Epilogue

I heard the first shrieks from just inside our front door while I was carrying the bags up the driveway from the taxi (79 days and 23 hours after leaving...). The kids had raced ahead and had found the dog. Accounts vary, but the gist appears to be that Orbit was confused and perhaps alarmed at first, but Lorraine was right behind them and once he sniffed her hand he instantly switched to overjoy mode. Now there was barking mixed with the shrieking. A small melee of hugs and fur and limbs ensued.

We missed Orbit and we missed our cats and our family and our friends (this list is given in no particular order, really). And sure, we missed the house and Winnipeg and Canada and all that a bit too, but honestly... only a bit. And our stuff? I didn't miss it at all. I had cleared out my closet and dresser for the house-sitter, so last night I began taking my clothes back out of the storage bins and experienced something close to revulsion at the amount. Probably around 40 t-shirts, of which only a fraction get worn regularly. And that's only the t-shirts. I just finished traveling around the world for almost three months with four shirts and two pairs of pants. And not one time did I wish I had packed more. Not one single time. The same principle applies to every other type of possession. One small bag is really all you need. But that's not a very original thought. Nobody's out there saying, "pack heavy you fool!" The metaphorical implications for one's overall life are obvious. Mentioning that is not very original either, but long journeys do help transform "declutter your life" from a slogan to a deeply felt imperative.

Normally I unpack pretty much immediately upon arrival home, but for some reason as I type this a day later, I still haven't.

Appendix - By The Numbers

45000 km by air

8000 km by land 

5500 km by sea

14 airports

11 countries

5699 photographs

38 nights in rented houses or apartments (mostly AirBnB)

14 nights in a tent

10 nights in an RV

8 nights at sea

6 nights in various cottages & hotels (all in Africa, before and after the camping and twice during)

3 nights in the air

63 new (to us) species of animals seen (Isabel had me keep a list)

And the cost...? Let's say all in it cost the equivalent of "a nice new car". Our two old cars can chug along a little while longer.

Day 80 And In The End

I am writing this on the westbound flight to Winnipeg, with perhaps a thousand kilometers left to complete the circle. The test has been successful. If you head west and keep going long enough you will eventually return to where you started from. Take that flatearthers. That said, at the gut level the concept still feels abstract as our original departure is now such an ancient and remote memory. This is the thing about such a long journey, the thing that has made the biggest impression on me: time is elastic. It's as if I've grabbed hold of time with mid June in my left hand and early September in my right and then I've pulled it and stretched it, like taffy. A lifetime opened up in that space. Seek ye not the fountain of youth, rather seek ye ever new horizons.

What else can I tell you? I can tell you that it is not a small world after all; it is vast, incomprehensibly vast (although wacky coincidences might blind you to that). And that the world is beautiful, heartbreakingly beautiful. And that it is safe, heartwarmingly safe. The news tells you as much about the world as the cut on your finger does about you. And that people everywhere are welcoming and friendly and fantastically interesting. The world is a freakshow, but the freaks are alright.

Anything else? That dragging your children through the African bush and Istanbul bazaars and Indonesian villages and over three oceans and five continents and on flights of 12, 14 and 16 hours duration is not an elaborate form of madness. (Sotto voce: although there may have been a moment or two where Lorraine and I whispered to each other, "next time, no kids". There may have been.) Even when one of the children has ADHD and flings himself on the ground in Times Square because he is overwhelmed or flips out at a Botswanan border post because he can't take standing in line again or screams every time a fly comes near him. Even then it is not madness, but simply part of the cost, calculated in advance. Perhaps even an investment.

Perhaps. What have they gotten out of all of this? Certainly a packet of unique memories - I saw a platypus and it was cool, I was on a really really big boat and it was cool, I climbed a humongous sand dune and it was cool, and so forth - but I hope some seeds have been planted too. Who knows what seeds and how or when they will germinate and what they will ultimately grow into? It cannot be predicted, but I am an optimist.

And me? And in the end what has it done for me? I have not yet begun to process the experience, but I do know that the inside of my head is a madly spinning kaleidoscope of numberless sights and sounds and experiences, and, if I may be permitted a saccharine moment, that I weep for the beauty of the world.

Now it's back to castrating Chihuahuas.

I know that misadventure and colourful failure is far more entertaining (to a point), so I do apologize for ending on a positive note.

An epilogue will follow.

Day 79 A New York Minute

Central Park on Labor Day Monday. Mad beating sun. Brazilians and Chinese crowd the Imagine mosaic and purveyors of crap sketches of John Lennon and crystals and tie dye bandanas ring it. Down the hill a bicycle goes by, ridden by a tall thin black man dressed all in white and with long corn row hair. He has an enormous old boom box strapped to his bike with bungee cords. He is playing Edith Piaf. Loudly. And he is grinning like Christmas morning.
"Non, rien de rien,
Non, je ne regrette rien."

Day 78 Taking The A Train

As is relentlessly proclaimed on fridge magnets, tea towels and dog sweaters, I Heart New York. I really do heart it. So keep that in mind when you read the following.

