All Alone on a Voyage to Nowhere

In early autumn of 2021, I decided to take a cruise. That summer, Hong Kong had relaxed and then rapidly tightened its COVID travel regulations again, making the city feel like a stunning yet safe prison ward with its beautiful beaches and vibrant jungles. I had never considered a mass-market cruise before, but as the timeline for Hong Kong’s strict COVID rules stretched into late 2022 and beyond, I let myself envision meeting intriguing new people—if not friends—onboard, or at least having a meaningful experience with the ocean. Perhaps I would finally see the stars after years of missing them.

However, just four days before my trip, a conversation left me feeling like I might be boarding a sinking ship: Genting Hong Kong, the parent company of the cruise line I booked, had recently undergone a $ billion USD debt restructuring. A friend informed me that it was only due to the goodwill of various creditors, the German government, and a small assist from a subsidiary that provided Kim Kardashian’s 40th birthday jet charter that the company I was set to sail with was still afloat.

Since the Diamond Princess was quarantined in Yokohama, Japan, in February 2020, cruise lines have been among the most affected businesses by COVID. By summer 2021, the New York Times reported that the top three cruise lines were collectively losing nearly $1 billion each month during the pandemic, with Carnival’s revenue plummeting from $6.5 billion in 2019 to just $31 million by late 2020. Despite these challenges, the cruise industry—a global business that consumes vast amounts of fossil fuel for luxury experiences—managed to survive. The Times reported these significant losses with the headline: “The Cruise Industry Stages a Comeback.”

In Hong Kong, part of this recovery manifested as a massive 150,000-ton vessel operating from the former Kai Tak airport in East Tsim Sha Tsui, on the Kowloon side of Victoria Harbour. By late 2021, the government permitted this ship, named Dream, to operate at only 50 percent capacity, and its journey was specifically designed to go “nowhere”—venturing just beyond the horizon and back.

Genting promoted what were dubbed “cruises to nowhere” on the Dream as two- or three-night “Super Seacations,” with press releases touting a getaway that truly captured the essence of travel that a regular staycation simply could not. For my cruise dates, the company advertised special food and beverage packages, claiming I was in for a “talk-of-the-town culinary experience at sea,” where “travel enthusiasts, food lovers, and wine aficionados can indulge in a delightful Super Seacation featuring gourmet cuisine, fine wines, and cocktails.” There would even be nightly screenings of wine-themed films like Somm and A Year in Champagne at the outdoor cinema.

The fact that we couldn’t disembark at a far-off port like countless cruisers before us was irrelevant. A cruise to nowhere is still a cruise, and Genting didn’t need to try hard to convince us that life on board was the main event. This wasn’t one of those COVID-era “flights to nowhere” that hovered at 20,000 feet for a few hours while offering a peculiar form of entertainment along with a bag of pretzels. I was boarding a vessel of extravagance. And in a city where, due to “COVID-zero” policies, traveling almost anywhere else meant facing a mandatory quarantine of up to 21 days, confined to a hotel room under threat of arrest, being just out of sight of land felt as enticing as Nassau or Dubrovnik or the Norwegian fjords. To paraphrase that character outside the Wonka factory, for much of the pandemic in Hong Kong, “almost nobody ever went in, and almost nobody ever came out.”

COVID-zero also meant that the risk of embarking on a mid-week, off-season cruise to nowhere in Hong Kong wasn't necessarily about contracting COVID. The real concern was being swept into a citywide contact-tracing web that sent undefined “close contacts” of infected individuals to Penny’s Bay, the city’s quarantine facility designed like a medium-security medical prison at the far end of Lantau Island’s Fantasy Road, right past its only neighbor, Hong Kong Disneyland.

So, to address the question I was asked no fewer than four times between my arrival at the ferry terminal and dropping my bag in room 9232: I came on the cruise alone, as none of my friends could take time off work, and my wife and I didn’t want to risk both of us facing weeks of quarantine without our three children—or worse, with them.

Of course, the kids didn’t understand this reasoning. Searching for pictures of the ship online, all they could see were towering waterslides, a kids' arcade, a mini-golf course, a cinema, a pool, and endless buffets. To them, life on board looked blissful and full of fun. What they couldn’t see was that by the time my cruise set sail, every person in those pictures would have a US quarter-sized gray dot called “Tracey” tracking our movements around the ship via Bluetooth. If anyone aboard later tested positive for COVID, Tracey would have a list of close contacts ready for the hazmat-suited responders with the vans.

The Genting Dream is a striking white giant, earning extra style points with a custom wrap by artist Jacky Tsai, renowned for the floral skull that gained fame through Alexander McQueen in 2008. Tsai's design on the ship’s exterior narrates “an ethereal and fantastical love story between a mermaid and an astronaut,” depicted on either side of the bow where they seem to float toward each other in eager anticipation. Their eventual meeting occurs within the ship, on a mural that adorns a winding staircase leading up to the cheerfully named “Bar City.” There, beside a life-sized statue of Johnny Walker, the mermaid appears joyful, perhaps pausing to savor the moment with her lover. It represents the most social excitement I witnessed aboard that vessel.

