All By Myself on a Voyage to Nowhere

In the early fall of 2021, the idea of going on a cruise struck me. After a summer of fluctuating travel rules in Hong Kong due to COVID, the city—despite its stunning beaches and vibrant jungles—began to feel like a beautiful prison ward. I had never considered a mass-market cruise before, but as the anticipated end of Hong Kong’s strict restrictions pushed into late 2022 and beyond, I started to envision meeting intriguing characters on board—or at the very least, escaping far enough to truly connect with the ocean. Perhaps I’d even glimpse the stars after years of urban living.

However, just four days before my departure, a conversation left me feeling as though I was about to board a sinking vessel: Genting Hong Kong, the parent company of the cruise line I had chosen, had recently undergone a $ billion USD debt restructuring. A friend mentioned that the company's survival depended on the goodwill of creditors, the German government, and, to a lesser degree, a boost from a subsidiary involved in chartering Kim Kardashian’s birthday party jumbo jet.

Since the Diamond Princess was quarantined in Yokohama, Japan, in February 2020, cruise lines have been among the hardest hit by COVID. By summer 2021, the New York Times reported that the world's top three cruise lines were collectively losing nearly $1 billion monthly 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 enterprise fueled by massive amounts of fossil fuels to power lavish amenities for leisurely travelers—managed to persist. The Times even reported this resurgence with the headline: “The Cruise Industry Stages a Comeback.”

In Hong Kong, this resurgence manifested as a colossal 150,000-ton ship departing from what was once the old Kai Tak airport in East Tsim Sha Tsui, overlooking Victoria Harbour. In late 2021, the government permitted this vessel, the Dream, to operate at only 50 percent capacity, and intentionally, it ventured “nowhere”—sailing just beyond the sight of land and returning swiftly.

Genting marketed what were dubbed “cruises to nowhere” on the Dream as two- or three-night “Super Seacations,” touting them as a getaway that captures the essence of travel beyond the confines of a typical staycation. For my sailing dates, the company was promoting exclusive food and beverage packages, promising a “talk-of-the-town culinary adventure at sea” where “food enthusiasts, wine aficionados, and avid travelers could revel in a delightful Super Seacation experience filled with gourmet delights, fine wines, spirits, and cocktails.” Each night featured screenings of wine-themed films like Somm and A Year in Champagne under the stars.

The inability to dock at a distant port like countless cruisers before us didn’t diminish the experience. A cruise to nowhere is still a cruise, and Genting easily made the case that life aboard was the main draw. This wasn’t one of those COVID-era “flights to nowhere” that circled at 20,000 feet for hours while delivering a twisted travel experience alongside a snack. I was about to board a vessel of extravaganza. And in a city where “COVID-zero” travel rules meant that venturing almost anywhere else involved mandatory quarantine of up to 21 days—confined to a hotel room under threat of arrest—just being out of sight of land felt like escaping to Nassau, Dubrovnik, or the Norwegian fjords. To paraphrase that tinker outside the Wonka factory, for most of the pandemic in Hong Kong, “almost nobody ever went in, and almost nobody ever came out.”

COVID-zero policies also meant that the risk of embarking on a mid-week, off-season cruise to nowhere in Hong Kong was not just about contracting COVID. The grMytour worry was getting ensnared in a citywide contact-tracing web that could send anyone deemed a “close contact” of an infected individual to Penny’s Bay, the city’s designated quarantine facility, functioning like a medium-security medical prison located at the far end of Lantau Island’s Fantasy Road, just past its sole neighbor, Hong Kong Disney.

So, to respond to the question I received no fewer than four times from my arrival at the ferry terminal to settling into room 9232: I was on this cruise alone because none of my friends could take time off work, and my wife and I didn’t want to risk both being stuck in quarantine for weeks without our three kids—or worse, with them.

The kids, of course, didn’t grasp this reasoning. Scanning pictures of the ship online, all they saw were towering waterslides, a kids’ arcade, a mini-golf course, a cinema, a pool, and endless buffets. To them, life on board appeared carefree and filled with wholesome fun. What they couldn’t see was that by the time my cruise set sail, every passenger in those images would be carrying a US quarter-sized gray device called “Tracey,” which tracked our movements around the ship via Bluetooth. If anyone tested positive for COVID on board, Tracey would provide a list of close contacts for the hazmat teams with the vans.

The Genting Dream is a strikingly glossy white giant, but it earns extra points for its custom paint wrap by artist Jacky Tsai, famous for designing the floral skull that Alexander McQueen popularized in 2008. According to Tsai’s website, the artwork on the Dream’s exterior narrates “an ethereal and fantastical love story between a mermaid and an astronaut,” with both characters depicted floating towards each other on either side of the bow in an anticipated encounter. Their meeting occurs inside the ship, on a mural adorning a curving staircase that leads to an area whimsically dubbed “Bar City.” There, alongside a life-sized statue of Johnny Walker, the mermaid appears joyful, perhaps pausing to savor the moment with her lover. It was the most vibrant social scene I witnessed on that vessel.

