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Climbing Malawi’s Island in the Sky

A steep, lush massif—the country's highest peak at 10,000 feet—beckons adventurers

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Take a Trip to Thailand With These Smithsonian Photo Contest Images

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March 22, 2024

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Medieval pilgrims flocked to the site for spiritual purification

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Crying Myself to Sleep on the Biggest Cruise Ship Ever

Seven agonizing nights aboard the Icon of the Seas

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MY FIRST GLIMPSE of Royal Caribbean’s Icon of the Seas, from the window of an approaching Miami cab, brings on a feeling of vertigo, nausea, amazement, and distress. I shut my eyes in defense, as my brain tells my optic nerve to try again.

The ship makes no sense, vertically or horizontally. It makes no sense on sea, or on land, or in outer space. It looks like a hodgepodge of domes and minarets, tubes and canopies, like Istanbul had it been designed by idiots. Vibrant, oversignifying colors are stacked upon other such colors, decks perched over still more decks; the only comfort is a row of lifeboats ringing its perimeter. There is no imposed order, no cogent thought, and, for those who do not harbor a totalitarian sense of gigantomania, no visual mercy. This is the biggest cruise ship ever built, and I have been tasked with witnessing its inaugural voyage.

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“Author embarks on their first cruise-ship voyage” has been a staple of American essay writing for almost three decades, beginning with David Foster Wallace’s “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again,” which was first published in 1996 under the title “Shipping Out.” Since then, many admirable writers have widened and diversified the genre. Usually the essayist commissioned to take to the sea is in their first or second flush of youth and is ready to sharpen their wit against the hull of the offending vessel. I am 51, old and tired, having seen much of the world as a former travel journalist, and mostly what I do in both life and prose is shrug while muttering to my imaginary dachshund, “This too shall pass.” But the Icon of the Seas will not countenance a shrug. The Icon of the Seas is the Linda Loman of cruise ships, exclaiming that attention must be paid. And here I am in late January with my one piece of luggage and useless gray winter jacket and passport, zipping through the Port of Miami en route to the gangway that will separate me from the bulk of North America for more than seven days, ready to pay it in full.

The aforementioned gangway opens up directly onto a thriving mall (I will soon learn it is imperiously called the “Royal Promenade”), presently filled with yapping passengers beneath a ceiling studded with balloons ready to drop. Crew members from every part of the global South, as well as a few Balkans, are shepherding us along while pressing flutes of champagne into our hands. By a humming Starbucks, I drink as many of these as I can and prepare to find my cabin. I show my blue Suite Sky SeaPass Card (more on this later, much more) to a smiling woman from the Philippines, and she tells me to go “aft.” Which is where, now? As someone who has rarely sailed on a vessel grander than the Staten Island Ferry, I am confused. It turns out that the aft is the stern of the ship, or, for those of us who don’t know what a stern or an aft are, its ass. The nose of the ship, responsible for separating the waves before it, is also called a bow, and is marked for passengers as the FWD , or forward. The part of the contemporary sailing vessel where the malls are clustered is called the midship. I trust that you have enjoyed this nautical lesson.

I ascend via elevator to my suite on Deck 11. This is where I encounter my first terrible surprise. My suite windows and balcony do not face the ocean. Instead, they look out onto another shopping mall. This mall is the one that’s called Central Park, perhaps in homage to the Olmsted-designed bit of greenery in the middle of my hometown. Although on land I would be delighted to own a suite with Central Park views, here I am deeply depressed. To sail on a ship and not wake up to a vast blue carpet of ocean? Unthinkable.

Allow me a brief preamble here. The story you are reading was commissioned at a moment when most staterooms on the Icon were sold out. In fact, so enthralled by the prospect of this voyage were hard-core mariners that the ship’s entire inventory of guest rooms (the Icon can accommodate up to 7,600 passengers, but its inaugural journey was reduced to 5,000 or so for a less crowded experience) was almost immediately sold out. Hence, this publication was faced with the shocking prospect of paying nearly $19,000 to procure for this solitary passenger an entire suite—not including drinking expenses—all for the privilege of bringing you this article. But the suite in question doesn’t even have a view of the ocean! I sit down hard on my soft bed. Nineteen thousand dollars for this .

The viewless suite does have its pluses. In addition to all the Malin+Goetz products in my dual bathrooms, I am granted use of a dedicated Suite Deck lounge; access to Coastal Kitchen, a superior restaurant for Suites passengers; complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream (“the fastest Internet at Sea”) “for one device per person for the whole cruise duration”; a pair of bathrobes (one of which comes prestained with what looks like a large expectoration by the greenest lizard on Earth); and use of the Grove Suite Sun, an area on Decks 18 and 19 with food and deck chairs reserved exclusively for Suite passengers. I also get reserved seating for a performance of The Wizard of Oz , an ice-skating tribute to the periodic table, and similar provocations. The very color of my Suite Sky SeaPass Card, an oceanic blue as opposed to the cloying royal purple of the standard non-Suite passenger, will soon provoke envy and admiration. But as high as my status may be, there are those on board who have much higher status still, and I will soon learn to bow before them.

In preparation for sailing, I have “priced in,” as they say on Wall Street, the possibility that I may come from a somewhat different monde than many of the other cruisers. Without falling into stereotypes or preconceptions, I prepare myself for a friendly outspokenness on the part of my fellow seafarers that may not comply with modern DEI standards. I believe in meeting people halfway, and so the day before flying down to Miami, I visited what remains of Little Italy to purchase a popular T-shirt that reads DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL across the breast in the colors of the Italian flag. My wife recommended that I bring one of my many T-shirts featuring Snoopy and the Peanuts gang, as all Americans love the beagle and his friends. But I naively thought that my meatball T-shirt would be more suitable for conversation-starting. “Oh, and who is your ‘daddy’?” some might ask upon seeing it. “And how long have you been his ‘little meatball’?” And so on.

I put on my meatball T-shirt and head for one of the dining rooms to get a late lunch. In the elevator, I stick out my chest for all to read the funny legend upon it, but soon I realize that despite its burnished tricolor letters, no one takes note. More to the point, no one takes note of me. Despite my attempts at bridge building, the very sight of me (small, ethnic, without a cap bearing the name of a football team) elicits no reaction from other passengers. Most often, they will small-talk over me as if I don’t exist. This brings to mind the travails of David Foster Wallace , who felt so ostracized by his fellow passengers that he retreated to his cabin for much of his voyage. And Wallace was raised primarily in the Midwest and was a much larger, more American-looking meatball than I am. If he couldn’t talk to these people, how will I? What if I leave this ship without making any friends at all, despite my T-shirt? I am a social creature, and the prospect of seven days alone and apart is saddening. Wallace’s stateroom, at least, had a view of the ocean, a kind of cheap eternity.

Worse awaits me in the dining room. This is a large, multichandeliered room where I attended my safety training (I was shown how to put on a flotation vest; it is a very simple procedure). But the maître d’ politely refuses me entry in an English that seems to verge on another language. “I’m sorry, this is only for pendejos ,” he seems to be saying. I push back politely and he repeats himself. Pendejos ? Piranhas? There’s some kind of P-word to which I am not attuned. Meanwhile elderly passengers stream right past, powered by their limbs, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. “It is only pendejo dining today, sir.” “But I have a suite!” I say, already starting to catch on to the ship’s class system. He examines my card again. “But you are not a pendejo ,” he confirms. I am wearing a DADDY’S LITTLE MEATBALL T-shirt, I want to say to him. I am the essence of pendejo .

Eventually, I give up and head to the plebeian buffet on Deck 15, which has an aquatic-styled name I have now forgotten. Before gaining entry to this endless cornucopia of reheated food, one passes a washing station of many sinks and soap dispensers, and perhaps the most intriguing character on the entire ship. He is Mr. Washy Washy—or, according to his name tag, Nielbert of the Philippines—and he is dressed as a taco (on other occasions, I’ll see him dressed as a burger). Mr. Washy Washy performs an eponymous song in spirited, indeed flamboyant English: “Washy, washy, wash your hands, WASHY WASHY!” The dangers of norovirus and COVID on a cruise ship this size (a giant fellow ship was stricken with the former right after my voyage) makes Mr. Washy Washy an essential member of the crew. The problem lies with the food at the end of Washy’s rainbow. The buffet is groaning with what sounds like sophisticated dishes—marinated octopus, boiled egg with anchovy, chorizo, lobster claws—but every animal tastes tragically the same, as if there was only one creature available at the market, a “cruisipus” bred specifically for Royal Caribbean dining. The “vegetables” are no better. I pick up a tomato slice and look right through it. It tastes like cellophane. I sit alone, apart from the couples and parents with gaggles of children, as “We Are Family” echoes across the buffet space.

