It’s lifeboat drill. The elegant, silver-haired Frenchman wearing an impeccably pressed white button-down shirt looks warily at the extravagantly appointed emergency launches and, after having been apprised of the more than adequate stores, has only one question: “Is there red wine?”
The safety officers and passengers around him smile indulgently. They think he’s kidding. He repeats the question: “Is there red wine?”
Tomorrow, there will be blender drinks and citrons pressés and fluffy towels by the pool. Smiling attendants will cool us with chilled white washcloths and spray our overheated, sun-browned flesh with refrigerated mist. The New York Times—or the London Times—or the newspaper of our choice, with our names printed on each page, will be waiting in the mailbox when we wake, and if we like there will be tea and cakes, aromatherapy, a massage. We will glance at one another briefly, wordlessly, across the cigar room or the library or the whirlpool and know that we have made it, that we have put aside all cares—perhaps forever—that we have only to rest, to read, to play, to sleep, and that soon we shall be in another country, another time zone.
Tonight, though, some very rich people are pressed deep, deep, deep into their custom-made Italian sheets, squeezed down into their mattresses by the rise and fall of the rooms around them, then, as if momentarily weightless, lifted above their beds, and then pressed down again as the ship negotiates near gale strength winds and swells of up to 27 feet. Mashed and elevated, elevated and mashed, insistently yet ever so gently, in their beds, most passengers are surely sound asleep. For this ship does not protest. There are no groans or squeaks or creaking beams, even though the horizon lights up like a flashbulb as bolts of lightning hit the edge of the sea. She handles like a brand new Mercedes 600—large, yes, but solid, and smelling of new wood and new money.
I’m making osso buco. And wild mushroom black truffle risotto. I’m braced against the counter, chopping orange gremolata for garnish in my spacious and beautifully equipped kitchen as the floor pitches and rolls and threatens to deposit me face first in the pot of veal shanks simmering on my spanking new four-burner range. A load of laundry hums behind me. The dishwasher does its business beneath a long expanse of counter. And when I toss a few stems, orange scraps, and vegetable trimmings into a food disposal large enough to have handled Jimmy Hoffa, the device devours them easily. Tasteful but efficient railings keep my saucepots, plates, and glassware in place while I weave unsteadily, like a drunken Popeye, to the refrigerator, where a vichyssoise is cooling beside a constantly restocked supply of juices and foreign beer. In the sleek, comfortable, Danish Modern bedroom, my wife is watching a film. In the large, well-furnished living room, on an enormous flat-screen TV set among book-lined shelves, a CNN anchor drones on about places that seem, right now, very far away. A bottle of Champagne chills in a silver ice bucket on the suitable-for-six dining room table.
But I don’t think I’ll be drinking it tonight.
Welcome to The World, a remarkable vessel that is 644 feet long and carries 110 private homes as well as 88 staterooms for ordinary passengers. Not a cruise ship. Not a megayacht. The World—from a Norwegian company operating out of the Bahamas and cleverly called ResidenSea—is “a floating resort community of like-minded persons who will settle for nothing but the very best,” a self-sufficient neighborhood of luxury homes that continuously circumnavigates the globe.
In short, this is a big, swank, ridiculously well appointed boat where rich people actually buy their own condominiums, jetting in when they see fit as the ship wanders from continent to continent. And if they like, owners may rent their unoccupied units to people like me.
We’ll be trapped like rats,” protested Nancy, my wife, when I told her where we were going, that we just had to try this. She was watching jury instruction in The Case of the Homicidal Rabbi on Court TV, the two of us eating cold fried rice out of a white carton on the bed in our New York apartment, an unfolded newspaper serving as a tablecloth.
“The rich are more boring than you and me,” she said dismissively. “You want to be penned up in a floating prison with a bunch of mummies in cruisewear? Are you insane? I am not playing shuffleboard.”
“This ain’t the Love Boat, sweetheart,” I insisted. “And it’s free. The magazine is paying. You always say I never cook. Now’s your chance. C’mon! Let’s live large.”
The idea, I explained, was for me, loudmouthed professional utility chef and obnoxious memoir author, to take his wife aboard this magnificent sea beast—the only ship afloat that provides full-fledged kitchens for passengers. We’d board at Curaçao and spend five nights between there and Costa Rica, fending for ourselves; buying food at Fredy’s Deli (the onboard market and provisioner) and whipping up meals every day. I’d report on the experience in the kind of sober, dispassionate, objective style for which I’m known.
Residents of The World, I hastened to point out, do not sleep in anything remotely resembling a cabin. Apartments (and we’d be staying in one) range in size from 1,106 to an astonishing 4,184 square feet. In addition to kitchens, each comes with two to three bedrooms, living and dining areas, and a veranda with whirlpool bath. Four restaurants, the aforementioned gourmet market, shops, numerous bars, a nightclub, a casino, a library, a business center, a theater, a health spa, two swimming pools, and—believe it or not—a tennis court awaited our attention should we care to make use of them.
