The Monarch of the Seas anchored off Catalina Island. This view is from the Catalina Countess, one of the tenders that ferry passengers to and from Avalon.

My parents enjoy cruises. They’ve been suggesting for years that a cruise would be an enjoyable and very sociable alternative to my usual solo vacation. I had long resisted those suggestions because the idea of any kind of resort vacation didn’t seem very appealing, and also because of the cost. Cruises have been priced for “double occupancy” ever since a Divine commandment to Noah established that policy. If I went alone I’d have to pay a “single supplement,” a penalty that can double the price. But at the beginning of 2007 I was getting burned out with solo vacations. One of the popular inexpensive four-day cruises that call at San Diego and Catalina Island on the way to Ensenada, Mexico now sounded like a good idea. They operate from the port of Los Angeles, so I wouldn’t have to fly anywhere. It would be a “destination-free” trip devoted to sampling the cruise experience, as I had been to San Diego and Catalina several times and had no interest in Ensenada’s shopping opportunities. I planned to go in May, before the summer family vacation season.

The Automobile Club Web site advertised a “sale” on Royal Caribbean’s Monarch of the Seas, which plies the Los Angeles to Ensenada route year round. For May, the price was just under $250 for an “ocean-view” cabin (with a porthole). Surprisingly, it was only a few dollars more than the cheapest “inside” (windowless) cabin. Of course, that was “per person, double occupancy.” But the reservation form included an option for one adult. Would the “sale” price still apply? Yes! The price was twice the double-occupancy rate, but still quite reasonable at $511.14 with all the fees and taxes. I filled in my information, selected a cabin, entered my credit card number, clicked OK, and waited. Instead of confirming my booking, the next screen said Unknown error contacting the cruise line. I tried it several times, with the same result.

I printed the booking information, wrote down the “special offer code,” and planned to stop at the Auto Club on the way home from work the next day. Maybe a live human being could get through to the cruise line. In the meantime, I decided to visit Royal Caribbean’s Web site to see how special that Auto Club offer really was. It listed no special offers for that sailing of the Monarch, but the price was identical to the Auto Club “sale.” The system successfully made the booking and even sent me an immediate e-mail confirmation.

My “bible” for this trip was Sally Maisel’s Cruising Solo. Some years ago I had “met” Sally on a Web travel forum. I bought the book from her after exchanging some e-mail. Although it still seems to be in print, the book was published in 1993 and has never been updated. Much of it is very out of date, but there is plenty of non-perishable advice.

My very cozy stateroom. In the foreground at left is a small closet; there’s a little dressing area wedged between the closet and the bed. At right is the bathroom; the shower is behind the mirror. The bed can separate into two single beds, with an open space between them that provides the illusion of more room. Here the bed has been made up for daytime use. The housekeepers come back in the evening to remove the green sash and pillows, make the bed if necessary, and deliver the next day’s schedule of activities.

I had read reviews of the Monarch that noted how small the cabins were. But it was still a bit of a shock to open the door for the first time and see how tiny my cabin really was. With the two twin beds joined into a single “queen” bed pressed against the wall on two sides, there was less than a meter of space to get in and out of bed. The bathroom resembled an airplane lavatory, with the addition of a small shower (its curtain didn’t quite reach the floor, so the floor always got wet). Cruise brochures use the fancy term stateroom when referring to a cabin. But cubicle— in its original Latin meaning of a monk’s cell— would be more appropriate.

The brochure says a typical cabin is 11.3 square meters. Only a few of the most expensive cabins are significantly larger. It’s actually adequate for one person, and a romantic couple might not mind the “coziness.” But sharing it with even a good friend might be uncomfortable. A few cruise lines (but not Royal Caribbean) offer singles a more affordable alternative to the “supplement.” If you agree to share a cabin with another single person of the same gender, you pay the much lower double-occupancy price. That’s not something I would consider, as sharing such close quarters with a total stranger would seem more appropriate for incarceration than a vacation.

I next followed Sally’s advice and joined the queue at the maitre-d’s desk to inquire about my dining room table. The Monarch has the traditional cruise ship dining arrangement: Dinner is at the same assigned table, with the same people, each night. (Breakfast and lunch are at a separate buffet, with open seating.) If you’re not traveling with a group, dinner tablemates can inordinately influence whether a cruise is enjoyable. On a ship with over 2,500 passengers, dinner can provide the only sustained opportunity to get to know people who might also be companions for other activities on the ship and ashore.

