Sand: Photo Group II

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved


sand

specks of time
gritty between my toes

grains of rock and shell
swept on
wind and water

skipping
rough and tumble
across landscapes

piled high
stranded
in
dune castles
ashore.

Clouds Dream: Photo Group I

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

clouds
dream

shapes fantastic

feather
skies

with
floating magic.

The Mee Street Chronicles: Interview with the Author

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Interview with Author, Frankie Lennon, About Her Memoir

1. Briefly, what’s the book about?

The Mee St. Chronicles is a very candid, passionate memoir of my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity. In it, I narrate stories starting with my childhood and take you with me on my turbulent life journey & struggle to find freedom from the many prisons that bind me. How the conflicts in my life play out give my stories page-turning drama that I think readers will enjoy.



2. How did the book come about?

The idea of writing about my life experiences had been at the back of my mind for years. It took my old friend, Nikki Giovanni, to act as catalyst for this. She had planned to edit a book of stories and essays and she asked me to contribute. I did by writing a piece called “The Code.” Although the book never came to fruition, that story ultimately launched me into writing the stories of The Mee St. Chronicles.


3. How is your book like or different from other memoirs?

Well, mine is about my battle to claim my life and my sexual identity. The fact is, “out” Black Lesbians are not crowding the field to write about their struggle to claim their lives with integrity in a world that often appears very homophobic. Of course, there’s Audre Lourde who wrote Zami years ago. And Alice Walker has written a short story or two about living in the life. My book is a different kind of memoir. I put myself out there on several fronts, including my battle with alcoholism. I tell it like it is.

4. Why should people buy your book? What does your book offer the reader?

They should buy because I tell powerful stories, exciting stories, stories that make you think and re-evaluate some issues. They should buy it because I offer the reader the chance to see and experience my naked feelings, conflicts, fears, and struggles. I get down to the nitty-gritty in The Mee St. Chronicles, and you get the chance to experience my trials and tribulations along with me. It will be exciting, funny, and heartbreaking. And it will never be dull.
Page 2 Q&A with Answers

5. Who are you targeting as readers?

There’s something for everybody—young and old, Straight & Gay, Black, Latina, White, people fighting addictions, people with the virus, people who know or don’t know about living Jim Crow in the South. My stories are stories about finding out who you are, about trying to make sense of your life, about learning how to get rid of the shame that binds you.

6. What have you learned about yourself as a result of writing this book?

I’ve learned that understanding who I am and finally not being ashamed of that was worth all the struggle. And I’ve learned that I really am a good writer whose work people like very much.


7. What inspired you to write this book? Why did you take the time and effort to write it not knowing whether you’d be published or not?

First, the act of creating pushed me forward. Writing quenched a lifelong thirst and filled a void because I began to honor and express the creative spirit within. Second, I wanted to preserve my memories by telling my stories. Memories are all about identity for me. And telling you who I am, through my memory stories, set me free. No more secrets to poison my spirit. And third, I thought that my stories might help to set many people free. Or at least put their feet on the road to freedom. Especially those who feel different and think they are cursed by that difference. These stories are to reassure them that they aren’t cursed. To encourage them to keep going no matter how bad things look or what others may say or do. To tell them they aren’t alone, that there’s somebody else who’s survived choosing the wrong road more than once, who’s fallen off the road several times, who’s lost the road completely, but who, in the end, has finally found her way.


8. What has been the greatest delight in your writing career so far?

Getting The Mee Street Chronicles written and published.

9. What writers have inspired you?

James Baldwin, Nikki Giovanni, Judith Ortiz Cofer, bell hooks, Stephen King.

10. Who has been the greatest influence in your life?

My pastor and friend, Archbishop Carl Bean. His work in and out of the pulpit continues to leave its mark on me.

11. What advice would you give to beginning writers?

Keep writing. Make time to write no matter what. Don’t give it up and don’t let anything or anybody stop you.

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: "Scotch on the Rocks"

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Scotch on the Rocks"


"What’s Goin On?" is a scene from the story, "Scotch on the Rocks" which is in my memoir,The Mee Street Chronicles. This story is about the first time I was confronted by an alcohol counselor about my drinking. Alcoholism is a serious disease. Most people are like I was. They don't know or understand that it is a disease. Before the drinker can get help to treat it, the drinker has to first acknowledge that alcohol is a problem. Then she or he has to be willing to get help. This story is about my attitude toward my drinking at that time of my life. And what happened after I was confronted about it.



