The End of the World

February 25th:

Listen. I always knew that going on a trip in this global moment would put me at risk of catching the Spicy Flu ("COVID" is full-on Voldemort when you're on a ship stuck in the ocean with 150 other passengers.) I oscillate between this understanding making me feel better and worse as I spend day two of three of mandatory isolation in this tiny cabin on a ship in Antarctica fighting my second brutal bout with The Spice.

I gave myself one day to actively feel sorry for myself, yesterday. Maximum wallowing. I had been feeling sort of shitty for two full days already, pushing myself to go out on landings and Zodiac cruises and ignoring the blinding headache as best I could just to make sure I was able to experience Antarctica. I had worked too hard to make this trip happen, I could recover on our trip back to South America. And at first I could reasonably explain away the symptoms as a cold. I even took a COVID test that I had brought after 24 hours of feeling terrible and was so relieved to get a negative.

Unfortunately after a third full day of feeling crappy on a vessel whose passenger makeup is at least 50% on the sooner side of elderly I felt the need to do the responsible thing and see the ship's doctor. Doctor Anne showed up at my cabin door yesterday morning, masked up, with practical shoes and the efficient manner I tend to prefer in people. She whisked me downstairs to the "hospital", a suite of two tiny, unadorned rooms on deck two, usually inaccessible to the ship's guests. After taking my vitals, she performed the ritual we're all so familiar with now- an all-business cotton swab jab to the lower brain via the nostril. There was no immediate negative, so she grabbed some Sudafed and throat lozenges and said I should be good to go. Right as I was getting up to go, though, a second glance revealed the tiniest sliver of a T line on the test. Doctor Efficient shook her head and motioned for me to sit back down. "Welp. It's faint, but that's a positive." At which point, like the grown up that I am, I burst into tears, those special uncontrollable tears that I only get when I'm frustrated.

So now I'm confined to this cabin for another two full days. Once these three days are up, we will be making our way back up toward Argentina. The active excursions will have wrapped up around the time I'm released from my cell. My trip is effectively over.

I don't think it's hurt that I spent the meat of the OG pandemic phase stuck in my studio apartment. I'm well-versed at this point in making the best use of tight spots and battling wavelettes of claustrophobia.

As I suggested, the demographic makeup of the passenger pool skews older. Many more people are in their 70s than I anticipated, although it makes sense that these would be the people with the disposable time and funds to make something like this work. It's an international group, with larger contingents from the US and Australia, but plenty of folks hail from smaller countries.

The actual Antarctic experience has been as incredible as I anticipated. We set off from Ushuaia, Argentina. The town of Ushuaia, at the bottom tip of Patagonia, has proudly branded itself the End of the World. One can even get a souvenir passport stamp declaring that you have visited this superlative destination in case anybody doubts your claim. That said, it's also where you get on a boat to Antarctica, which is the... end of the world? Like most things in the meaty part of life, the finish line stays put until you almost reach it, then in the final stretch it up and moves itself, in this case to Antarctica. I would imagine once we hit the lower continent that the "end of the world" will shift yet again. The curse of an allegedly round planet.

The first two days were spent at sea crossing the Drake Passage. Having never been on a ship of this size for more than a few hours I was nervous about the potential seasickness this area of the ocean has a reputation for inciting. Per Doctor Anne, I took preemptive Dramamine and, luckily, was fine. Great, even. At night, the hum of the ship and the rocking actually seemed to help me sleep. Where sleeping on the boat at other points of the trip was accompanied by a nice, mild cradle effect, the Drake's convulsing was that of an anxious mother, which for some reason felt natural for me.

Not all of my fellow passengers fared as well. For the first few days, a large swath of people lurched and tripped around the ship with little circular motion sickness patches behind their ears, which I can only assume doubled as their Matrix hookup.