I may have failed to mention that all this time, the Icon of the Seas has not left port. As the fiery mango of the subtropical setting sun makes Miami’s condo skyline even more apocalyptic, the ship shoves off beneath a perfunctory display of fireworks. After the sun sets, in the far, dark distance, another circus-lit cruise ship ruptures the waves before us. We glance at it with pity, because it is by definition a smaller ship than our own. I am on Deck 15, outside the buffet and overlooking a bunch of pools (the Icon has seven of them), drinking a frilly drink that I got from one of the bars (the Icon has 15 of them), still too shy to speak to anyone, despite Sister Sledge’s assertion that all on the ship are somehow related.

Kim Brooks: On failing the family vacation

The ship’s passage away from Ron DeSantis’s Florida provides no frisson, no sense of developing “sea legs,” as the ship is too large to register the presence of waves unless a mighty wind adds significant chop. It is time for me to register the presence of the 5,000 passengers around me, even if they refuse to register mine. My fellow travelers have prepared for this trip with personally decorated T-shirts celebrating the importance of this voyage. The simplest ones say ICON INAUGURAL ’24 on the back and the family name on the front. Others attest to an over-the-top love of cruise ships: WARNING! MAY START TALKING ABOUT CRUISING . Still others are artisanally designed and celebrate lifetimes spent married while cruising (on ships, of course). A couple possibly in their 90s are wearing shirts whose backs feature a drawing of a cruise liner, two flamingos with ostensibly male and female characteristics, and the legend “ HUSBAND AND WIFE Cruising Partners FOR LIFE WE MAY NOT HAVE IT All Together BUT TOGETHER WE HAVE IT ALL .” (The words not in all caps have been written in cursive.) A real journalist or a more intrepid conversationalist would have gone up to the couple and asked them to explain the longevity of their marriage vis-à-vis their love of cruising. But instead I head to my mall suite, take off my meatball T-shirt, and allow the first tears of the cruise to roll down my cheeks slowly enough that I briefly fall asleep amid the moisture and salt.

I WAKE UP with a hangover. Oh God. Right. I cannot believe all of that happened last night. A name floats into my cobwebbed, nauseated brain: “Ayn Rand.” Jesus Christ.

I breakfast alone at the Coastal Kitchen. The coffee tastes fine and the eggs came out of a bird. The ship rolls slightly this morning; I can feel it in my thighs and my schlong, the parts of me that are most receptive to danger.

I had a dangerous conversation last night. After the sun set and we were at least 50 miles from shore (most modern cruise ships sail at about 23 miles an hour), I lay in bed softly hiccupping, my arms stretched out exactly like Jesus on the cross, the sound of the distant waves missing from my mall-facing suite, replaced by the hum of air-conditioning and children shouting in Spanish through the vents of my two bathrooms. I decided this passivity was unacceptable. As an immigrant, I feel duty-bound to complete the tasks I am paid for, which means reaching out and trying to understand my fellow cruisers. So I put on a normal James Perse T-shirt and headed for one of the bars on the Royal Promenade—the Schooner Bar, it was called, if memory serves correctly.

I sat at the bar for a martini and two Negronis. An old man with thick, hairy forearms drank next to me, very silent and Hemingwaylike, while a dreadlocked piano player tinkled out a series of excellent Elton John covers. To my right, a young white couple—he in floral shorts, she in a light, summery miniskirt with a fearsome diamond ring, neither of them in football regalia—chatted with an elderly couple. Do it , I commanded myself. Open your mouth. Speak! Speak without being spoken to. Initiate. A sentence fragment caught my ear from the young woman, “Cherry Hill.” This is a suburb of Philadelphia in New Jersey, and I had once been there for a reading at a synagogue. “Excuse me,” I said gently to her. “Did you just mention Cherry Hill? It’s a lovely place.”

As it turned out, the couple now lived in Fort Lauderdale (the number of Floridians on the cruise surprised me, given that Southern Florida is itself a kind of cruise ship, albeit one slowly sinking), but soon they were talking with me exclusively—the man potbellied, with a chin like a hard-boiled egg; the woman as svelte as if she were one of the many Ukrainian members of the crew—the elderly couple next to them forgotten. This felt as groundbreaking as the first time I dared to address an American in his native tongue, as a child on a bus in Queens (“On my foot you are standing, Mister”).

“I don’t want to talk politics,” the man said. “But they’re going to eighty-six Biden and put Michelle in.”

I considered the contradictions of his opening conversational gambit, but decided to play along. “People like Michelle,” I said, testing the waters. The husband sneered, but the wife charitably put forward that the former first lady was “more personable” than Joe Biden. “They’re gonna eighty-six Biden,” the husband repeated. “He can’t put a sentence together.”

After I mentioned that I was a writer—though I presented myself as a writer of teleplays instead of novels and articles such as this one—the husband told me his favorite writer was Ayn Rand. “Ayn Rand, she came here with nothing,” the husband said. “I work with a lot of Cubans, so …” I wondered if I should mention what I usually do to ingratiate myself with Republicans or libertarians: the fact that my finances improved after pass-through corporations were taxed differently under Donald Trump. Instead, I ordered another drink and the couple did the same, and I told him that Rand and I were born in the same city, St. Petersburg/Leningrad, and that my family also came here with nothing. Now the bonding and drinking began in earnest, and several more rounds appeared. Until it all fell apart.

Read: Gary Shteyngart on watching Russian television for five days straight

My new friend, whom I will refer to as Ayn, called out to a buddy of his across the bar, and suddenly a young couple, both covered in tattoos, appeared next to us. “He fucking punked me,” Ayn’s frat-boy-like friend called out as he put his arm around Ayn, while his sizable partner sizzled up to Mrs. Rand. Both of them had a look I have never seen on land—their eyes projecting absence and enmity in equal measure. In the ’90s, I drank with Russian soldiers fresh from Chechnya and wandered the streets of wartime Zagreb, but I have never seen such undisguised hostility toward both me and perhaps the universe at large. I was briefly introduced to this psychopathic pair, but neither of them wanted to have anything to do with me, and the tattooed woman would not even reveal her Christian name to me (she pretended to have the same first name as Mrs. Rand). To impress his tattooed friends, Ayn made fun of the fact that as a television writer, I’d worked on the series Succession (which, it would turn out, practically nobody on the ship had watched), instead of the far more palatable, in his eyes, zombie drama of last year. And then my new friends drifted away from me into an angry private conversation—“He punked me!”—as I ordered another drink for myself, scared of the dead-eyed arrivals whose gaze never registered in the dim wattage of the Schooner Bar, whose terrifying voices and hollow laughs grated like unoiled gears against the crooning of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.”

But today is a new day for me and my hangover. After breakfast, I explore the ship’s so-called neighborhoods . There’s the AquaDome, where one can find a food hall and an acrobatic sound-and-light aquatic show. Central Park has a premium steak house, a sushi joint, and a used Rolex that can be bought for $8,000 on land here proudly offered at $17,000. There’s the aforementioned Royal Promenade, where I had drunk with the Rands, and where a pair of dueling pianos duel well into the night. There’s Surfside, a kids’ neighborhood full of sugary garbage, which looks out onto the frothy trail that the behemoth leaves behind itself. Thrill Island refers to the collection of tubes that clutter the ass of the ship and offer passengers six waterslides and a surfing simulation. There’s the Hideaway, an adult zone that plays music from a vomit-slathered, Brit-filled Alicante nightclub circa 1996 and proves a big favorite with groups of young Latin American customers. And, most hurtfully, there’s the Suite Neighborhood.

I say hurtfully because as a Suite passenger I should be here, though my particular suite is far from the others. Whereas I am stuck amid the riffraff of Deck 11, this section is on the highborn Decks 16 and 17, and in passing, I peek into the spacious, tall-ceilinged staterooms from the hallway, dazzled by the glint of the waves and sun. For $75,000, one multifloor suite even comes with its own slide between floors, so that a family may enjoy this particular terror in private. There is a quiet splendor to the Suite Neighborhood. I see fewer stickers and signs and drawings than in my own neighborhood—for example, MIKE AND DIANA PROUDLY SERVED U.S. MARINE CORPS RETIRED . No one here needs to announce their branch of service or rank; they are simply Suites, and this is where they belong. Once again, despite my hard work and perseverance, I have been disallowed from the true American elite. Once again, I am “Not our class, dear.” I am reminded of watching The Love Boat on my grandmother’s Zenith, which either was given to her or we found in the trash (I get our many malfunctioning Zeniths confused) and whose tube got so hot, I would put little chunks of government cheese on a thin tissue atop it to give our welfare treat a pleasant, Reagan-era gooeyness. I could not understand English well enough then to catch the nuances of that seafaring program, but I knew that there were differences in the status of the passengers, and that sometimes those differences made them sad. Still, this ship, this plenty—every few steps, there are complimentary nachos or milkshakes or gyros on offer—was the fatty fuel of my childhood dreams. If only I had remained a child.