"What's Goin On?"


The five o'clock crew at Allen's Lounge was off and running. The place buzzed like a busy hive. What's goin on? I heard Marvin Gaye ask over the chattering hum of the crowd. Home free! That's what's goin on, I answered in my head while situating myself on a barstool. No alcohol counselor and his stupid questions around here! I nodded hello to the regulars lining the bar like pigeons waiting for bread crusts. Behind the bar, Allen, tall as an ostrich and dark as bitter chocolate, counted bills and change to balance the cash register. Jay iced down the beer while Les, looking like a sad-eyed, basset hound, poured up half-dozen drink orders as Katie, the waitress, reeled them off.

I lit a cigarette and glanced up at the huge, lighted mirror in front of me. Scattered at tables, men in blue or gray work uniforms, just getting off from work at Whirlpool or Alcoa, drank quarts of Budweiser or shots of whiskey, smoked cigarettes, traded lies, hawked the women, and speculated on which one might want a just-for-tonight lover. The women, in bright colors, sat in groups of two's and three's, cutting their eyes at each other, whispering behind their hands, or throwing their heads back in noisy laughter. Most of them sipped pretty drinks—the kind I never had much use for—like Tom Collins or Tequila Sunrise, although some toyed with a glass of beer.

I caught Jay's eye and winked. He was a beauty. An x-rated honey-dripper. Cinnamon skin, thick eyelashes, naturally arched eyebrows, sculpted, full lips. And so good in bed that I could pretend my woman-jones didn't exist. Sometimes, all his sexiness and beauty triggered my inferiority complexes. At other times, my ego swelled with the idea that a sugah-lump like him had picked me to be his woman.

"What's up?" I asked as he came toward me

He shrugged, slapping a napkin on the counter. "Gonna be jumpin in here tonight. Allen's got me working the night shift, so I won't get by your place until 2:30. You want your usual? It's on me."

"Yeah, scotch on the—"

He finished it. "Rocks, lemon slice, water back."

"What else?" I smiled.

He grinned at me and started to pour. As he did, a voice hollered out.

"Give her another!" It was Sylvester sitting at the other end of the bar; he slammed two quarters down for Jay. I waved at Syl and nodded my thanks. He, in turn, lifted his shot glass ceremoniously in salute.

Jay put two drinks in front of me, went down the bar to collect for it, rang up the order, and trotted off to the john.

I shifted my sight to the mirror behind the bar. It ran the length of the wall. The bottles, in front of it, artfully arranged in stair-step fashion, caught my eye. Like ladies of the night displaying their wares to the highest bidder, the shimmering liquor winked and promised good times: Scotch in emerald green bottles, whiskey in topaz brown bottles, vodka and gin in diamond-clear bottles. I picked up my glass and sipped. Nothing like the first scotch of the day, I told myself while savoring the bitter, slightly oily taste of J & B.

A good feeling began to settle over me. But before the good feeling could make itself at home, out of nowhere, I heard the counselor ask: Do you want to quit?

Spooked, I glanced over my shoulder, frowning as I scanned the crowd. Was that asshole of an alcohol counselor in here? Did he follow me to Allen's? But, no. There were only Black folks here, getting down to some serious partying. I stared into the golden liquid in my glass. Do you want to quit? He’d asked me. An icy tremor passed through me. How could I give it up? My palms felt clammy and I wiped them together.

There'd been times when I'd thought about it. Especially when I'd come into Allen’s, and somebody at the bar would ask me if I remembered what I'd done the night before. I hated that question. It shamed me. They knew what I'd done, but I didn't. It was unnerving because a big, black hood had dropped down over my brain. What I'd done the night before was gone. Wiped clean. When someone asked me, I'd drop my eyes, afraid that I'd made a fool of myself. Afraid that somebody was going to rib me for it and I wouldn’t be able to, couldn’t play it off. How could I when last night was a bunch of empty pages scrolling in my head?

