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HeyYouKidsGetOffMyLawn
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Posts posted by HeyYouKidsGetOffMyLawn
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Subscribing forever and always. Now to search for that next review. I hope to find one.
That guy never wrote another review. Nobody knows why.
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We're packing our bags (and the minivan) for another weekend trip. Sailing away today.
To clarify: I'm threatening to write another trip report. No promises.
You have been warned.
That is all.
Mr. Lawn
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Not beer snob.
Beer geek.
I would certainly hate to throw a wrench into your carefully handcrafted objection, Mr Luddite.
I was simply echoing the original poster's chosen term for his preferences. I consider your self-chosen term to be equally valid, and applaud your efforts to correct me.
If you need me, I'll be in the corner sipping a warm shot of Old Grand Dad from a dirty glass.
Mr. Lawn
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Port Canaveral + Beer Snob: You may want to visit the local nanobrewery, about 7 miles away from the port. http://www.cocoabeachbrewingcompany.com/index.htm
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Hmmm. Former Destiny-Class ship. I'm going to assume that using the Victory will be a valid reference.
You probably want the Category 4J + Handicapped rooms. On the Sunshine, I see them on Decks 6 and 7, in the very front of the ship. 6105, 6106, 7105, 7106. Priced at the top end of 'inside' staterooms, but our agent usually gives us a 'free' upgrade.
They're triangular in shape, with ample space to park a wheelchair away from the door and still get into/out of the bed. The bathrooms have shower 'platforms' that fold down from the back wall and no 'lip' to cross. My wife uses a chair (Hoveround) for trips over a hundred feet but can transfer to/from the chair independently.
I was pleased with ours.
Rick
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There should be a coupon in your account.
Here is a link to the offer terms and conditions:
We're doing the same thing, except with a Getaway cruise to qualify. And probably dragging friends (one wirgin, one who cruised years ago as a child) onto the Sky cruise.
The only thing that bothers me is that I can't book/reserve the 'free' Sky cruise right now so we can all arrange time off from work/school/etc.
Rick
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I am sorry that we were demanding and made it become a chore for him to continue. Please give him our regards.
It wasn't a chore to continue. I truly have no significant memories of the day at sea. And everybody hates debarkation day, so I have nothing to say that hasn't been said before.
I'll make you a deal. The title of the original post was "after action report." So I'll do an actual AAR on Friday.
1. Things that went well
2. Things that went badly and I can't improve.
3. Things that I want to do better or differently on the next trips.
Perhaps I'll even be able to inject a few milli-Carlins of humor into the post. No promises.
Sent from my rotary dial phone by whistling Bell 202 symbols.
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Loving this review. It isn't over yet is it? I can not wait until the day of debarkation. I am sure that will be a hoot!
I've decided that the review is over.
We spent a day at sea. Nothing funny happened. Debarkation sounded simple and easy when they explained it. It was terrible, but that was because of the other passengers. Carnival tried so hard to keep it organized...
Did I enjoy my first cruise? Sure.
Did I hate Carnival? Not really. The boat was fine. The employees were generally friendly and pretended to care.
If it was December 23rd, I would air my grievances, but they seem rather common and boring.
Why are we doing our next cruise on the competition? Gosh, I just like the NCL marketing.
Would I travel on another Carnival cruise? Yes.
It's been fun,
Señor Lawn
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And how exactly was this accomplished? I've tried this method several time with no bracelet availed with Nydney1 :( He either misses that I WANT THIS ONE! Or blissfully ignores that I WANT THIS ONE! ;)
You need to create the everlasting bond that can only occur between true soulmates.
You'll also need a lot of candles, silly outfits, a goat named Steve, a steak knife, and ... Well, it's complicated.
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Ah yes, same So Cal here... but we had my brother's mixtape stuck in the stereo (and no radio) so it was a constant Depeche Mode, Violent Femmes, & Jane's Addiction playlist.
To this day, I hear one of those songs on radio, I crave fish tacos, and know exactly what song 'should be next'... :p
I hope you know: This will go down on your permanent record.
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To avoid any confusion, the entire educational section of the upcoming tour would fit easily into the backyard of a house in a new suburban neighborhood. Yet another nightmarish landscape with houses packed side-by-side closer than the legal limit for a trailer park and painted one of the four neutral colors approved by the iron-fisted HOA.
