On Sunday morning I take the train to Liverpool Lime Street from Euston at 10 a.m., giving myself plenty of time to get to the airport for the 3 p.m. flight to Palma. I spend the journey looking over my itinerary, frequently checking that I have my passport while trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach that this might be a giant, expensive mistake. I consider myself to be a confident person, rarely thrown by new challenges. I live alone, eat out alone, go to the cinema alone and I even went to a country music festival alone where I bought a knock-off Teddy Swims T-shirt from the back of someone’s campervan. But this feels different. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m doing this with the hope of meeting someone, and not just for fun. That this might be a waste of my time, just like my previous efforts. That for the first time, I’ve said yes to something that I can’t just run away from after half an hour. To say I feel like a fish out of water would be an understatement and also fitting given my situation.
As we pull into Liverpool, I start to feel a little lighter. Despite living in London for the past twenty-five years, the further north I go, the more I feel at home. It’s like comfort food for the soul. I’ve only been to Liverpool once for a weekend with Jason and his obsession with the Beatles. I like the Beatles– who doesn’t? But do I care where John Lennon grew up or where they all went to school? Not so much. Now, a trip to Nashville? I’d be there in a cowboy hat, screaming ‘TAKE MY MONEY’. Jason hated the fact that I adore country music, despite also loving a million different genres. The day he packed up and left, Johnny Cash played him the hell out.
I grab a cab to the airport from the taxi rank outside. When the driver asks where I’m headed, I tell him I’m going to Tenerife with my sister, just in case he has some horror cruise story he feels the need to share. I don’t need to hear about that time he went on a trip with his missus and caught the black plague from some unwashed lettuce. While I don’t have a sister, I’m pretty sure that if I did, I’d be dragging her on this cruise with me for moral support.
I check in at the airport, which confirms that I did not forget my passport and need to dial down my neurosis. I still check again in the security queue, just to be safe. I head straight to Starbucks and grab my third coffee of the day, knowing that the last thing I need is more caffeine. I figure the breakfast wrap I’ve also purchased might somehow soak up my nerves. My flight leaves in fifty minutes, and in four hours, I’ll be in Palma, one step closer to seven days at sea.
Once we land, I pick up my cases and catch the transfer bus to Port de Palma. I notice several passengers from the flight, two of which have already started arguing. Apparently, the husband forgot to pack the red sliders that his now unhappy wife couldn’t fit in her case because ‘you know how effing swollen my feet get in the heat’.
Half an hour later, we get to the port and the ship is already there. Having never seen a cruise ship in my life, except in pictures, I’m stunned. This beast looks to be at least two hundred feet tall. Like Godzilla with on-board spa facilities. I’ve already checked in online, so I drop off my bags before going through yet another round of security. There are literally hundreds of people here; it’s like a sea of colourful shorts and fake tan. Maybe I should have got a spray tan. My translucent skin may make me harder to spot if I fall overboard. I can’t help feeling like Billy no-mates as I’m surrounded by couples and families, but I won’t be the only solo traveller feeling like this, surely? Even just one other passenger experiencing mild anxiety will make me feel like less of a loser.
I finally board the ship, and enter a huge, brightly lit, multi-levelled atrium. Holy shit, this is massive. There are staircases, glass lifts, seating areas and even a grand piano. To my left, I see an already crowded bar-slash-eatery and, to the right, a walkway leading to the on-board shopping area. Kids are playing, passengers are chatting, and staff are running around, all while I stand there looking up like it’s the first time I’ve ever seen ceilings. There’s no way I’m going to be able to navigate this without Waze and a barometer.
The rooms aren’t ready yet, so I ask a bubbly woman in her twenties named Jenny what happens in the meantime. She happily informs me that I can ‘begin my adventure’ by exploring and getting a feel for the ship. Have something to eat at the buffet or dive right into one of the many pools onboard. As my swimming costume is stuffed inside wherever the hell my suitcase currently is, I decide exploring is a more realistic option. She also advises that the muster drill is held on the second-floor auditorium and, although compulsory, I can attend at any point before we depart in two hours. Before I can ask her anything else, she bounces off, no doubt to speak to guests who know what the fuck a muster drill is.
