Put Packing on Cruise Control, and Let the Lugging Begin

S o, it’s a cruise on the Caribbean. After years of dreaming of such a trip, Kate and Petruchio are ready to hit the deck of a Love Boat. Of course, she has a vision of a shipboard thrill that falls somewhere between “The Poseidon Adventure” and “High Society.” He ‘ s thinking of adventure “Gilligan’s Island”-style. Will they kill each other? If not, what will they wear?

SHE: Did you know Marlene Dietrich had six ball gowns on standby in her stateroom when she crossed the Atlantic in the ‘30s? And, below deck, in her stack of Louis Vuitton trunks, there were several more gowns, just in case?

Well, you’ll be happy to know I’m packing one black gauze gown and a million accessories so I can give it a million different looks. It’ll be perfect for those moonlight strolls we’ll take nightly, hand-in-hand.

HE: Ready for a little shock? I’m not going to berate you about over-packing. In fact, I’m going to encourage you to take more. (Sit down. Take deep breaths. Get a grip.) Why? Because, technically, we’re not going anywhere.

We get to the dock, get out of the cab, the porters grab the bags and deliver them to our stateroom and for the next two weeks that’s where they stay. No schlepping them up hill and down dale, no dragging them through train stations and hotel lobbies. We unpack ‘em, toss ‘em in the corner and forget ‘em.

Not to say that you ought to start acting like Dietrich (hmmm . . . on second thought . . .). Even with an extra bag or two, there’s such a thing as judicious packing. So let’s start with this: What can’t you live without on the high seas?

SHE: Dramamine. And since you said so, the five other gowns I bought and didn’t want you to know about.

Seriously, a savvy travel agent once warned me about over-packing--showed me how to contain everything in one bag--but that was for a trip to Europe. She was worried about cab strikes, that sort of thing. “You need to be able to tote your own luggage,” she warned.

But, you’re right, cruise means never having to say “pack less.” So, in go all of my bathing suits, jogging clothes, nightgowns, shorts and halter-tops.

I’m going to buy more luggage.

HE: You buy it, you schlep it, Dove Bar. We’re not cruising forever, you know. But while we are, I’m bringing my shotgun for a little trapshooting off the stern and about a dozen aloha shirts for not trapshooting off the stern.

And I intend to wear a tie exactly once: with my tux at the black-tie dinners. The rest of the time, I’m relaxing in depth, and a toilet kit and a bathing suit should just about round out the ensemble.

SHE: Cool it on the alohas. They make me dizzy. Anyway, you’ve had them since Hawaii became a state.

How about packing a few Ralph Lauren T-shirts in a pastel shade or two? They look great with those Guess shorts that are so hot right now. You know, the ones that are a little longer than the classic Bermudas.

One bathing suit? You mean the banana-colored number that looks like it starred in an old Frankie Avalon movie? We’re going to live in bathing suits. You’ll need at least three--one to wear, one that is clean and ready to go and one in the wash. I always buy practical items in threes.

HE: Listen, if we’d wanted a vacation with constant, relentless, endless, lightning-paced thrills, we’d have gone to Switzerland for Olympic luge camp. But we didn’t. We’re going on a cruise. For our purposes, we’re staying in a big watertight hotel where the most energy a lot of the guests expend all day is used up reaching for their next mai tai.

Lighten up. Aloha shirts are sacred to me, and the female equivalent wouldn’t look bad on you, either. Tied at the waist. Or maybe one of those long, white, blousy tropical dresses that look so good in those perfume commercials.

SHE: Me in an aloha shirt tied at the waist? Great. This is going to be some romantic trip--both of us running around looking like we’re lost on Waikiki.

I’m feeling a little queasy, and we haven’t even set sail yet. I have dreams of jogging, swimming, strolling, dancing, smooching in the moonlight and-- please stop me if I’m wrong--all you seem to want is the chance to guzzle poolside.

Maybe, we should fly to Paris . . .

HE: Maybe you should fly to Paris. Let’s see if I understand this correctly: a set of jogging clothes (complete with coordinated warm-up suit in case it gets chilly), a set of swimsuits du jour, a pair of good walking shoes in addition to all the shoes you’ll need to go with all those gowns and another pair of shoes for dancing, plus an array of fashionable, but not quite formal, evening clothes for all that bouncing around.

And maybe a few cases of coordinating lipstick for all that smooching in the moonlight--which, by the by, I much prefer to sitting around drinking rum in the sun and getting a headache.

All I ask is a little time to rest my muscles. I’m going to need them to drag all your luggage in the house when we get back.