I knew I was assigned to the second seating at 8 p.m. Royal Caribbean’s Web site didn’t give me any other option when I booked. Sally said that’s the best choice anyway, even though it’s later than I usually eat. Families prefer the first seating at 5:30, so singles most often request the late seating. The maitre-d told me I was at a “large table for six.” Sally had cautioned against being stuck at a small table for two or four, so that seemed acceptable.

The harbor at Avalon on Catalina Island can’t accommodate large cruise ships. Ships anchor outside the harbor, and tenders like this one pull alongside to ferry passengers to and from the mole (stonework dock) in Avalon. Read more.

Arriving at the dining room that first night, I was escorted to an empty round table near the center of the cavernous labyrinth. After twenty minutes of staring at five empty chairs, conversing only with the waiter and various staff who kept asking if anyone was with me (a question I was also repeatedly asked during the lifeboat mustering drill earlier that day), I had ordered dinner and was starting on the appetizer. I resigned myself to dining alone, and planned a visit to the maitre-d for a new table.

Then the Lovebirds arrived. The twenty-something pair immediately sequestered themselves in their own private world of smooching, cuddling, whispering, and sharing each other’s food. They were all but oblivious to everything else. Five minutes later the Bumpkins turned up. An older couple from a small rural town, they seemed to have fallen off the proverbial turnip truck. They expressed befuddlement and even revulsion at the “exotic” items on the menu, and acted uncomfortable and overwhelmed. Mrs. Bumpkin would sometimes exchange a few words with me. For example, she told me she had never heard of anyone going on a cruise alone. Except for the occasional whispered word to his wife, Mr. Bumpkin was silent. Maybe he had nothing to say. The Lovebirds didn’t even tell me their names until the second night; the Bumpkins didn’t introduce themselves until the third night. Both couples mostly ignored me. The empty chair next to me didn’t have much to say either.

Could greener pastures lie just out of sight? Under cover of a trip to the loo, I spied out the land looking for large tables with empty seats. There were some enormous tables with groups of 12, 15, or 20, along with many full tables for six or eight. The only empty chairs I saw were at small tables meant for four, presumably under-booked for couples who requested privacy. I concluded it would be futile to ask for another roll of the dice. But in hindsight that’s exactly what I should have done.

The food was generally good, elegantly presented, and attentively served. Of particular note were the excellent sugar-free desserts offered in both the dining room and the buffet. There was one “Formal Night,” for which the “suggested” male attire was a tuxedo or a dark suit and tie. I noticed that many men weren’t even wearing jackets or ties, and their female companions were dressed for Tuesday rather than Sunday. While Formal Night is a quintessential cruise tradition, some ships are dressier than others and stricter about enforcing their dress codes. This inexpensive short cruise for laid-back Californians is definitely on the casual end of the spectrum. Had I known that, I might not have bothered with schlepping a jacket.

In the middle of dinner on Formal Night, Ms. Lovebird whispered to Mr. Lovebird that she wasn’t feeling well. So they excused themselves and flew back to their cabin. The prospect of the much-publicized Norovirus made me a nervous wreck, until I saw the Lovebirds in the buffet the next morning. They were eating a hearty breakfast, and billing and cooing in apparently fine feather.

The buffet didn’t provide any better social opportunities. The tables for two or four were occupied with couples and families, some with toddlers and screaming babies. Whenever I saw a woman sitting alone I walked over to her table, smiled, and asked if I could join her. Each time the answer was “I’m waiting for my husband (or boyfriend).” The fifth time that happened, I replied with “Oh... I’d like to meet him, too.” Her scowl finally convinced me that such a strategy wouldn’t work here. The only time anyone joined me at a table was on the last day, when everyone was grabbing breakfast before being hustled off the ship. Right after I claimed a table that a foursome had just relinquished, a couple sat down next to me and continued their conversation in Japanese without even acknowledging my presence.

A sunny afternoon on the Monarch of the Seas pool deck, as the ship prepares to leave San Diego.

Elsewhere on the ship, couples and groups clung together, conversing among themselves— and with distant friends by cellphone— in a babel of languages. Many people sunning themselves around the pool sported MP3 players and ear-buds. I did meet a few friendly senior couples. They chatted with me as we stood in queues, waited for the slow elevators, or rode on the tender to Avalon. When they inevitably asked about my family, I said I was single and cruising alone. The consistent response was a surprised or pained look, a ponderous pause, and finally “You’re really brave! I could never do that!”