I climb the stairs looking for the auditorium, and follow everyone inside. It’s yet another massive space, colourful, with an Imax-style screen on the stage. I presume this is where the nightly shows are performed or perhaps where they hold the reaping for the nextHunger Gamesparticipants. We’re welcomed and shown the muster drill video presentation which, as it turns out, is just like a pre-flight safety demonstration. Lots of things are covered, including life jacket location and how to inflate them, the sound of the ship’s emergency signal and, most importantly, where to go when the iceberg hits. There’s an air of excitement in the room, mixed with exhaustion as it’s 6 p.m. and everyone has presumably been up since the crack of dawn. Despite my previous concerns, no one throws me pity glances or looks at me like I’m a friendless failure. In fact, no one really looks at me at all.
Chapter 21
I’ve only been on one all-inclusive holiday, which was to Turkey when I was twenty-five. Jason and I went to a hotel in Belek, recommended by a friend of his, Nick. From what I remember, Nick was a professional arsehole in his thirties, known for making people take their shoes off before getting into his Mercedes, despite religiously having his car detailed weekly. The hotel was beautiful: pristine, large, airy rooms and set right on the beach. It could have been romantic as hell if Jason hadn’t spent the entire week on the eighteen-hole golf course attached to the hotel. His new golf buddies also had five-aside football booked and Jason was happy to make up the numbers. When I complained, I was told that we didn’t need to spend every moment together, reminding me that he’d spent a fortune bringing me along. I spent the week feeling grateful when he’d join me for dinner, or show me ten minutes of affection in bed, worn out from his already strenuous day. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have booked myself a flight home and he’d have been dumped before my feet touched UK soil.
The dining room is chock-a-block when I arrive. There’s a party atmosphere in play, especially with the twentysomethings, but on the faces of the parents with younger children I can see the exhaustion and fear already beginning to set in. The buffet set-up is pretty much identical to the hotel in Belek. Food stations around the side of the room, offering everything from fresh fish, salad bars, meat and of course burgers, to nuggets and chips for the kids (or adults) who refuse to eat something as outrageous as a vegetable. There’s also a massive dessert trolley in the middle of the room and a vast array of fresh fruit, bread and cheese nearby.
I take my place in the queue and start working my way around, completely ravenous. I could happily kneel at the end of the food station and have someone slide the food directly into my mouth, like a bartender in a western movie. Instead, I place normal portions onto my plate, hoping that no one will bat an eye when I inevitably go back up for eighths.
Plate in hand, I turn and survey the seating area. My heart sinks a little. Every table looks full, despite it already being open for hours, and there are parents chasing kids around, no doubt trying to stop them smacking their heads on the floor or rugby tackling a nearby pensioner. I walk around for what feels like forever before a woman in a blue velvet tracksuit waves me over. She’s sitting with a man who’s wearing his sunglasses indoors.
‘Sit here, love, we’re just leaving.’
I smile gratefully as they push their dishes to one side. ‘Thanks so much. I thought I was going to have to sit on the floor.’ I pause as a toddler, high on ice cream, zips past me. ‘Is it always like this?’
She laughs. ‘First timer? You’ll get used to it. A lot of people just want to dress down and keep it simple on the first night. If you haven’t booked into any of the restaurants, I’d do that. You can turn up but sometimes they’re full. Just give them a call.’
I thank her again as they leave and take my seat, feeling a tad overwhelmed already. I hadn’t thought about making reservations because I didn’t expect four gazillion people to all want to dine at the same time. I begin to eat, thinking that eating here every night wouldn’t be the biggest hardship as it’s delicious. I have a combination of garlic potatoes, seafood, a lamb cutlet, rice and mixed vegetables. It shouldn’t work but it does. I leave briefly to get some water, placing my cardigan on the chair, hoping that no one steals my seat while I’m gone. I’m not bothered about my cardigan. If anyone desperately needs a bobbly, off-white ASOS cardigan, they’re welcome to it. This is just one disadvantage of sitting alone in a public space. Last time I was in Starbucks, I went to the loo and came back to a man sitting in my seat, on a phone call, with my full coffee and magazine in front of him. At first he refused to leave, informing me that ‘you snooze, you lose’. Eventually he called me an old bitch, storming off when I stood beside him, talking loudly over his important call for three minutes straight. Kieran said I should have been warier. The guy could have been mentally unwell, carrying a knife or just an all-round violent prick. I replied that a skinny man-child with a middle parting who orders a white chocolate Frappuccino isn’t someone I’m backing down from. However, as fun as that was, I have no desire to repeat that here.
Thankfully, I return, and everything is as it should be, cardigan and all. I consider going back for seconds but the rice and potato are quickly inflating my stomach. My eyes dart towards the dessert table while my brain informs me that fruit is the healthier option, so naturally I choose cake. A chocolate mousse cake square with white chocolate decorations. And a strawberry tart that definitely counts towards my five-a-day.