I walk around the outdoor decks looking for company. There is a middle-aged African American couple who always seem to be asleep in each other’s arms, probably exhausted from the late capitalism they regularly encounter on land. There is far more diversity on this ship than I expected. Many couples are a testament to Loving v. Virginia , and there is a large group of folks whose T-shirts read MELANIN AT SEA / IT’S THE MELANIN FOR ME . I smile when I see them, but then some young kids from the group makes Mr. Washy Washy do a cruel, caricatured “Burger Dance” (today he is in his burger getup), and I think, Well, so much for intersectionality .

At the infinity pool on Deck 17, I spot some elderly women who could be ethnic and from my part of the world, and so I jump in. I am proved correct! Many of them seem to be originally from Queens (“Corona was still great when it was all Italian”), though they are now spread across the tristate area. We bond over the way “Ron-kon-koma” sounds when announced in Penn Station.

“Everyone is here for a different reason,” one of them tells me. She and her ex-husband last sailed together four years ago to prove to themselves that their marriage was truly over. Her 15-year-old son lost his virginity to “an Irish young lady” while their ship was moored in Ravenna, Italy. The gaggle of old-timers competes to tell me their favorite cruising stories and tips. “A guy proposed in Central Park a couple of years ago”—many Royal Caribbean ships apparently have this ridiculous communal area—“and she ran away screaming!” “If you’re diamond-class, you get four drinks for free.” “A different kind of passenger sails out of Bayonne.” (This, perhaps, is racially coded.) “Sometimes, if you tip the bartender $5, your next drink will be free.”

“Everyone’s here for a different reason,” the woman whose marriage ended on a cruise tells me again. “Some people are here for bad reasons—the drinkers and the gamblers. Some people are here for medical reasons.” I have seen more than a few oxygen tanks and at least one woman clearly undergoing very serious chemo. Some T-shirts celebrate good news about a cancer diagnosis. This might be someone’s last cruise or week on Earth. For these women, who have spent months, if not years, at sea, cruising is a ritual as well as a life cycle: first love, last love, marriage, divorce, death.

Read: The last place on Earth any tourist should go

I have talked with these women for so long, tonight I promise myself that after a sad solitary dinner I will not try to seek out company at the bars in the mall or the adult-themed Hideaway. I have enough material to fulfill my duties to this publication. As I approach my orphaned suite, I run into the aggro young people who stole Mr. and Mrs. Rand away from me the night before. The tattooed apparitions pass me without a glance. She is singing something violent about “Stuttering Stanley” (a character in a popular horror movie, as I discover with my complimentary VOOM SM Surf & Stream Internet at Sea) and he’s loudly shouting about “all the money I’ve lost,” presumably at the casino in the bowels of the ship.

So these bent psychos out of a Cormac McCarthy novel are angrily inhabiting my deck. As I mewl myself to sleep, I envision a limited series for HBO or some other streamer, a kind of low-rent White Lotus , where several aggressive couples conspire to throw a shy intellectual interloper overboard. I type the scenario into my phone. As I fall asleep, I think of what the woman who recently divorced her husband and whose son became a man through the good offices of the Irish Republic told me while I was hoisting myself out of the infinity pool. “I’m here because I’m an explorer. I’m here because I’m trying something new.” What if I allowed myself to believe in her fantasy?

“YOU REALLY STARTED AT THE TOP,” they tell me. I’m at the Coastal Kitchen for my eggs and corned-beef hash, and the maître d’ has slotted me in between two couples. Fueled by coffee or perhaps intrigued by my relative youth, they strike up a conversation with me. As always, people are shocked that this is my first cruise. They contrast the Icon favorably with all the preceding liners in the Royal Caribbean fleet, usually commenting on the efficiency of the elevators that hurl us from deck to deck (as in many large corporate buildings, the elevators ask you to choose a floor and then direct you to one of many lifts). The couple to my right, from Palo Alto—he refers to his “porn mustache” and calls his wife “my cougar” because she is two years older—tell me they are “Pandemic Pinnacles.”

This is the day that my eyes will be opened. Pinnacles , it is explained to me over translucent cantaloupe, have sailed with Royal Caribbean for 700 ungodly nights. Pandemic Pinnacles took advantage of the two-for-one accrual rate of Pinnacle points during the pandemic, when sailing on a cruise ship was even more ill-advised, to catapult themselves into Pinnacle status.

Because of the importance of the inaugural voyage of the world’s largest cruise liner, more than 200 Pinnacles are on this ship, a startling number, it seems. Mrs. Palo Alto takes out a golden badge that I have seen affixed over many a breast, which reads CROWN AND ANCHOR SOCIETY along with her name. This is the coveted badge of the Pinnacle. “You should hear all the whining in Guest Services,” her husband tells me. Apparently, the Pinnacles who are not also Suites like us are all trying to use their status to get into Coastal Kitchen, our elite restaurant. Even a Pinnacle needs to be a Suite to access this level of corned-beef hash.

“We’re just baby Pinnacles,” Mrs. Palo Alto tells me, describing a kind of internal class struggle among the Pinnacle elite for ever higher status.

And now I understand what the maître d’ was saying to me on the first day of my cruise. He wasn’t saying “ pendejo .” He was saying “Pinnacle.” The dining room was for Pinnacles only, all those older people rolling in like the tide on their motorized scooters.

And now I understand something else: This whole thing is a cult. And like most cults, it can’t help but mirror the endless American fight for status. Like Keith Raniere’s NXIVM, where different-colored sashes were given out to connote rank among Raniere’s branded acolytes, this is an endless competition among Pinnacles, Suites, Diamond-Plusers, and facing-the-mall, no-balcony purple SeaPass Card peasants, not to mention the many distinctions within each category. The more you cruise, the higher your status. No wonder a section of the Royal Promenade is devoted to getting passengers to book their next cruise during the one they should be enjoying now. No wonder desperate Royal Caribbean offers (“FINAL HOURS”) crowded my email account weeks before I set sail. No wonder the ship’s jewelry store, the Royal Bling, is selling a $100,000 golden chalice that will entitle its owner to drink free on Royal Caribbean cruises for life. (One passenger was already gaming out whether her 28-year-old son was young enough to “just about earn out” on the chalice or if that ship had sailed.) No wonder this ship was sold out months before departure , and we had to pay $19,000 for a horrid suite away from the Suite Neighborhood. No wonder the most mythical hero of Royal Caribbean lore is someone named Super Mario, who has cruised so often, he now has his own working desk on many ships. This whole experience is part cult, part nautical pyramid scheme.

From the June 2014 issue: Ship of wonks

“The toilets are amazing,” the Palo Altos are telling me. “One flush and you’re done.” “They don’t understand how energy-efficient these ships are,” the husband of the other couple is telling me. “They got the LNG”—liquefied natural gas, which is supposed to make the Icon a boon to the environment (a concept widely disputed and sometimes ridiculed by environmentalists).

But I’m thinking along a different line of attack as I spear my last pallid slice of melon. For my streaming limited series, a Pinnacle would have to get killed by either an outright peasant or a Suite without an ocean view. I tell my breakfast companions my idea.

“Oh, for sure a Pinnacle would have to be killed,” Mr. Palo Alto, the Pandemic Pinnacle, says, touching his porn mustache thoughtfully as his wife nods.

“THAT’S RIGHT, IT’S your time, buddy!” Hubert, my fun-loving Panamanian cabin attendant, shouts as I step out of my suite in a robe. “Take it easy, buddy!”

I have come up with a new dressing strategy. Instead of trying to impress with my choice of T-shirts, I have decided to start wearing a robe, as one does at a resort property on land, with a proper spa and hammam. The response among my fellow cruisers has been ecstatic. “Look at you in the robe!” Mr. Rand cries out as we pass each other by the Thrill Island aqua park. “You’re living the cruise life! You know, you really drank me under the table that night.” I laugh as we part ways, but my soul cries out, Please spend more time with me, Mr. and Mrs. Rand; I so need the company .

