day (Matt would later confess that he felt “bad juju” right away in the morning when we were boarding the buses), I’m grateful that we now know to avoid guided tours on future cruises and stick to the more adventurous excursions. And, indeed, adventure we certainly did have on our third day on land!

Stray tips and observations:

1. It was handy to know even just a little Spanish while in Mazetlán, as the locals generally knew as much English as I did Spanish. But also, it’s just plain polite to try a little bit, and you’ll generally make a more favorable impression.
2. When we were at the city hall, the mistake I made was requesting estampillas, which is the word for postage stamp. We think the woman behind the glass thought we wanted to mail our passports to the US. What I should’ve said (I believe) was either sello de pasaporte or “¿Puede sellar nuestros pasaportes?”
3. As the ship pulled out of port, folks on land waved goodbye using the flashlights on their phones, as the sun was setting fast. It was a super cute little moment, and I returned the wave in the same fasion.

Waking up on our second morning on our lovely ship, the Discovery Princess, we found ourselves arriving at our first port of call, Cabo. Our excursion to shore for the day wasn’t until the afternoon, however, so we continued to make generous use of our lovely, lovely ship. We fell into a delightful habit of having breakfast at the Skagway Dining Hall, the only one of the three dining halls aboard that served breakfast. The Skagway was always ever so reliable, and always ever so splendid. It was on this day that I noticed an enchanting woman who I assumed was one of the managers: a tall, commanding woman, hair done up elegantly in an exquisite bun that sat atop her crown, adding height to her imposing yet inviting persona, dressed smarty in a loftily grey suit. If I had to guess from her accent, she was Polish or Ukrainian or Russian, and she endearingly invited her guests into the dining hall with a mesmerizing accent, “K-hh-aaahm aaah-p staaaayche, my luu-fff!” (i.e. “Come up stage, my love”), but with a face that revealed her Eastern European sensibilities, deadpan and straight, not a smile in sight, but with a heart beaming infinitely and alluringly.

Following breakfast, we visited the Enclave in the ship’s spa, but this time better prepared with swimsuits. And when we arrived, the goddamn associates near the front counter, all lined up as if we were facing a firing squad, again tried to sell us a goddamn massage package. (Don’t get me wrong… I love a massage, but not at the price they were selling it.) I can’t remember if it was on this visit or on our next one where—as we scurried past the insects hungry for blood—I just firmly but politely told the associates, “No, we’re just here only for the Enclave,” and carried on down the hall to the Enclave.

While in the Enclave, we again enjoyed the various heated chambers that I wrote about in my last post (I won’t belabor you with the details all over again about how lovely they are), but on this visit we could also at last enjoy the hydrotherapy pool and showers. The hydrotherapy pool was perhaps 30 feet by 15 feet (I’m so bad at guessing distances, so take that estimate with barrels of salt) and perhaps 3-4 feet deep. The water was just warm enough (although it could’ve been a little warmer, in my opinion), and jets throughout the pool roiled the water about in an abounding celebration of bubbly currents and vigorous torrents. One of my favorite things to do was float upright in a seated position upon this column of jets using these metal beams to steady myself as if sitting in an invisible chair tall enough so my feet couldn’t touch the bottom. There was also a large, square shower head in the ceiling above the pool that mimicked a steadily cool rain shower, and it was lovely to stand underneath to contrast the warm water of the pool with the invigorating raindrops. Additionally, there were two shower heads that flanked both sides of the stairs to enter the pool, and they both shot a forceful, targeted stream of water into the pool to allow for a welcoming massage on your neck and back.

Following a relaxing submersion in the pool, it was quite bracing to make use of the “sensory showers,” where the stream of water could be controlled with various settings that mimicked such environs as a Siberian blast or a tropical rain. My favorite setting was, indeed, the tropical rain setting, as the shower gently misted you with a barely perceptible cloud of cool vapor that was infused with a slightly flowery aroma. It also was quite fun to shower, submerge yourself in the pool, shower, go back into the pool right away, and shower again, stimulating the senses into a blissful, buzzing nirvana.

We often concluded our visits to the Enclave by reclining on these heated, tiled lounge chairs, eyes closed, faces covered with dampened, chilled towels, sipping on cucumber water, as the relaxingly ambient sound of the rushing waters of the pool provided a space to soften the body, meditate, and allow the mind to slip away to a world of absolute calm and rejuvenation.