Again, in a room bursting with passengers, no one pays me any mind at all, and I begin to understand that I’m not an uncommon sight. There’s nothing weird about someone travelling on a cruise alone. There’s no whispering or pity glances, no one telling their kids not to stare at the pariah in the corner. It’s like a big cruising family, but one where everyone minds their own business and doesn’t borrow your shit without asking first.
As I’m getting ready to leave, I spot a young couple, plates in hand, scanning the room. I wave them over.
‘You can sit here, I’m just leaving,’ I tell them.
‘You’re a lifesaver! I didn’t expect it to be so busy!’
I smile. ‘First timer? Me too.’
Chapter 22
Two hours after arrival, I press my cruise card against the reader outside the door to cabin 8233 where my luggage is already waiting for me. I’m initially impressed. It’s not bad at all. While the room is small, any trepidation that a last-minute guaranteed cabin would be a shoebox beside the engine room quickly dissipates. The decor is a little dated but it’s bright with a double bed in the middle of the room, with clean white sheets. I grin widely like a five-year-old at the cute towel swan on the bed and the small chocolate placed on my pillow. That gets devoured in seconds while I look around. There are two wardrobes and lots of storage space to my left, a small bathroom to my right, a tea and coffee station, a fridge and a safe. I plan to store my passport and my last shred of dignity in there. However, the most exciting part of the room tour is directly in front of me. A sea-view balcony, at the back of the ship. Up yours, Naomi, I have a balcony! Excitedly I open the sliding door and step outside. This isn’t just a sea view, this is a view of the entire ocean. Well, I’m sure it will be once we leave the port at 10 p.m. There are two chairs and a small table on the balcony with a railing at the front I plan to never lean over. Below me I see a seating area. I can absolutely stay here comfortably for seven nights. I take photos to send to Naomi, who will at some point panic if I don’t keep in touch, picturing me clinging to the prow of a sinking ship while the band plays.
I take the time to unpack, rather than leave my clothes in my suitcase like I’m ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. Not that I’d get very far. In my twenties, my holiday clothes consisted of bikinis and cover-up kimonos, and evening wear that I never unpacked and ended up looking like it was fashioned from crepe paper. Here, I’m supposed to be meeting the future Mr Smalls, not showcasing what a wrinkled slob I am. Besides, I don’t see any sign of an iron, no doubt for safety reasons. If you offer all-inclusive booze, someone is bound to be pissed enough to iron their socks with their feet still inside them. As I pull my clothes out it becomes clear that I’ve definitely brought too much. Along with my underwear, my large case contains: six dresses, three light cardigans (and one heavy cardigan because my weather app often lies), two sun hats, five T-shirts, four skirts, a pair of jeans, four pairs of shoes (including the new Adidas trainers on my feet) and three different swimming costumes. My smaller case is jammed full of toiletries, books (it’s 2023, Sophie, buy a damn Kindle), phone chargers, a USB plug and extra towels. Unlike angry bus woman, at least I brought my sliders.
I notice a television on the wall facing the bed which I’m somewhat grateful for. I don’t want to waste all my phone data watching Netflix if I’m forced to hide out in here when I discover that no one wants to play with me. Which they won’t of course because I am a legend. A force to be reckoned with. An icon. I tell myself this three more times in front of the mirror, more of a positive visualisation than summoning Candyman or Bloody Mary. In the first year of secondary school, Andrea Robinson tried to invoke Bloody Mary after PE. She turned up at school the next day with a round bruise on her forehead, insisting that the urban myth had attacked her in the night. Later we found out that her younger brother had stuck a mini sink plunger to her forehead while she slept.
Once unpacked, I plonk myself down on the bed and look over the cruise information pack. It has a list of the usual info, including safety information, excursions, phone instructions and one of my favourite things, a room service menu. I can request breakfast to my room, which is nice and, for a small fee, I can order sandwiches, pizza, salads, burgers and pasta dishes. It seems that being a lazy hermit unfortunately isn’t part of the all-inclusive package. I remind myself that, tempting as it is, the whole purpose of my trip is to meet someone spectacular. I’m unlikely to meet anyone if I eat alone in my room every night. Tonight, I’ve already eaten at the buffet, so I don’t need to concern myself with that right now. I’m too tired. I’ll reserve a seat at the other restaurants in the morning.
By the time I step into the shower, my fatigue lessens a little. The ship provides basic toiletries, including a shower cap, shampoo, conditioner and shower gel. The gel smells like car air freshener, but I use it as I’m already under the water and starkers.
