Two Queens Take a Princess Cruise

The Sun Princess in Port | Photo: Princess Cruises

Last year, Joe won a Princess Cruise as part of a work competition and, in a fit of dubious taste, insisted that we use it. After months of resistance and dread on my part, last week, we alighted in Fort Lauderdale for an 8-day cruise of the Western Caribbean and Gulf of—err—America. “Adjust your expectations,” Joe’s sister told us. “It won’t be what you’re used to,” said mine.

I have been on several other cruises and feel ambivalent about them. What made past ones okay was selecting small, exclusive ships with upscale amenities and exotic ports.

But last week’s vessel, the Sun Princess, targeted to Everyman, was one of the cruise industry’s largest mega-ships (and, I suspect, MAGA ships). It had 4,200 fellow passengers and a staff of 1,450.

Where was I? Ah, yes, taste. Ours run high-end. The last two hotels we stayed at were the ne plus ultra of exclusivity: London’s stylish Chiltern Firehouse and New York’s ineffably posh The Mark. 

But suddenly, we found ourselves on a cruise ship that bills itself as the “next-level Love Boat.” To wit, the Sun Princess has a piercing horn that roars the theme from The Love Boat when it sets sail. 

I recoiled in horror when they brought me "cioppino" in a kitschy dish resembling a giant red crab.

The clientele onboard Princess differs from what one encounters on New York’s Upper East Side. Instead of the vodka stingers favored by the ladies who lunch, I heard a sloppy drunk woman scold her husband, “At least I admit it when I’m wasted,” as she sucked down another Heineken.

In terms of dress, I was struck by the new frontiers of bad taste revealed by my shipmates. Instead of Hermes and Tom Ford (which Joe, ever a man of the people, brought to accouter himself), a couple sitting next to us at dinner the first night selected unprepossessing footwear by Crocs and Birkenstock. The men adorned themselves in polyester short-sleeved shirts with flaps on the back for ventilation. One wore a Corona beer camp shirt with a matching sun visor. A woman sported denim overalls at the pool. Jeans shorts were de rigueur. A retiree wore a baseball cap that read, “Ahoy, F@ck#rs.”

Twinning aboard the Sun Princess

You get the picture, but wait. Just when I thought I’d pop a blood vessel from my exposure to the great unwashed masses, I realized—gasp!—I was having fun.

We eked out some style by upgrading our cabin to a double-wide sanctuary, which gave us privileges at a special restaurant and a small, members-only swimming pool. We visited a (janky) botanical garden. 

We saw magic shows, comedy shows, and a stage production featuring Broadway rejects. We even watched an aerialist who played the violin while suspended high above the ship’s four-story “piazza.” The entertainment included a contest to win a pair of the captain's socks; it may not have been Bobby Short at The Carlyle, but when in Rome and all that.

Despite the cioppino fiasco, even the food I had imagined would be like prison fare was surprisingly passable.

We were so sorry to leave this sea circus that, pressured by Joe, I tentatively agreed to sign up for another Princess cruise for next January. (Joe wants to go; I, for now, am retreating into my usual ways.) But we enjoyed getting out of the Polar Vortex of 2025, being together, and snickering at our fellow passengers.

You will never catch my Joe becoming Joe Sixpack, foregoing Hermes and Tom Ford for a Corona beer shirt with a matching visor. But you might hear either of us humming the theme from The Love Boat.

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