On our last afternoon, the sky grew dark, then darker; rain became constant, the sea was rougher by the hour. Now well acquainted with my floating kitchen, I woozily cleaned portabella, cremini, and oyster mushrooms and fine-diced black truffles for risotto. I heated a pan, dredged recently thawed veal shanks in flour, salt, and pepper, added a little olive oil, and seared them. I was definitely not having fun now—the room rocked back and forth, side to side, my stomach, my head, my whole equilibrium was beginning to suffer. I dutifully diced onions and carrots, pitted olives, chopped herbs, smashed garlic, and made the sauce for my osso buco. I zested orange and minced fresh herbs for gremolata—all the while lurching dizzyingly around the kitchen and suddenly feeling claustrophobic. Once the shanks were simmering in the sauce and I was reasonably sure that the pot wouldn’t go flying from the stove with the next wave, I stumbled wearily to the bedroom for a brief lie-down.
When the veal shanks were tender and the sauce reduced, I shut off the stove and muttered something about putting everything away for tomorrow, since there was no way—no way—I was eating tonight. Thankfully, I had not started the risotto or anything that wouldn’t be better tomorrow. As the ship’s information channel announced that the wind was now approaching gale force and the seas were rising to 18 feet, the captain’s voice suddenly issued from hidden speakers over the bed, assuring passengers, in a conversational tone, that conditions would “probably” not get too much worse and chiding those among us who had apparently been complaining that the seas had been too calm and unexciting. Unlike me, most residents of The World have previously owned yachts. They know what it feels like to have your stomach rise up into your rib cage every few seconds while the floor heaves and pitches around you. And they seem to enjoy it that way.
I don’t know that I would ever buy a place on The World, regardless of what lottery I might someday win. As delightful as it sounds to drop by one’s floating home away from home in say, Sydney, sail on to Ho Chi Minh City, and then disembark for a few weeks to rejoin the ship at some other port of call, I am not, I think, a seafaring man. I wish The World, and all the intrepid souls who sail within her, well. They are used to solitude, and are, I think, rather self-sufficient for a demographic no doubt accustomed to much pampering. Rather than hide behind high walls on the Riviera or in some faux agrarian wonderland in Napa, they choose to live on The World, relaxing, spending time with a few select loved ones, looking comfortably untaut in their swimwear. All they need is a little mist, a blender drink, a nap, some frozen fish for dinner. I admire them for that—I really do. It just ain’t me.
After the ship tied up at Puerto Limón, we ate the osso buco. It was delicious. And my risotto was perfect.
THE WAY OF THE WORLD Two-bedroom condominiums on The World cost $1,800 to $2,400 per day (three-bedroom units are $2,400 to $3,100), depending on season, with a three-day minimum stay. All residences, as they are known, have kitchens, but restaurant meals are also included in the price. Studio residences (no kitchens) are $600 to $2,050 per day, with meals, also depending on season and with a three-day minimum. For the next four months (September through December), the ship will be sailing along the west coasts of North and Central America. After a trip through the Panama Canal, it will cruise in the Caribbean, then down the east coast of South America to Antarctica. In January, it heads up the west coast of South America on its way to Europe, via the canal. For information, call 800-970-6601.
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