I pulled on my cigarette. Why couldn't I remember? What was happening? Maybe I should seriously consider quitting. But when that line of thought came to mind, I had to have a drink since thinking about quitting was unnerving. By the time I'd finished drinking and thinking, mother scotch had moved the whole idea to the back burner.

What's goin on? Marvin asked me, his voice fading on the last notes of the song. I took a long swallow of scotch, almost draining the glass as The Isley's kicked "Love the One You With" into high gear. It was then that the door swung open so hard that the hinges squeaked and sang. I turned my head to see who was coming in. There at the entrance stood Jay's wife—a harmless-looking, brown terrier with the soul of a war dog. For a millisecond, she was motionless; then, she swooped in.

Thank God, Jay was in the john. If she had come in a few minutes earlier, she'd have caught me sitting here carrying on with him. But she didn't need to catch me to know I was guilty. When Jay was here, nine times out of ten, I was, too. Marsha knew, like everybody else in Evansville, that I was Jay's sideline woman. It was a common practice. Husbands took lovers; wives looked the other way. Marsha didn't frequent the bars, so ordinarily Allen's Lounge was safe territory for me and Jay. But not, it seemed, today. In the mirror, I watched her double-timing it straight to me, her jaws tighter than Dick's hatband. She stomped up beside me and stopped, hand on her hip, glaring. Without looking at her, I lifted my glass to drink, weighing the threat of danger her presence signaled while cold sweat inched down my stomach.

"What the hell," she addressed me in ringing tones, loud enough for everyone to take notice, "do you think you're doin in here with Jay?"

At the sound of her voice, the bar's noisy crowd suddenly came to attention, slipping into the I-was-a-witness mode, drinks forgotten as eyes turned to watch local drama.

Marsha moved a step closer. "Ain't I tole you bout this shit before?"

Survival instinct screamed for me to get the hell out of the bar, but my feet had turned to concrete. Careful not to look her in the face, I took a drag on my Pell Mell and tapped some ashes off the tip.

She took the drama up a notch, playing to every person in the room. "I hope," she proclaimed, "you don't think I'ma jus sit back in some corner while you fuck around with my husband."

I could feel her breath on my neck. Was she going to jump me? My heart was thumping in time with the record's beat. Since I'd never been a fighter, I had zero confidence about myself when it came to fisty-cuffs, but if she made a move to beat my ass, would I just sit here and let her?

The crowd hung with bated breath on every word. She huffed and puffed for them. "I'ma tell you one more time to leave Jay alone."

I kept silent, gambling that she'd interpret my silence as browbeaten humiliation and leave me be.

She pronounced her final threat with a flourish. "Don't let me have to tell you bout this shit no more!" A dramatic pause, and then: "You hear me?"

The challenge hung in the air. Despite the fact that I was shivering in my boots, the smart-ass in me finally reared its head, ready to deliver me to the hangman's noose. I opened my mouth with the intention of sarcastically assuring Marsha that I had, indeed, heard her. But Jay glided up before I could say a word, and quickly steered her out of the bar.

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: "Predators"

Copyright 2007-AllRights Reserved

Introduction to "Predators" from The Mee Street Chronicles

The excerpt below is from the story, “Predators,” in my memoir, The Mee St. Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life. My memoir tells you stories about my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity. This story is about a time when I was living as a closeted Lesbian, masquerading as a heterosexual. The Anita Bryant campaign, which served as catalyst for what happened that day in the bar, was going full throttle in the 1970's. This is a story of how that noxious campaign affected me.

"Predators"

"Homosexuality is not a deviation; it is a variation. And people need to know that."
Peter J. Gomes, Minister

Allen's black and white television sat on a beer cooler in a corner behind the bar, and you couldn't really see it unless you were sitting almost on top of it. From where I usually sat at the bar, I could see it fine if it was on. Today it was, and I was watching Les build my drink when the CBS Evening News came on. The anchor, Walter Cronkite, always distinguished, always credible, opened with the story of the "Save Our Children" campaign. It had started a short while ago, Cronkite said, pausing to glance down at the sheaf of papers in his hand, with Anita Bryant and her organization pushing for Miami to repeal the city ordinance prohibiting discrimination against homosexuals.

