Sunday 11 am, boarding

Time to pick up and call a cab. Five minutes to Port Everglades, where the ship awaits. Of course, Port Everglades is nowhere near the Everglades - sure it's not that far by land, but if you're coming by boat down the Atlantic coast and are already salivating over the crocodile burger you're going to have for lunch in the famous marshes, man, you gotta keep sailing, 'cause this ain't the Gulf of Mexico! So, we are relieved to find out, Port Everglades may not be in the Everglades, but it is a shipyard. It's cliché to say that those cruise ships of new are huge, but it's hard to take in how huge until you're actually standing at the foot of her (I can say that, right, or is this considered sexist?). It's a 15-storey building that runs 285 meters long. That's 936 ft., for those of you live in one of the three countries in the world still using some non-metric system (the other two are Liberia and Burma, if you're wondering...). Yes, if the Eiffel Tower were to lie next to it, it would be a tad longer, but only by the length of the antenna and the male-pattern-balding part of the head.

We are a bit early, but the line has started forming. Maybe 50 people are ahead of us. We abandon the luggage on the tiny and already full sidewalk, with some trepidation. The doors soon open and we are marched into a huge barn-like structure. Uniformed "young ladies" (they call each other that, but it's all relative) direct us to one to the 20 immigration officers aligned behind one long long counter. Photograph. We get a boarding group number (3) and a key card - blue, which indicates that we get to see the earliest of the two big nightly shows (at 6:30) and dine after that (the red-carded do the opposite). The large center is obviously designed to be able to cordon off the boarding masses into organized snaking queues, but right now, it stands empty and we just flow through easily. We are IN, separate from the real world, but not on the ship yet. We are further directed one flight of steps up to... another waiting room. Somehow the word cattle comes to mind. Some pretty spoiled cattle, I must say. Group #3 is called quickly and we walk the plank (in a good way) to the third deck of the ms Westerdam. 

A few steps on the deck lead to the bank of elevators - seven of them -  which we are instructed to take to deck 9, the only one open at this time. You easily imagine the hundreds of staff folding, cleaning, vacuuming, restocking,... all around in the rest of the beehive, but here it feels curiously very quiet and subdued. The few tourists on board are in a daze. Everything is dark and warm, brass and carpet; the feel that of the lobby of any luxurious boutique hotel. Except the view from the elevators is on the Caribbeans... this is so decadent.

Luxe, calme et volupté - Baudelaire vient à l'esprit.

Then we exit the elevator into what can only be called a gigantic food court. Burgers, tacos, asian food, piles of fruits, cheese trays, teas, juices... Displays are lining the walls as far as we can see and along each turn we take. 

As there is not much else to do, we pick up a tray, fill it with food and sit at a pool-side table on the Lido Deck (the retractable roof is retracted), and we do NOTHING. At all. We are happily surprised to find out that the food is delicious. Tables fill up, people err, meet and greet.

Les vieux de la vieille, qui s'exclament en retrouvant les copains. Et les bleus, comme nous, qui marchent en rond, bouche bée.

Not unexpectedly for a jazz cruise, about half of our fellow guests are black. Several carry around instruments. Many look like old pros. They have the cap, the wraparound shades, the 'tude. An air of having seen what life is about, and of not wanting to talk about it any more. Those cheeks could be distended by years of trumpet or trombone. You feel you should know their names, but maybe they're just a caricature. It feels great though.