The story-line he’s selling us: This is an accurate portrayal of the actual process practiced for the last hundred years by the highly respected (mumble) family distillery in the highlands of Jalisco. They make tequila the old fashioned way, yadda yadda yadda.
And it’s a collection of sad displays.
The single (he freely admitted it’s not “Weber Blue”, but a relative) agave plant looks like a freshly planted aloe vera, barely more than a foot tall.
The “authentic stone-lined fire pit” for baking the harvested agave hearts was full of garbage, twigs and discarded Oxford commas.
The “stone grinding wheel” is a cracked concrete oval, flat on one side. The central bearing assembly has been replaced by two thick fence posts nailed together poorly at a 90 degree angle with a radius of two feet for a 5 foot tall wheel. It cannot rotate, and if it could, the radius is horribly wrong.
The fermentation tanks and copper pot stills are merely fuzzy photographs.
At the end of the tour, we enter a large thatched-roof canopy area for the free tequila tasting. This is an area of about 500 square feet with small waist-height tables that would look more appropriate in a night club. There are four bottles on each one and a stack of plastic sample cups stolen from the condiments section of a fast food restaurant.
We tried a small sample from each of the four bottles, and I was legitimately impressed by the Anejo (aged for at least a year). It was smooth with a rich flavor, actually comparable to a decent bottle of whiskey.
And now a lame sales pitch: “You cannot buy our esteemed family tequila in the states. Only at the factory in Jalisco, or here at our special outlet store.”
The anejo bottle I liked is ‘normally $100, but today only, I give it to you for 90. Because we’re friends.’
“I’m not your friend, buddy.”
“I am no your buddy, pal.”
“I’m not your pal, guy.”
I suddenly find myself experiencing a real-world application of Akerlof’s theories of Information Asymmetry. I know that I enjoyed the Anejo product, and I have a level of interest in making this market transaction. I have an internal price of around $40 for the bottle, and no way to determine if a higher price would be justified. The seller knows I’m leaving soon, and he has a clear incentive to extract an unreasonable price from me without expecting any retribution.
If I was carrying my cellphone, I would have just read the NOM code from the bottle to determine if it was re-branded and available in beloved ‘Murica. In round numbers, a thousand brands of tequila are produced by only a hundred distilleries, each uniquely identified by the NOM license number. Without naming any brands, I usually drink the cheap stuff from NOM 1440.
While I’m playing ‘mystery liquor games’, I’ll mention that the ‘Van Winkle’ series of bourbons have a cult following. The 2013 batch of ‘Van Winkle Special Reserve, Lot B’ was bottled from about 100 barrels personally hand-selected by Julian Van Winkle himself. The barrels he didn't choose were bottled and sold under a different brand name for a dramatically lower price. If you can figure out this puzzle, you will discover my favorite straight bourbon. Oh crap, it’s already hard to find this stuff and now I've ... well, too late. Good luck.
I thank him for his time and walk away. He does not attempt to haggle or offer me a package deal.
We’re tired, and this scam tour was the final straw. We climb back into our less-than-regal chariot and I command our chauffeur to take us back to the yacht.
I actually found the last leg of the journey to be the most interesting part of the trip. We traveled along the not-sanitized-for-tourists route through the shopping districts and industrial sections of San Miguel. I fight off the urge to have him stop at a roadside food vendor. I really, really want a fistful of hot, fresh, tiny tortillas with grilled meat, a pinch of onion and some bruised cilantro.
As a young man, I lived in the desert of California. During the summer, my friends and I would make frequent weekend pilgrimages to Rosarito Beach, staying in cheap hotels overnight without regard for our health. So I’m having flashbacks to simpler times, watching the scenery fly by from the back seat of SSGT Robin’s all-terrain Geo Metro, singing along to Depeche Mode CDs from a crappy stereo, competing with the wind noise from a rack full of surfboards on the roof. And we would routinely dine at these little roadside stands, eagerly watching an old man fling dozens of little tortillas onto a blackened grill surface, scoop them up when they started to scorch, then adding a mixture of hot meat, a bit of vegetation and a squirt of secret hot sauce.
I want to go back right now and risk a massive intestinal mutiny, just to get those little tacos.
It’s obvious that our driver either does not want, or is not allowed to enter the actual cruise ship terminal parking lot. We finally roll to a stop in a parking lot across the street. I give our guide a tip for making this such an amusing experience. He gives me a feedback form provided by the booking agency. I check all of the ‘awesome’ boxes and sign it in the comments section. I don’t want to use my real name, so I sign it “Lou Betti, KBE.”