As soon as the word homosexual rolled out of Cronkite's mouth in basso tones, everybody seemed to come to instant attention. I shifted my eyes away from Les to the television broadcast, feeling everything inside me go stock still, just like a rabbit that's caught the scent of danger in high grass.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Katie, the waitress, headed for the jukebox, but Cecil, sitting at a table behind me, stopped her.

"Wait up, " he said. "I wanna hear the news." Katie shrugged and backed off.

That was unusual. Watching the news got very low priority even when there were only a handful of us at Allen's, so my nerve endings went on alert. Plus, I'd heard about Bryant's campaign. Which in itself was enough to get anxiety skipping through my veins. The campaign was getting a lot of national play and in Evansville, people were paying attention. At the very least, conversations gave it a passing nod if not full blown commentary. Not long ago, a man that I'd thought was open-minded and liberal had stunned me.

“Anita Bryant is right,” he'd raged after I'd asked him what he thought about her campaign. “That scum should be hunted down and put in a concentration camp somewhere away from normal people.” I particularly remembered his eyes while he'd said it. They'd gone hard and black and lightless. It was his eyes that had frightened me the most. He'd shown me his Mr. Hyde face, a part of him that I didn't know. And that part had drawn a line of separation in the sand with me standing one side and him on the other although he didn't know it. Didn't know about Stacey, about my woman dreams, about the real me I kept chained in secret corners. Nobody here did.

Glancing around, I realized that only a couple of familiar faces, the regulars that made Allen's so comfortable for me, were here today. Clyde, on the barstool in the corner and John, next to him. The rest—Cecil, Sonny, Nance, Gloria, and Betty—came in less often. As always Les was behind the bar and Katie was waiting tables, but there were a few others that I didn't know. For some reason, without the regulars that I knew so well, Allen's felt less cozy, less like home. Was there a chill in the air? I pulled my cardigan sweater closer around my chest.

On camera, Cronkite reminded us that aside from being a Miss America runner-up, Anita Bryant was best known as spokeswoman for Florida orange juice commercials. Bryant had gotten famous for telling the television audience, "A day without Florida orange juice is a day without sunshine."

Now, I thought to myself, she'd switched to selling something else. Something dark. I could hear aggravated murmurs from Cecil and the other guys sitting at his table. I drew in a ragged breath. Keeping up my camouflage was harder with Anita Bryant stirring things up. Where was my drink? I glanced at Les; he was moving in slow motion.

Cronkite went to a film clip of Bryant at a Midwestern news conference. A newsman asked about her motives for the campaign. Surrounded by microphones, the dark-haired, former beauty queen beamed at the camera and opened her mouth to oblige.

"Since homosexuals cannot reproduce," she said, striking a tone of both sincerity and loathing, "they must recruit children to freshen their ranks. We must not allow them to continue."

I clinched my fist, furious, thinking: "How can she get away with saying a pure lie like that?"

Somebody, a woman's voice, growled: "One of them mess wit my baby and he gonna get his ass kicked!"

I blew out a frustrated breath. What Bryant was saying boiled down to a load of crap. You didn’t choose or get recruited like you were joining the army or some kind of club. You were born the way you were born.

I thought about Stacey and rubbed the palm of my hand across my lips. Nobody had recruited me into being attracted to women. Nobody had forced me to love her. That admission woke up The Corners, the place, at the back of my mind, where I'd vaulted my secrets. Like autumn leaves, they began to crackle and rustle. Which served to unnerve me even more than Anita Bryant. Mostly, I could keep them quiet and still as a tomb.

On screen, you could see the reporters scribbling furiously on their pads. Bryant was gabbing away, talking like she'd made some kind of a scientific study and was releasing the results.

It pissed me off that people put the rap on us for what pedophiles did. If you paid attention to your stats, or to what the neighborhood grapevine whispered about the husband down the street, you’d know that damn near all pedophiles were heterosexuals. To cover that up, folks muddied the water so that people would confuse pedophiles with homosexuals. But they weren’t the same at all.

I paid attention to the screen again. Why wasn’t somebody questioning Anita Bryant’s claims? The reporters were just standing there, eating it up like starving animals. That was the scary part. I lit a cigarette and I dragged my hand across my lips again. When Les put my drink down in front of me, I almost knocked it over grabbing for it.