On the first night I visited the photo gallery to survey the racks of pictures taken during boarding. As Sally recommended, I looked for pictures of single individuals. The only one I saw was of myself with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. I quickly took it down and slipped it into the “unwanted pictures” box. The activity schedule for that night listed a “Single Mingle,” in the disco at 11:30. I was quite tired by then, but I followed Sally’s advice and went there. A throng was gyrating to very loud thumping music, but I saw no sign of any mingling singles. I was beginning to get the feeling that I might be the only one of some 2,500 people on the ship who wasn’t part of a couple, family, or group.

The cruise industry now seems to be aggressively courting organizers of groups by offering them attractive pricing. That efficiently fills ships with family reunions, wedding parties, corporate functions, and other private special events. But it can make cruises less hospitable to individual couples, and especially to singles. Quite a few groups were on this ship. There were two high school reunions (they all wore name tags), a user group for hotel management software, a scrapbooking club that occupied a large conference room, two corporate functions occupying the other conference rooms, and a large contingent from Utah whose purpose I never learned (they announced themselves during the “welcome aboard” show on the first night, after the featured comedian made an infelicitous joke about Mormons).

The windows of the Viking Crown Lounge reflect the pool deck and the ocean. The name is a vestige of Royal Caribbean’s early days, when their ships were Norwegian.

The “Viking Crown Lounge” is 13 stories high on the ship’s smokestack. It became my favorite part of the ship because of its 360-degree view, and also because it seemed to be the only public area without constantly blaring music. I was fortunate to meet Ron and Bob— a gay couple in all senses of the word— in that lounge on the first day. Standing at a window as the ship left San Pedro (the Los Angeles port), I overheard the two men discussing the various landmarks we were passing in the harbor. So I sat down next to them to listen to the “guided tour.” They had taken many cruises together, and had another one planned for a month later. They had ready answers to my “newbie” questions. Although I didn’t expect to see them again after leaving the lounge, I kept running into Ron and Bob during the cruise. I once found them lounging in deck chairs after a visit to the spa, where they had their big toes and pinkie fingers painted in bright red polish. I was grateful for their company, even though they both admitted that they would “never have the guts” to cruise alone.

The ship’s theatre offered a show every night. The singers, dancers, comedians, and nine live musicians were all miked and amplified to tinnitus-inducing levels. The first night was a “welcome aboard” show featuring a comedian I didn’t find very funny. The second night was Starstruck, a revue of songs and scenes from classic Hollywood musicals. It would have been enjoyable if I had brought earplugs. The third night featured a comedy impressionist who mostly impersonated rock stars I had never heard of. I skipped the last show, Fast Forward, a revue of dance movies from the 1970s and 1980s. I didn’t think it would be worth risking any more of my hearing.

The Monarch’s bow. Read more.

I quickly learned why the basic cruise price was so low, and also why cruise lines penalize singles. The ship’s public address system blared relentless pitches for a seemingly limitless array of things to buy. Bar servers scurried everywhere, selling and delivering drinks at $5.95 a pop (soda pop was also an extra-cost item at meals, so I stuck with the free iced tea). There were frequent announcements about the casino and jackpot bingo, as well as “seminars” touting expensive spa services and lectures on “recommended” shopping in each port (the shops presumably give Royal Caribbean some kind of “consideration” to merit the “recommendation”). A duty-free shopping mall on one deck hawked jewelry, watches, perfume, cigarettes, and “logo items.” A lounge amidships hosted daily art auctions. The “adventure desk” sold a dizzying array of shore excursions. Photographers captured cavorting couples and families for pictures on sale in the photo gallery, and videographers gathered material for a $35 “cruise in review” DVD.

Forget any notions of an “all-inclusive vacation” on a large ship. Expect constant nickel-and-diming. For mass-market cruises like this one, the business model is based on packing discounted cabins with couples, families, and groups who spend lavishly on all those overpriced extras that generate the real profits. That’s why solo passengers pay such a large “supplement.” It covers the full fixed operating expenses of a cabin meant for two; but mainly it indemnifies the cruise line for the lost revenue from drinks, tours, bingo cards, spa treatments, trinkets, and everything else they would expect an absent cabin-mate to buy. That’s the mysterious “economics” cruise industry representatives always cite as justification in response to complaints about exorbitant “supplements.”