I realize this is my final chance to purchase tequila before getting back on the boat. While walking back to the terminal, we stop inside the large liquor store in the collection of "Bargains? I don’t have to show you any stinkin’ bargains" shoppes.
They have a pretty good selection of tequila, but when we ask questions, the cute saleslady is devoid of useful information. She starts looking at bottles and reading the marketing factoids out loud to us ... I’m not even confident that prices were significantly better than at home.
We decide to carry some tequila back on-board by drinking it. There’s a chain-bar called Fat Tuesdays at the last corner of the shopping zone. We share a 24 oz plastic cup filled with an unremarkable frozen margarita from a slushie machine and bring it back on-board as the token ‘this says Cozumel’ souvenir. I am so ashamed.
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We’re roaring down the deserted coastal road away from the eco park, travelling north. To our right, the surf is heavy, creating picturesque whitecaps on the perfect blue waves as they crash against the shore.
With not much else to do, I start chatting with the driver again.
He’s in a partnership for the guide business. They always work both days on the weekend, and take days off during the week when the ship arrivals are slower. Before the buggy business, he was a scuba divemaster and worked in a car rental office.
If I wanted to quit my job and become his competition, the market price for a dune buggy made in Cozumel is roughly $6,000. There are no licensing requirements. But I’d have to learn Spanish and look different, so ... I’ll keep my day job.
We reach a cluster of temporary buildings on both side of the road.
This is the kids beach. Tired of drinking beer, I dig into the cooler and find a small (273 ml) glass bottle of Coke, which may have been made with cane sugar instead of corn syrup. Either way, it was delicious and perfect for this moment of the trip. With my wife using my shoulders for support, we travel down a shallow ramp from the roadside. DW manages to cross the beach slowly and walk into the water up to her knees. We stand there for a few minutes, then she asks if we can get out of the water. This section of the beach is protected by a rocky natural (?) breakwater about 30 meters away, but the waves are still strong enough here to make her nervous about losing her balance.
I finish my glass bottle of Mexican coke, knock the damp sand off of it and place it back in the cooler under the assumption that the bottles are recycled and he paid a deposit for it.
We’re back in motion, still along the coast and northbound. I’m out of small talk ideas.
“Hey! Do you like trivia questions? I love trivia. But I’m not very good at it, so I don’t have any plastic model boats.” I receive a polite smile.
“Here’s a fun one. Complete this sentence, “It rubs the lotion on it’s skin. It does this whenever it’s told. It rubs the lotion on it’s skin or ...”
The polite smile disappears. There’s a pause before he responds.
“That’s the strangest question I've heard all day. I have no idea what you’re asking me.”
I mumble softly to myself, “I get that all of the time.”
We leave the coastal road and begin travelling across the island towards the cruise terminal.
We pass several signs for “tequila tour ahead”, then drive right past ‘the good one’.
Instead, we rumble down the road for a few minutes and turn into the parking lot of this place:
He parks the buggy directly in front of the entrance, and we unload our backpacks.
Three extras without speaking roles are literally sitting on the front porch of the building and wearing sombreros. It’s the first time I've seen a sombrero on Cozumel. Our driver has a short conversation with the fourth man on the porch, probably asking if the kickback schedule is the same as last week. We follow the guide through the general store, out the rear entrance and emerge into a small flea market. Somebody has tied a donkey to a tree. Why is there a donkey here? At least they didn't make him wear a sombrero. DW needs to use the restroom, and I agree to meet her again in a few minutes at a bench in the center of the open-air market. I stay in an area where I can keep watch over the restroom area entrances and close enough to hear a scream for help, if that were to happen.
I wander around the collection of shops. There is nothing within sight worth the effort of declaring on a customs form. Perhaps an ugly shot glass in a poorly sewn plastic boot. In a dusty corner, I see a bottle of suntan lotion. I hunt around for a delightfully authentic handwoven basket. I put the lotion in the basket, and look around guiltily to see if my joke is appreciated. The donkey looks at me with tired disapproval. I put the items back on the shelves.
When I return to the bathroom area to rendezvous with my wife, we're greeted by the next available tequila tour guide.
