Another Brick in the Wall.

Teach a man to fish.

Basseterre, Saint Kitts – The low-slung brick wall sports a message: “No nastiness.”

As we wade through the mild humidity past downtown – where faded British phone boxes stand barren, in an apt metaphor for the former colonial state – and into the community, many walls carry similar slogans.

They call for unity, for the elimination of gender-based and sexual violence, and decry crime with crudely scrawled guns and knives. The city has the highest murder rate of any country’s capital.

Interspersed are gang tags and RIPs to fallen comrades like ‘Beat Boy.’ Like billboards to poverty, the street is filled with the disassembled jigsaw puzzles of rusty vehicles. Many of the pieces are missing, never again to be found.

Back downtown, more memories of the slow fade of colonialism and a traffic officer, who barks at me about jaywalking at an uncertain intersection.

It’s supposed to be a $500 fine. But, I get a pass.

No nastiness today.

Psalms and Palms.

Arch nemesis.

Castries, Saint Lucia – Like most, it’s a palm Sunday in Saint Lucia.

The streets are predominantly shuttered and even the steel sheet-covered Castries Market and Vendors Arcade, built in 1891, has fallen silent, apart from a few scattered tables of clothes and trinkets. The central fountain, sporting a lion's head and a mosaic basin, bears a large sign announcing "No smoking. No Spitting."

Hymns from the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, meanwhile, sway through the breeze in their best Sunday dresses.

They carry with them the colour of the islands.

All that remains is the palms, bent at the waist, sharp leaves like combs, rattling against the blue sky: nature’s percussion.

A Common Wealth.

A tasty tree-t.

Bridgetown, Barbados – The rains have come, ghosting hills that once hid buccaneers argh-mateying through the islands.

The shades of grey are a far cry from the rainbow palettes we’ve seen thus far.

Bridgetown is also one of the few ports we’ve found with a free beach nearby: pink-hued talc, a pillow under toes, ushering in the clearest aquamarine lolling to shore.

This morning, though, we wandered through the historic garrison district amidst women shelling peas and cobblers hammering shoes on cobblestone streets. Small shacks sell beer. It’s a stitch in time.

Christmas trees representing all Commonwealth nations have been sewn into the scene with lazily swaying palms. They’ve been decorated with relevant ornaments made by the island’s primary school children. Styrofoam snowmen, Mounties and hockey sticks cling to Canada’s tree.

Obviously.

For some unexplained reason, China and USA are also represented.

Yes, the latter is covered in footballs and hot dogs.

A Grave Situation.

Things are looking up.

St. John’s, Antigua – We’re greeted by steel drums, snackettes and open sewers that threaten to ensnare unaware tourists.

A few shorebirds salute lazily between equally paced clouds.

Looming above the city, perched on a central hill, stands St. John’s Cathedral – also known as St. John the Divine. Its third incarnation, built in 1847, is immediately recognizable for the two tall towers rising from its roof.

The Cathedral hangs there like a weather-beaten halo.

Over the years, its face has been pockmarked by repeated storms and earthquakes. Windows wink with missing panes.

Broken pieces lay wrinkled on the lawn: doors, shutters and marble tombstones have been stacked like jagged teeth forcibly knocked out. Most are so old family likely no longer visits.

The building’s pain is obvious, and testament to nature usually winning, regardless of faith. Crossing the threshold, however, we’re greeted by rib after rib of light wood pew in high polish.

Despite the punishment the building has endured, its heart is obviously strong.

As the Rooster Crows.

Painting the town.

Charlotte Amalie, St. Thomas, USVI – Green bumps rise from the turquoise carpet.

They’re jewelled like Christmas trees by brightly coloured houses scattered through the hills with large, rounded storm doors.

The roads, meanwhile, are filled with so many chickens a local brewery has begun naming beers after them. Twenty or so peck around  an alley filled with grain.

It’s conveniently located next to a restaurant called the Chicken Fry.

Shop air conditioning breathes a chill into narrow alleys filled with jewellery stores sparkling with diamonds and other precious stones. They employ a variety of tactics to get you to visit.

“Did you read the news article about wearing open-toed shoes on the island?” one shopkeeper asks, striking a tone of mild alarm. A pause before we realize he’s hoping to create twinkle toes.

“Well-played,” I chuckle. But, not well enough to get me to go in.

Heading back to the ship, a mural outside a housing complex calls to save the reefs.

In what’s likely an apt metaphor, it’s peeling away, too.

In Waves.

The sea is sick.

Sargasso Sea – Blackness heaves beneath us as mountains collapse and re-form with a snarl.

We cleave through 14.5-foot waves, bringing angry exclamations in sprays of turquoise and diamonds that shatter all around.

Beauty lurks in the deep darkness, birthed from violence.

Shipping Out.

Time to alight.

New York City, New York – Setting out from the foot of the Queensboro Bridge, the pigeons are the noisiest thing breaking the morning’s silence.

Compared to yesterday, it's like biscotti crumbs falling into coffee. Sunday is our driver’s favourite to work and it’s obvious why as he careens through the empty streets like a hot knife through butter.

Yesterday’s madness around Rockefeller Center, too, has subsided, finally allowing us to get a clearer look at the window displays. It’s an easy walk across town to the terminal in the sharp cold.

Manhattan really isn’t that wide.

Climbing aboard the Norwegian Escape, however, thousands of people are suddenly compressed into limited space, luggage in tow. It’s as though we brought yesterday’s crowds aboard with us.

The dining room is enough to make an introvert’s head explode.

Leaving New York, the stars fall into the city: millions of pinpricks jointly lighting up the darkness.

With distance, the unknown begins to absorb the day-to-day, land melting into black.

Fairytale of New York.

Ready, Set, Action!

New York City, New York – An entire subway car filled with jolly Santas screeches past in a blur of red. Parents of young children will have some serious explaining to do.

On Ted! On Julie! On Marcus!

It’s the city’s official Santa Crawl and the F train in Queens is a subterranean silver sleigh carrying revellers to the gifts of the day. Above ground, brake lights melt into the decorations shining from the trees.

Fake Fendi bags have been flung across the pavement with care for those traipsing down Fifth Avenue, but unable to step inside for the real thing.

Stores have all unfurled their finery for the season: the windows at Bergdorf Goodman provide a psychedelic kaleidoscope of peppermint and cotton candy. A robot of famous robin egg blue boxes holds up the clock at Tiffany & Co. Saks adds a flourish of garland.

Christmas carriages of all varieties.

A live violinist performs in a lingerie shop window, while other stores provide passers-by with an opportunity to sing Christmas carol karaoke into microphones protruding like bird necks through the glass. A woman dressed as a toy solider stands guard outside F.A.O. Schwartz.

It’s the fathers who line up to pose for photos with her.

Across the road, saxophones echo in the archways of Central Park, clasped hands welcoming you with the smell of roasted chestnuts warmed under lightbulbs. A model poses, shivering in her whispy summer dress as the photographer waits for the right light.

Christmas season is a particular draw to Manhattan, as people seek out the romance of the city portrayed in so many Christmas movies. Between the store displays, the Rockefeller Center tree and the Rockettes show at Radio City Music Hall, however, it takes us an hour to walk a block.

Somehow, it’s always quiet in the movies.