One reporter finally asked Bryant a question. He wanted to know how she chose the name for her campaign. She put one white hand to her neck and looked earnestly into the camera's eye.

"We chose the name because we want to save our children by stopping these homosexuals. They're predators!"

(end)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com< www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Story Excerpts from The Mee Street Chronicles: From “Fever”

Copyright 2007-All Rights Reserved

Introduction to "Fever" from The Mee Street Chronicles

The excerpt that you’re reading today is a scene from the story, “Fever,” in my memoir, The Mee St. Chronicles: Straight Up Stories of a Black Woman’s Life. My memoir tells you stories about my battle to claim my own life and sexual identity.

“Fever” is about the first woman I fell in love with and our love affair. Although “Fever” is very much a love story—which makes it a universal story— on another, significant level, the conflict and essence of this story is captured by these words: “The greatest struggle is within.”

Long before the whole book was finished, I sent this story to my writer friend, Nikki Giovanni to read; she called and told me that it was very brave of me to write it. But I didn’t write it because I was brave. I wrote it because it’s a story that NEEDED to be told.

“Fever” takes place in while I’m at college. I’ve met and fallen for Stacey. And we have begun an affair. The scene called “Secret Lives” that you’ll be reading takes place shortly after the affair begins.

Enjoy my story!

"Secret Lives" from "Fever" in The Mee Street Chronicles

For a few weeks, our secret life remained securely hidden. Then, there was that close call one afternoon in my room when Lynn, a student in one of my classes, barged in without knocking. Going by looks, nothing out of the ordinary was happening in that room, but if you went by gut feelings, the room was heavy with tingly, I-got-a-itch-for-you vibes. Stacey and I were sitting on the bottom bunk bed, books on our laps. Because my head was turned toward Stacey and away from the door, I didn't see Lynn coming in. But something in Stacey's expression scared me enough to make me jump to my feet, my book landing with a heavy thud on the floor.

It was a weird moment: Lynn at the door, wearing her usual dull-witted, sleepy look; Stacey seated on the bed with a startled, almost terrified expression, and me up and ready to take on whatever unknown bugaboo had darkened my door. When I saw it was only Lynn, my alarm drained away, and I asked her, with more roughness than I intended, what she wanted. As she told me, I noticed her dense expression changing. Into what? Curiosity? Slyness? While I hurriedly dug out my class notes for her, she stared, mouth half-opened, at me and then at Stacey. With guarded wariness, Stacey, I saw, was taking Lynn's measure herself. Everything seemed to be taking a long time, or, at least, it felt like forever before I found the notes and held them out to her. Lynn took them, nodding her thanks, and wearing a kind of smirking grin as she backed out of the room.

The door shut and I realized I couldn't breathe, was, in fact, holding my breath. I sucked in air as Stacey lit a cigarette.

"That," Stacey declared, "was way too close for comfort. We've got to be careful from now on. That girl was like a hound dog smelling a fresh trail."

I wrinkled my nose. "Lynn? She couldn't find her ass if you showed it to her in a mirror." I waved the idea away, moving close to Stacey again. "Does not play with a full deck, that one."

"No, baby!" Stacey snapped. "No. Pay attention. That one smelled our vibe. And we cannot afford to let that happen again." Stacey's voice had turned into an ice storm.

I still didn't see cause for alarm. "I don't think she suspected anything," I said, sitting again, putting my arms around her. "Lynn's too stupid to notice stuff like vibes."

"No!" She shook me off and drew back. "No! Don't do that! We'll get caught doing things like that!"

If the room had been feverish with steamy vibes before, now it was a below-zero blizzard. I backed off and got up, fumbling for my cigarettes. As usual, my hands trembled when I was scared. And Stacey's tone of voice had scared me. She'd never used it with me though I'd heard her use it before when she meant to cut somebody to the quick—slice em, dice em, and serve em up on a platter. She was known for her sharp tongue.

I could see Stacey trying to take a hold of herself and calm down. After a moment, she spoke. "Look, you're my girl, Frankie. But we're not like them. So let's don't act like them."

I was confused. What did she mean, let's don't act like them? Did she mean for me not to put my arms around her? Not to kiss her anymore? What was wrong with showing affection? And just who was them? "Who're you talking about Stacey?" I shot back, knowing the answer all along.