The driver/guide is in the shade near the concrete building, conversing with a group of the extras. I make direct eye contact with one of them and stare deeply into his soul. He quickly looks away with an alarmed expression.
DW returns from the restroom, and we are finally ready for the tequila tour.
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Back to the buggy, down another kilometer (I'm making rough guesses here) of limestone road, we reach a wide clearing that’s being used as a circular parking lot by a dozen vehicles.
“That's the lighthouse. You can climb it if you want.”
I’m still feeling slightly emasculated by my earlier refusal to defeat a crocodile with my bare hands under the walkway. I must make amends and restore my honor. Then I realize, “This is Mexico. I am a very manly man. I must demonstrate my machismo. The sultry senoritas shall swoon as I swagger out of the lighthouse.”
I duck my head through the entrance door and begin climbing the spiral concrete staircase. There's no handrail and only a few small platforms to rest, next to open windows for light and ventilation.
A single warning sign is painted where the stairs emerge and become a platform: Watch your head.
At the center of the room at the top of the building is a huge light bulb. Well, I suppose that makes sense.
There’s a green-painted balcony outside, accessible by crawling out an open door. I'm the only person at the top of the building, and I can see no signs saying I can't risk my fool life by climbing through the door.
I’m dressed in the brightest neon clothes I could find, with the idea that I’d be easy to find in a crowd if we got separated. I take off my vividly orange shirt and wave it from the balcony. “Hey everybody! I made it up to the top. This is pretty neat.” Nobody looks up.
From my all-seeing position, I watch my wife being gently guided from the dune buggy into a row of wooden shacks selling trinkets. He’s probably encouraging her to shop. She’s going shopping, alone.
We've become separated in a strange land. I've made a terrible mistake.
I did not count them, but I claim that there are just as many steps on the staircase when you are travelling back down. I can show you a straightforward proof to demonstrate the correctness of my assertion.
I meet two grade-school-aged boys on my way down. They are slowly making progress upwards, and we can not pass easily on the steps, so I pause at a platform to let them pass. As we separate, I tell them they're about a third of the way to the top. They do not seem discouraged by this news.
I reach beach shack #2, and find my wife trying on bracelets as three salesmen flatter her and probe her for hints on our budget. She’s trying to simultaneously indicate to me that she likes the item, and act disinterested to the sales staff.
We buy the bracelet. I hate haggling, so I will assure you we paid too much.
The legendary convoy of shiny dune buggies arrives at the park. They've parked on the other side of the circle, and our guide is desperate to keep us distracted when we try to wander in that direction.
It’s the usual large group tour. Identically dressed tour guides yelling at a disorganized crowd of customers.
“We’re still behind schedule, so I want everybody stay together. We're only spending 18 minutes here. Please look at everything quickly and be back at the vehicles on time.”
My wife points out that the other group has paper wristbands that look different from ours.
I wish I had kept my wristband to confirm the wording, but I'm pretty sure we were given ‘tour guide’ wristbands at the ‘local resident’ price.
We get back in the buggy, and open another round of cold beers.
“Now we visit the famous ruins.”
“Nope. Skip that part. Let’s get out of here.”
Retracing our path, we leave the very nice eco park, and return to the highway travelling north along the eastern side of the island.
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My first angry mob. I am slightly terrified of you people.
And I'll admit that Tim Dorsey is probably a big influence on the writing of these things. He's better.
You want me to write a book? No, just buy his. I do not compare.
Mr. Lawn
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No update this morning. I'll try to finish something this evening.
Mr Lawn
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Roaring southbound on the empty road past “Playa Uvas”, one of the reference points on my instructions (Money Bar was the other one). Then a quick turn towards the center of the island and we are back on the Cozumel Superhighway. Traffic is light.
Seriously, you can recreate the trip with Google Street View. I’m posting the landmarks from now on, so ... virtual drive with us... if you want. I suddenly feel a need to be very clear about one detail -- I am not your supervisor.
After a few more kilometers, I resign myself to the upcoming removal of my kidneys with a dull machete. And because sitting in the front seat and drooling on my chest is getting old, I start chatting with the driver. He’s not a bad guy, he’s just being portrayed that way.
I notice that the majority of roads from the highway lead back towards the shoreline, so I ask the driver about it. Lesson: the center of Cozumel is almost entirely thick jungle. Nobody lives there. In fact, 80% of the population lives within a few kilometers of the Cruise terminal.