We're roused each morning by our expedition leader Shane on the ship intercom, with a "gooooood morning everybody" usually between 6 and 7AM. In any other set of circumstances, I would hate this ritual, but this was not a trip for sleeping. At least, not until my immune system kicked into high gear.

Shane is exactly who you'd expect to lead polar expeditions- a burly Canadian in his 50s with a robust beard and a series of well-worn quips busted out casually at each milestone. The kind of dude who uses "yesteryear" unironically.

The intercom sound is remarkably clear. It's funny what differences hit you hardest when traveling. Like I noticed in Buenos Aires on my two-day stopover that most of the human outlines for pedestrian crossing lights have feet. It makes sense that it WOULD have feet, the whole point of the signage is to indicate that you're welcome to use your feet to cross the street. But we didn't have time for feet in NYC, I guess. I imagine we're just expected to be grateful ours have heads.

Good ole NYC. I guess my primary relationship with intercoms in the years since grade school have been with the "announcements" on the New York City subway. MTA intercoms are known for spewing a veritable rainbow of noise and not much else. On a good day, you can make out the occasional word, but it's rare that you're able to glean all of the pertinent information from the chaos emanating from the world's oldest speakers. Shane's soothing Canadian voice, "aboot"s and all, delivered via a crystal clear connection, has been a welcome intrusion in comparison.

We woke up the morning of the third day at the entrance to the Lemaire Channel, a narrow waterway that couldn't have been a more representative, breathtaking intro to Antarctica. Looking out my port-side window, I saw large rocks jutting out of the ocean, huge chunks of ice drifting in the water. Everything was white and black and teal blue.

Through the multiple panes of glass in between me and the outside of my cabin it looked fully fake. Like someone had blown up a NatGeo pic of Antarctica and taped it neatly over my porthole window. It wasn't until I brought my first cup of coffee out onto the deck that I really started to feel the spirit of this place settle in.

One of the hardest things to overcome on a trip like this is just that. The sensation that your surroundings aren't real, that you’re not actually seeing something directly. I have guesses as to why this detachment- the easy access to photos of Antarctica on the internet, my previous encounters with penguins at SEVERAL East Coast zoos- but at each moment of intense beauty I have to actively remind myself that I am actually where I am, I'm actually seeing what I'm seeing. As it is. That it's all real and that I'm unlikely to be where I am ever again. I'm feeling a lot of internal pressure to do my very best looking at everything so I can really take it with me.

Our general rhythm has been to do two locations a day; one landing and/or Zodiac cruising locale in the morning and another in the afternoon. We're divided up into four groups (I belonged to the "Penguin" group) which dictated the order of disembarkation to avoid a stampede getting to the Zodiacs. Incidentally the idea of a stampede of penguins is positively adorable once you've seen them move IRL.

Each morning and afternoon, Shane, or one of the other expedition leaders, would announce when it was time to leave the ship and we would start the process of gearing up. The first few times I prepped, it was a bit arduous. A few days in, though, it felt almost meditative. I got it down. Merino wool leggings and a Merino wool top, with another pair of fleece lined leggings layered on top. A fleece jacket, the bright yellow Quark Expeditions parka. A gaiter, a hat, sunglasses. Glove liners and waterproof gloves. Waterproof pants which were deemed mandatory to ride on the Zodiacs, the reason for which became obvious about four minutes into my first ride when a single wave crashed against the raft, the water bouncing up and over the pontoons and raining down heavily on all ten of us.

Two pairs of thick wool socks topped off with loaner waterproof boots from the expedition operator. Life vest. Dry bag with extras of much of the above, plus water and lip balm. The key was picking the perfect moment to get ready- too early and you risk overheating in the hallways of the ship, too late and you're tripping over yourself as you rush to the gangway to board.

I'm finding it extremely daunting, trying to describe the visuals of this trip in a way that hasn't already been used to death by writers, poets, or their modern equivalents, travel influencers. The world around us was just so peaceful. The visuals were striking, no big shocker, but the feeling of stillness and quiet were what made it feel so foreign. There were many moments I was able to embrace that stillness. There were some moments where I found it eery as fuck.

