Today marks the halfway point in our crossing. Today I learned that male right whales sport one ton testicles, but rather than expanding on that I have decided to post photos from the first half of the voyage. Internet access on board is spotty and ghastly expensive, so I've greatly shrunk the photos.
And sundry other observations regarding trans-Atlantic crossing.
Tony Macaroni
The Queen Mary II is fairly bursting with musical diversions. There are no fewer than three pianists, a harpist, a jazz trio, a string quartet, a DJ, a roving classical guitarist, an entire guest orchestra and a musical revue troupe. The latter perform in an ornate theatre and are unaccountably popular. I say unaccountably because they focus on the kind of schtick that would have won standing ovations in Atlantic City or Brighton in 1959. Take last night for example when the program was entitled 'Viva Italia' and featured a character named Tony Macaroni (no, I'm not making this up) warbling pieces that brought the Bugs Bunny cartoon version of Italy to mind. We heard this through the thin wall separating the theatre from the board games area. A touch surreal.
The 25 Hour Day
Six out of the eight days we set our clocks back an hour, thus creating a delicious series of 25 hour days. This makes up for the lost Father's Day, eradicated by the International Date Line on the flight to Australia, and it fulfills the perennial fantasy to have just a little more time every day.
Fore - Aft Confusion
The ship is enormous and the layout bewildering. Although by this point I have more or less got the gist of where everything is and how to get there, when I can't see the ocean I often still get fore and aft confused and end up blundering a hundred meters or more in the wrong direction before I realize it. Little arrows incorporated into the decor would be welcome...
The Floor Moves
Even though the QM2 has the newest stabilizer technology, the floor still moves all the time. Not much mind you, but if you're foolish enough to dwell on it, it is noticeable. One's strides automatically get shorter and longer as the floor goes up and down and one automatically walks in a subtle serpentine, as the floor tips side to side, like a drunk trying hard to look sober. Our stateroom is near the bow where the movement is the greatest. Now I know why it was cheaper. I have to give credit to Lorraine though for talking me into the minor upgrade of a porthole as without a view of the horizon one could easily become queasy. Or worse.
The Promenade
Once around the teak promenade deck is 526 meters. Many modern cruise ships have done away with the promenade deck to increase the amount of space available for deluxe cabins with private balconies. This is an outrage. And this is one distinction between crossing and cruising. This distinction is a subject that gets me frothing and probably should have a post of its own.
Rejuvenation
The trans-Atlantic crossing is rejuvenating in two ways. Firstly, as long as you avoid the unspeakably foul ventilation shafts near the starboard aft the air here in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean is arguably amongst the purest on earth. Walking the promenade feels like it should add years. Secondly 80% of the passengers are older than me. Maybe even 90%. The main age categories on board are the "young old" (walking briskly), the "regular old" (walking slowly) and the "old old" (shuffling or rolling). I am called "young man" (!) and I would run, but I chose not to.
The Atlantic
It is pewter grey, it is brilliant blue, it is shining quicksilver. It is satin flat, it rolls in sensuous swells, it roils in chaotic whitecaps. Much like the Australian Outback and the Namib Desert it appears dull and featureless to the casual (careless) observer, but I love it and it does reward patient observation. The play of light, the subtle shadings and then suddenly out here, more than a thousand miles from anywhere, a pod of dolphins are arcing out of the water, miraculous, gleaming. The anti Tony Macaronis.
A gathering of ancient bald men, one of whom sounds exactly like Michael Caine, loudly debate upgrade strategies while a bluegrey ocean surges by, rhythmically, endlessly, just an arm's length beyond a riveted, salt edged porthole. Old Speckled Hen keeps appearing in my glass. Unobtrusive lounge piano plays Gould's variations on Bach, complementing the almost subsonic thrum of the engines deep below. These things (ale, Bach, thrum) sooth me. Michael Caine's wife accuses him of being outspoken. He replies that he simply tells the truth. A Filipino in a tuxedo brings me a small bowl of spiced nuts. A silver spoon is placed in the bowl. What do I do with the spoon? Is this a futile anti-Norwalk measure, or part of an eccentric British nut eating ritual? I chose to ignore it and stare at the ocean. Captain Wills announced earlier that we were passing over the "Porcupine Abyssal Plain". In a clipped professional tone he explained that 4.8 km below us the ocean bottom is a featureless oozescape populated entirely by slowly trundling sea cucumbers. This explains "abyssal" and "plain", but leaves "porcupine" a mystery. Regardless, this bit of knowledge pleases me and makes staring out the porthole at the ocean all the more appealing.
And now we are at sea. After a night sailing along the south coast of Devon and Cornwall we said goodbye to the sight of land just after breakfast and are now a hundred or so nautical miles west by southwest of Penzance, moving steadily out further into the open North Atlantic.
The captain says that the waves are two meters and that that is not much for the North Atlantic at this time of year. I can feel it, but barely. When I can see the ocean it feels natural and even comfortable, but deep within the ship the sensation is distinctly odder, a general feeling of unexpected movement with my vestibular apparatus scrambling to sort out the side to side from the up and down.
Over and out from the library on Deck 8, overlooking the bow and the countless approaching waves.
I'm confident that nobody has noticed, but I did start out the trip posting photos of our little travel globe rubber ball with our progress marked. Then I forgot to keep up with it after Victoria Falls (Hotdogman has also been neglected, although less comprehensively). So, if only for the record, here are three shots of the globe catching us up.
We sail for America on the evening tide. Those of you who know me well will know that I have been rolling that phrase around in my mind for a while, savouring it like a particularly delicious and lasting candy. Farewell to England. We sail for America on the evening tide.
