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The island of Moorea seen from the air.

I admit feeling some unease about traveling ‘round the globe. Seems an excessive, indulgent thing to do.
My father, who’d rather keep driving than stop at a motel for sleep, would shake his head in gloom at my profligacy. Not too distant from true, either.

Oh sure, there are elements of human and socio-cultural interest to me as potential justification, but three months time plus a considerable cash cost, and yes, I feel guilty.

Maybe I should have stayed put and invested in home repair and upgrade. But practicality did not win out. So here be me.

Having recently caught a touch of news about Congress investigating social media as a youth concern, I can tell you age is not a limiter regarding the media affliction. Geezers are as much impacted as any kiddo.

I’m not sure why it’s so easy or appealing for many among us to prefer head (heart and mind) anyplace but where they are. When canoe guiding I called it the Peoria problem, meaning canoeists who fussed about things back in Peoria while far away in the Boundary Waters.

Why not be where you are when you’re there?

Social (or as I see it asocial) media is a form of the Peoria conundrum. Why is it often difficult to be present in the present?

Why we behave as we do is beyond me. Seems a shame to be afraid of the present and/or of being required to interact with our own kind.

Having neither solution nor insight, I merely observe the humor of doing round-the-deck exercise constantly switching between English (left hand) and American (righties) walkers.

Outdoor exercise aboard ship is welcome activity, but, God knows (because I surely have no explanation for it) why some walkers tote a backpack bulging with necessities. Everything from water bottle to umbrella.

Why lumber yourself with a pack when nearly every 50-foot interval opens onto a buffet overstocked with meal and drink. Likewise, with shelter in easy reach why take along an umbrella?
Strange.

Being shameless, I asked a pack carrier, who smilingly told me it prevented her having to return to her room if she forgot something. Yes, yes, one doesn’t want to strain one’s self with exercise while exercising or contend with the rigors of the deck lifts, which a Yank calls an elevator. Maybe it is better we have less to do with one another and find our truth in media.

Truth?

Well, there is general agreement that warm is better. Is it? It’s easier, for sure, than biting cold. But stepping out into humid tropical heat isn’t, to me, as appealingly wonderful as bundling up when it’s zero degrees to go down to the big lake at night to hear the ice sing as it freezes. There is nothing like that in the tropics, not that I’ve seen or heard of.

For me, pleasant as balmy days may be, my true heart is (I think always has been) north where rigor challenges and makes for truer appreciation of warm days. Northlanders, we’re lucky.

Preparing to go off ship to wander ‘round a tropic, volcanic isle I met (was introduced) to someone as an Iowan, who promptly asked where Midwestern-me came from.

“Minnesota.”

“Oh,” said them, “I have to thank you for what you’ve done.”

I had to wonder what in hell I’d done. Nothing I could put finger to. So despite (as do you, I suspect) having a clue what she meant I had to ask the irresistible “What have we done that deserves thanking?”
I suppose it was my lack of approval or appreciation that gave birth to her cowardice of conviction “I’d rather not say.”

For an evil spirit like mine, that was chum in the water. That statement without statement was too choice to ignore, so I said, “Nice to know our iron ore is appreciated in Iowa. We like your corn in return.”

For that I got a gloomy look and shake of head, presumably for having rejected the unseen truth of whatever the Iowan thought wholly holy laudable. I doubt all Iowans are like minded. Hope so, anyway.
If you seek a Cunard cruise to an idyllic south seas island, I’d recommend Moorea. It’s a beauty. In my brief time ashore I saw enough for me to seriously consider a return.

Not that I’m up to snuff about ethnic south seas music, the group going at it with gusto as our tender docked looked and sounded like the real-deal to me, who was also much taken by the gypsy family at Zakopane belting out their best in the cold, dark and rain.

Moorea was many times warmer, though, frankly, the Tatry mountains at Zakopane are times over the highest peak on Moorea. Throw in the ever-building cloud systems in the background on the Pacific and it’s difficult to say one location is markedly better than the other except the obvious. But with no skiing in the south pacific Zakopane has that unmistakable advantage.

However, for the kids I saw snorkeling and biking around the dock, the island appears to provide a Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer type childhood. I’d wager those young’uns would take the warm ocean over mountain snows any day and many times over.

Zakopane is beautiful in a Minnesota climate way. Moorea is more like Florida, with topography that isn’t flat and amazingly consistent weather patterns.

As one of my California guests years ago said of their week in the Boundary Waters, “I saw more weather the past few days than I’d see back home in a year.”

Coming up, French Polynesia will be left behind for the English-speaking lands of New Zealand and Australia. Zealand, far as I know, comes from Holland. Somewhere along the history road it gained a British stramp. I’ll try to learn more.

Meanwhile, as many educated northlanders already know, Britain once used Australia as the place to send their convicts and social rejects. That practice from a system that gave us the expression “son of a gun” to describe unwanted children, primarily young boys put on ships as unrecorded, unpaid and unofficial naval crew.