"You know. Them." Her voice was a cold wind. "Those freaks! Bulldaggers!"

The words made me flush with embarrassment; and, at the same time, I felt the sting of insult, of absolute put down. Why did she have to use those names? It was the same as calling us niggers. Or calling girls bitches. Anger rumbled in my chest, the kind that would usually goad me into starting an argument, but I didn't want to fight with Stacey. Besides, I could see she was already fighting, struggling with some invisible thing inside herself. A nerve at her temple moved up and down, throbbing. Her mouth was a tight slash. Whatever this thing was, it was a fearsome opponent. And it made her face ugly. Silence lay hard in the room, and I let it lay. The thing to do right now, I told myself, is keep quiet. Be cool.

Stacey peered at me across the room. "I guess this is our first lover's quarrel, huh?"

I said nothing. Mostly because I didn't know what to say. Doubts about Stacey and me swirled round my head like fireflies. The undertone in Stacey's voice when she'd used the word bulldaggers was poisonous. Hateful. How could she feel that way about herself? About me? Anxiety wrapped its fingers around my heart, forcing me to take a long, hard drag on my cigarette. She was watching me, waiting for a reply. Still, I said nothing.

"Forgive me?"

I didn't want to make her madder, so I nodded, abandoning my feelings, ignoring my unease. I nodded because I was afraid to put my feelings into words. Afraid to pursue the threads of doubt setting up house in my head. Afraid of the doors doubt might open that couldn't be shut again. The meddling voice in my head was shouting a warning from a distance, but I turned the volume down on it. All the while, silently beating myself up for a coward. A chicken-hearted coward.

(End)

Order my book at Amazon or Borders Bookstores or at my publisher’s website under the book title or under my name, Frankie Lennon, at
www.Amazon.com<
www.Borders.com
www.Kerlak.com

Cruise Control: Shipboard, May 23-30, 2010

NOTE: THERE ARE 7 DIFFERENT BATCHES OF PHOTOS OF MY CRUISE POSTED UNDER THE TITLE "CRUISE CONTROL." THIS IS THE FINAL BATCH #7.

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Last Batch #7- Scenes Aboard Ship

Cruise Control: Port of Call-Cozumel, May 2010

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Batch 6-Landing, Shore, Beach

Cruise Control: Port of Call-Belize, May 2010

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Batch 5- Landing, Street Scenes

Cruise Control: Port of Call, May-2010, Grand Cayman Island

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Batch 4- Landing & Beach Views

Cruise Control: Ocean Views from the Ship

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Batch 3-Sea & Clouds, Sunrise

Cruise Control: Leaving Miami & Returning (May 23 &30, 2010)

NOTE: THERE ARE 7 DIFFERENT BATCHES OF PHOTOS OF MY CRUISE POSTED. THIS IS BATCH #1.

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Batch 2- Miami, from the Ship

Cruise Control: My Cruise Ship (May 23- 30, 2010)

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

Photo Batch Number 1: The Ship

The Book of Days VII: Cruising: Looking at Pros & Cons

Copyright 2010-All Rights Reserved

In May, I took my first cruise. The plan was to be aboard for 7 nights, going to ports in the Western Caribbean. It was an experience that fell somewhere between uncomfortable and unpleasant. For various reasons. Thinking about cruising—the experience has made me examine what I expected, wanted, and what I got. Here are some pros and cons from my point of view.

Pros:
The balcony room was a nice, smart choice. The balcony was great. Made me feel like I was in the lap of luxury. Until I went inside to the room. The room could have been a bit LARGER.
Even that wasn’t so bad, but my room’s location was VERY BAD.

Cons:
If your room is located or positioned right over the dance club, you won’t get much rest. I didn’t because, of course, the d.j. had the bass up as high as it could go and it reverberated through the ceiling and into my room every night from 11 pm to 3 am. Even the television set couldn’t distract me from the steady, monotonous BOOM-BOOM-BOOM of the bass. It wasn’t soothing, believe me. Nor was it a rhythmic delight. It was just plain horrible. I got an average of 4 to 5 hours of sleep a night. Which is just not enough for me. Especially when I went on the cruise expecting to get some rest in luxurious (NOT!) surroundings.