It was soon time to go ashore to Cabo. As the ship was too large to dock at this particular port, it was necessary to head to land via water shuttles. But the crew informed us a sea swell was making passage difficult, the shuttles bobbling recklessly and hopelessly in the unruly waters as our majestic cruise ship remained steadfast and unwavering, rising tall out of the ocean. I get notoriously sea sick (sometimes I feel sea sick simply by swimming in a regular old pool, which is a real shame because I adore swimming), so I took all the precautions: I got a prescription for these patches that you stick to your skin under your ear to help prevent motion sickness (I wore these the entire time on our cruise); Matt got me these motion sickness wrist bands (he and I both used them pretty regularly); and I took Dramamine. Even after all this, climbing aboard the shuttle and traveling to shore was still a bit of a challenge as they crammed us in like sardines, but fortunately this couple next to us chatted us up, which helped to distract from the dizzying motion of the craft.

When we elected to go on this Mexican cruise, I had this preconception in my head that all of the ports of call would feature these overly polished and shiny resort towns and cities that shielded privileged white folks from gazing upon the truths of the inequities that exist in our messed up world. However, Cabo was not one of those towns. There was a somewhat softly gritty realness to Cabo that provided a glimpse into the real Mexico, certainly not too gritty as to frighten the white folks, but certainly gritty enough as to help more perceptible of us honkies to ruminate about our privilege: countless street vendors forcing sombreros and iguanas in our faces in the hopes of making a little cash; a crumbling infrastructure just barely held together; waitering and other service jobs that exist only because of white or privileged tourists. But, such is our messed up world.

For lunch, Matt and I decided to go to EcoBar, located right along the seafront overlooking the bay overstuffed with sailboats. The restaurant was a charming little place with covered, outdoor seating underneath a pergola, a sloped roof layered with straw and atop the grass sat terracotta tiles. I elected to have fish tacos and Matt the shrimp cocktail, and we were also served with chips, guacamole, and salsa. The salsas were properly hot—none of this “white people” salsa as spicy as ketchup—and the tacos were proper Mexican-style tacos, savory and flavorful, perfected with a lack of cheese and iceberg lettuce, faultlessly garnished with pico de gallo, chopped onions, and avocado slices. The shrimp cocktail, meanwhile, was fancifully presented in a tall goblet upon a large plate, a feast of tortilla chips scattered around the base, giant shrimp alluringly suspended gracefully along the rim of the glass, the cocktail sauce expertly prepared, zesty and enticing—none of that gross “white people” cocktail sauce, processed unnaturally into an unrecognizable oblivion. As we were waiting for our food to arrive, we tagged down Michael and Sonny who were traipsing along the waterfront, taking in the sites, and they joined us at our table as we chittered on about our adventures.

Following lunch, we parted ways with our new friends, as Matt and I were off to do something so ridiculous and bizarre: swim with dolphins. Yes, swim with dolphins. (No, you heard me right: swim with dolphins.) We admittedly both felt very ethically conflicted about this, and we did spend time reconsidering if we should do something else instead. That said, we read ahead of time that this particular dolphin-swimming outfit, Cabo Adventures, seemed to take conservation, sustainability, and biodiversity seriously, and in their FAQ they wrote: “We follow a program for preventative health care including daily health assessments, regular voluntary veterinary examinations, and dietary assessments.” And they added that they “provide an exceptionally clean and stimulating environment for [the dolphins] to live and thrive in.” So, knowing all this, and knowing that we’ll probably do this once in our lives and one time only, we felt somewhat okay and were able to experience something strange if not wonderful.

The dolphin tank (for lack of a better word) was pretty expansive, although still a “cage” nonetheless. There were three entrapped dolphins who seemed to be enjoying themselves, despite the three groups of apes, er, humans gawking, mouths gaping, about 45 of us total, positioned in our clumped groups at the perimeter of the pool. Our dolphin trainer (if that’s the right word, and I’m sorry I can’t recall his name) was energetically enthusiastic and excited to show off what the dolphins could do. Indeed, it was clear very quickly—as everyone knows—how intelligent the dolphins were, as our trainer prompted them to perform visually impressive feats right on cue, diving deep then leaping high out of the water, elegantly flying through their air in graceful loops in quick succession, sometimes perfectly synchronized with a partner. It really was quite a majestic sight to behold.

Eventually, we were asked to jump in the water with the dolphins, the cool water a tad on the cool side, a slightest jolt invigorating the mind and body with a gentle surprise to the senses. After we acclimatized to the water, we were all asked to take turns hugging the dolphin as we both delicately treaded water, the dolphins seeming to smile as they made their approach. Then the dolphins would give us all a kiss by delicately pressing their nose against our cheek, turning the affection into a “French” version upon our trainer’s command, the dolphin opening their mouth and sticking their tongue directly on our skin! (I honestly didn’t know that that’s what was happening when it was my turn, as I really couldn’t feel the tongue at all.) Lastly, and most adventurous of all, we were all allowed a turn to swim with the dolphin underwater, taking gentle but firm hold of the dolphin by their dorsal fin and one of their pectoral fins, diving through the water side-by-side, downwards about 10 feet, then back round in a circle, until the dolphin took us all upwards and out of the water several feet. It was about a 10-second ride, but I remember feeling it felt longer that than, worrying that I was going to run out of air at the last moment.

