Ft. Lauderdale’s warm weather seems to be its main attraction; there’s not much to do around town. After about 10 hours there, I decided I missed my trolling partner-in-crime and asked my mom if Erin could join us. Because of my shameless begging powerful feminine charm, Erin booked a flight to come the very next day, but not in time to experience the crux of our time in Florida: Meat Cruise.
According to the website, Meat Cruise would be a sunset cruise along Ft. Lauderdale’s New River, aboard a riverboat called the Jungle Queen. Passengers observe the flashy architecture of the houses along the riverbank (“Millionaire’s Row”), then disembark for a buffet-style dinner and variety show, and finally sail back to the marina. Excited for a night of classy, family-friendly fun, my mom and sisters and I got dolled up and boarded the Jungle Queen. “Boarding the Jungle Queen” sounds like a euphemism for an especially filthy sex act, doesn’t it? OK now get your mind out of the gutter and stay with me, because boarding the Jungle Queen was just the beginning. Five passengers set sail that day for a three-hour tour.
A three-hour tour.*
This tour ended up being a pretty amazing case study of American excess. We didn’t cast off until after sunset, so in order to admire the aforementioned riverbank architecture, our ship’s captain had to illuminate each noteworthy house we passed with an industrial-strength handheld spotlight. As we sailed along, he’d talk about a property’s market value while pointing the spotlight into peoples’ dining room windows as they ate. Sometimes they seemed to know we were coming and would wave or act amused. (One old guy sitting outside tooted an air horn good-naturedly in response to the intrusion on his evening beer-on-the-patio routine.) Sometimes the captain would just light up an empty mansion for dramatic effect while relating an uncomfortable factoid about its current or former (alleged) inhabitants.
“On your left is the home of the CEO of the Sunglass Hut.”
“Up here you can see the mansion once owned by the founder of the Otis elevator company. I hear they’re getting a divorce and the property is going to the wife. Old man Otis really got the shaft on that one, heh heh. Get it? Elevator shaft?”
“This place on the right was owned by Bruce Willis and Demi Moore before they divorced. I always used to hope I’d pass by one night while Demi was rehearsing for her role in Striptease.”
In this way, we passed a pleasant hour of nautical trespassing on the privacy of America’s best and brightest, such as the CEO of Kohl’s, Gloria Vanderbilt, and the late Al Capone. We then arrived at Meat Island.
A sunset cruise needs an incentive; the fresh breeze and enjoyment of the outdoors are not enough. A cruise without a meat buffet at the end is like an 800-meter race without a ribbon at the finish line, I always say. And boy, did the good people of Meat Island deliver!
Once all 150 passengers had filed into the long, hut-like dining room, the staff brought out trays upon trays of barbecued baked beans, pork ribs, chicken, and shrimp. Tiki torches were the lighting method of choice here—I assume so that we could all do our shame-eating in relative anonymity—and their low glow reflected in the sticky barbecue glaze on everyone’s faces and hands. It was incredibly romantic.
Once the tables were cleared, we were encouraged to explore Meat Island before the variety show began. Most poor, bloated souls waddled to their seats immediately, but my sisters and I wandered off in search of a thrill, which we found in the form of the most bootleg-looking little zoo I’ve ever seen. It housed several squawking parrots in cages; two huge, tangibly annoyed alligators in a small concrete enclosure; and one sad monkey in a cage with these playthings from a pediatrician’s office waiting room:
Scarred, we turned back and sat through the Meat Island Variety Showcase, featuring a magician who stabbed children through the neck and a comedian who made poop jokes in several languages. Finally, we glided home in the quiet haze of a food coma and took a cab back to the hotel, where Erin enjoyed the after-effects of our bean-filled dinner for several hours before bed.
Happy New Year, everyone. May your year be as bright as a 100-watt military-grade spotlight and may you shine it boldly into the unsuspecting eyes of all your critics.
*Actually ended up being four hours. Lyrics to "The Ballad of Gilligan's Isle" are a copyright of Emi U Catalog Inc. and Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc.
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