A Streetcar Named Desire.

A $1.25 time machine.

New Orleans, LA – The wooden car clatters over the tracks like a toy you find under the tree on Christmas morning.

Its gaping windows frame the stately heritage homes of the Garden District, which have been dressed in their holiday fineries: intricate iron fences, wraparound porches and carved doors have been festooned with ribbons and lights signalling the time of year.

Stepping onto the olive green St. Charles line streetcar, in other words, is like taking a step into history, which, in many ways it is. In operation since 1835, it’s the longest continuously operating streetcar line in the world.

A stroll down memory lane.

The cars continue to roll down a grass-lined median, hugged by gnarled southern live oaks and dotted by a splash of colour from a smattering of citrus trees. Aromas of jasmine and sweet olive hang in the humidity.

Stepping out through the louvered doors, we’re reminded of a more modern New Orleans: large tangles of beads hang from the branches – a metallic glint offering a wink to the stories that have been told here.

This is the New Orleans I wanted to see.

Vignettes from the Deck II: Feeling Blue.

Blue-light special.

Gulf of Mexico – The horizon doesn’t change: a block of blue meets one of a darker hue.

It’s as though we’re not moving, until a shapeless cloud flutters by with a wave.

No more land: just the open sea.

No more time: just the memories of blue on blue, unmoving.

I, the same.

Vignettes from the Deck I: Throngs and Thongs.

The sign in Belize was prescient.

Gulf of Mexico – Because it’s 1972, the ship still has a ‘Queen of the Seas’ contest, where eight women strut and dirty dance around the pool for four male judges.

A buxom blonde plays to the hooting throngs; another claims to have not had enough alcohol to carry-through with the task. She changes the song and suddenly has no issues thrusting her hips to the beat.

A child, meanwhile, cannonballs into the pool.

Sitting poolside, I suddenly feel a rear end twerking against my back as the latest contestant ups the ante.

Last up, an older Portuguese woman with well-lotioned wrinkles that shimmer like the sea doffs her top to the judges. The ship’s contest director jokes it has gained him a trip home tomorrow.

Naturally, she wins.

Swinging By.

Christmas in Cozumel.

Cozumel, Mexico – “But amigo, you can drink and drive,” I’m told by the dune buggy rental tout on the main drag.

Knowing that, I’ll definitely stay off the roads, thanks.

Cozumel is a vibrant tourist town, where techno meets mariachi, and where concrete dust from all the construction fills your lungs. As ever, we’re greeted by trinkets and entreaties to visit any number of stores – perhaps even more than at other stops.

Even when it’s obvious you’ve said 'no' 16 consecutive times, everyone feels they’ll be lucky number 17 to elicit a ‘yes.’ It’s a lively spot.

We amble up the coast past a ship run aground and past rocky beaches that have drawn a few snorkelers bobbing in the surf. Languid palm trees curve over bright hibiscus bushes.

Painted into a corner.

Down a quieter back street filled with restaurants and quaint hotels, the air is filled with aromas of baking bread. The sun, meanwhile, has begun to heat up with the intensity of a bucket of chili peppers.

Stopping by Habaneros Bar & Grill, we sidle up to the bar, and onto swings suspended from the ceiling. The beer is cold, and the habanero sauce accompanying the guacamole is hot. Perfect, in other words.

Today, I’ll stick to swinging, rather than driving.

Can You Belize It?

Shabby chic.

Belize City, Belize – Following a 20-minute tender to shore, we are greeted by the storm-beaten planks of tilted houses, bleached and encrusted in salt.

Others are brightly painted masks of the evident poverty. As is so often the case, the port is a party, the town, a separate world.

But then, a large bank of clouds breaks into a smile.

It would be the same from the locals.

A country with a porpoise.

A former policeman points us to where we should explore at the back side of town. Another, sporting a curly beard, spouts local history, hoping to take us on a tour and share his evident knowledge. Prince Charles Perez is apparently a local fixture and goodwill ambassador for Belize, a fact later confirmed online.

A shopkeeper drops the price on a couple local Belikin beers as he lifts the tops for us, and we spend a half hour speaking with a very talkative woman in a spice shop.

Despite the country’s reputation for violent crime, this has easily been the friendliest stop on the trip.

Town and Country.

All around the world, Coke is it.

Santo Tomas de Castilla, Guatemala – Lacy mist hangs over the hills as the sun rises in hazy oranges.