Pros:
I love the ocean and it’s wonderful just to be able to gaze at it morning, noon, and night. It’s peaceful; it’s beautiful. But…

Cons:
You’re stuck on the ocean. Can’t go anywhere until the boat docks. Well, obviously, you might say. And so what? If you don’t like to feel confined, limited in moving around… if the option to get up and go here and there as you can on dry land is important to you, you better think again before you book passage.

Yes, there are tours, but you have to go and come back at certain times. Shore visits range from 4 hours to 6 hours. We missed the tour we booked because I got sick (but more on that later). You’d be wise to book a tour for certain shore destinations because it’s likely that the places you visit are not American cities where you might drift around safely. The inhabitants and where they live probably will not look like Beverly Hills or the residents of New York’s Central Park West. One place where I disembarked showed me its real face of poverty when I wandered beyond the touristy marketplace. The streets, if you can call them that, and people were so poor that it was scary and depressing.

Yes, there are activities. They keep you busy. But I didn’t really pay attention to the kinds of activities that were offered until I got onboard. Most of the people were there to party. That’s what they were there for. The emphasis seems to be on sound like you’ll have lots to do and they range from…
--- eating and eating and eating from morning to night
--- gambling at the casino whenever you like or playing bingo before the nighttime shows
--- drinking at the pool, in the pool, around the pool, in the lounges, in the halls, in your room—wherever you like morning, noon and night
--- going to the spa for massages or going to exercise on your own or to join fitness classes
--- lounging in one of the 2 Jacuzzis and/or standing in one of the 2 pools (swimming is out because people stand in it and talk)
--- shopping at the three ship stores
--- nighttime partying at the piano bar, karaoke lounge, dance club, or casino
--- going to the nightly comedy or musical shows or to a movie at poolside

If you’re not planning to party the whole time, you might want to rethink the whole idea. From what I could see, that’s what most people were there for.

Pros:
Cruising is a way to go places without having to worry about hotel rooms, food and local transportation. The cruise line will get you where you’re going. Excursions are planned for you. With one room, you don’t have to pack and unpack continuously. On board, no worries about finding a place to eat. Food is plentiful.

Cons:
Expect to shell out for the tour excursions. They ain’t cheap. I didn’t properly budget for them, thinking I could probably pick up a tour on my own once I disembarked. Cozumel was the only place where I saw enterprising cabbies waiting to take you various places at a price under the tours offered by the ship. Didn’t see anyone at Belize or Grand Cayman. Don’t know about Roatan Island. I was sick.

Which brings me to shipboard sickness. On the second day aboard, I came down with a gastrointestinal illness. The symptoms are vomiting, diarrhea, headache, weakness. I had’em all. At first, I thought it was seasickness. It wasn’t, I found out when I went to Medical where they quarantined me for 24 hours, gave me a shot in the behind, and a few pills to get rid of the diarrhea. Medical called it a stomach virus. There’s a more accurate, scientific name for it, I found out later, and it is not uncommon to come down with it onboard ship. Evidently when you’re in a “closed environment” like a ship, it’s easier for the virus to travel from person to person, via hands, water, food, etc. Although I saw many “Clean Your Hands” dispensers onboard, people don’t always do that. Also found out that this particular cruise line is notorious for being getting sick on it. Would that I had known!!! Anyway, there are some things you can do, I learned later on the internet, to possibly prevent catching this cruise-virus. Once I went to Medical and got the medication, it exited my body in twenty four hours. Problem was that my companion came down with it after me. Companion didn’t want to be confined by Medical, so companion toughed it out.

The Bottom Line:
Decide if you really want a cruise. Why are you going? What’s the advantage to you? Is your cruise line the best one for you? What about its reputation? (Ours didn’t have a good reputation with past cruisers I found out AFTER the cruise was over. I kept hearing bad things from people’s conversations, from folks on the street, from the internet.) Where is your room located? (Look up a deck plan for your ship via the ship’s website or thru the internet.) What kind of activities are offered onboard? Will you do shore tour excursions? If so, make sure you’ve allowed enough money for it. What can you do to try not to get sick? (Research the names of over-the-counter medications you can bring and take to keep the nasty virus away.)

Last, know this: The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray. Mine did.