I still feel a twinge of uneasiness, because this is not the well-organized, cleanly packaged tour experience I would get at [insert any well-marketed central Florida theme park]. Most notably: we did not receive a single glossy full-color brochure written at an 8th grade level. Not even a badly photocopied sheet of paper. Nothing.
We pass numerous enticing signs for beach resorts. My wife helps by pointing out all of the wonderful places we didn’t go. I start to cry.
We help ourselves to cold cans of beer from the cooler and sputter down the road at an indicated, well, the speedometer doesn't seem to work, so zero kilometers per hour. It feels much faster. The beer is quite obviously not a brand I've ever seen in America. Certainly not the heavily advertised Dos Equis from the bar. I remember the cans as being green and white. There are no English translations.
It was cold beer. The kind you’d really want for mowing your grass with a freshly sharpened reel mower. Just you and the lawn on a warm summer afternoon, with no gas engine to intrude upon the sound of the finely adjusted blades as they spin and precisely cut each blade at the correct height.
The sun was shining on my face. The open top of the dune buggy allowed the warm wind to gently disturb my crew cut. I had a beer. It was going to be the last day of my life, but I had few regrets.
We finally pull off the major highway (4 lanes) and turn down a narrow road until we reach:
Spin the ‘Street View’ to the right and you may notice a guard shack with a thatched roof. Our driver hops out and runs to the ticket booth. He returns and attaches paper wristbands to our arms.
We are back in motion, and three hundred meters down the limestone road, I watch a large lizard run across the road.
I point excitedly, “Look, honey! A baby crocodile!”
The surprising laughter from my suddenly very judgemental driver is quickly followed by, “That’s an Iguana, senor.”
I see another one, and this time it’s larger. “Yes? Crocodile?”
“Still iguana. Crocodiles soon. Drink beer.”
We roll to a stop. “You can leave your backpacks in the buggy. We walk from here.”
I see a driftwood walkway leading away from the road, down to a lake, uh, I mean a lagoon. The walkway ends at a platform raised a few feet over the calm water.
There is one lonely and bored crocodile hiding under the walkway.
“I am sorry. It's too hot in the afternoon, so the crocs are elsewhere. There were six here this morning. Now, it is time for their siesta.”
Consulting my extensive herpetological knowledge, I decide that this is neither an iguana nor an alligator. So, crocodile is the only remaining option. I have traveled for days and endured many hardships to reach this point, and it has all been worth it.
We climb to the top of the nearby driftwood observation tower. The guide/driver/[guy who stole a dune buggy this morning and is making a quick hundred bucks, cash] stays on the platform. I think he’s been up the tower before.
We cannot see any more crocodiles. Or maybe we do, but they’re cleverly disguised as logs and dark patches in the water. Nothing moves. Even my watch stops ticking.
In hushed voices, my wife and I start discussing our plans for escape, then manage to agree that this is actually better than a more organized tour experience.
Leaving the tower, I crouch down on the walkway over the hiding croc and stare at it from two feet away. It still doesn't move. Not a twitch, not a blink, nothing.
I stand up and ask my guide if this so-called croc is actually alive. Because if I was advertising el auténtico ecological experience, I’d make sure there was a guaranteed crocodile for the idiots to see. So planting a stuffed crocodile here, on top of a stick to keep his head just above water -- that would probably work.
He smiles. “That's the dumbest question I've heard all day.”
“Maybe you are right. The ladder down to the water is right over there. If you would like to test your theory, I think he would cooperate and attack you. No refunds.”
I back down. It’s a really good taxidermy job, though. I was almost fooled.
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I hand him a short stack of twenty dollar bills, fanned apart like a hand of cards so he could count them at a glance. He stuffs them into his pocket.
He leads us over to a map of the island on a sheet of plywood, leaning against the wall of the building. The map is heavily weather beaten for additional authenticity.
Pointing to the eastern edge of the map, “We eat lunch here, you like chicken, yes?”
“Sure. Chicken is fine”
“I have snorkel gear behind the building, you can walk across the road and go snorkeling, I'll drink a beer and wait. Please don't drown. Then we get into the buggy and I drive you here to the southern tip of the island.” More pointing.
“I thought we were driving?”
“NO! I drive. You ride. It’s better this way.”
We pause and look across the road again at the muddy shoreline. Possibly the ugliest beach entry I've seen in a while.
“I don’t want to cause any problems, but we really do not want to snorkel there.”
