It’s only 10 days,” I had to constantly remind myself. But, with the kind of preparation I did for this cruise, one could conclude it might be longer, or probably our last, before we give away our suitcases.

I’m well aware now that anything I do at this time could, indeed, be the last, and therefore, ought to be done with the maximum amount of mindful effort, for the most satisfaction to be derived from it.

As morbid as that sounds, it’s the way I tend to do things these days. And I’m the happier for it. The preparation was on three levels: physical, material, spiritual.

I went through the usual physical checkups. My lab test wasn’t so good, but my sugar was still pre-diabetic; my carb and uric acid numbers are high, but my GP said if I promised to keep my weight down—low carbs, no sugar—and exercise regularly, just for 30 minutes a day, he would not give me any medications.

I’ve been good about exercising, so far. Just before the cruise, my Fitbit watch exploded with congratulatory firecrackers—I had already walked 1,184 kilometers, equal to the whole length of boot-shaped Italy!

On the land tours I was bound to walk way over my self-set goal of 6,000 steps a day, but, of course, how could I diet on a cruise? The most I could do was try not to gain too much.

Immediate problem

My immediate problem involved a molar cracked from habitual snacking on healthy almonds—healthy for whom? Until two weeks before the cruise, it had not bothered me. What had got chipped off was mostly filling and a sliver of the enamel, but the molar started to become sensitive. So, I decided it had to come off while I still had time to heal.

When it was pulled it looked perfectly healthy despite the chip. Oh, was I ever so sorry to lose my last molar! I’m now left with only secondary ones, having lost two primaries to accommodate braces in midlife, and a third also to almonds.

Noticing how sadly I was looking at it, the dentist offered, “Tita, would you want to take it home?” I quickly snapped out of it.

When it comes to the material part of traveling, packing is the least of my worries. I merely lay all the clothes and underwear on the bed, carefully matching the colors for the laundering on board, more than for fashion purposes.

Lanie then makes their bulk disappear into a medium-sized suitcase—my husband won’t carry anything bigger—by rolling every piece into lumpias, the efficient space-saving Japanese way.

It is the 10 cosmetic bags that really drive Vergel crazy—he carries only one. Into marked cosmetic bags I stash the cleansers, moisturizers, lotions and astringents, and other stuff for hair, face, teeth, hands, feet and body. I also carry medication for fever, cold and allergy, not to mention the antibiotic ointments and Imodium.

All these come to a substantial bulk, despite the fact that I hardly wear makeup when I travel. I also cut my hair short, so as not to have to bring bulky rollers. But I brought my little plastic tabo, and, oh, the difference it made! Alas, we had to leave it in Athens, our last stop.

Unexpected

What I didn’t expect at the last minute was to travel with a budding sty. Like the proverbial pimple on prom night, it sprouted in time for the trip. Fortunately, it disappeared quickly enough, thanks to my antibacterial ophthalmic ointment.

The most important preparation was clearing the air between me and my husband. All matters of the heart for me is spiritual; it involves our beliefs, our core values on which our commitment to one another and to our families are rooted.

Like many other wives, I was beginning to accumulate issues. Fearful of confrontations, I would retreat from quarrels and arguments into resentful silence. I held my tongue, remembering my dad’s warning about words, spoken in anger: “People you hurt may forget what you did, but not what you said.”

I wanted to make sure neither of us was bringing unnecessary baggage. I knew I was risking the cancelation of the all-paid-for trip. I had to somehow gather the courage to speak out.

Obviously, my husband doesn’t have this problem. So, it was about time I asked myself, “What is it you are afraid of?” Clearly, it was a ridiculous question to ask a 79-year-old woman.

I waited for the opportune time to unburden myself of an accumulation of things brewing inside me. I wanted to be set free, once and for all, from my fears, among other things. Freedom, alas, is never given but taken.

The exercise proved worth all the risks, with me realizing that expressing feelings was not about hurting each other. It’s about the sense of trust to be able to tell each other anything without fear or censure.

Whether on a cruise or not, I’m confident it’s easy sailing from here on.