“Call me Fishmeal. Some months ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my wallet, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to sign up for a cruise as soon as I can.”
And so it was on a bleak and dreary day before the winter’s blast had yet chilled my blood or cracked the trees in their loamy beds that I joined a dissolute and depraved crew in planning for a swing around the ports of the Mediterranean – to make no further bones about it – in planning a cruise of Princesses to ten tourist ravaged cities before finally coming to rest on the docks at Barcelona. This is my story, my way of reliving a time of adventure and mystery.
I acknowledge a blatant adaptive borrowing from Mr Melville’s little musing on how to hunt white whales. If Mr. Melville objects he should let me know forthwith. No others need apply.