The whole experience concluded with the dolphins completing a few more leaps through the air, the trainer asking the dolphin what kind of jump they’d like to do. At one point the dolphin expressed their disinterest in performing a certain trick by physically shaking their head, accompanying the motion with a chiding series of voiced clicks, as if cackling in response to the idea. When the trainer offered another option, the dolphin shook their head enthusiastically, voicing their excitement at the second option with a bright, whistley giggle of a sound. (I may have implanted a memory that they shook and nodded their heads, but they definitely expressed their desires with these vocalizations.)

So, all in all, a weirdly bizarre experience, and yet I guiltily rather enjoyed myself. That said, Matt and I both agreed that we’ll probably never do this ever again. And I hesitate to recommend that you should swim with dolphins as we did, as the whole experience is wracked with conflicting feelings of remorse for the poor dolphins locked away from the open sea. They are so intelligent and so wonderful, it feels cruel to keep them in captivity no matter how well cared for they are. So, I’ll leave it up to you what you feel comfortable with.

Our first day back on land was closing fast, the gorgeous Mexican sunset painting the sky with brilliant shades of orange, clouds dipped in vibrant hues of gold, feathery tails of luminous colors melting into the distance. So, we headed back to our ship via the water shuttles, and with the sun dipping below the horizon by the time we made the short journey back to our temporary home, we got to see our ship standing tall and majestic from a new vantage, lit elegantly and gracefully in warm, white lights. And while the sea was beginning to appear dark and sinister and imposing, the water was still reflecting the ship’s luminous celebration so gorgeously and so beautifully; it was a moment that should have been captured immortally in an impressionistic oil painting.

For the rest of the evening, we decided to spend time at our favorite cocktail lounge, Take Five. Matt and I enjoyed an old fashioned and an amaretto Manhattan, chatting at the bar with a delightful couple from Vancouver, where all four of us took a moment to celebrate the wonders of the Canadian healthcare system and bemoaned its distant cousin’s dismal version in the United States. The LGBT meetup group at Take Five—our nightly tradition by this point—soon started where we got to know more about our fellow queers aboard the ship: there was a man who had spent the 1970s in the Navy; a man from Austria (“Sie sind aus Deutschland?” I incorrectly assumed) who was particularly inclined to comment on the musculature of my calves; and a delightful couple, Kevin and Sammy, whose conversations over the next few nights I enjoyed the most.

Following the meetup, Matt and I decided to dine at Juneau Dining Hall, where I continued to be impressed with how elegant and refined the dining halls on board the Discovery Princess were, allaying my fears that they were going to pack us, leaving us to tolerate the company of unwelcome neighbors. That said, a couple near a table to ours was interested in what we did for the day, and when we told them about our dolphin excursion, they commented that they thought of doing that and perhaps regretted a little not doing it after all once we gushed about how much fun it was!

As we enjoyed a brief chat with our fellow passengers, we carried on with our dinner: assorted greens, a banana rum soup (a cold soup, and quite delicious and refreshing), oak flavored pork loin, and beef stroganoff. We also elected to conclude the evening with dark chocolate banana mouse paired with a port and a dessert wine (“Scrumptious!” Matt exclaimed about his night cap.) It was truly a decadent evening of food and drink, and even after my memory has faded a bit as I write this, I still can’t stress enough how impressed I was with the dining halls. A real delight and a real gift of the Discovery Princess!

Our next day saw our second shore excursion to Mazetlan, where Matt and I found ourselves feeling underwhelmed. But, as the Rolling Stones aptly declared, ”You can’t always get what you want.”

Stray observations:

1. As we were waiting to swim with dolphins, we spoke to a lovely couple whose last name was also Lang—not related to me as far as we could tell, if not very distantly related.
2. One our way back to the ship following the excursion, we sat next to Deanne and Craig who, like Matt, were also from Wisconsin.
3. We had to take a moment to figure out why Matt’s phone wasn’t connecting to the wi-fi. So we stopped at the main guest services desk where we worked with Claudia and Melissa, who were so delightful and so helpful as we got his phone back to working order.
4. Mike and Sonny also echoed our complaints about the Crown Grill, exasperatedly sighing that they waited and waited for service once they got to their table but then eventually just decided to leave for dinner elsewhere. So, I’m not sure what the issue was with the Crown Grill staff on this voyage, but something clearly was not right and I hope they took measures to fix whatever it was that was going wrong.