“No problem. I can take you to another beach. It's where we take the little kids who can't swim. Your wife will like that better, I think.”
“Actually, does that sounds better. “
Pointing again at the southern edge of the map. “This is, how do you say, big eco park. I'll show you the crocodiles, the lighthouse and the ruins.”
“Next, we drive up the eastern edge of the island. It's very nice. We'll stop at the kids beach and you can play in the water.”
“Finally, we stop at the tequila factory and you go on the tour.“ Winking. "They also sell tequila there. It's very good."
“Then I'll take you back to the pier.”
Long story short: That's what happened.
Lunch is a table full of chicken fajitas. Including a small woven basket with steaming hot flour tortillas wrapped in a cloth. The manager comes out a second time to deliver a four inch saucer with a quarter-inch of thin green liquid.
“This is very hot. Be careful."
He wasn't wrong. I take a spoon and transfer three drops to my fajita. Nothing happens for a moment, then mouth scorching heat attacks me. I finish my lemonade in three gulps and tears are running down my face.
Well, I was warned.
As we're finishing the meal, the driver is busy loading another twelve pack of beer in cans, some glass bottled Cokes and water into the ice chest behind the front seats of the buggy.
I sit in the other front seat. With a little assistance, dear wife is able to crawl onto the padded platform in the back and we're roaring off down the road.
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More. Can we have more please?
I assure you I'm working on it.
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While we wait, we’re handed menus, and I note that bottles of Dos Equis are $4 each. I order a lemonade for $3, and my wife expresses concern about getting a Margarita. Because we need to be sober enough to drive a dune buggy this afternoon. The manager clarifies, “In Mexico, you drink two, maybe three beers, you can drive. It is no problem.” He says this with a perfectly straight face.
At two PM, we watch a convoy of at least ten shiny, brightly painted, brand new dune buggies drive by. Right down the road past our empty building. And we look at each other and say, in unison - “We are in the wrong place, aren't we?” We are married, we do that a lot.
Looking at the menu again, my wife orders a strawberry Margarita for $7. She turns to me and clarifies. "If I'm going to die today, I'm going to drink a Margarita first." The drink arrives, and it is HUGE. I swear that was a 20 oz glass. I take a sip, and declare it to be good.
Then a single dune buggy pulls into the dirt parking lot. Not shiny, not new, and certainly not part of a convoy. The faded paint was probably once a pretty vivid leopard-skin pattern, copied from a tacky pair of underwear. Those days were long ago, though. A young American couple climbs out, and they are laughing non-stop. The driver gets out, reaches into the back seat and removes a beer from the cooler. He’s wearing a light-blue golf shirt with an embroidered patch on the left side of the chest.
Cracking the beer and taking a long sip, the driver helps the tourist couple unload their backpacks from the buggy and settle into a table next to the road. They’re still laughing as they inspect the menu. The driver walks into the bar and is gone for several minutes.
We nervously strike up a conversation with the couple and discover they’re from the Vision of the Seas, he’s a fireman, and they just finished the same tour we booked.
Finally, I find enough courage to ask the question, “Be honest with me. Did you die? Because my wife thinks we’re going to die this afternoon.”
Mr. Fireman of the Seas gives me a blank stare. “No. We did not die. And that’s the dumbest question I've heard all day.”
“Thanks. I was just wondering.”
The driver returns from inside the bar and walks over to our table in the shadiest part of the porch. He’s wearing a white shirt now, with a different embroidered patch over his left chest. It’s hard to read, but the initials seem to match the tour company we’re expecting.
“Do you have the paperwork?”
“Sure. It’s right here.” I hand him my treasured paperwork and he examines it for a moment.
“Do you have the money?”
“Yes. I have the money. Do you have the stuff? Let’s meet behind the abandoned warehouse at midnight. No cops.”
“What?”
“Yes. I’m paying the balance in cash. I assume cash is good?”
“Senor, cash is the best.”
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While I appreciate the attention, I'm currently at work and won't be able to compose and post the next chapter until this evening.
I mowed my lawn yesterday, BTW. I'm not sure why that matters.
Sent from my Nexus 5 using Forums mobile app
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We had a hard time deciding on an excursion in Cozumel. The Victory doesn't arrive until 1 PM, and you have to get back on the boat at 9:30 PM. So, the default plans to visit an all-day inclusive beach resort were dampened by advertised closing times of around 5:00 PM. Not really worth it for three hours on the beach.