After passing by three cheerful greeters in Santa skirts who waved me aboard to the somewhat melancholic tune of Paul McCartney’s “Wonderful Christmastime,” I aimed to head straight to the Red Lion, a British pub where the website claimed, “You’re likely to always find company in this 24-hour favorite.” Situated one floor below Bar City, it seemed like the ideal spot to brush up on my conversation skills before moving to the more upscale Mixt Cocktail Bar and Bubbles Champagne Bar upstairs. A beer, some light banter, quick laughs, new acquaintances—simple enough.

When I say no one was ever at the Red Lion, I don’t mean it in the usual sense of a quiet night out. I mean there was absolutely no one; neither at the bar, near it, nor behind it. If you ever had a friend whose parents owned a bar in their suburban basement, this was exactly that. Wood paneling, beer memorabilia, and an eerie emptiness suggesting that no joyful friends had ever occupied those stools.

Things weren’t much better upstairs. Bar City—“the place to celebrate the good life,” according to the promotional material—felt less like a city and more like a bar-themed food court, where no one ever frequented any of the bars, and each one offered the exact same drinks. The cocktail menu at Mixt, the cocktail bar, mirrored that of Bubbles, the Champagne bar, and eventually I discovered it was identical to every other bar and restaurant on the ship. This made sense in Bar City, as there was no clear distinction between where one bar ended and another began anyway.

Aside from a small cigar lounge, Bar City lacked doors or walls. The bars formed various corners of an open atrium space, linked by clusters of shared seating reminiscent of Starbucks and adorned with the same beige, floral, high-traffic carpet that ran throughout the ship. Bar City resembled an airport hallway perpetually stuck at 6 a.m. A handful of bored, sleepy patrons might have found drinks, but it was unclear how or why, and joining them wouldn’t have guaranteed any joy for either party. I think I walked through Bar City twice before even realizing it was there and just kept moving once I did.

In contrast, the entrances to the buffets included in the cruise package were specific and tightly controlled. Hosts scanned room keys and assigned table numbers. Buffet stations were cordoned off with stanchions and belts, clearly marked with “In” and “Out” signs. Although a peculiar pandemic mindset drew a line between sliding one stool over at the bar and moving one table over with my tray, I felt a sense of relief seeing people—hundreds of hungry, value-seeking diners indulging in a “moveable feast.” Clearly, sunk-cost food was always in high demand.

However, sunk-cost food was not good. On the first night, I loaded my plate with vegetarian options—chana masala, baigan masala, roti, and rice—that somehow defied thermodynamics and cooled below room temperature during the trek from the chafing dish to my table. Chewing the roti made me feel more like Shackleton on ice than Molly Brown before the iceberg.

The next morning, my hopes for an indulgently delightful hotel breakfast were dashed by rubbery shu mai that belonged in a children’s plastic dim sum play set, and scrambled eggs so overly watery I wasn’t sure if it was just a classic cooking issue known as “weeping.” (If you board the Dream with high breakfast expectations, be ready for some weeping.)

Having never set foot on a cruise before, I can only assume the disappointments of the “free” offerings on the Dream were an exception in the all-inclusive cruise dining experience. Carnival Cruise Lines boasts an impressive variety reminiscent of an American mall food court, featuring restaurants like Guy Fieri’s Burger Joint, Shaq’s Big Chicken, and a design-your-own stir-fry Mongolian Wok where you can “add some Asian flavors to your vacation ... (Chopsticks completely optional).” Meanwhile, Celebrity Cruises suggests diners dress in “evening chic” at all venues, hinting they believe the food merits a touch of elegance. Genting would have pushed their luck with a “no shoes, no shirt, no service” policy.

By noon on the second day, I had learned my lesson and began to splurge on meals outside my room package. For lunch, I enjoyed seafood shabu-shabu alone at a large round table for six, quietly dunking my cabbage while seated a few meters away from bustling teppanyaki counters filled with people clapping and gasping, seemingly having the time of their lives. It was acceptable.

For dinner, I chose lobster thermidor and a dry martini at Australian celebrity chef Mark Best’s Seafood Grill, as it seemed fitting to order something like that on a cruise. It was acceptable, too.

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

Between meals, I wandered aimlessly back and forth, from stern to bow, aft to not-aft. If you could view my Tracey log (which Genting refused to share), you’d see the path of a man who strolled past the lines for the ropes course, mini golf, water slides, the casino, a foam archery pop-up, bubble soccer, holiday crafts, and Western cowboy dance lessons led by staff in fedoras, only to eventually return to his balcony for a few minutes before compelling himself to do it all again.

Everything seemed entertaining enough for families, friends out for drinks, gamblers, or those seeking thrills from 1.7-second zip lines. Even now, when I recount my cruise experience, I embellish on how it could have been fun for them. I shared a sunset photo of the basketball court in my basketball team’s group chat, suggesting we all could have had a blast on board, and I believe with the right company, I might have enjoyed it too. But even as a seasoned solo traveler, I wasn’t ready for the relentless loneliness on this half-empty, financially struggling, all-inclusive resort at sea.