In my white robe, I am a stately presence, a refugee from a better limited series, a one-man crossover episode. (Only Suites are granted these robes to begin with.) Today, I will try many of the activities these ships have on offer to provide their clientele with a sense of never-ceasing motion. Because I am already at Thrill Island, I decide to climb the staircase to what looks like a mast on an old-fashioned ship (terrified, because I am afraid of heights) to try a ride called “Storm Chasers,” which is part of the “Category 6” water park, named in honor of one of the storms that may someday do away with the Port of Miami entirely. Storm Chasers consists of falling from the “mast” down a long, twisting neon tube filled with water, like being the camera inside your own colonoscopy, as you hold on to the handles of a mat, hoping not to die. The tube then flops you down headfirst into a trough of water, a Royal Caribbean baptism. It both knocks my breath out and makes me sad.

In keeping with the aquatic theme, I attend a show at the AquaDome. To the sound of “Live and Let Die,” a man in a harness gyrates to and fro in the sultry air. I saw something very similar in the back rooms of the famed Berghain club in early-aughts Berlin. Soon another harnessed man is gyrating next to the first. Ja , I think to myself, I know how this ends. Now will come the fisting , natürlich . But the show soon devolves into the usual Marvel-film-grade nonsense, with too much light and sound signifying nichts . If any fisting is happening, it is probably in the Suite Neighborhood, inside a cabin marked with an upside-down pineapple, which I understand means a couple are ready to swing, and I will see none of it.

I go to the ice show, which is a kind of homage—if that’s possible—to the periodic table, done with the style and pomp and masterful precision that would please the likes of Kim Jong Un, if only he could afford Royal Caribbean talent. At one point, the dancers skate to the theme song of Succession . “See that!” I want to say to my fellow Suites—at “cultural” events, we have a special section reserved for us away from the commoners—“ Succession ! It’s even better than the zombie show! Open your minds!”

Finally, I visit a comedy revue in an enormous and too brightly lit version of an “intimate,” per Royal Caribbean literature, “Manhattan comedy club.” Many of the jokes are about the cruising life. “I’ve lived on ships for 20 years,” one of the middle-aged comedians says. “I can only see so many Filipino homosexuals dressed as a taco.” He pauses while the audience laughs. “I am so fired tonight,” he says. He segues into a Trump impression and then Biden falling asleep at the microphone, which gets the most laughs. “Anyone here from Fort Leonard Wood?” another comedian asks. Half the crowd seems to cheer. As I fall asleep that night, I realize another connection I have failed to make, and one that may explain some of the diversity on this vessel—many of its passengers have served in the military.

As a coddled passenger with a suite, I feel like I am starting to understand what it means to have a rank and be constantly reminded of it. There are many espresso makers , I think as I look across the expanse of my officer-grade quarters before closing my eyes, but this one is mine .

A shocking sight greets me beyond the pools of Deck 17 as I saunter over to the Coastal Kitchen for my morning intake of slightly sour Americanos. A tiny city beneath a series of perfectly pressed green mountains. Land! We have docked for a brief respite in Basseterre, the capital of St. Kitts and Nevis. I wolf down my egg scramble to be one of the first passengers off the ship. Once past the gangway, I barely refrain from kissing the ground. I rush into the sights and sounds of this scruffy island city, sampling incredible conch curry and buckets of non-Starbucks coffee. How wonderful it is to be where God intended humans to be: on land. After all, I am neither a fish nor a mall rat. This is my natural environment. Basseterre may not be Havana, but there are signs of human ingenuity and desire everywhere you look. The Black Table Grill Has been Relocated to Soho Village, Market Street, Directly Behind of, Gary’s Fruits and Flower Shop. Signed. THE PORK MAN reads a sign stuck to a wall. Now, that is how you write a sign. A real sign, not the come-ons for overpriced Rolexes that blink across the screens of the Royal Promenade.

“Hey, tie your shoestring!” a pair of laughing ladies shout to me across the street.

“Thank you!” I shout back. Shoestring! “Thank you very much.”

A man in Independence Square Park comes by and asks if I want to play with his monkey. I haven’t heard that pickup line since the Penn Station of the 1980s. But then he pulls a real monkey out of a bag. The monkey is wearing a diaper and looks insane. Wonderful , I think, just wonderful! There is so much life here. I email my editor asking if I can remain on St. Kitts and allow the Icon to sail off into the horizon without me. I have even priced a flight home at less than $300, and I have enough material from the first four days on the cruise to write the entire story. “It would be funny …” my editor replies. “Now get on the boat.”

As I slink back to the ship after my brief jailbreak, the locals stand under umbrellas to gaze at and photograph the boat that towers over their small capital city. The limousines of the prime minister and his lackeys are parked beside the gangway. St. Kitts, I’ve been told, is one of the few islands that would allow a ship of this size to dock.

“We hear about all the waterslides,” a sweet young server in one of the cafés told me. “We wish we could go on the ship, but we have to work.”

“I want to stay on your island,” I replied. “I love it here.”

But she didn’t understand how I could possibly mean that.

“WASHY, WASHY, so you don’t get stinky, stinky!” kids are singing outside the AquaDome, while their adult minders look on in disapproval, perhaps worried that Mr. Washy Washy is grooming them into a life of gayness. I heard a southern couple skip the buffet entirely out of fear of Mr. Washy Washy.

Meanwhile, I have found a new watering hole for myself, the Swim & Tonic, the biggest swim-up bar on any cruise ship in the world. Drinking next to full-size, nearly naked Americans takes away one’s own self-consciousness. The men have curvaceous mom bodies. The women are equally un-shy about their sprawling physiques.

Today I’ve befriended a bald man with many children who tells me that all of the little trinkets that Royal Caribbean has left us in our staterooms and suites are worth a fortune on eBay. “Eighty dollars for the water bottle, 60 for the lanyard,” the man says. “This is a cult.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. There is, however, a clientele for whom this cruise makes perfect sense. For a large middle-class family (he works in “supply chains”), seven days in a lower-tier cabin—which starts at $1,800 a person—allow the parents to drop off their children in Surfside, where I imagine many young Filipina crew members will take care of them, while the parents are free to get drunk at a swim-up bar and maybe even get intimate in their cabin. Cruise ships have become, for a certain kind of hardworking family, a form of subsidized child care.

There is another man I would like to befriend at the Swim & Tonic, a tall, bald fellow who is perpetually inebriated and who wears a necklace studded with little rubber duckies in sunglasses, which, I am told, is a sort of secret handshake for cruise aficionados. Tomorrow, I will spend more time with him, but first the ship docks at St. Thomas, in the U.S. Virgin Islands. Charlotte Amalie, the capital, is more charming in name than in presence, but I still all but jump off the ship to score a juicy oxtail and plantains at the well-known Petite Pump Room, overlooking the harbor. From one of the highest points in the small city, the Icon of the Seas appears bigger than the surrounding hills.

I usually tan very evenly, but something about the discombobulation of life at sea makes me forget the regular application of sunscreen. As I walk down the streets of Charlotte Amalie in my fluorescent Icon of the Seas cap, an old Rastafarian stares me down. “Redneck,” he hisses.

“No,” I want to tell him, as I bring a hand up to my red neck, “that’s not who I am at all. On my island, Mannahatta, as Whitman would have it, I am an interesting person living within an engaging artistic milieu. I do not wish to use the Caribbean as a dumping ground for the cruise-ship industry. I love the work of Derek Walcott. You don’t understand. I am not a redneck. And if I am, they did this to me.” They meaning Royal Caribbean? Its passengers? The Rands?

“They did this to me!”

Back on the Icon, some older matrons are muttering about a run-in with passengers from the Celebrity cruise ship docked next to us, the Celebrity Apex. Although Celebrity Cruises is also owned by Royal Caribbean, I am made to understand that there is a deep fratricidal beef between passengers of the two lines. “We met a woman from the Apex,” one matron says, “and she says it was a small ship and there was nothing to do. Her face was as tight as a 19-year-old’s, she had so much surgery.” With those words, and beneath a cloudy sky, humidity shrouding our weathered faces and red necks, we set sail once again, hopefully in the direction of home.

THERE ARE BARELY 48 HOURS LEFT to the cruise, and the Icon of the Seas’ passengers are salty. They know how to work the elevators. They know the Washy Washy song by heart. They understand that the chicken gyro at “Feta Mediterranean,” in the AquaDome Market, is the least problematic form of chicken on the ship.