The best experience I had was in Neko Harbour on a sunny, windless day.  The harbor is surrounded by an almost perfectly round ring of glaciers and rock. It wasn't particularly big, but the static water acting as a huge round mirror made it look much more so. Which, for what it's worth, is also how you trick people into feeling like your apartment is bigger than it is. It was cozy, as cozy as a chilly divet in a mountain range in Antarctica could be.

I've never found sighting wildlife easier. Without the wind, what I was seeing through my eyes was like a single frame of a movie pulled out of sequence. Your eyes would scan the water and any flicker of movement was a seal, a penguin, a humpback whale. If a humpback whale popped out on the street in Brooklyn near me, I'd probably assume that the commotion out of the corner of my eye was just some sort of obese rat and keep walking.

The water was a perfect teal. #0C628C at, like, 75% opacity. We came across an ice formation that looked like a pile of lovingly stacked blocks of ice that seemed to glow like kryptonite from within. The sky was the kind of blue I tend to roll my eyes at. Like you're ammmmmazing we get itttttt.

Groups of Weddell seals lounged on the ice so we cut the engine and let our Zodiac drift toward them, getting within a few feet, close enough that I could have easily reached out to touch them. At one point a seal popped its head out of the water right next to me. I thought I was going to Antarctica for the penguins but I have fully fallen in love with the smooth, adorable blubbery monster that is the seal. They are undeniably cute, watching them do the worm across a slippery perch never stopped being friggin hilarious, and their commitment to lounging around is inspiring.

After cruising, we headed toward land. We'd done other landings but this would be the first time we set foot on the continent of Antarctica. As we gained speed, the noise from the Zodiacs sounded twice as loud as they normally did bouncing off the mountains. Approaching land, I saw a huge white wall of ice and snow rising from the ground at what seemed like a right angle. I could make out what looked like a trail through the snow, with some black dots sprinkled on them. As we got closer, it became obvious that the dots were, in fact, people from our expedition, and that I too would be expected to hike up this ice wall death trap.

The landing site was a Gentoo penguin colony. At one point on the hike, our path intersected with a "penguin highway", which are exactly as precious as they sound. We had to pause and wait for the single file line of wobbly birds to cross our path before we could continue.

This was the kind of hike that people who just say they like to hike but they really like to just sort of have a stroll would not be into. I'm not too proud to admit that it kicked my ass. I did it, but it was a toughie. At times I found myself needing to stop and put my hands on my knees and lean over and take multiple deep breaths and feel like I'm being visited by my ghost of Christmas future. I reluctantly took the walking stick that was offered to me at the base and that was one of my better decisions on this trip.

When I reached the top, though, the wind was once again knocked out of me by the beauty. It was just one of those heady, never-again moments. I took big gulps of actual fresh air, gazing into a cauldron of seals and whales with the sun shining softly on my face. Somehow the camera could sense how very complete the moment felt. The pictures of me from the moment were extra flattering. In this moment I couldn't have been happier or more photogenic.

I did take a lot of pictures, for me, at least. My usual M.O. is to try to live squarely in the moment which sounds great and all but means I perpetually neglect obtaining photographic evidence of my adventures, big and small. I often figure someone else will capture what I need. In this case, I had the wherewithal to know I shouldn't count on others to document such an important experience so I did manage to get some of my own.

The range of comfort with technology on this expedition has been wide. When it comes to photography, there's the SLR crowd, the ones with bags full of different lenses, some comically big. There was the New SLR group, the people who clearly had borrowed someone else's SLR, always intending to take an online course in what the buttons do but never actually getting past that first article about exposure settings. The vast majority of this group had abandoned their technical albatrosses within the first couple of days in favor of their phones.

