A great trip often comes from recognizing great opportunities. I found that out in early May, when an e-mail arrived in my inbox. It was from RSVP Vacations, one of the two major GLBT-focused travel companies. I’m not much of a travel writer per se, since I focus more on marriage equality and other gay-related political issues, but a few months ago, an editor friend of mine had given my name to a contact at RSVP. Last October, I had to turn down the offer for a Mexican Riviera cruise because of some TV production work, something I have regretted ever since, but since then that gig had ended.

The e-mail apologized for being so short notice, but if I wanted it there was a cabin available for me and a friend on RSVP’s inaugural five-day Queen Mary 2 transatlantic voyage from New York City to Southampton, England, which was setting sail May 29. Living in L.A., I’d have to pay for the flight to New York and then get myself home from London, not a cheap proposition, especially considering how weak the dollar is to the British pound. I’d also be responsible for my bar tab. Ahem. So this “free” trip would still end up costing me a couple thousand bucks, at a time when I didn’t have the prospect of full-time work for the foreseeable future and it was almost summer, a dry season for freelance writing gigs.

But I did have the time. And a credit card. And the feeling that if I made the same mistake twice, I’d never forgive myself, especially since I had never been to Europe and I’m fast approaching 40. After hemming and hawing for a day, I called RSVP and said yes. The cruise arrived in England on June 4, so I could even spend a day or two in London before going home. Better yet, my friend Sean was coming along for the ride, and he had friends in London who had agreed to put us up, a move that would save us hundreds of bucks each in expensive hotel charges.

But then I started thinking, always a dangerous thing. If I was already there, why not take the Channel tunnel to Paris for a couple of days? And if I was in England anyway, why not look up my Yorkshire mate Bryony, a woman I had taught English with in Japan when I was in my early 20s?

Plus, opportunity stepped in again. It turned out that flying to LAX from London or Paris in June was going to cost at least $1,300. But with the help of Orbitz, I stumbled on a much cheaper option; flying home nonstop from Dublin on Irish flag carrier Aer Lingus, which would only set me back $598. With a ridiculously cheap flight from Manchester, England, to Dublin on discount European airline RyanAir, I could add another stop on my “free” trip.

Flash forward three weeks, and I was standing on the deck of the Queen Mary 2 as it set sail from the Brooklyn Ship Yards. With champagne in hand, Sean and I, plus my friend Matt, an editor at Out magazine, and his boyfriend Rick, toasted one another as the behemoth QM2 sailed under the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge, making it by just nine feet.

I had never done a cruise before, so I wasn’t sure about five full days at sea, or all that “Love Boat”-like forced fun. I’m not much of a joiner, and I was concerned by day three throwing myself into the choppy Atlantic might be a more palatable option than another two days of cruising. But it was the QM2, one of the newest and fanciest ships on the seas. I mean, the QM2 had a planetarium and a Canyon Ranch Spa, and if you stood it up, it would be almost as tall as the Empire State Building.

The cabins were surprisingly spacious, especially since ours had a deck. The food was terrific and plentiful. In addition, I soon got used to a 2 a.m. gorge fest at the multiple buffets. Margaret Cho, Varla Jean Merman and New York cabaret singers the Callaway sisters were the entertainment. But I’d been told a big lie before I came on board: Multiple people told me I’d never even know I was on water, since cruise ships are so massive and have such efficient stabilizers – not so much. For the first two days in particular, I felt the Atlantic, and the ship’s reaction to it. I’m not sure if I really needed them, but I sported wrist bands that used acupressure to help fight off motion sickness. Other cruisers went with patches of Dramamine placed behind each ear. One shipmate asked me if guys were wearing them in an effort to quit smoking.

There was some classic cruise cheesiness, including cabin door decorating by the more enthusiastic passengers among us. But I was struck by how peaceful and solitary the ship could be. One morning, I woke up and did some wandering, and saw few if any other people. When I did encounter other passengers, they were often reading or quietly playing cards and board games along the ship’s many nooks and crannies. Things got more boisterous as we continued to sail, especially after the troop transport uniform party and warmer weather pulled more passengers (who were mostly men) out on deck for the numerous Jacuzzis and pools.

On the morning of our sixth day, I opened up the curtains and I saw land. We had docked overnight, and by 9 a.m. we were on the hour-long train from Southampton to London’s Victoria Station. London, if you haven’t heard it before, is swinging. Sean and I were struck by all the handsome men, who were rushing around with things to do and places to be. They weren’t stuck up, though. We spent a lot of time walking the banks of the Thames, past Parliament, the wildly successful Ferris wheel, the London Eye, and a personal favorite, the Tate Modern art gallery. A former power plant, the Tate Modern is a whole day of fun for any modern art lover. Usually I love the monochromatic simplicity of artist Mark Rothko, and I was excited to find an entire room of his work originally slated for a restaurant in New York was now housed in the museum. The dimly lit room heightened the huge maroon canvases, but suddenly Sean and I had to dash out of the gallery. Unbeknownst to us, for the first 48 hours after a cruise, narrow hallways and dark rooms can do a number on your balance. Both of us felt the impact at different times in London, which must have made Sean’s friends wonder if we were still totally drunk from the trip.