The passengers have shed their INAUGURAL CRUISE T-shirts and are now starting to evince political opinions. There are caps pledging to make America great again and T-shirts that celebrate words sometimes attributed to Patrick Henry: “The Constitution is not an instrument for the government to restrain the people; it is an instrument for the people to restrain the government.” With their preponderance of FAMILY FLAG FAITH FRIENDS FIREARMS T-shirts, the tables by the crepe station sometimes resemble the Capitol Rotunda on January 6. The Real Anthony Fauci , by Robert F. Kennedy Jr., appears to be a popular form of literature, especially among young men with very complicated versions of the American flag on their T-shirts. Other opinions blend the personal and the political. “Someone needs to kill Washy guy, right?” a well-dressed man in the elevator tells me, his gray eyes radiating nothing. “Just beat him to death. Am I right?” I overhear the male member of a young couple whisper, “There goes that freak” as I saunter by in my white spa robe, and I decide to retire it for the rest of the cruise.

I visit the Royal Bling to see up close the $100,000 golden chalice that entitles you to free drinks on Royal Caribbean forever. The pleasant Serbian saleslady explains that the chalice is actually gold-plated and covered in white zirconia instead of diamonds, as it would otherwise cost $1 million. “If you already have everything,” she explains, “this is one more thing you can get.”

I believe that anyone who works for Royal Caribbean should be entitled to immediate American citizenship. They already speak English better than most of the passengers and, per the Serbian lady’s sales pitch above, better understand what America is as well. Crew members like my Panamanian cabin attendant seem to work 24 hours a day. A waiter from New Delhi tells me that his contract is six months and three weeks long. After a cruise ends, he says, “in a few hours, we start again for the next cruise.” At the end of the half a year at sea, he is allowed a two-to-three-month stay at home with his family. As of 2019, the median income for crew members was somewhere in the vicinity of $20,000, according to a major business publication. Royal Caribbean would not share the current median salary for its crew members, but I am certain that it amounts to a fraction of the cost of a Royal Bling gold-plated, zirconia-studded chalice.

And because most of the Icon’s hyper-sanitized spaces are just a frittata away from being a Delta lounge, one forgets that there are actual sailors on this ship, charged with the herculean task of docking it in port. “Having driven 100,000-ton aircraft carriers throughout my career,” retired Admiral James G. Stavridis, the former NATO Supreme Allied Commander Europe, writes to me, “I’m not sure I would even know where to begin with trying to control a sea monster like this one nearly three times the size.” (I first met Stavridis while touring Army bases in Germany more than a decade ago.)

Today, I decide to head to the hot tub near Swim & Tonic, where some of the ship’s drunkest reprobates seem to gather (the other tubs are filled with families and couples). The talk here, like everywhere else on the ship, concerns football, a sport about which I know nothing. It is apparent that four teams have recently competed in some kind of finals for the year, and that two of them will now face off in the championship. Often when people on the Icon speak, I will try to repeat the last thing they said with a laugh or a nod of disbelief. “Yes, 20-yard line! Ha!” “Oh my God, of course, scrimmage.”

Soon we are joined in the hot tub by the late-middle-age drunk guy with the duck necklace. He is wearing a bucket hat with the legend HAWKEYES , which, I soon gather, is yet another football team. “All right, who turned me in?” Duck Necklace says as he plops into the tub beside us. “I get a call in the morning,” he says. “It’s security. Can you come down to the dining room by 10 a.m.? You need to stay away from the members of this religious family.” Apparently, the gregarious Duck Necklace had photobombed the wrong people. There are several families who present as evangelical Christians or practicing Muslims on the ship. One man, evidently, was not happy that Duck Necklace had made contact with his relatives. “It’s because of religious stuff; he was offended. I put my arm around 20 people a day.”

Everyone laughs. “They asked me three times if I needed medication,” he says of the security people who apparently interrogated him in full view of others having breakfast.

Another hot-tub denizen suggests that he should have asked for fentanyl. After a few more drinks, Duck Necklace begins to muse about what it would be like to fall off the ship. “I’m 62 and I’m ready to go,” he says. “I just don’t want a shark to eat me. I’m a huge God guy. I’m a Bible guy. There’s some Mayan theory squaring science stuff with religion. There is so much more to life on Earth.” We all nod into our Red Stripes.

“I never get off the ship when we dock,” he says. He tells us he lost $6,000 in the casino the other day. Later, I look him up, and it appears that on land, he’s a financial adviser in a crisp gray suit, probably a pillar of his North Chicago community.

THE OCEAN IS TEEMING with fascinating life, but on the surface it has little to teach us. The waves come and go. The horizon remains ever far away.

I am constantly told by my fellow passengers that “everybody here has a story.” Yes, I want to reply, but everybody everywhere has a story. You, the reader of this essay, have a story, and yet you’re not inclined to jump on a cruise ship and, like Duck Necklace, tell your story to others at great pitch and volume. Maybe what they’re saying is that everybody on this ship wants to have a bigger, more coherent, more interesting story than the one they’ve been given. Maybe that’s why there’s so much signage on the doors around me attesting to marriages spent on the sea. Maybe that’s why the Royal Caribbean newsletter slipped under my door tells me that “this isn’t a vacation day spent—it’s bragging rights earned.” Maybe that’s why I’m so lonely.

Today is a big day for Icon passengers. Today the ship docks at Royal Caribbean’s own Bahamian island, the Perfect Day at CocoCay. (This appears to be the actual name of the island.) A comedian at the nightclub opined on what his perfect day at CocoCay would look like—receiving oral sex while learning that his ex-wife had been killed in a car crash (big laughter). But the reality of the island is far less humorous than that.

One of the ethnic tristate ladies in the infinity pool told me that she loved CocoCay because it had exactly the same things that could be found on the ship itself. This proves to be correct. It is like the Icon, but with sand. The same tired burgers, the same colorful tubes conveying children and water from Point A to B. The same swim-up bar at its Hideaway ($140 for admittance, no children allowed; Royal Caribbean must be printing money off its clientele). “There was almost a fight at The Wizard of Oz ,” I overhear an elderly woman tell her companion on a chaise lounge. Apparently one of the passengers began recording Royal Caribbean’s intellectual property and “three guys came after him.”

I walk down a pathway to the center of the island, where a sign reads DO NOT ENTER: YOU HAVE REACHED THE BOUNDARY OF ADVENTURE . I hear an animal scampering in the bushes. A Royal Caribbean worker in an enormous golf cart soon chases me down and takes me back to the Hideaway, where I run into Mrs. Rand in a bikini. She becomes livid telling me about an altercation she had the other day with a woman over a towel and a deck chair. We Suites have special towel privileges; we do not have to hand over our SeaPass Card to score a towel. But the Rands are not Suites. “People are so entitled here,” Mrs. Rand says. “It’s like the airport with all its classes.” “You see,” I want to say, “this is where your husband’s love of Ayn Rand runs into the cruelties and arbitrary indignities of unbridled capitalism.” Instead we make plans to meet for a final drink in the Schooner Bar tonight (the Rands will stand me up).

Back on the ship, I try to do laps, but the pool (the largest on any cruise ship, naturally) is fully trashed with the detritus of American life: candy wrappers, a slowly dissolving tortilla chip, napkins. I take an extra-long shower in my suite, then walk around the perimeter of the ship on a kind of exercise track, past all the alluring lifeboats in their yellow-and-white livery. Maybe there is a dystopian angle to the HBO series that I will surely end up pitching, one with shades of WALL-E or Snowpiercer . In a collapsed world, a Royal Caribbean–like cruise liner sails from port to port, collecting new shipmates and supplies in exchange for the precious energy it has on board. (The actual Icon features a new technology that converts passengers’ poop into enough energy to power the waterslides . In the series, this shitty technology would be greatly expanded.) A very young woman (18? 19?), smart and lonely, who has only known life on the ship, walks along the same track as I do now, contemplating jumping off into the surf left by its wake. I picture reusing Duck Necklace’s words in the opening shot of the pilot. The girl is walking around the track, her eyes on the horizon; maybe she’s highborn—a Suite—and we hear the voice-over: “I’m 19 and I’m ready to go. I just don’t want a shark to eat me.”

Before the cruise is finished, I talk to Mr. Washy Washy, or Nielbert of the Philippines. He is a sweet, gentle man, and I thank him for the earworm of a song he has given me and for keeping us safe from the dreaded norovirus. “This is very important to me, getting people to wash their hands,” he tells me in his burger getup. He has dreams, as an artist and a performer, but they are limited in scope. One day he wants to dress up as a piece of bacon for the morning shift.