As I passed by the three cheerful greeters in Santa skirts waving me aboard to the oddly melancholic tune of Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime,” I aimed to head directly to the Red Lion, a British pub that the website claimed was “a 24-hour popular hangout where you’ll likely always find company.” Situated one floor below Bar City, it seemed like the ideal spot to polish my conversation skills before venturing to the more upscale Mixt Cocktail Bar and Bubbles Champagne Bar above. A beer, light conversation, quick laughs, and new friends—all simple enough.

When I say the Red Lion was empty, I don't mean it in the typical sense of a slow night. I mean literally empty; no patrons at the bar, no one near it, and no staff behind it. If you ever visited a friend whose parents had a bar in their suburban basement, this was that exact scene. With wood paneling, beer memorabilia, and an eerie feeling as if no cheerful friends had ever graced those stools with their laughter.

Things weren't much improved on the upper deck. Bar City—advertised as “the destination to celebrate the good life”—felt less like a vibrant city and more akin to a bar-themed food court where every bar served the same drinks, and there was rarely anyone present. The cocktail selections at Mixt, the cocktail bar, mirrored those at Bubbles, the Champagne bar, and eventually I discovered that every bar and restaurant on the ship offered the same options. This was understandable in Bar City, as it was nearly impossible to distinguish where one bar ended and another began.

Aside from a small cigar lounge, Bar City lacked any walls or doors. The bars melded into an open atrium space, linked by clusters of shared seating reminiscent of a Starbucks and adorned with the same beige, floral carpet seen throughout the ship. Bar City resembled an airport corridor perpetually stuck at 6 a.m. A few bored, half-awake patrons might have been nursing drinks, but it was unclear how they managed that, and I doubted that joining them would provide any real enjoyment. I believe I wandered through Bar City twice before I even realized it existed, opting to continue my stroll afterward.

In contrast, entrances to the buffets included in the ticket price were specific and strictly managed. Hosts scanned room keys and assigned table numbers. Buffet stations were delineated with stanchions and belts, clearly marked with “In” and “Out” signs. Despite the odd pandemic logic creating a distinction between shifting one stool over at the bar and moving one table over with my tray, I was relieved to see crowds of eager, value-seeking diners. Apparently, the allure of sunk-cost food was ever-present.

However, sunk-cost food left much to be desired. On the first night, I piled my plate with vegetarian selections—chana masala, baigan masala, roti, and rice—that somehow managed to cool below room temperature during the trek from the buffet to my table. Chewing through the roti felt more like a struggle for survival than a delightful dining experience.

The following morning, my dreams of an indulgent hotel breakfast were shattered by rubbery shu mai that belonged more in a child’s play set than on a cruise, and scrambled eggs that were swimming in so much liquid it seemed beyond the typical cooking mishap known as “weeping.” (If you board the Dream with high hopes for breakfast, be prepared for some disappointment.)

As a first-time cruiser, I have to believe that the disappointing “free” food options on the Dream are not representative of the all-inclusive cruise experience. Carnival Cruise Lines offers a plethora of choices, including Mytouries like Guy Fieri’s Burger Joint and Shaq’s Big Chicken, alongside a build-your-own stir-fry Mongolian Wok where you can “add some Asian flavors to your vacation ... (Chopsticks totally optional).” In contrast, Celebrity Cruises encourages guests to don “evening chic” attire for dinner, suggesting they believe their cuisine warrants a touch of elegance. Genting might have pushed their luck with a sign saying “no shoes, no shirt, no service.”

By noon on the second day, I had learned my lesson and began to spend extra on meals outside my room package. For lunch, I enjoyed seafood shabu-shabu alone at a large round table meant for six, quietly swirling my cabbage while just a few meters away, lively teppanyaki counters bustled with diners clapping and gasping in delight, seemingly having the time of their lives. It was perfectly fine.

For dinner, I decided on lobster thermidor paired with a dry martini at Mark Best’s Seafood Grill, a spot run by the renowned Australian chef. It felt like the kind of elegant choice one might make on a cruise. It was acceptable, too.

I found no signs or heard any references to a so-called “talk-of-the-town epicurean extravaganza at sea.”

In between meals, I strolled aimlessly from the stern to the bow, navigating the ship's various decks. If you could see my Tracey log (which Genting refused to provide), you’d notice a pattern of a man wandering past lines for the ropes course, mini-golf, water slides, the casino, a foam archery event, bubble soccer, holiday crafts, and cowboy dance lessons led by staff in fedoras, only to retreat to his balcony for a brief respite before repeating the cycle.

Everything seemed designed to entertain families, friends, gamblers, or those drawn to 1.7-second zip lines. Even now, when I recount my experience, I highlight the potential fun it could offer them. I shared a sunset shot of the basketball court with my team, suggesting we would have had a blast onboard. With the right company, perhaps I would have. Yet, even as someone well-versed in solo travel, I wasn’t ready for the persistent solitude in this sparsely populated, financially-struggling floating resort.