She isn't exactly athletic, so ... half of the excursions were instantly impractical.
We considered a cooking class.
We considered just shopping close to the pier and returning to the boat early.
We eventually found a non-affiliated tour somewhere online that looked possible and fun.
"Welcome to Cozumel! When you leave the boat, take a taxi ride to a meeting location 5 minutes away. Eat an authentic lunch on the beach, do a little snorkeling, then share a brand new dune buggy with two other tourists. We expect you to split the driving. Begin a life-endangering ride to a ecological park (Punta Sur) to play with crocodiles. Then another short dune buggy drive to a view a set of ruins. A long drive along beautiful beaches to visit a tequila tour full of recreations of things that don't really happen on Cozumel. Finally, a short drive back to the pier, where you can get back on your fancy boat and leave our island."
She's been working on her endurance, and we were 83% sure that she could manage the walking sections of the tour if we broke it into 100 yard intervals with a rest between them. So, we booked that one online, paid a small deposit and received a confirmation email with a set of instructions.
And this is where things get surreal.
Because the email instructions were sort of like: Go to the pirate bar on the beach, between the other two bars with actual addresses. Be there by 2:15. Knock three times on the green door and ask for Pedro. They'll say Pedro isn't here. Respond with: "The silver seagull swoops down to the sand," then wink. An agent will meet you within ten minutes. Do exactly what he asks, and things will be fine.
I'm a little nervous about the timing, because the boat isn't scheduled to dock until 1:00, so we need to get off the boat, into a taxi and down the road pretty quickly. Of course, Cozumel is an hour behind Miami/boat time, so we really have plenty of time. But I didn't realize this, because I don't own an atlas.
So, we wander off of the Victory and taking breaks when appropriate, we make it through "No Bargains Available Here Shopping Village" to the taxi stand. Stand in line for a moment, then I show my printout to the taxi driver, pointing to the address where I want to go. "No problem, sir. I think I know this place you want."
10 minutes and $11 dollars later, he pulls into a dirt parking lot.
I get out and ask the taxi driver to wait a moment. I run towards the clearly abandoned building and I'm met halfway by the owner/manager/just some guy. Once again demonstrating my absolute lack of any Spanish words, I point to the paper, point to the building and ask in my finest ignorant American voice, "Yes? Here?"
"Yes. You are here."
"Is this the right place?"
"Of course, sir. This is always the right place. Our beer is very cold."
"Uh. Great, I guess."
Not quite filled with confidence, I retrieve my wife from the taxi, and it speeds away in a cloud of dust. We take a seat in the shady/covered area and look around. A few minutes later, one car drives down the road. We’re not going to be hailing a taxi from here if things go badly... A few construction workers drift into the bar, buy beers and walk back to work making a resort down the road.
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LOL...had my first mojito on a carnival ship as well...Raspberry mojito in the dining room :)...!
I tried the raspberry Mojito in the dining room, too. It wasn't the same. It was good, but not excellent.
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Okay, "Mr. Lawn", now thou exaggerate! I cannot believe a Tannoy announcement like that one you quoted! Then again, it's Carinval!
You caught me. I may have slightly misquoted our delightful cruise director. But I think I managed to capture his increasingly exasperated series of announcements as the ship was unloading.
And "Happy" was playing on the Lido deck when we walked through on the way off the ship. I kid you not.
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Around noon, I run out to the 'sekrit deck' in front of our cabin. I think I can see land!
I look around and yell out "Land, Ho!" I swear I didn't see the outraged lady standing right behind me, but when she slaps me, I can certainly feel it.
"Arrrr. I'm a pirate. Yo Ho Ho and a carefully measured shot of rum from a bored bartender."
We start to pull into the dock. I mean, we're hundreds of yards away. There are other people on the deck now, and I offer to snap pictures of cute couples.
I notice that the other ships docked at Cozumel are smaller. Smaller and with a completely different ratio of balcony to window-only cabins. I start to imagine it's the year 2000 again, and I'm on the largest cruise ship class in the world. You will fear my majestic Destiny-Class vessel, little people. Look upon our greatness and despair.
I name the other boats "the Good Ship Lollipop" (probably the Carnival Paradise) and the "SS Minnow" (Vision of the Seas).