THE MAIDEN VOYAGE OF THE TITANIC (the Icon of the Seas is five times as large as that doomed vessel) at least offered its passengers an exciting ending to their cruise, but when I wake up on the eighth day, all I see are the gray ghosts that populate Miami’s condo skyline. Throughout my voyage, my writer friends wrote in to commiserate with me. Sloane Crosley, who once covered a three-day spa mini-cruise for Vogue , tells me she felt “so very alone … I found it very untethering.” Gideon Lewis-Kraus writes in an Instagram comment: “When Gary is done I think it’s time this genre was taken out back and shot.” And he is right. To badly paraphrase Adorno: After this, no more cruise stories. It is unfair to put a thinking person on a cruise ship. Writers typically have difficult childhoods, and it is cruel to remind them of the inherent loneliness that drove them to writing in the first place. It is also unseemly to write about the kind of people who go on cruises. Our country does not provide the education and upbringing that allow its citizens an interior life. For the creative class to point fingers at the large, breasty gentlemen adrift in tortilla-chip-laden pools of water is to gather a sour harvest of low-hanging fruit.

A day or two before I got off the ship, I decided to make use of my balcony, which I had avoided because I thought the view would only depress me further. What I found shocked me. My suite did not look out on Central Park after all. This entire time, I had been living in the ship’s Disneyland, Surfside, the neighborhood full of screaming toddlers consuming milkshakes and candy. And as I leaned out over my balcony, I beheld a slight vista of the sea and surf that I thought I had been missing. It had been there all along. The sea was frothy and infinite and blue-green beneath the span of a seagull’s wing. And though it had been trod hard by the world’s largest cruise ship, it remained.

This article appears in the May 2024 print edition with the headline “A Meatball at Sea.” When you buy a book using a link on this page, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

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Like Jewels, Will Travel

Gem- and jewelry-themed tours and excursions mix treasure hunting with adventure and cultural experiences.

Text by Amy Elliott

Illustrations by Ben Pearce

Last year, when Roberto Ruiz visited the Carbonera mine in Querétaro, Mexico, he cracked open a grapefruit-size piece of rhyolite with a hammer. When he looked inside, “it was like finding a fire fossil,” he said during a recent phone interview from his home in San Antonio. Inside was an orangey-red fire opal that he likened to a flame, forever preserved in the sphere of igneous rock.

Mr. Ruiz and his wife, Erika Rodriguez, are among the few people who have traveled to the mine, a desolate spot located in Carbonera in central Mexico, a destination that’s well off the beaten tourist track, some 20 miles from the nearest city. Their journey was especially unusual as neither is in the gem trade: Mr. Ruiz is a corporate attorney and Ms. Rodriguez works in digital marketing.

But they are among a growing number of travel enthusiasts seeking unusual, hyper-specific vacation experiences that offer an insider’s view of the gem and fine jewelry industries, and a number of businesses are responding to the demand accordingly.

Mr. Ruiz said the idea of visiting an opal mine was appealing for a few reasons, starting with his lifelong fascination with gemstones and minerals.

The mine’s remote location in the rocky, semidesert wilderness (where snakes and scorpions are not uncommon) was also compelling: Ms. Rodriguez said she and her husband are usually inclined toward travel focused on outdoor adventure, from hiking the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru to rock climbing around Krabi in southern Thailand.

“We had also gone to the American Museum of Natural History in New York and saw an opal from Querétaro, and Roberto is originally from there,” Ms. Rodriguez said. “We found out something that we didn’t even know existed and we became interested in learning how the opals are extracted — and meeting the people who were doing it.”

But a traveler cannot just show up at a mine and start digging. It requires a guide, someone well connected to the mine owners and well versed in what to expect: dirt and dust; lots of walking; the occasional explosion at the site; and, at times, security risks. Given their knowledge of the terrain, guides keep an ear to the ground for rumblings — both geological and political — and respond accordingly to keep travelers safe.

The couple arranged the trip through Carlos Torres, an acquaintance from New York who is a gemologist, commercial gem buyer and consultant. He had piqued their interest with tales of the mines he has visited, particularly on trips with his business partner, Laurent Massi, who has taught gemology at several institutions and now is the owner of the Neogem consultancy in Paris.

Mr. Torres and Dr. Massi have organized gem mining trips not just to Mexico, but also to destinations such as Colombia (for emeralds), Thailand (for rubies) and Brazil (for Paraiba tourmaline). Last fall, they started the Gem Odyssey , a business to structure similar gem-hunting expeditions as all-inclusive travel packages that start, on average, at about $3,700 per person, not including airfare.

Gem Odyssey itineraries are tailored to jewelry enthusiasts who are not industry professionals — offering plenty of education and explanation, while avoiding “inside baseball”-type industry talk. The trips typically span nine days, with at least three of those days spent at a mine site.

The founders say the schedules can be customized to include experiences such as tequila tastings or visits to local artisan markets; any given trip might include a mix of accommodations, with upscale hotels near the airports or central cities and more rustic facilities in the mining areas.

But his clients don’t come for the niceties, Mr. Torres said. “They like the idea of getting mud on their hands.”

And, he added, after receiving instruction in mining safety, they become part of the process: “They see the drilling, how the dynamite is used for extraction, and they get to experience breaking the stones and checking for gems.”

Dr. Massi, who also was on the phone interview with Mr. Torres, said that “witnessing the birth of a gemstone is not something anyone can do and see at home in their garden. We try to give them an experience, and see a part of a country, that they could not get access to on their own.”

Digging For Tourmalines

Perhaps it is not surprising, but gem- and jewelry-themed travel is a trend especially relevant to the tastes and inclinations of high-net worth individuals — people with at least $1 million in liquid assets — according to Milton Pedraza, the founder and chief executive of the Luxury Institute, a consultancy specializing in luxury consumer research with offices in New York and Florida.

Mr. Pedraza said the sophisticated traveler has “seen it, done it.” So, he said, when someone has the opportunity to access an exclusive experience in a far-flung part of the world, “it makes your life more unique,” he said,“and everybody wants to be seen as authentic, unique and genuine.”

The designer Pamela Hastry is connected to such clients through Morphée , her jewelry company in Paris, and the lectures that she regularly hosts in and around her hometown, Brussels. She also conducts private tours of Place Vendôme in Paris, a center for high jewelry, and of the Diamantkwartier, or Diamond Quarter, in Antwerp, Belgium, one of the jewelry industry’s oldest and most prominent diamond centers.

In November Ms. Hastry is planning to take a group to Namibia, in southern Africa, to discover the country’s beautiful tourmalines (while also making a stop at a mine that produces chrysocolla, an unusual blue-green type of chalcedony). Organized with Destination, a luxury travel agency in Belgium, the 10-day itinerary includes at least one night in a tent near one of the tourmaline mines (€8,986 or about $9,711, without airfare).

“You’re going to live — and dig — like a miner for a day and a half,” Ms. Hastry said.

Damien Van Bellinghen, the founder of Le Club des Etoiles, a business and social club in Brussels, has one of the 15 reservations for the Namibia trip. Mr. Van Bellinghen, who went on one of Ms. Hastry’s private tours of Antwerp’s diamond district, wrote in an email that he looked forward to discovering how gems are extracted, getting to know the miners and exploring the country through the lens of a jeweler.

“The types of trips that Pamela Hastry organizes plunge straight into the heart of where the most marvelous jewels come from,” he wrote. “Such visits can only be made if you are accompanied by someone who has ‘insider’ knowledge and, above all, who has the trust of the local people. And we’re lucky enough to enjoy it.”

The Royal Treatment

If you do find a gem during one of these mine trips, can it be used in a piece of jewelry? Both Ms. Hastry and Mr. Torres of the Gem Odyssey said that they could facilitate a purchase, although they noted that the item purchased would have to comply with international import/export regulations.

But some gem-loving travelers don’t want to dig for their treasures. They would rather a holiday centered on history, sightseeing and shopping for finished pieces of jewelry (with posh accommodations and amenities as a bonus).

“You can tour some cities very easily through the lens of the history of fine jewelry and jewelry-making,” said Camilla Davidson, who is head of destination management for Britain, France and Ireland at Red Savannah , a luxury travel agency in England. “And that would still enable you to see so many of the destination’s highlights.”

For example, the agency offers a tour of London called Couture and Crown Jewels, an extravagant option for jewelry enthusiasts with deep pockets ($550,000 for two people, without airfare). It offers a private tour of the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London and dinner in its White Tower; a four-night stay at the Raffles London at the OWO; and tickets to a West End show. And it includes a $125,000 credit toward a jewelry purchase at Humphrey Butler, an antique and estate jeweler.

