PART SIX

When last we left the story, it was Pirate Night, with a dessert buffet. After I wrote that, the following occurred. This has nothing to do with Europe, and everything to do with being a parent. On a ship.

It had been one of those multiple-dessert days. As I’ve said before about parenthood, sugar regulation is one of your duties. Not prohibition; that only guarantees they’ll grow up to melt it in spoons and inject it in their veins. But regulation. You keep a little running total in your head, and yield or prohibit as the situation requires. Being on vacation alters the situation, since you’re on vacation, and things are waived in the interest of having a good time. But that doesn’t mean a stack of waffles with whipped cream, ice cream at ten, a Mickey Bar after lunch, ice cream in the afternoon, dessert after supper, and a sundae in the evening. Maybe if you have one of those skinny-minis that burns everything off. We don’t. So when it was a two-ice-cream day before dinner (the first because they were handing it out at Pompeii, the second because we were in Naples and there was a gelateria, and you cannot say no) and she asked if she could have a smoothie for supper, I said sure.

Then I learned there would be a dessert buffet after the fireworks. Yes, fireworks: the only cruise line licensed to have fireworks is the Disney line. I strongly recommended holding off on the smoothie, because it would be forgotten by the time the buffet came along, and it would have delights without end. She said okay.

Well, we went up to the top deck for the Pirate party, and it was an utter madhouse. Everyone was there, and the teens ran the show. Tweens as well, and a million children underfoot. We decided not to stay, because it was deafening and packed, and watched the fireworks from our stateroom, exploding over the ocean. Delightful. Then we went down to the dessert buffet. The line was nine miles long. Daughter declined. I could tell there was disappointment, even though she said it was okay. Really dad, it’s okay. But it wasn’t. She’d wanted that smoothie, and I’d argued her out of it, claiming the adult privilege of Foresight.

So we went to see Cars 2 in 3D. Yes, there’s an enormous movie theater, shows everything in 3D. After 40 minutes I said I’d go see what the buffet line was like. The line was small. I gathered up some samples of everything just in case they ran out by the time I got her. Ran back to the stateroom, deposited the plate, went back to the movie, told her the line was small, and we left. When we got there everything was gone but two plates of cake mashed into unrecognizable mush.

Disappointment.

It’s okay. Really dad.

Sigh. Back to the movie; I almost fell asleep. Never fallen asleep in a movie, but for some reason the 3D was so incredibly taxing I could barely look at it. When it was done we went back to the stateroom, and there was the plate of desserts, intact, ready for sampling. Great delight.

Before bed she came over and gave me a big, big hug.

It’s just been a wonderful vacation.

LAST DAY

Today is a day at sea, which is a relief to everyone. Me in particular. Four days of tromping around - that’s what one does on these things, right? You tromp around the country - has left me with a desire to do nothing but sit in a deck chair and relax. Formal dinner tonight, then “Who Wants to be a Mouseketeer” down at Studio Sea. A big nap ahead, since I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep. I could sleep now, but there’s lunch to consider. And perhaps dessert.

Woke, threw back the curtains: what’s the stage look like today? Palma, Mallorca. Knew nothing about it, but a look at the daily activity guide was helpful: Romans conquered the islands in 123 BC, naming Palma ‘Palmera’ for the abundance of palm trees that were on the island. Arabic culture soon followed and has left its mark on the life of the islands. In 1229, the forces of King Jaime I of Aragon regained the islands and Mallorca was then declared an independent Christian Kingdom.”

How you get “Arabic culture soon followed” after the 123 BC annexation from an Islamic invasion 900 years later, I don’t know.

We had a city tour in the morning - on the bus, around impossibly narrow streets, up to a castle on the top of a hill. The usual “everyone is coming to kill us, so let’s build thick walls some place difficult to get” stronghold. Rather spare, but beautiful views, as you can see above. Otherwise, basic castle:

Hey, Hidden Mickeys! It really is a Disney excursion!

There was a jail that held Napoleon’s soldiers in one centuries, Communists in the next. Back in the bus and off to town; parked, walked through a maze of twisty little streets that made me feel like I was in an old text adventure, then our destination, which was a chocolate & baked goods store where we would have a “typical Mallorcan breakfast.” She would not tell us what was in it. She said she would tell us afterwards. We were surprised to find we’d be eating again, since everyone had probably had the typically Lucullean breakfast on the ship. How can you resist? THEY HAVE EVERYTHING and even if it’s not all good, well, it’s EVERYTHING. Lunch on a ship is always catch-as-catch-can; you don’t want to hit the buffet again, so you end up grabbing something from the poolside grill. Dinner is always fancy, with each dish trailing an elegant train of adjectives. Breakfast is the best . . . in theory.