We dock in Cozumel without a tugboat to push us against the dock. I knew this was possible, but the boat just pulled alongside the dock, then moved sideways. Sideways. I think they use enormous magnets or something.
The intra-ship P/A system comes to life.
"Hello, you miserable creatures. This your cruise director with some important information. We have docked at Cozumel, but will not be unloading for a few more minutes. I promise we'll make another announcement when it's time to..."
<pause> <tap> <tap> <tap>
"Okay people, I know this microphone works and you can all hear me. Please, for the love of all that is good in the world, stop running towards the exit doors. It will just be a few more..."
<pause>
"Oh no. Is that a knife? What? You want us to play "Happy" by Pharrell Williams again? Again? Are you serious? Okay, Okay. I believe you. Would a crew member please go to the Lido deck and press play on the music box thingy? And I can not stress this enough, do it quickly. Don't worry, you don't have to fiddle with any knobs or buttons, just press play. It's the only song this boat owns."
<pause>
"I see you've broken down the doors leading outside. Well, I give up. If there is anybody on this boat who is not currently pushing and shoving their way off the ship, I suppose you can make your way down here and join the festivities."
"As a side note, I hate my life and every single one of you. That is all."
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drink package on norwegian epic?
in Norwegian Cruise Line
Posted
Most recent Epic trip: Nov 19-26, 2016
Drinks are generally on the weaker side. Some of them are non-traditional mixes. A Mai-Tai should not taste heavily of almonds. The fruity drinks by the pool areas lean heavily towards pineapple juice.
Service was on the slow side, in general. Every bar seems a little understaffed. The bartenders were not exactly rude, but certainly indifferent to customers.
Top Down Memories:
16 - Spice H2O Pool Bar -- Great views off the back of the ship. There's a smoking area off to one side, but it's an open-air bar and ventilation was great. Drinks on one side, frequently fast food on the other side (Burgers, Hot Dogs, etc.). Drinks are boring and weak here.
15 - Waves Pool Bar -- Same menu as Spice H2O, same slow service. Get something in a bottle/can and get out of line. "Rebellious Fish" was pretty good here, but not great.
11 - Studio Lounge -- There was guy here during our room crawl. I didn't order anything.
7 - Bliss Ultra Lounge -- *** Real Bartenders *** The Margarita really stands out as exceptional, I went back for one later despite the dreadful karaoke in-progress. This is actually a pretty nice area of the ship. Couches and low tables in groups/clusters on two levels. Service gets slow during events -- both bartenders work hard but they simply get outnumbered by the crowd.
7 - Ice Bar -- ($20 extra, 2 drinks) I didn't go, but people I talked to seemed happy with the experience. "Fun Time."
7 - Shaker's Martini Bar -- *** Real Bartenders *** Uneven service here, even when it was empty. I enjoyed 3 out of the 4 things I tried. There is a neat seating area to the left side of the bar with tall couches and a view of the lifeboats out the window.
7 - Maltings Beer & Whiskey Bar -- *** Real Bartenders *** -- I spent a lot of time here, because 'we' used it as a meeting place. Two (three?) high-top tables next to the main walkway, seating 8 people each, and a variety of nice low chairs in clusters. Generally quiet for a bar. I recall getting the 'Matador' (Bulleit bourbon, elderflower, fresh ginger) several times.
6 - Headliners Comedy Club (Howl at The Moon dueling pianos late-night) -- ** Real Bartender ** Wait times should have been longer as the single bt desperately tries to keep a mob of singing drunks happy, but he was excellent.
6 - O'Sheehans -- Generally long waits for drinks because of the 100:1 ratio of customers to bartenders. I never challenged them to make a mixed drink -- I just grabbed a quick beer/cider/etc. here. It's a popular/crowded area of the ship, but I think it worked pretty well. I even kind of liked the pub grub on the other side -- far from fancy food, but warm and edible.
6 - Cavern Club -- No experience ordering here. Always full of people who seemed to be smiling.
6 - Cascades Casino Bar -- No. Don't even bother. Rude, slow, and unskilled. Doesn't matter who was working, they all hated their jobs and were openly hostile to everyone. Wow, this was bad.
5 - Epic Theater -- Meh. It was okay. Lines were long but moved reasonably.
5 - Atrium Cafe and Bar -- Popular and a little slow. Voted best place to tip early in the cruise and upgrade your personal service level. I stuck to beer/cider and wasn't unhappy ordering here.