Pelicans flock around small fishing boats, their shovels at the ready.

Walking into town, we are faced by green hills, crowned in white, towering over brightly painted, low-slung buildings that could, from a distance, appear to be flowers painted into the foliage. The greasy air, however, smells of fry oil.

As we wind through town and into the country, we’re regularly greeted by the more Italian-than-Spanish “Buon Dia,” and a tour from the ship rumbles by in a trolley. They wave, later expressing surprise we had ventured out on foot. Why wouldn’t we?

Perro, in peril.

Taxi horns punch the air, seeking fares as motorcycle after motorcycle rattles past; on one, a toddler stands between her parents. Catch-all shops, still barred at this hour, keep us from 1980s-vintage casino kiosks, while young women make tortillas over steel drums set alongside the road. It’s breakfast time in Guatemala.

Walking through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles of the local market, we fold ourselves into booths whose windows are dressed with second-hand clothes, vegetables, sausage links and other fresh cuts of meat. Not a square inch is wasted, as roosters peck under woven baskets underfoot. The air is ripe, but it doesn’t make me hungry.

It was an experience, however, for which I had a thirst: it has been nice to get out from the cruise crowd and its affliction with trinkets and Bubba mugs of rum.

It was a good morning.

Leave a Tender Moment Alone.

The tiny sliver of Honduras we saw.

Roátan, Honduras – Roátan’s green hills lie just beyond our reach.

Instead, we’re stuck in the ship’s atrium, watching the bulbous characters of Wii bowling awkwardly swing their arms on the big screen. Christmas decorations and tropical renditions of carols – Auld Lang Syne on xylophone, anyone? – stand out against the morning heat.

The swells are wreaking havoc with the lifeboats that are to serve as our tenders because another ship beat us to port. Safety trumps all, as it should. And, we're on vacation.

Now we wait, having stood in line for 90 minutes for a pass to disembark today.

We still ended up with only the fourth boat.

We have nothing booked, so it’s not a big deal for us, although we had talked about taking a taxi to Bananarama Dive & Beach Resort to snorkel the barrier reef. Time is too short at this point.

Oh well, the deck attendant keeps coming by to take drink orders.

A Ray of Sunshine.

Hey, I'm Ray.

Georgetown, Cayman Islands – Waves rise, unique like the snowflakes falling back home.

Just like these moments, they shift and are gone, never to be repeated.

We had to tender to shore this morning, but only received a pass for the eighth boat – we should have lined up earlier. Snorkels in hand, we talked our way onto an earlier tender as we didn’t want to miss the one excursion we had booked.

Especially to Stingray City.

Pulling toward shore in Grand Cayman, it is easy to get lost in the sea of jewelry before us: bands of jade and turquoise spread as far as the eye can see as depths of the crystal waters vary.

Something fishy going on; where are my friends?

Beneath the waves, a neon disco comes to life as the brightest-coloured fish dance past. Dark ones with thin blue stripes down their backs appear as if under black light as I climb down into the brain coral and sea fans. Swirls of orange, yellow and purple pirouette past my mask, which serves as a window into a new world. This is my kind of party.

A large leopard-spotted grouper tucks itself away into a crack, too large to conceal itself completely.

A massive female stingray glides past at the sandbar, gracefully displacing the water around her –  such a ballerina of the seas. More arrive, sploshing themselves onto my hip as I offer squid. Eventually, more than 25 of them flop against us like rubbery wetsuits, their long stingers trailing harmlessly behind. After a kiss and a rub, they slide back to the shimmering sea floor.

I always wrestle with the ethics of experiences like these, which alter the animals’ habits and habitats. But it was a blast.

And I’m reminded of how much I love the sea: silence and beauty.

Mayan Ruins.

"I'm searching for the lesser-known Mexican Buddha."

Costa Maya, Mexico – The sea air, brined in salinity, lightens. The tickle of a breeze offers a whisper against the heat.

Our first port is the purpose-built town of Costa Maya. Build it, and the cruise ships will come, apparently.

It doesn’t mean they should.

The port itself is a theme park of manufactured culture and Chinese trinkets that try to nod to history and to tourist dollars alike: shelves are filled with Mayan masks and sugar skulls.

All are emblazoned with American sports team logos.