We have an expedition leader who specializes in photography who gave a talk toward the beginning of the trip, and he did a fantastic job of meeting people where they were. I was in the last, biggest photographic group, which was the iPhone faction.

I gotta say, the iPhone really got me through on this trip. Praise be the ghost of Steve Jobs. What a magnificent little box. It consistently had my back- photography-wise, COVID-wise (I was #blessed to have access to the NYTimes Crossword puzzle archives in my time indisposed.) I did more or less completely detach from the rest of the world. There was a single mediocre paid internet option so I took the opportunity to exist for a while without it. It was definitely manageable, and at times outright euphoric, and the only time I really felt myself missing internet access when I was discussing something with my new comrades and we reached for The Web for a confirmation of a hypotheses, or a tidbit of missing information, and realized we were grabbing at air. What's the average width of the fluke of a humpback whale? Who is currently in power in Indonesia? When, exactly, did Brittany Murphy die? It was when I was in college for sure because I remember hearing about it in the stacks of Trident bookstore on Newbury St, the place with the cafe where I tried avocado for the first time. 2008? 2009?

February 27th

It's currently the last day at sea. We arrive back in Ushuaia tomorrow morning, early. It fels like end of summer camp, in that I have to say goodbye to a bunch of people I like, which sucks, but I get to sleep in my own bed soon, which honestly is all I ever want.

I was lucky enough to fall in with a group of lovely people early on. Their unconditional friendliness was refeshing and their restraint was, frankly, moving- they graciously minimized the amount of horror they expressed over the state of America despite the wealth of ammunition available to them once the country comparisons that inevitably happen within an international group started. They were accomplished, kind and, most, importantly, they could hang. During my isolated stretch they slipped notes under my door, and left me chocolate. When I finally emerged, our group of gurlz had picked up another person, a guy, who I like to think had been hearing my name constantly at the breakfast table the previous three days, wondering “who is this magical Rose they keep talking about?" but in reality was probably just a little confused when I confidently sat down at the breakfast table across from him like I'd been there all along.

To the crew's credit they're doing their best to make sure that these last two days in these Drake marine conditions feel festive. Our dining room is run by an overwhelmingly enthusiastic man named Johnny who likes to call any group of two or more women "beautiful ladies". A new acquaintance pointed out that he gives Armand from the White Lotus energy and now I can't unsee it. The same acquaintance shared that she had seen Johnny yelling at the staff when he thought no one else was around. I anticipate seeing him fully implode in the remaining 16 hours of this boat trip.

Last night Johnny made a weirdly emotional speech thanking all of us for giving them the opportunity to serve us, which made me just the most uncomfortable. Then he beckoned for the entire kitchen and wait staff to come out from the kitchen and they sang, I shit you not, Leaving on a Jet Plane. Along to a backing track. A full bar ahead of the music for the entire song. All I could think about was how much I would have refused to sing this random super romantic song to the entitled people who have been yelling COFFEE??!?! at me for the better part of two weeks unless it had been discussed and articulated very specifically in my contract. Does that make me lame or just an uber-jaded veteran of the working world? Both, prolly. I kept thinking about Jan in The Office singing “Son of a Preacher Man” as a lullaby to her baby. It was nice if you don’t think about it too hard.

I won't be able to explain the net effect this place had on me properly when people ask. I just have to accept that. I keep using lame words like “awesome” and “incredible”. Gag. It’s like when I have to explain my tattoos- the interest is totally reasonable but there’s no way not to feel kinda lame explaining why I etched a croissant into my forearm (actually that one’s easy, I love croissants.)

A person or two has suggested that I'm “brave” for having gone, but the truth is just that over time I've become a person who understands and accepts that fear and discomfort (of the Drake Passage, of making new friends, of getting eaten alive by a whale and then getting expelled via the blowhole) are the price of admission for a full life.

xoxo Rossip Girl

PS: I also get called brave for my haircut

PPS: If you’d like to check out a reasonable number of photos and videos of my trip, you can find those here.