Two weeks ago today I sat in a little trattoria in Rome, Italy, enjoying a light supper and waiting for my son Kevin to arrive. I’d spent the afternoon getting a manicure and pedicure in a typically Italian salon and was admiring Alesia’s efforts to make my hands and feet look gorgeous.

Kevin finally came. We saw, and we conquered. It was a spectacular five days. Then he left for Venice and I came home still sporting the red polish Alesia said was the “in” color for Italian women these days.

Now that I’ve returned to my regular regime of swimming three times a week, the Roman red has faded and chipped. No American version would have held up any better, but I’ve held off removing the remnants because every time I look at my nails I remember a glorious time in Rome with my older son.

We saw the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps. We ate authentic Italian bread and visited a mozzarella bar, renowned for 27 different kinds of that succulent cheese. We drank and talked and walked and talked and drank some more. Kevin even found an English copy of “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest,” something that’s not yet available in the United States. I read the 700+ page book in one sitting on the airplane home.

My manicure was a special reminder of this trip, but today I conceded to myself that it had to go. The chips were so great that they did a disservice to both Alesia and me. So I dragged out the bottle of remover and slowly wiped each nail clean. The memories, however, cannot be removed.

Today marked the apex of our vegetative state, if that’s possible. There were no ports to visit, so we spent the day finishing our respective books and napping.

Our cruise vacations have a certain trajectory about them. We come onboard and settle in as quickly as possible. We tour the ship from top to bottom and vow to take advantage of the well-equipped gym, the swimming pools, and the promenade deck. For the first few days, we stay on target.

But Island Time eventually kicks in and we begin to relax. Michigan and our regular commitments recede, as do the swimming pools and exercise regime. The deck chairs and ice cream bar beckon. So do afternoon siestas and cocktails during Sailaway. After dinner, we hardly see ten o’clock; and, if it weren’t for the fact that we schedule breakfast delivered to our cabin at seven in the morning, who knows when we would actually rise?

We’ve one more full day to go before we’re back in Ft. Lauderdale and reality requests our boarding pass. I predict we’ll spend it in blurry-eyed blobbing bliss.

The rains came. They started in the night, and by the time we docked at St. Thomas they were steady and thick. Regardless, tourists streamed off the cruise ship in part because St. Thomas is known for its jewelry shops and the great bargains found within. I know. I’ve left more than a dollar or two in those shops on other occasions.

Earl and I donned raincoats and took a taxi-bus into town. As usual, he went to the Rolex shop and greeted the watch he should have purchased the first time we came here nine years ago. I tried to talk him into taking it home on this trip, but he would have none of it. When it comes to jewelry, his self-control is greater than mine.

In the afternoon we’d planned to visit Magan’s Bay for the first time, but the rain clouds continued to release what Earl called ‘liquid sun’. So we returned to the ship and spent the afternoon reading. We were both on deadlines: Earl because he wanted to finish the book he’d borrowed from the ship’s library before we disembarked, me because I am hooked on a most intriguing book and can’t put it down. The sooner I finish, the sooner I’ll be interested again in such cruise pursuits as hot tubs, afternoon tea, and maybe even Bingo.

The day started all right. We woke before the waiter brought breakfast to our cabin. And Earl was bathrobe-ready to let the man in, as I burrowed under the covers and pretended to be invisible. We had coffee on the deck and enjoyed every early morning minute.

But there were a variety of challenges after that.

Such as . . . Earl got lost. Or maybe I got lost. It doesn’t matter. We spent an hour searching for each other onboard the ship. In that hour I left a couple messages in our cabin, walked up and down the Lido deck looking for a man with a Bora Bora baseball cap, and finally decided I should contact the Purser about a missing person. Just as I was about to tell the ship’s representative my problem, who should tap me on the shoulder but Earl. That was when I made him promise I could die first.

Then there was our land tour. It was billed as a river tubing excursion, something Earl and I had done more than once before. What the fine print didn’t mention, however, was that it took over an hour to drive to the put-in point; and that hour included driving over the “mountain” range in Grenada to the Atlantic side of the country.

Now I’ve spent a ton of time in Colorado, where there are 52 mountains over 15,000 feet high. So I know mountain range when I see it. The highest point in Grenada is a mere 1910 feet above sea level. But I can tell you that this country’s “mountain range” is far scarier than any I’ve encountered in the Rockies. The road is narrow; the hairpin turns unpredictable; and – oh yes – our five speed bus burned out its clutch on the way to the put-in. This meant the drive back was even scarier than the drive there.

And then there was dinner. We prefer anytime dining, which means you can go to the dining room whenever you wish, but you are not guaranteed a table for two. Rather, you may be seated with four to eight other people you’ve never met before. Sometimes it’s rather interesting; sometimes not. Tonight was a mixed bag.

Earl had a great conversationalist to his right, and I heard them sharing life’s tidbits. I had a retired dentist on my left; and all we shared were his Vietnam memories and a description of his home in Florida. I believe these two topics were the bookends of his adult life. As dessert plates were being cleared, I kicked Earl under the table. He was gracious enough to reach for my hand and say, “Are you ready?” I smiled, folded my napkin, and pretended he was in charge.

On the way out of the dining room, I thanked him profusely and recalled Scarlett O’Hara’s famous words. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”

“What day is it?” Earl asked early in the morning. I had to think, since the days had begun to fuse together. “Uh, Thursday?” I answered his question with another. “I think so,” he replied. Then came the harder question: What was the date?

It always happens.

Cruising makes time irrelevant. You don’t know what day of the week it is or what date in a given month. All you know is that tomorrow is Aruba and the day after is Bonaire. You know that High Tea is served each day in the Michelangelo dining room and the casino is open whenever the ship is not in port. You know you can eat anytime of the day or night, and eventually you realize that what is the pizza bar for lunch is also the waffle station for breakfast. Mozzarella cheese simply changes places with maple syrup.

Then there are the customary sail-aways and Calypso bands and drinks of the day. There are the ice carvings and trivia contests and staff talent shows. The cooking demonstrations and line dance demonstrations and jewelry demonstrations.

By the time you’ve been on board a cruise ship a few days, the feeling of not caring about days or dates is overwhelming. You forget to check the news or the stock market or weather in other parts of the world. Instead, you’re a lemming veering uncontrollably toward the sea cliff of relaxation. In the telling it may reek of cheesy-ness, but in the living it is a total escape.