I doubt Royal Caribbean International made much money from me. I don’t drink, gamble, or shop; and I didn’t buy any shore excursions— “been there, done that.” (But my “supplement” presumably paid for at least some of those things on behalf of a phantom cabin-mate. I hope he or she enjoyed them.) In San Diego I got off the ship as soon as the doors opened. I took advantage of the morning light for some pictures of the waterfront, and walked around the nearby Downtown. Then I took the ferry to Coronado for lunch (the ferry dock is right next to the cruise ship docks). I had tasty moussaka at Spiro’s Gyros, a Greek take-out in the Ferry Landing Marketplace. I enjoyed the ferry ride and the moussaka the last time I was in San Diego, so it was the one thing I had specifically planned. In Avalon I boarded the first tender departure in the morning, walked around, and took some pictures. Then I ran into Ron and Bob. We strolled along Crescent Avenue, the beachfront tourist mall, until the fog rolled in just after noon. Then I went back to the ship for lunch.

The harbor at Ensenada, just before the Monarch embarked for Los Angeles. The fog and “marine layer” of overcast didn’t clear enough for a picture until late in the afternoon.

I had been to Ensenada once before, on a cruise with my parents in 1969. I remember a sleepy little town with rutted dirt roads, and a mariachi band that greeted the ship. It seemed so exotic. But nearly four decades of growth and development had obliterated everything quaint or distinctive, leaving little to offer visitors besides tourist-trap shopping. No more mariachi band on the dock— an enormous flag was the only thing visibly Mexican. If anything, the modern buildings sprawling onto the hills reminded me of Los Angeles. Signs in English, along with the foggy overcast that’s a frequent late spring feature in Southern California, completed a familiar-looking scene. I may have been the only one who didn’t think it was worth a visit. The ship was practically deserted. I spent a quiet relaxing day exploring the ship and reading a book in the empty Viking Crown Lounge.

There was one brief shining moment of community at my dinner table on the last night. In an attempt to avoid the awkward Ritual of Gratuity Distribution, we had all opted to buy a package that prepaid the standard “recommended” tips for the cabin steward, waiter, assistant waiter, and head waiter. That turned out to be a set of vouchers to stuff into envelopes and press into designated palms, so we still had to participate in the Ritual. The head waiter paid our table a perfunctory visit on the first night. He never visited us again, but every night we watched him circulate and banter with the large boisterous groups at nearby mega-tables. We decided that he didn’t deserve even the $3 tip the package included. After dinner we all headed to the Purser’s desk to ask for a refund. The clerk said that was impossible. I asked for a supervisor, who confirmed that it was impossible and explained why: Their software doesn’t have that option! So we asked for her supervisor. After ten minutes the Hotel Manager appeared, and informed us that he had no way to issue a refund. But he could do a “special manual override” to transfer the head waiter’s tip to our waiter. Since we were quite satisfied with the waiter’s service, we agreed to that. After congratulating each other on our Stunning (partial) Victory Over The System, we went our separate ways.

The Monarch of the Seas, docked and securely tied up in San Diego. Reflections of small waves in the water below give the ship’s white hull a mottled appearance.

Departure day began with a wake-up announcement at 6:30 in the morning to start the process of hustling us off the ship. The ship’s main foyer transformed into a vomitorium for efficiently disgorging 2,500 people, so the crew could ready the ship for the new horde boarding that afternoon. After asking whether I was bringing any plants or meat into the country, the Immigration agent asked me what country I was a citizen of. I couldn’t avoid laughing at what seemed an absurd question. He gave me an icy stare and asked, in a deadly tone, “Why did you laugh?” I replied that I had just handed him my U.S. passport, along with a Customs form on which I declared that I was a U.S. citizen. With the same solemnity he said “Some people have false documents, you know.” He paused, perhaps to consider whether a thorough Customs interrogation might teach me proper respect for the United States of America. Then he handed back my passport and curtly bade me good day. The vacation was officially over.

I would take another cruise only if the itinerary were compelling, and if I went with “Someone Special” (or at least with someone compatible enough to survive sharing a cubicle). I enjoyed the cruise itself, particularly the resort amenities, activities, attentive service, and finer dining than I’d normally allow myself on a solo trip (despite the less-than-congenial company). Even at double the price, the cruise provided good value for money. And to answer the inevitable question, the ship’s motion at sea was all but imperceptible. But the weather was very calm. Things might be different in the stormy winter months.