Ms. Davidson said she developed the package in response to the world’s fascination with British royalty and was inspired by the idea of connecting a visit to the Crown Jewels to an exclusive jewelry shopping experience.

Humphrey Butler and his namesake business were a natural fit for the itinerary, she said: “He has the most impeccable collection and he as an individual is completely charming, exceptionally discreet, and just great fun to be around.”

Jewels at Sea

For some jewelry collectors, a travel experience that plays to, or enhances, their level of connoisseurship, is most appealing.

“Whatever their interest is, they want to learn more,” said Mr. Pedraza, the luxury consumer specialist. “So they make an adventure or journey out of it.”

One such example might be the Spotlight on Fabergé package offered by Regent Seven Seas Cruises in collaboration with Fabergé, the Russian heritage workshop known for its bejeweled eggs, which in 2009 moved its headquarters in London.

The first such excursion aboard the Seven Seas Grandeur liner is scheduled for July. Josina von dem Bussche-Kessell, Fabergé’s creative director, explained that the cruise is designed for “clients who care about art and culture and would happily sit for an hour or so to learn about the history of Fabergé’s royal clients then and now.”

The Grandeur, which was launched in November, has its own 1,600-piece art collection, including a Fabergé egg in an ocean theme with blue guilloché enamel, diamonds and pearls, called “Journey in Jewels,” which was commissioned by Regent Seven Seas. (The meetings on the commission actually led to the cruise collaboration.)

The 11-day voyage is scheduled to depart from the Civitavecchia port in Rome and to include destinations such as the Sicilian city of Taormina; Ibiza, Spain; and Nice, France, ending in Monaco (from $12,999 per person, including airfare).

The programming is to include Fabergé expert-led lectures, screenings and master classes, as well as shore excursions attuned to the participants’ interests in the decorative arts. As Ms. von dem Bussche-Kessell sees it, such a floating symposium — a kind of sleepover camp on a luxury scale — effectively creates a community for people who share a common passion.

Mr. Pedraza said that was an important incentive for certain travelers: “They love to engage with the product while meeting people who are their peers and who come through trusted brands and curators.”

And the return home is just as important as the journey itself, especially with a glittering souvenir to show friends and family.

“You get to demonstrate your expertise,” Mr. Pedraza said, “The experience has made you an insider.”

This historic icon was named Esquire Magazine's 2024 New Hotel of the Year

O ne of San Diego County’s most iconic hotels, the historic The Lafayette Hotel & Club, has been named the 2024 New Hotel of the Year by Esquire Magazine.

The Lafayette

The old treasure, originally built in 1946, celebrated the completion of a $31 million transformation in 2023. Esquire Magazine named the Lafayette Hotel’s style, food, bowling alley and room designs as reasons for awarding the recognition.

“This unexpected, unabashed party palace just might be the best reason to head to San Diego,” writer Kevin Sintumuang wrote in  Esquire Magazine.

The Lafayette Hotel & Club located in the heart of North Park is operated by CH Projects. The company operates some of San Diego’s favorite restaurants and bars including, YoungBlood, Raised by Wolves, Born & Raised, Neighborhood, Craft & Commerce and Ironside. 

"It's pretty surreal considering this is our first hotel, and we’re amateur hoteliers at best. This work is so personal to us, and we had such a clear vision for the cultural void we wanted to fill in the hotel landscape in San Diego," CH Projects Founder Arsalun Tafazoli said in a statement to CBS 8. "To see the project be embraced by our city, and obviously when a national institution of a publication acknowledges the work, it fills my heart with more joy and gratitude than I'm capable of articulating through words.”

Inside the transformation

Originally built in 1946, The Lafayette underwent a major transformation. CBS 8 toured the newly reimagined property ahead of the hotel's grand opening in 2023.

• Inside the premium poolside rooms, guests will appreciate the attention to detail, everything from the custom bed linens to the wallpaper. 
• Each room is accentuated with a curated mini bar with over 40 selections for spirits, drink recipes, and snacks. 
• To top it off, Lafayette even has a Victorian-style bowling alley.
• The LaFayette Hotel & Club’s complete overhaul, its first proper restoration since it was built, was designed by Brooklyn-based Post Company, including eight new food and beverage outlets along with all 139 rooms and the signature pool that remains the focal point of the property. 
• Renowned music producer Swizz Beats has created the hotel’s soundtrack played on a custom-built speaker system designed by Devon Turnbull. 
• The aesthetic embodies the hotel’s connection to its glamorous past while showcasing modern, yet meaningful craftsmanship within a collection of eclectic spaces.

WATCH RELATED: Historic Lafayette Hotel & Club undergoes $31 million dollar makeover

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This Is the No. 1 U.S. City People Want to Move to in 2024 — and It Has the Largest Retirement Community in the World

Hint: it's in the Sunshine State.

Michael Warren/Getty Images

Americans are on the move. Over eight million people relocated to a different state in 2022, according to estimates by the U.S. Census Bureau . And a new report by relocation company MoveBuddha sheds more light on where Americans are headed in 2024. Based on customer search data, the company identified the most desirable destinations with the highest migration rates, and a city in the Sunshine State topped the list.

The Villages in Central Florida, known as the largest retirement community in the world, had the highest in-to-out ratio, 4.38, meaning that for every one hundred people who leave the city, another 438 move in.

“The Villages is a racehorse that’s outpacing every other city in the country for growth. Fueled by a ‘silver tsunami,’ this Baby Boomtown has been on the rise for a decade and shows no signs of slowing down in 2024. With baby boomers reaching retirement age through 2031, the Florida destination is poised for even more growth in years to come,” the report stated, noting that the community offers a mix of good weather and activities.

MoveBuddha’s analysis also shows that while housing costs are a consideration, Americans are willing to relocate to a destination where real estate prices are not necessarily the lowest. In The Villages, for example, the median home value is $407,528, which is more than the nation’s average of $347,716.

Another destination popular with senior adults that made it to the top three is Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, where over a fifth of the population is aged 65 and over. The oceanfront community ranked third with an in-to-out ratio of 3.22.

However, MoveBuddha noted that cities with bustling art scenes located in natural settings draw the most interest overall. Asheville, North Carolina, for example, which takes the No. 2 spot with an in-to-out ratio of 3.29, is one of them. Similarly, Billings, Montana; Chattanooga, Tennessee; Boulder, Colorado; and Burlington, Vermont; are in the top 10 most desirable places to move to in 2024.

But if you are looking for affordability, the report also points out that five of the 25 winning cities have median home values of under $200,000, and those are Dayton, Ohio; Hartford, Connecticut; Tulsa, Oklahoma; Des Moines, Iowa; and Champaign, Illinois.

Another significant outtake from the report is that Americans are no longer leaving urban areas — a trend that started during the COVID-19 pandemic. People favor mid-size cities of about 200,000 residents, with Boston being the most populous of all on the list.

You can read the full report at movebuddha.com .

• Solar Eclipse 2024

‘20 or 30 Super Bowls.’ Drivers and Officials Brace for Massive Eclipse Traffic Jams

M elissa Schleig, a postmaster who lives in Strasburg, Virginia, drove more than 400 miles southwest to the Smoky Mountains to see the 2017 solar eclipse. The travel experience was miserable.

“It should have taken us about six to seven hours to go down there but it took us about a little over six hours just to go about two hours south of here. It was insane,” said Schleig, who began to drive down the day before the eclipse. 

At least 5 million people traveled for the 2017 eclipse, according to a journal by the Institute of Transportation Engineers, but even more are expected to gather to witness this year’s total solar eclipse on April 8. Already, an estimated 31.6 million people currently live in the roughly 115-mile wide path of totality —compared to the 12 million that did in 2017. 

“Having a total solar eclipse pass through the U.S. is kind of like having 20 or 30 Super Bowls happening all at once,” says Richard Fienberg, project manager of the American Astronomical Society's Solar Eclipse Task Force. “So many people are gathering for the spectacle over a long distance.”

Read More : How Cities Around the U.S. Are Celebrating the Eclipse

Transportation agencies are coordinating with the National Weather Service to spot areas of high interest for eclipse viewing to better prepare for traffic delays, but they say the impacts are unavoidable. “The Federal Highway Administration (FHWA) knows that there is great interest in this rare solar event, and that’s why we want everyone to be aware of the real traffic and safety impacts,” FHWA Administrator Shailen Bhatt told TIME in an email. “We want people to remember this day and this experience—that may be once in a lifetime—for all the right reasons.”