That said, if I could I would not say farewell to England and would stay much longer. Also, the setting sail business, as romantic as it is, will be proceeded by the decidedly unromantic schlepping of the duffel bag through tube stations and train stations. Our actual luggage is carry on size, but the duffel contains the camping equipment, principally sleeping bags, from Africa. The plan had been to mail them home from Cape Town, but best laid plans being what they are... We did give one away to a homeless guy, but the other three have been our constant companions. Plus a few souvenirs the duffel is now the size of a small person, say a dwarf. And it is ill tempered as well, having an odd soft shape that makes slinging it over my shoulder a struggle. Again, like a dwarf.
But for now I still have an hour to sit in the garden and say farewell to England.
And afternoon at the pub and evening at the theatre. That, good sirs and madams, is how I recommend you "do" London. For each of these you will be dazzled by the breadth and depth of choice. Scores of museums and galleries, scores of cask marque pubs (those certified as serving proper cask conditioned, hand pulled ales - no other pubs matter) and again scores of theatre options. The permutations will keep you amused for a very good long while.
We chose the British Museum and you should too. Free and vast and such a storehouse of humanity's greatest treasures that... well I'm going to cop out and not describe it further as I'm likely to just lapse into adjectival hyperbole. And that's boring to read. A few photos instead and a solid recommendation: you absolutely must visit some day (if you haven't already) but you also absolutely must visit when it opens in the morning. It is, as I said, vast and can swallow an astonishing number of people, but its capacity to digest them is not infinite.
The pubs as well - get there early. Many open at 11::00, but you'll still be in the museum for a bit and you would feel self conscious about showing up at a pub at opening. However, by 5:30 or so the after work crowd descends and they are a... "boisterous" lot and are very numerous. The English can be polite and restrained, but they can also be... "boisterous". This is not necessarily a bad thing and can add to the flavour of the pub visit, but it can make some of the practicalities such as reaching the actual beer problematic.
Theatre - not everyone's cup of tea (note the deployment of a British metaphor), but most would enjoy it. A bit pricy, so perhaps stay in the pub instead some evenings (the after work shouters eventually disperse), but well worth going at least once. We saw Billy Elliot. If the absurd and surreal thought of striking coal miners and riot police singing and dancing about Arthur Skargill and Maggie Thatcher doesn't automatically crack you up I won't try to explain why it should. Arguably the greyest, least humuous events in recent British history made colourful and hilarious - quite an achievement.
Got it? Museum, pub, theatre. And then home in the Tube.
One we are very fond of, the other we are not so sure about. The first is of course the justly famed Underground. Not just a tube that hurtles you from A to B, but a significant attraction in its own right. I can think of no better venue for people watching, especially given London's intensely cosmopolitan nature and many of the Leslie Green designed faience tiled Art Nouveau station facades are now recognized as significant works of art. But it is also the exceptionally high quality of the busking (no winos warbling Hotel California here), the soothing voice of the "mind the gap" announcements and the roll call of iconic station names, each one plugging into and lighting up a particular warm memory from literature or film or song: Paddington, Piccadilly Circus, Kings Cross, Leicester Square, Hyde Park Corner, Baker Street, Knightsbridge, Covent Garden, Charing Cross, Blackfriars... (and of course the amusing ones: Cockfosters, Barking, Wapping, Mudchute, Tooting Bec, Peckham Rye...). We love this tube. We love London.
The other tube is the one that is automatically attached to your wallet upon arrival and to which a startling suction force is applied. London is breathtakingly expensive.
"Coffees? That'll be £15 ($30) sir."
"Lunch? That'll be £50 ($100) sir."
"Visit the Tower of London? That'll be £57 ($114) sir. (I know I probably don't need to keep doing the math for you, but maybe it's early where you are.)
" Visit the Harry Potter movie studios? That'll be £250 ($500) sir."
And on it goes. To be fair, some things are the opposite. The British Museum, The British Library (amazing incidentally) and The National Gallery foe example are free. Their gift shops are not, but that only makes sense.
"When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life." - Samuel Johnson, 1777
"When a man is tired of tramping around London with his children, he is tired of the dissonant sound of whining and he is tired of complaints about hunger, thirst, sore feet, boredom, crowds, heat, cold, wet and he is tired of incessant and inane chatter about pigeons and squirrels and when are we going back to the house. He is most decidedly not tired of life. In fact he only hungers for it all the more." - Philipp Schott, 2015
AirBnB has been a fantastic experience. We are now in our sixth rental house or flat on this trip and we have yet to be disappointed. It's hard to imagine what the appeal of a hotel is. Is it the much smaller space? Is it the fact that you usually have to share a room with your kids? Is it the fact that you have to eat every meal in a restaurant? Is it the absence of a garden or patio with a view or other appealing private outdoor space? Is it the higher prices? Is it the generic may-as-well-be-in-Kansas style? You hotel goers, which is it? (People used to mention room service, but now with restaurant delivery services that is less of a factor). In any case, I love AirBnB (and similar such as VRBO).
The previous five rentals were all either investment properties the owners had clearly set up solely for the purposes of renting out and never lived in themselves or were second holiday homes rented out when they didn't need them. This house, the owner calls it a "maisonnette" - the bottom two floors of a classic London row house with a large garden in back, is the first actual family home we've rented. Will and his family are away on vacation, but this is where they normally live. It feels... odd. Personal photos everywhere on the walls, personal mail delivered to the door, hairbrushes in the bathroom, closets full of clothing... We're looking after their cats as well. It's a strangely voyeuristic sensation. It's a fabulous spot though and we quickly got over the strangeness, but sometimes I do marvel at the ways of the modern world.
