A swell old time The Australian
I walk along the elegant, Ritz Carlton-like corridors of the Royal Princess, a relatively small ship at 30,277 tonnes, and pass the Cabaret Lounge on deck five, not far from the jewellery stores and the restaurant serving afternoon tea, as well as the room where a professor will be lecturing tomorrow on Conflict in the Middle East. Four days from now a hypnotist, a whirling dervish and an Egyptian belly-dancer, all in quick succession, will be performing free in the lounge.
In my spotless cabin - as cosy and well-appointed as any room in a four-star hotel - I can soon watch Mamma Mia! on television, a channel with footage of today's excursions, another channel
explaining the cultural attractions of tomorrow or broadcasting a baseball game across the globe. The only thing there's little scope for is feeling completely at sea.
If you'd read me the preceding paragraphs 18 months ago, I'd have sneered. A cruise, I'd known since boyhood, is the bastard child of the package tour and the retirement home, the perfect vessel for those who don't much like to move to take in a world they don't much want to see.
