BY MICHAEL MUSTO | I always wanted to go on a cruise so I could feel like Kay Francis glamming it up in those 1930s Hollywood movies, while engorging myself on a 24-hour buffet! So I just went on a Royal Caribbean cruise to Halifax, chosen by my friend Michael Ellis, who does this sort of thing all the time. It was only 1100-something dollars–PLUS the fee for wifi. PLUS the fee for sodas. PLUS the insurance, in case you cancel. PLUS the cars to and from the dock in beautiful downtown Bayonne. PLUS the fee for tips. PLUS the money you spend at the stop (Halifax, Nova Scotia). But hey, you got a $50 credit and the total was still pretty reasonable, considering that this was a bucket list item I was determined to check off before I lost the nerve.

And at least this wasn’t just a one-way trip, unlike when Kay Francis’ women were chicly suffering from some exotic brain disease. Or was it? Maybe the U.S. government would refuse to let me back in because I am not exactly King of the MAGAs. Maybe they’d keep me in Canada as a dissenter or, worse, ship me to some squalid detention center in El Salvador. This was getting potentially scary, though one tidbit I heard made the trip a must: “Wait till you see how fat everyone is. You’ll feel so thin!

But the funniest thing happened. I loved the trip. I adored the people. And I stopped being so judgy, especially since by the end of the five days, I was the one who looked like an iceberg. The food options were constant and delightful. You could go to the elaborate buffet three times a day–breakfast, lunch, dinner—and I did, traversing omelet tables, carving stations, and items both familiar (French toast, roast chicken) and exotic (like upma, an Indian answer to grits). There was also the opportunity for a sit-down dinner every night in a perfectly lovely restaurant—and an even nicer eatery for only $50 more. If that wasn’t enough, there was a continental breakfast delivered by room service—and on the fifth of the boat’s 15 floors, there was a pizza café that serves slices really late, plus a late-night espresso bar featuring an appealing array of sandwiches and desserts. I was starting to realize that I hadn’t needed to smuggle a banana from home after all.

Fortunately, you spend so much time and energy walking around the vessel that you don’t really gain much weight. You have to traipse from the front of the ship to the middle or back, and constantly look for the right elevator to get to your destination. And there’s so much going on along the way that the place becomes a floating hotel, full of glitz and wonderment. For the first four days, it was completely smooth sailing, and I forgot at times that I was actually in a large freighter in the middle of nowhere. The fog covering the windows added to the surreal feeling that you had entered an isolated, alternative sphere with its own rules—a sort of runaway Marriott Marquis hotel that had turned into a separate universe ruled by salad bars.

If you could catch a breath between bouts of eating, the ship’s various levels unearthed wildly different forms of entertainment. The casino—you heard me—is a smoke-filled area that’s built so that it’s hard to get out of it, but I’m so cheap, I managed. I was happier at the Platinum Theater, a gigantic, stunning venue where they put on the live, Broadway version of Saturday Night Fever—done with brisk professionalism and style, and who cared if the Brooklyn accents were a tiny bit off?

Another venue hosted an ice show that was truly spectacular, with dancers flinging each other around the place as if they were chicken skewers, all done in a touching tribute to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber.

An upper level has two gigantic pools, flanked by a million beach chairs, and above that is a chapel, where you can atone for all your overeating. Other events around the boat included a hootenanny, a family dance party, a Silent Disco (where only the dancers heard their music, due to privatized headphones), a magician, and trivia contests. (We tied for the win when it came to the disco edition. Duh.) But just stay on that dizzy fifth floor and stuff will happen—like the elaborate “Anchors Aweigh” parade, which filled the place with costumed marchers representing the history of warfare of many nations. And the second it was over, a fabulous jazz band erupted, resounding with music to party by as I chair-danced with a strawberry parfait. And then it was time to hit the buffet again!

Did I mention the miniature golf? Skin care seminars? Or just laying in your cabin and vegging out like the morning dal? Back at the Platinum, the cast of Saturday Night Fever was now putting on a musical revue where they belted out American classics from Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl) to You’re as Smooth as Tennessee Whiskey. By now, I wasn’t sure if I had entered the height of terrible taste or a temple of pure bliss, but I played along and enjoyed the distraction, hoping I wasn’t being brainwashed into retro-nostalgia oblivion.

Alas, the stop in Halifax was so uneventful it almost shattered the illusion of the whole trip. The place is noted for its cemeteries and maritime museums and, as the tour guide explained, “This is where a lot of Hallmark movies are made.” Enough said! Back on the boat, a dive bar called Vintages was the site of a nightly gay mixer, though no one seemed to know about it, so every night, we’d run into the same three New Jersey gays, always nursing their pre-paid cocktails.

But I made it back to the USA, with glamour intact. On the last day of travel, the fog broke and you could finally see some water and sun out the window. It was a signal that reality was returning. I can’t wait to go back.

Michael Musto is a columnist, pop cultural and political pundit, NYC nightlife chronicler, author, and the go-to gossip responsible for the long-running (1984-2013) Village Voice column, “La Dolce Musto.” His work appears on this website as well as Queerty.com and thedailybeast.com, and he is writing for the Village Voice, which made its debut in April of 2021. Follow Musto on Instagram, via @michaelmusto.

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