I often had whole sections of the ship to myself, to the point where I worried no one would notice if I slipped away to join the submarines patrolling the South China Sea beneath. This was partly due to the capacity limits—Genting later informed me my cruise was just 159 guests short of the 1,676 allowed, plus “around 1,200 crew members”—but many of us were using the cruise as a temporary escape from a cramped, quarantined city. I suspected a significant number of my 1,500 fellow travelers were happily tucked away in their rooms behind closed hallway doors and open balcony breezes.

Sadly, while sitting alone on my balcony, any anticipated feelings of deep-sea vulnerability and vastness were overshadowed by the view: a large hotel to my left (our ship), another large hotel to my right (also our ship), and always several other big vessels on the horizon. At night, Jupiter and a bright half moon mingled with the Dream’s lights and its trailing plume of brown exhaust smoke, obscuring the stars I hoped to see once we ventured beyond the coastal glow. During the day, I read articles about cruising that glorified the colors of Caribbean skies in terms like azure and lapis, but through my iPhone lens, the most accurate representation of my cruise's atmosphere was #5780c0. A lovely hex code for a sky, but hardly a gem.

Even with occasional language barriers, finding someone to converse with was a challenge I hadn’t anticipated on the cruise. Throughout my life, I’ve been that guy whom a stranger in the park singles out to discuss a potential murder they may or may not be involved in. How difficult could it be to strike up a chat with one of the thousands of people drifting around on a floating resort? Surely, the kind of individuals willing to pay to be confined on a ship with so many strangers would want to engage in conversation with those strangers?

Eventually, with no one at the bars, cigar lounge, or my table at the restaurants, I resorted to ambushing strangers for outside opinions.

When I found myself alone in an elevator with a thirty-something guy named Prath, I asked him, 'How’s it going?' He replied, 'It’s pretty boring. There’s really nothing for people our age here.' I got off at his floor and pushed him for his WhatsApp to potentially reconnect later. (We didn’t, though I saw he read my messages. Prath, if you ever come across this article or those texts, I’m still open to catching up.)

I searched #GentingDream on Instagram and reached out to two influencers who seemed to be aboard that day as well. They kept posting pictures but never responded to my messages.

I approached a group of nonchalant twenty-somethings lounging on a mid-deck sun-sofa and used the classic line, 'Mind if I ask you a few questions?' They mentioned there wasn’t much else to do, so they were drinking Champagne at 3 p.m. They hadn’t left Hong Kong since around March 2020, and for them, a cruise to nowhere was at least a change of pace. While they didn’t invite me to sit, when I was surprised to see them at Bubbles on the second night, they vaguely gestured for me to join them at the on-board acrobat show; they left while I was busy jotting down notes about how Bubbles didn’t serve Champagne by the glass.

And so it continued. I doubt anyone on the ship possessed the extroverted openness to engage with strangers. We were all still in our city; it had merely shifted location and downgraded the buffets. This was just another COVID-era staycation, and we were basically locals. When Maxim, the Belarussian emcee at Zouk nightclub, asked, 'Is anyone here from Hong Kong?' it was as if he were Johnny Cash seeking unanimous cheers with, 'Some of you sleeping at Folsom tonight?' You had to be a Hong Kong resident just to board the ship.

When we finally set sail on Friday morning, I glanced over my bill and realized the one thing I’d done more than anything else was play Key Master, a tantalizing arcade claw game from SEGA. The crafty minds behind Sonic the Hedgehog had made it look deceptively easy to time the release of a button so that an oversized key slipped into an oversized keyhole, unlocking a top prize: a plastic bag containing over $1,000 USD in cash. There was a casino on board, but it was always crowded and overwhelming, with minimums higher than I was willing to risk. Key Master cost $1.25 per try, and judging by my bill, I was so close at least 10 times.

It appeared many others felt the same. Small crowds gathered around Key Master, sharing breaths at a potential win and groaning collectively when another key slipped just shy of victory. A group of amiable guys lamented the buffet food from the exclusive first-class “Palace” section, which was off-limits to us in steerage. 'You expect it to be special, or at least decent,' one remarked, 'But it’s not. It’s terrible.' My cold heart softened a bit.

As I took my long walk down the gangway, passing the table where staff awaited to return confiscated liquor bottles to guests, I tried to dismiss the somewhat sad realization that a few minutes playing what was essentially an adult Chuck E. Cheese game had provided the most enjoyment I’d experienced on this cruise. During the taxi ride home, I looked it up and discovered that SEGA had faced multiple lawsuits for misrepresenting Key Master as a game of skill when, in truth, it likely only paid out after a significant investment of money.

Regardless of how much time and money I poured into it, I was never going to win that game. Choosing to play it in the first place had been a mistake. But at least it felt relatively low-risk, and I wasn’t alone in it.

Others lost far more money on that ship. In February 2022, just months after my cruise, Genting declared bankruptcy. Hong Kong was grappling with a surge of omicron cases, and cruises were once again prohibited, dashing any hopes for the Dream’s revival. That month, I took a stroll up to a small reservoir on the hillside at the far western tip of Hong Kong Island, gazing north across the harbor. There lay the Dream, idling just offshore, likely manned by a skeleton crew, waiting for rescue, yet going nowhere.

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