This year Schleig, who is part of a Facebook eclipse chasing group, is traveling to the Canadian side of Niagara Falls to view the eclipse. And she’s hoping to learn from her 2017 mistakes: she’s planning to avoid the traffic by extending her trip from April 4 through the 10th, instead of driving the day before like she did last time.

How bad will traffic be? 

The FHWA says Schleig has the right idea. It is advising people to drive early, and stay longer in the town where they’re viewing the eclipse to avoid traffic. The FHWA says it's hard to predict which cities or states will be most impacted by the eclipse traffic-wise, but they predict up to 5 million people will be traveling to the path of totality between Texas and Maine.   

While drivers and officials are looking to the 2017 eclipse for hints of what is to come, traffic will likely be much worse this time. That’s because the 2024 path of totality—the area where the moon will completely obscure the sun—is a 3-hour drive away from 8 major cities with a population greater than 2 million, including Chicago, Houston, and Toronto. By contrast, the 2017 eclipse path of totality was a 3-hour drive away from only three larger metropolitan areas: St. Louis, Kansas City, and Portland, Ore.

Read More : How to Use Your Smartphone to Take Photos of the Solar Eclipse

If the expected 5 million visitors were to leave the path of totality as soon as the eclipse ends, the ensuing traffic would be equivalent to 71 sold out football games ending all at once, according to a journal by the Institute of Transportation Engineers.

Where are people traveling?

Several eclipse chasers, like 62-year-old photographer Beth Hutter, told TIME that they were planning to travel to Texas because it has the lowest chance of cloud cover. “We didn't want to take a chance that the day of the eclipse it [would be] overcast and rainy,” said Hutter, who is traveling from Michigan to Kileen, Texas five days before the eclipse. “We made the mistake of trying to drive home the same day [for the 2017 eclipse]... So thankfully, because we're going to be right there, I don't think we're going to have to deal with the traffic nightmares that most people are going to have.”

Texas Department of Transportation media relations director Adam Hammons says that up to one million out-of-state visitors may be traveling to view the eclipse, in addition to the millions that already live in the state and will likely also be driving to different areas/cities.  

Hammons says the eclipse runs through I-35, which is a significant corridor in the state that traverses through small towns as well as larger metro areas like Austin, Dallas, and Fort Worth. “It really goes through a large portion of Texas,” he says. “There’s going to be some possible significant delays on these major corridors and/or farm roads…Give yourself extra travel time. Plan ahead your trip, plan your route,” Drivetexas.org, a website that shares real-time traffic updates, could be helpful in deciding which way to go. 

Regardless of where you choose to see the eclipse, Hammons says it's important to have a safe, designated place to park and enjoy the experience—as long as it's off the shoulder of the highway.

Read More : Here’s What Determines How Long the Total Eclipse Will Last in Your Location

Other states like Arkansas, which has a population of some 3 million people , could see anywhere from 300,000 to 1.5 million visitors. (State officials have cited varying estimates .) The most extreme traffic will be seen along AR Highway 70 to Benton, AR Highway 65 from Conway to Greenbrier, and more. "There’s no doubt our Interstates and highways could be tested," Arkansas Department of Transportation Director Lorie H. Tudor told TIME in a statement, "but we have put forth our best planning efforts and we are cautiously optimistic that we are as prepared as possible to address any foreseeable issues that may arise."

New York is another state expecting a high volume of visitors and traffic. Many residents and out-of-state visitors will be traveling to the western and northern regions of the state, with Niagara Falls being an area of high interest. "We are expecting as many as a million people to come to Erie County solely for the eclipse," says Peter Anderson, press secretary for the Erie County executive, where Niagara Falls is based. According to data collected by Priceline and shared with TIME, Buffalo, New York has the second highest average airfare price compared to the travel cost to seven cities along the path of totality— including Dallas, Indianapolis, and Cleveland—at $999, and the most expensive average nightly hotel room cost among those cities listed at $476.

Still, for many of the eclipse watchers, braving bad traffic will be worth it. “It's just one of those things where you just realize your place in the world, and how small you are in comparison to the rest of the universe,” says Hutter. “The world just kind of stops.”

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When is the next total solar eclipse in the U.S.? See the paths for the 2044 and 2045 events

By Cara Tabachnick

Updated on: April 9, 2024 / 2:31 AM EDT / CBS News

Eclipse-watchers waited more than six years since the last time a total solar eclipse charted its way across the United States,  in 2017 . After the  April 8 event , prepare to wait a lot longer — the next chance won't be coming around any time soon.

Viewers in what's called " the path of totality " saw the moon completely block the sun  — an opportunity those in North America won't have again for 20-plus years. The next total solar eclipses in North America are not anticipated until 2044 and 2045.

"A total solar eclipse is one of the most spectacular things anyone can see in their lifetime," Virginia Tech astrophysicist Nahum Arav told CBS News. The eclipse "looks like a black hole in the sky," said Arav, who watched the paths of totality of eclipses in 1991 and 2017.

Monday's eclipse started around 11:07 a.m. PDT on the Pacific Coast of Mexico, and then moved into Texas . The eclipse's visibility tracked  through 15 states  — Oklahoma, Illinois , Ohio,  Pennsylvania , New York , Vermont ,  New Hampshire  and Maine , among them — before heading northward into Canada and then exiting North America.

Even with spotty weather in some states, millions of people from coast to coast saw a partial solar eclipse, in which the moon partially covers the sun. However, only those within the path of totality experienced the darkness of the total solar eclipse. 

When is the next total solar eclipse in the U.S. after the 2024 eclipse?

Solar eclipses happen about twice a year, said Arav. "Eclipses happen all over the Earth evenly," he told CBS News — but noted the timings when they occur are not regular. That means  eclipses can occur within just a few years, or every few decades, in North America.

Before the eclipse in 2017, the last total solar eclipse to cross North America was in 1979 . That was the first eclipse whose path of totality crossed the entire continent in 99 years. 

Even though eclipses may seem to occur randomly, scientists can pinpoint exactly when and where they will happen.

"There is no ambiguity, as we know exactly where it will land," said Arav. 

There will be eight total solar eclipses visible from North America in the 21st century, Arav said, with one occurring about every 12 years, on average.   

The next total solar eclipse to cross North America is predicted to occur on Aug. 23, 2044 , NASA said. However, the path of totality from this eclipse will only touch three states, according to  The Planetary Society, a nonprofit organization dedicated to public interest in space.  

This next eclipse will mainly be observed in Canada, Arav said. 

Path of totality for the 2044 total solar eclipse

The 2044 eclipse will start in Greenland on Aug. 23, 2044, and will continue its path through Canada. 

The 2044 total solar eclipse will be short, mostly appearing in Canada. It will be visible from three states in the U.S.: Montana, North Dakota and South Dakota.  

The path of totality will cross Williston and Dickinson, North Dakota, and Great Falls, Montana.

Path of totality for the 2045 total solar eclipse

The next solar eclipse that crosses a significant portion of the continental U.S. will be in 2045, said Arav. That year, a solar eclipse will darken skies in parts of the U.S., Haiti, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Guyana, French Guiana, Suriname and Brazil. 

In North America, the 2045 total eclipse will be visible in many states as it moves from coast to coast. The eclipse will start in California and move east to end in Florida, similar to 2017, Arav said. 

There will be numerous U.S. cities where eclipse watchers can view the total eclipse, including Reno, Nevada; Colorado Springs, Colorado; and Orlando, Florida.

Future solar eclipses in North America after 2045

Scientists have predicted eight total solar eclipses will appear in North America in the 21st century.

"Natural phenomena are like a Swiss clock," Arav said. "We know exactly when and where they will appear."

After the 2044 and 2045 total solar eclipses, the next total eclipses in North America will occur in 2078 and 2099.

May 11, 2078

This total solar eclipse on May 11, 2078 , will pass over the southern United States.

Cities include:

Atlanta, Georgia

New Orleans, Louisiana

Charlotte, North Carolina

Virginia Beach, Virginia

Sept. 14, 2099

This total solar eclipse on Sept. 14, 2099 , will cross a wide swath of the United States.

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Chicago, Illinois

Columbus, Ohio

Fargo, North Dakota

Cara Tabachnick is a news editor and journalist at CBSNews.com. Cara began her career on the crime beat at Newsday. She has written for Marie Claire, The Washington Post and The Wall Street Journal. She reports on justice and human rights issues. Contact her at [email protected]

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