It’s almost as though this is the only way we could possibly appreciate another culture. In the distance rests what appears to be a Mayan temple. Water slides protrude from all angles like octopus arms.

Meanwhile, three ships of bleached and beached tourists converge upon the pool at the village's centre, tall plastic palm trees of alcohol in hand. Bars are set all around.

It’s just like being on the ship.

Engulfed.

Making waves.

Gulf of Mexico – The sea rolls by like a reel.

Fishermen, too.

The wind winds in waves as we wake in the middle of the Gulf of Mexico, the sun rising in the colour of flamingo wings. It’s warmer, but gusty.

Hypnotic waves follow the churn behind the ship, dissolving into turquoise set against an endless horizon of blue. I keep waiting for dolphins.

And, I'm left thinking of the snow-crowned conifers from one of the absolute best days of my life, 16 years ago today: happy birthday to my favourite young lady. This day's weather is quite a contrast.

Pulling forward, clouds become tinted by our chimney stacks, leaving them yellowed like nicotine-stained teeth. It’s hard not to think of the environmental price of my relaxation.

As waves scatter like static, the beauty in isolation, however, is astounding: we are but a ripple in a giant blotter of blue.

Afloat.

Works for me.

New Orleans, LA – Night oozes over the Mississippi like an oil spill, the shore twinkling like a string of Mardi Gras beads.

With it, a chill, despite only being 5 p.m.

Our ship was 90 minutes late leaving port due to traffic on the river, but we’re finally underway. Naturally, we arrived painfully early to climb aboard.

At least we have a glass of sparkling wine.

Morning in New Orleans was about decisions: The Ruby Slipper Café is known for its eggs Benedict, prepared several ways. The Peacemaker came to the rescue: one biscuit covered in Applewood smoked pork, another in fried chicken. And, naturally, buttery Hollandaise sauce, which is usually something of which I’m not a fan. So smooth, and so rich.

New Orleans is about eating, isn’t it?

“Laissez les bons temps rouler” goes the local expression – roller bags clacking over the broken pavement, we do just that.

Ships ahoy.

Hola, NOLA.

Dancing in the streets.

New Orleans, LA – “Braaap!”

We’re greeted by blasts of brass horn and a storm of powdered sugar as we arrive in the French Quarter.

It turns out visiting the famous Café du Monde offers a far different whiteout from what we experienced during yesterday’s drive. Tables and chairs are slicked by remnants of confectioners’ sugar peaked onto still-warm beignets and subsequently caught on the breeze.

Fattened crows, pecking at the ground of the outdoor café, are thrilled.

Stepping into the elegant Omni Royal Orleans is like stepping into history, as is anywhere in the French Quarter, where ornate iron railings and wrap-around balconies frame art galleries and bars – lots of bars. These days, it seems some of this history has been perverted by neon and cheap Chinese trinkets, but beauty lies behind the troubling evidence of rampant addiction and homelessness.

On cue(s), a man staggers by as if he has wooden legs. It's still early.

But, N’awlins is known for its soul, expressed through food, art and music.

VooDoo like to come in?

Brass bands fill the squares, kept in tune by the rat-a-tat-tat of snares, as we tuck into the back of the Erin Rose and into a one-table room with the trappings of many years of bartending: an old Miller High Life sign rests in a retired brick fireplace. Something tells me it’s not the only thing lit in here.

But the grilled shrimp po’ boy sold under the flag of Killer Po’ Boys – logo: skull and crossed baguettes – is tremendous.

Later, neon catches fire as we wander down Bourbon Street, and into the famed Carousel Bar, which installed an operational merry-go-round in 1949. At least I can blame the rotating bar seats for my world spinning.

The stars, meanwhile, have been replaced by the twinkle of tiny white Christmas lights wound through the trees and over the balconies. One is festooned with "Peace, Y'all."

In the distance, a trumpet sounds mournfully.

Monochrome.

White-knuckle driving.

Romulus, MI – Wolf eyes flash red on the bone-bleached horizon as winds curl in crystals over the vacant fields.

Winter has struck.

With better lighting, I’d imagine the air hanging over the highway would make a dazzling chandelier. Instead, the speed limit sign reads like the bottom line of an optometrist’s visit.

Still, shivering branches reach through the ghosts, beckoning us toward our vacation. The sun, however, is but a button, muted, as I whistle along to St. Vincent.

Starting tomorrow, some colour.