There were often whole sections of the ship where I found myself completely alone, leading me to wonder if anyone would notice if I slipped away to join the submarines patrolling the South China Sea below. This was partly due to capacity limits — Genting later informed me that my cruise had 159 fewer guests than the maximum of 1,676, in addition to “about 1,200 crew members” — but many passengers were using the cruise as a temporary escape from the confines of a quarantined city. I suspected that at any given moment, a significant number of my 1,500 fellow travelers were cozily tucked away in their rooms behind closed doors or open balcony breezes.

Sadly, perched alone on my balcony, any anticipated feelings of deep-sea vulnerability and expansiveness were overshadowed by the reality of my surroundings: a massive hotel to my left (our ship), another equally large hotel to my right (once again, our ship), and multiple other large vessels dotting the horizon. At night, Jupiter and a bright half-moon mingled with the Dream’s lights and the ever-present plume of brown exhaust that obscured the stars I had hoped to see beyond the coastal glow. By day, I read articles that described the skies around Caribbean ships in luxurious terms like azure and lapis, but through my iPhone lens, my cruise’s sky could best be summarized by the hex code #5780c0. A nice value for a sky, but hardly a treasure.

I hadn’t anticipated having difficulty finding conversation partners on the cruise, even with the occasional language barrier. Throughout my life, I’ve been the person that strangers in parks approach to discuss their potential involvement in various crimes. How challenging could it be to engage in conversation with one of the thousands of people wandering about this floating hotel? Surely those willing to be confined with so many strangers would be eager to chat.

Eventually, with no one present at the bars, the cigar lounge, or my restaurant table, I resorted to seeking outside opinions through ambushes.

In an elevator, alone with a man named Prath, who looked to be in his thirties, I asked, 'How’s it going?' His response was, 'It’s pretty boring. There’s nothing really for people our age here.' I got off at his floor and pressured him for his WhatsApp to keep in touch. (We never did, though I noticed he read my messages. Prath, if you see this article or those texts again, I’m still open to catching up.)

I looked up #GentingDream on Instagram and messaged a couple of influencers who seemed to be on the ship that day. They posted plenty of pictures but never replied to me.

I approached a group of nonchalant twenty-somethings lounging on a mid-deck sun sofa and asked, 'Mind if I ask you a few questions?' They said there was nothing else to do, so they were enjoying Champagne at 3 p.m. They hadn’t left Hong Kong since March 2020, and a cruise to nowhere felt at least like a change of scenery. They didn’t invite me to sit, but when I was surprised to find anyone at Bubbles on the second night, they waved me over and invited me to join them for the acrobat show; they left while I was busy taking notes about the bar not selling Champagne by the glass.

And so it continued. I doubted anyone on the ship had the outgoing nature of a traveler open to meeting new people. We were all still in our city, merely shifted and with downgraded buffets. On the first night at Zouk nightclub, when Maxim, the Belarussian emcee of the Dream, asked, 'Is anyone here from Hong Kong?' it felt as if he were Johnny Cash searching for applause at Folsom. You had to be a Hong Kong resident to even board the ship.

When we finally set sail on Friday morning, I reviewed my bill and realized the one thing I did more than anything else was play Key Master, a captivating claw game by SEGA. The creators of Sonic the Hedgehog made it look deceptively easy to time the button release perfectly, allowing an oversized key to slip into a giant keyhole and unlock a top prize: a dangling plastic bag filled with over $1,000 USD in cash. The onboard casino was always packed and overwhelming, with minimum bets higher than I was willing to risk. Key Master cost $1.25 a play, and judging by my room charges, I was so close at least ten times.

It seemed many others felt the same way. Small crowds gathered around Key Master. We collectively held our breath at the anticipation of a perfect release and sighed together as yet another key came frustratingly close to winning. A group of friendly guys shared their grievances about the buffet food in the first-class 'Palace' section, which was off-limits to those of us in steerage. 'You’d expect it to be at least decent,' one of them remarked, 'but it’s just bad.' My cold heart softened a bit.

As I took my final long walk down the gangway, passing the table where staff awaited to return confiscated liquor bottles to guests, I tried to shake off the somewhat sad realization that a few minutes spent around what felt like an adult version of Chuck E. Cheese was the highlight of my first cruise. During the taxi ride home, I did a quick search and learned that SEGA had faced several lawsuits for misrepresenting Key Master as a skill game, when in reality, it likely only paid out after enough money had been put in to cover expenses.

No matter how much time and money I invested, I was never going to win that game. I regretted my choice to play from the start. But at least it was relatively low-risk, and I wasn’t entirely alone in it.

Many others lost far more money on that ship. In February 2022, just months after my cruise, Genting indeed filed for bankruptcy. Hong Kong was grappling with a surge of omicron variant infections, leading to another ban on cruises and extinguishing any hopes for the Dream’s revival. That month, I took a walk to a small reservoir on a hillside at the western tip of Hong Kong Island and gazed north across the harbor. There was the Dream, languishing just off the coast, likely manned by a minimal crew, awaiting rescue and going nowhere.

Andrew Genung is a writer based in Hong Kong and the author of the Family Meal newsletter focused on the restaurant industry.