However, I was disappointed at not finding the variety of friendly people that my parents (and Sally Maisel) had led me to expect. After 24 solo vacations (and counting), I’m quite accustomed to being the only solo traveler around, to being ignored by couples, families, and groups, and to keeping myself entertained. Even so, being literally the “odd man out” in a large crowd of couples, families, and groups is not a comfortable situation. But I recognize that I may have just been unlucky. If the Sheer Randomness of the Universe had only assigned the ship’s manifest differently, I could just as likely have bonded with agreeable dinner tablemates and befriended all sorts of people— not necessarily singles— who feel no need to “compliment” me on my supposed bravery.

Notes

This actually was my second cruise. The first was a long weekend trip to Ensenada and Guadalupe Island with my parents in December 1969, on Holland-America Line’s Statendam. I was nine (and a half) years old. Guadalupe Island was the real highlight. About 240 kilometers off the coast of Baja California and 400 kilometers south of the border, its main inhabitants are seals and birds. Small boats brought us within viewing distance of a colony of elephant seals. The females lolled on the rocky beach awaiting the birth of their pups, while the males slapped each other with the pendulous proboscises that give their species its name. Destinations with less ecological sensitivity and more mercantile opportunities long ago supplanted Guadalupe Island on cruise itineraries. The Statendam that sails today is an entirely different ship; and Holland-America Line is one of several storied companies the Carnival conglomerate has gobbled up.

The Monarch of the Seas is a large ship that provides a “sun and shopping” vacation for a mass market. I’m pretty sure I experienced a representative sample of that very popular type of cruise. But I should mention that the Monarch was built in 1991, which makes it a doddering senior citizen among cruise ships. Newer ships are bigger, flashier, and offer a wider selection of opportunities for passengers to spend money.

There are many other types of cruises. Some cater to well-traveled frequent cruisers, or offer elegant luxury for a dressy upscale clientele (at a commensurate price). Others are adventure-oriented small ships. Still others appeal exclusively to families. There are even “theme” cruises for interests ranging from jazz to murder mysteries. My cruise was probably the wrong one for me.

Detail of the heavy-duty rope that moored the Monarch of the Seas in San Diego.

If you’re considering taking a cruise by yourself— especially if it’s your first solo vacation— go to a travel agent experienced with single and solo customers for help in finding one that’s appropriate and congenial. That’s what I’ll do if I ever decide to cruise solo again. A travel agent might also have access to unpublicized information about rare cruises that offer reduced penalties for solo travelers. Experienced solo cruisers on travel forums seem to agree that smaller ships are a better choice. It’s inherently easier to get to know the passengers on a smaller ship, and a staff that isn’t preoccupied with crowd control can take the time to help everyone feel comfortable. On large ships marketed exclusively to couples, families, and groups, a “soloist” is likely to feel lost at sea. My experience was apparently not unusual.

Large ships do offer the widest range of amenities and activities. If that’s what you’re after, a singles cruise might be worth considering. You needn’t spend all your time with the group on shore excursions, or at speed-dating and karaoke parties, unless you want to. Unfortunately, singles cruises provide no exception to oppressive double-occupancy pricing. If you can’t afford “One For The Price Of Two,” the organizer will spin the Roommate Roulette wheel for you. If you’re an easygoing soul who truly doesn’t mind sharing a cabin with a complete stranger, a singles cruise could be the only way to save substantial money by doing that. Most of the cruise lines that offered “single share programs” have now abandoned them. Agencies that organize and market singles cruises are filling that void.

Finally, if you’re at all serious about photography, bring your “good camera.” Since my trip was about cruising and schmoozing, I decided not to schlep my digital SLR kit. I didn’t expect many photographic opportunities, and even considered not bringing a camera at all. But at the last minute I decided to take my old Minolta Freedom Zoom Explorer point-and-shoot and use up some frozen Kodak 400UC. As you can see, there was plenty to photograph. The little camera is light and convenient, and it has a fine lens. But the lack of control over focus and depth of field was often frustrating. I took the film to a local lab that had done decent work in the past, but the negatives came back full of scratches and dirt. That meant some very tedious work in Photoshop.

Cruise passengers must “go through security” whenever they board or re-board the ship. It’s exactly like the “security” at airports was before 9/11. It’s run by low-bidding private contractors, and you can leave your shoes on and carry your bottles of water and sunscreen. The big difference is that FAA regulations about x-ray power and hand inspection of film don’t apply. So each time I had to beg the rent-a-cops for a hand inspection— some of them acted like they had never seen film before— or convince a supervisor that my film had already been “zapped” several times. X-rays don’t affect digital cameras.

All text and pictures are copyright © 2007 by Ted R. Marcus and may not be reproduced without permission. For information about licensing any of these images for Web, print, stock, or other uses, contact me.