davethegrinch.net

Dave says:

The Atlantic Ocean is pretty darn big. We’re two days in and have just left the coast of Ireland. But then, we are going only about 25 miles per hour. As I look out the window it seems faster but who cares ‘cos we’ve stepped back to a time when most things didn’t go much faster than 25mph anyway. The airplane is a flash-in-the-pan novelty and the train, although essential, has become a tedium and best suited for the lower classes. It is impossible for one to drive a newfangled automobile across the Atlantic so an ocean liner is the only reasonable and, let’s face it, civilized way to reach New York.

I’m writing this whilst comfortably ensconced in the aptly named Chart Room, toasting the return of the decent Gin and Tonic and listening to the string quartet do a fair rendition of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. So please, join me as I throw journalistic balance overboard, and tell you about the more quirky side of this most civilized nautical pastime.

The ship is full of people. 2,800 of them who paid and 1,200 who are being paid. Contrary to public opinion, not all the passengers are old, some are young by comparison or perhaps better described as less-old. I’m a little confused as to the physical-ableness of most of these passengers. Walking appears tricky. Some folk are gently ricocheting off walls and others are walking with sticks and canes including those handy dandy walking sticks that fold out into little stools, essential I would think if you are post 70 and on an ocean liner the length of 58 double decker busses. There are wheel chairs, shuffling, and much handrail holding. This mass sea leg instability could be rooted in three separate but mutualy compatible theories. Number 1: All the independantly wealthy but physically infirm retirees of western Europe and the USA simultaniously decided to cruise the QM2. Number 2: Although sailing calm waters, the motion of the ocean is upseting 80 year old inner ears or, and my favourite theory, they are all a little bit tipsy. Wisely Cunard have priced their alcohol at a reasonable and fair price and they offer various retro themed cocktails-of-the-day to entice those who normally religiously follow the directions on their blood pressure medication to throw caution to the wind, relive their youth and order a second Singapore Sling. Of course, another theory could be applied to the older American gentlemen: the weight of their shirt pocket is pulling them off balance. By the time they’ve stuffed in both long distance and reading glasses as well as one or two pens, the map of the ship and the daily entertainment schedule the strain on the back may be too much and they find themselves staring at the floor as they walk. But that was just a snipe of an observation, it is lovely to be back to civility where people say mornin’s and after you’s and begging your pardons.

Of course, the passenger roster is more varied than my previous ranting would imply. Children are abound and fortunately, just like the dogs on deck 12, are kept separate from the general population. Scores of preppy entertainment staff whose job it is to balance the fine art of keeping the youngsters occupied whilst not letting any fall overboard is worth my ticket price alone. From a nationality standpoint, there are two Koreans, four Russians, surprisingly only 12 Dutch (although they are so damn big, they take up three decks each), a smattering of unimportant countries, 632 Americans, 664 British (much to the chagrin of the Americans) and 1100 Germans (much to the chagrin of the British). The Brits are certain the Germans are going to reserve all the sun loungers at 6am and are still pissed that German U-Boats sunk other Cunard liners during not one but two world wars. Only this week the British Daily Mail ran a full page report on British segregation at German holiday resorts. It appears the Germans won’t let the Brits swim in the same pools or use the same bathrooms as themselves. The threat of another German invasion is obviously causing tension on this most British of boats. The Germans, as always, are quietly confident - they have numbers on their side and a smug certainty that the British made Rolls Royce engines that power this ship will one day be replaced by Mercedes (or even worse, Volkswagon, or, even worse still, Skoda now that they are owned by Volkswagon).

The Cunard Line have a long and proud tradition of, well, tradition. Four of the six nights of dinner require formal dress, black tie and the whatnot. We are, I’m sure, the only people whose luggage came aboard in rucksacks. Not having had much call for a tuxedo in Mongolia, this trip required a little scrubbing up on our part and a couple of well executed evening dress purchases. And, scrub up we did. We look dapper and our youth, devilishly good looks and thrift store chic make us the belles of the ball. Most of our fellow passengers also turned out well but a few are titanical disasters in North Atlantic cruising fashion. They say that a tuxedo never goes out of style but I beg to differ. It should be required by federal law to purchase a new dinner suit every ten years. Our age and taste dictate changing the width of waistbands, collars and trouser cuffs; stuffing is what one does to a turkey at Thanksgiving. And ladies, this is the most luxurious Ocean Liner in the world today, it is not appropraite to knock-up your gown on your home sewing machine especially if it’s made of glitter ball material and you’ve made one hip of the dress larger that the other causing your butt to appear as if it’s sliding down your leg. Also, perfume only makes you smell good when it’s subtle. When it causes eyes to smart you’ve gone overboard and probablyshould go overboard. Oh, and should you have too much fine wine over dinner and decide to dance your heart out at the night club whilst swirling and twirling that kelly green ballgown, please have the decency to wear panties. Again, these are observations of the few, the many also scrub up well and there is nothing to beat the elegance of the older passengers who, when they were our age, wouldn’t have dreamed of not dressing for dinner. Somehow my generation believes that fleece and flip-flops are appropriate for fine dining. Ah, the youth of today, hooligans and delinquants one and all.

I met the Captain last night. I shook his hand. I offered Sarah $10 to ask him that if he’s shaking our hands then who’s driving the ship. She wouldn’t. I grinned like a monkey. I think it’s the ultimate in service that the captain of the largest ocean liner afloat should take time to shake the hands of the couple who probably paid the least to be aboard it. However, we did have to wait in line for the privilege so I guess we’re not his most important guests. He asked us where we came from and offered a small amount of chit-chat although nothing in the conversation shed anymore light on who actually was steering the boat at the time but the Atlantic is large so I guess we weren’t going to hit anything for while.

Events yesterday caused a little stress in our relationship. It probably caused a little stress in most relationships on board because the ballroom dancing lesson for the day was the jive. Everyone wants to learn to dance. I say everyone, but really I mean every woman. Every man wants to make every woman happy so is forced to attend the class. To learn this tricky little number the couples are split up - woman to one side of the dance floor, men to the other. As the women are shown their dance steps they look radiantly happy. In their eyes are the dreams of romantic twirling, sweeping, swooning and swishing to Frank Sinatra’s only shipboard engagement, Belini cocktails and Mills and Boon walks on moon-lit decks. In the eyes of the gentlemen is fear. Fear and the reflection of the ship’s clock as we count down the minutes to the end of the class and the beginning of an afternoon of eating, drinking and napping. Women are creatures of inate pschyic abilities and many of us were busted for disingenuous dancing. I escaped by the skin of my teeth and my reparations were relatively small; others, I fear, were not so lucky.

The QM2 offers a chance to take a step back in time. As nostalgic as it may be and as far removed it is from most immigrant’s steerage class experience, it is still magic. Love it or loath it, Cunard have it down. It’s like Disney for grown-ups, a chance to believe we are all princes and princesses for six short nights. Most will not travel this way again, it’s expensive and, like the best of wines, should only be enjoyed on occasion lest it spoils our taste for the everyday budget vino or heaven forbid, a decent customer service experience on an airline. As children our imagination can fly us to the moon but as adults we are grounded in the hum-drum realities of our own making. Sailing the Queen Mary 2 unleashes an imagination that wanted nothing more than to be free in the first place and everyone deserves that at least once in their lives.

This entry was posted on Wednesday, August 6th, 2008 at 3:35 pm and is filed under Global Travels, USA. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.