In practice everything’s usually a little cold. Unless you get the omelette. But that requires waiting for everyone in line to decide what they want, and some sort of brain-locking indecision afflicts everyone who stands in an omelette line.

But this was Mallorcan breakfast. Can’t refuse. Second breakfast, then When in the shire, do as the Hobbits do. We were fed an amazing pastry that was just . . . well. No words. Also a cup of steaming thick hot chocolate. As I ate the pastry I was convinced that great money could be made bringing it to America, and I was drawing up a business plan when the tour guide stopped by our table and told us Starbucks - or Starebox, as she called it - would soon sell this pastry in the United States soon, under the name Mallorcan Bread. Trust me. Eat it.

Secret ingredient? Pig grease. Really. But trust me. Eat it.

We walked some more, and passed something quite curious:

You can have Dunkin' Donuts, and you can have Dunkin' Donuts Coffee, but I'm not sure how you can have Dunkin' Coffee.

Off to the cathedral, which will be the subject of my next National Review column, so I’ll leave that be. There was a brief appearance by Gaudi, who came down to the island to bollix things up, or at least do things the locals did not like. Enormous cathedral, ancient and gloomy and something of a stylistic jumble, but man:

A long walk back to the bus, and a short ride back to the boat. We grabbed some towels and headed back into town to catch a bus to the beach. It chuffed up and down streets until it the driver shut off the engine, and everyone had to get out. We found the beach: magnificent. Bottom of a ravine, a crescent of sparkling sand - must be the Arabic culture influence - and warm blue water. And, to daughter’s horror, TOPLESSNESS. (Aside from a few long-limbed fillies with wavy hair, keen to flaunt it while all was high and tight, it was not Playboy-club-on-the-Med.) We read and bobbed in the water and basted and headed back . . .

. . . to pack. Always the saddest part, but they do their best to make your last night - what’s the word? MAGICAL! Everything’s fargin’ MAGICAL here. But it is. After one last dinner with our tablemates - this time Spencer and I got into 80s sci-fi movies that were not Trek or Wars (discovered last night we were both fans of Star Trek and Star Wars) Natalie and her friend ran down to Studio Sea to get a table for Mickey Mania, a game show for which you audition by screaming wildly. We never get chosen for anything; not at the Laugh Factory in Disneyworld, or “Who Wants to be a Mousketeer,” or any other contests. But we waved our hands and screamed anyway - and were chosen right away.

She was beside herself with joy. We bounded up to the stage, put on Goofy hats, took our part behind the consoles, and prepared to play Disney Trivia against three other couples. It was looking grim for us after the first round, since the questions are never about elements of Disney I know very well. They cover recent movies, or movies she didn’t watch. It’s never “name the last cartoon Walt Disney personally directed” or “What recurring element in a PIxar movie can be identified by the letters YO” or stuff like that. But the “What Comes Next section” went well; three for three. Then came an interesting portion: “Name that Toon.” They’d show a picture of a character digitally distorted, and it would gradually come into shape. Bang, one after the other. I nailed Buzz Lightyear as soon as it appeared, because of the colors, and then came my moment of triumph: got Lady from “Lady and the Tramp” the very first second, again, based on the color of the still shot. The two distinctive brown tones of her fur. They totaled up the points and WE WON! WE WON! Spoils: a genuine plastic trophy. Daughter was all smiles, as was I: how perfect was this?

Everyone’s packed now, and in a while we’ll go back for Karaoke - daughter and her friend (from the dining room table) will do songs, which just amazed me. Last night she took the stage to sing a song I didn’t know she knew, and did a great job. Standing on the stage all alone with the microphone, belting it out - not her style, or at least we didn’t think it was. But you learn something on these trips. You learn you can walk around Monaco one day, Firenze the next, Rome after that, then Pompeii, and the peculiar patterns and rhythms of the day not only feel normal quite quickly, but superior to any other sort of life you can imagine.

There’s a reason these ships have a desk where a fellow sits and waits for people to reserve their next cruise. The first one sells the second. And all the ones that follow.