The Nadir's got literally hundreds of cross-sectional maps of the ship on every deck, at every elevator and junction, each with a red dot and a YOU ARE HERE. It doesn't take long to figure out that these are less for orientation than for reassurance.

Not until Tuesday's Lobster Night at the 5* C.R. did I really empathetically understand the Roman phenomenon of the vomitorium.

Cabin 1009's dimensions are just barely on the good side of the line between very very snug and cramped.

My cabin bathroom has plenty of thick fluffy towels, but when I go up to lie in the sun I don't have to take any of my cabin's towels, because the two upper decks' sun areas have big carts loaded with even thicker and fluffier towels.

I have seen fuchsia pantsuits and pink sport coats and maroon-and-purple warm-ups and white loafers worn without socks.

I have smelled suntan lotion spread over 2,100 pounds of hot flesh.

But whenever I dart out and then come back, the bed is freshly made up and hospital-cornered and there's another mint centered chocolate on the pillow.

It turns out that a seasick person really does look green, though it's an odd and ghostly green, pasty and toadish, and more than a little corpselike when the seasick person is dressed in formal dinner wear.

I start seeing the first of more WATCH YOUR STEP signs than anyone could count – it turns out that a Megaship's flooring is totally uneven, and everywhere there are sudden little steplets up and down.

The man himself.