“C’mon! It’ll be fun. We’ll pretend I’m the idiot son of a South American dictator. And you’re my wife.”
“If I see a limbo contest shaping up, I’m going over the side,” said Nancy.
A few weeks before we were scheduled to join the ship, two sleek leather and woven linen document cases arrived in the mail along with some briefing material.
“See, Nancy. See,” I said, waving the objects in front of her nose.
On the date of our departure, we flew to Curaçao, where we were met by a ResidenSea representative at the airport and soon got our first look at The World, an impressively big, newer, sleeker, more dramatically sharp-looking version of the floating cities you see disgorging day-trippers in ports all over the Caribbean.
There was a bottle of Piper waiting on ice when we arrived. Exhausted from the flight, we gratefully sucked it down before passing out in the master bedroom. The next morning, after a room-service breakfast of fresh-squeezed orange juice and croissants and pastries still warm from the oven, I went out to explore.
During a tour, I learned that though The World may be a floating enclave of rich people who demand the very best, in this case, the rich eat a lot of frozen food. Until I saw a sushi chef hanging a fishing line off the far end of the putting green, I was staying away from the sushi bar, thank you very much.
When Nancy and I were summoned to meet with Stig, the safety officer, in the ship’s theater, I told him that I’d be doing a lot of cooking in the apartment. His face immediately took on a look of horror. Apparently, few of the owners take full advantage of their kitchens. He explained that at the first sign of smoke, our kitchen would automatically seal itself up behind Bond-like sliding fire doors that would emerge from tasteful concealment in the walls. Overhead sprinklers would discharge; an alarm would alert the bridge. I instantly made a mental note to avoid making any dish requiring deglazing. Stig seemed like a nice man, but I did not want to see him wielding a fire extinguisher in his pajamas in the middle of the night as I stood with a scorched pan in my hand.
I decided to keep it simple. Steak and potatoes. Pan-seared entrecôte, perhaps, with a baked potato.
The four-burner AEG range heated up fast, the burner glowing fiercely deep beneath sexy-looking black ceramic, and was surprisingly responsive to every twiddle of the dial. Though a chef had very pleasantly offered to “thaw out anything” from a vast walk-in freezer containing every conceivable cut of meat, poultry, fish, and game, the entrecôtes I requested were in fact faux filets—sirloin—cuts that come from farther back on the cow and are not as tender. But they were nicely marbled and of good quality, and they seared up well in one of the thoughtfully provided nonstick pans, forming a lovely brown crust of sea salt and crushed black pepper. Any worries about smoke faded with the efficient whirring of the overhead exhaust hood. I handled the gentle, slow-motion cantering of my kitchen floor well, I thought, for a landlubber, and when the time came, the steaks joined the potatoes in the reassuringly named Competence B-300 oven until medium-rare. Soon, Nancy and I, in soft ResidenSea bathrobes, were sitting at our dining room table, a towering floral arrangement dead center, eating perfectly respectable Black Angus steaks and crisp-skinned potatoes accompanied by an amazingly affordable bottle of Brouilly from Fredy’s, a seagoing version of an Upper East Side gourmet grocery that managed to come up with everything on my list but fresh chives.
Emboldened by this previous success, I rose early the next morning and confidently made omelets aux fines herbes, chopping with the seriously sharp knives provided. I’d seen a pretty impressive selection of stinky French cheeses at Fredy’s and had over-optimistically ordered an Époisses and an Alsace Münster. But when I went to fold a slice of the Münster into my eggs it became clear that this particular cheese had seen better days. Nancy, however, was very pleased with her cheese-free omelet, happily poring over The New York Times, thrilled not to be missing recent developments with her homicidal rabbi.
A few hours later, in that happy, hazy, semi-sunstroked state that comes with too much time spent drinking banana daiquiris (made with real bananas) poolside, I was in no shape to cook lunch. I made my way through the nightclub-style common areas down to Fredy’s for a fresh baguette and some cold cuts. Though dress during the day was casual (there is a dress code in the evening), after passing a few white-haired gentlemen in crisp khakis, bespoke linen shirts, and thin timepieces, I felt like Gilligan crashing a party for the Howells. The ship was eerily, intimidatingly empty, although there were, I was told, 76 passengers on this cruise, along with a complement of 260 crew, who were always quick with a “Hello” and a “How are you today?” But not a single passenger spoke to me, nodded, or in any way acknowledged the goofy-looking interloper in their midst. I was not offended. They seemed not to speak to one another either. Unlike most cruise passengers, sailors on The World do not seem eager to meet new people or socialize.
For dinner that night, I made penne in fresh pomodoro sauce, preceded by woody but welcome steamed white asparagus. My knife was sure as I filleted decent plum tomatoes and slivered slightly older than vintage garlic. I picked fresh basil leaves, cracked a can of Italian plums, another can of paste, sweated, swirled, simmered, and seasoned—all without a moment’s sea sickness, the kitchen behaving brilliantly.
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.