The gay scene in London is among the best in Europe, and is only going to get better for Californians like me, since starting July 1 England is scheduled to go smoke free indoors. When we hit the bars G-A-Y and Barcode, I was surprised to find myself being frisked by a security guard. I assumed it was for drugs or guns (the good old U.S. of A. mentality!) but the routine is the aftermath of some vicious nail-bomb attacks in 1999 by a deranged 22-year-old engineer. Once inside, however, the atmosphere was warm and friendly. One of the best parts of our trip was seeing the stage musical Billy Elliot, which won’t make it to the states until at least 2008. And thanks to our London friend, we knew to dash around the corner from the theater to the Stag, a gay bar frequented by an eclectic mix of London’s finest, including a group of strapping young men sporting tights that would make a Camp Pendleton drill sergeant proud. Turns out the clean-cut hotties were none other than Buckingham Palace military detail, (mostly straight) who like The Stag for its proximity to their work and the pub’s relatively late hours. Hail Brittania!

After five days on a boat full of people and bunking with Sean’s friends, I was traveling alone to a city where I didn’t speak the language. The Eurostar service to Paris, which was a two-and-a-half hour trip, couldn’t have been easier, and by 10 a.m. on my first day I was walking to pick up an essential travel tool, the Paris Museum Pass. For only $41, I had free and priority access to more than two dozen Paris locations, including the Musée Picasso – which houses some of the Spanish Cubist master’s finest work in a 17th century salt collector’s mansion – and the Musée Auguste Rodin, which sits on the grounds of an 18th century estate and features some of his least- known sculptures. The Parisians were much more friendly than legend makes them out to be. It’s just that they tend to be more direct and to the point, not unlike New Yorkers. The bulk of Paris’ gay life can be found in and around the Marais district, including the very happening RAIDD bar and the more relaxed Bear’s Den, which caters to the hairier and bulkier among us. The Web site parismarais.com has a great gay section if you’re planning a trip.

It was only two days in Paris, and then I was back to London to transfer trains and head a few hours north to Yorkshire. My friend Bryony lives in Huddersfield (hometown of X-Men and “Star Trek: TNG” star Patrick Stewart), which is a 20-minute train ride outside Yorkshire’s biggest city, Leeds. The real delight of Yorkshire, however, is in its smaller towns, including Bradford, which is home to the National Museum of Photography and the nearby Salts Mill, a refurbished wool factory that now houses a museum dedicated to the work of local-boy-done-good, David Hockney. About 20 minutes away is Haworth, the home of doomed literary sisters Charlotte and Emily Bronte. Their father Patrick was a parson in the little town, and the former parsonage now serves as a museum about the Bronte family life. The picture-perfect village still boasts the Black Bull, a pub where the Brontes’ brother Branwell, a noted painter, basically drank himself to death by the age of 31. Like I said, doomed. We had a couple pints in Branwell’s honor. The highlight of the Yorkshire trip, however, was York, the famed walled city that is pretty much a great place to get an understanding of British history in an afternoon. Founded by the Romans, invaded by the Vikings, and a strategic location during the English Civil War and World War II, the city boasts York Minster, a cathedral that rivals Westminster Abbey itself and some of the most beautiful walking tours in Britain.

Thanks to a 40-minute flight, I was out of Britain and in Dublin. Much more compact than London or Paris, Dublin is the lead benefactor of the “Celtic Tiger” economic boom. Since the mid 1990s, Ireland has been the fastest growing economy in Europe, with companies like Yahoo! and Microsoft moving in offices to enjoy the growth. You see that newfound wealth when you walk through Dublin’s Temple Bar neighborhood, which is just south of the River Liffey. Full of Spanish tapas bars, Italian restaurants and French bistros (oh, and numerous traditional Irish pubs), Temple Bar embraces its moniker as Dublin’s artistic center. I stayed in a hotel right in Temple Bar on the same block as the stylish Front Lounge, a huge trendy space that attracts a full range of the GLBT community. Both nights I was there, gays, lesbians and transgender Dubliners mixed together. Unlike the gay areas of Paris and London, Dublin does not have a critical mass when it comes to a gay ghetto. Much more community focused, the city’s pubs do not have the infamous “back rooms” you find in most other European gay clubs. That’s fine by the Queer Irish, as well as the growing number of immigrants from Eastern Europe enjoying the fruits of Ireland’s economic revival. I was lucky enough to be in the city during its two-week Pride festival. My favorite event was a traditional Irish ceili, which featured gay musicians and a same-gender friendly mix of social dances, not unlike square dances.

I’m back in Los Angeles now, where only a few days after returning I got offered a low-paying but decent full-time job. It’s going to take some time to pay off the trip (a total of 23 days away!) but I can’t imagine not having done what I did. Make sure to take advantage of your next great opportunity.