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.