The A Train (subway, but everyone calls them trains) runs directly beneath our bed. Several floors directly beneath it, but straight down there and we feel it and hear it every time one rattles through. This is mildly irritating, but only mildly and greatly outweighed by the cool factor and the convenience. Nostrand Station is only a block and a half away. My previous experience with NY subways was entirely in Manhattan and we had just come from London, so to say that Nostrand was a... letdown would be an understatement. This is a New York subway station like the kind in movies from the 70s. Dingy, dirty, dangerous feeling, unbelievably hot and humid - so hot and humid in fact that the air down there is actually hazy - and rat  infested! OK, I'll concede that "infested" is an overstatement, but the kids did see several rats. I'm sure they're in Manhattan's stations too, but just not as brazen anymore. Incidentally, the subway in Istanbul is gleaming and modern and clean and beautiful. Istanbul. That's in Turkey.

But the A Train is an express and takes you quickly to Manhattan and Manhattan stations are mostly (although not universally) far nicer. And Manhattan itself is of course billionaire disneyland and consequently brimfull with eye candy of every description. Funny how quickly Nostrand Station and Bed-Stuy began to feel like "home".

Day 77 Bed-Stuy

‎I saw a woman die on the street today. Sirens, chest compressions, gawkers. Outside of May Day in Berlin I have never seen so many police in one place before. I assumed she had been shot. This was Bed - Stuy after all. But I have to be careful about assumptions that amount to a species of prejudice. We're staying in Bedford - Stuyvesant, a Brooklyn neighborhood that largely remains old Brooklyn, although the hipsters with their elaborate Edwardian facial hair and cucumber lemonades served in mason jars are lapping at the edges. This Brooklyn is funky, this Brooklyn is mostly poor and partly chaotic, this Brooklyn still has an edge. This Brooklyn has, I dunno, at least a dozen "Dominican Style" hair salons, an equal number of gospel ministries and countless murals celebrating black power heroes. And this Brooklyn does not have a single Starbucks, a single hotel or anything resembling a tourist amenity. This is decidedly not Williamsburg or Brooklyn Heights, although given the treasure trove of brownstones it will inevitably become them.

She hadn't been shot. Once I penetrated the accent I figured out that the old guy in the Marcus Garvey t-shirt beside me was telling me that she choked on a chicken bone. Some sort of Caribbean street party was underway. Sirens and calypso and soca and dancehall reggae and shouting and swearing and laughing and more sirens and horns and not one other outsider like me in sight. I got less stares in Zimbabwe.

Day 76 Sailing Into New York

If you wake up early enough and make your way to the bow, the first thing you will see that confirms you are approaching New York is the gently curving inverted W of the Verrazano Narrows bridge, once the longest suspension bridge in the world, connecting Brooklyn to Staten Island and marking the entrance to New York harbor. You will see it in the distance, like a lazily hung string of white Christmas lights, the reflection glistening on the still black water. And then, after a while, one of the other passengers will point and say, "There it is! The Statue of Liberty!" And there it is, at first little more than a bright point of light, the iconic shape only gradually becoming distinct. And then the skyline of Lower Manhattan, a clump of jagged light slowly resolving into a postcard. And then the sun begins to rise behind you. It is a moment for poetry and strong emotions. And it is a moment that fulfills a life long dream for me. As long as I can remember I have wanted to cross the Atlantic on a great ocean liner, perhaps in part because I did so 49 years ago as a baby when we emigrated to Canada.

When I am ancient and bent and drooling, put me on an ocean liner and leave me there as it sails round and round to Cape Town and Istanbul and Sydney and perhaps Yokohama and Valparaiso and Montevideo and Mombasa. It does not matter where. Only the going matters and the ocean and a spot on deck for me, facing forwards towards the bow. Always facing forwards. Unless it is very windy. Then you should shift me. 

Day 75 Lorraine

Today, September 3, has dawned quiet and smooth and clear, the orange ball of the sun sliding up out of the flat turquoise ocean as if pulled on a string. The most perfect morning yet and a fitting beginning to an important day. Today Lorraine, the love of my life, a woman I have known since the age of 22, an extraordinarily kind, intelligent, interesting and beautiful person, turns 50.

Tomorrow at dawn we sail into New York harbour and I'm sure it will be an exciting day, but today is entirely Lorraine's day, so please raise a glass (actual or metaphorical) to her and wish her another fantastic 50!

Day 74 The March Of The Penguins

In addition to my vow to tell less toilet stories (or at least chose my audience more carefully), I am entering my 50s with another mark of enhanced adulthood: a suit. I own a couple sport coats and quite a few ties, but I have never owned a proper suit. I would like to be able to say that I splashed out on a bespoke suit from Saville Row, but instead I have to confess to an off the rack number from Marks and Spencer. Dark charcoal grey, if you please. I also had to buy shoes, a leather belt and even dress socks as none of that was allocated space in the carry-on through Africa etc.. The tie though is from the British Museum and sports a natty black and white Rosetta Stone pattern (I ask, who does not love hieroglyphics on a tie? Who?). 

So why a suit Philipp? ‎In a word, Cunard. The Cunard ocean liners such as the QM2 try to cultivate a classic, some would say nostalgic, atmosphere. Part of this is evident in the decor with many fabulous nods to the Art Deco style of the golden age of Trans-Atlantic crossing and part is in the dress code. Half the evenings are 'formal' when tuxedos or dark suits are mandatory for men (gowns for women). Even 'informal' nights require jackets for men everywhere but the buffet restaurant (and your stateroom of course, where you are free to rock your 'this is my brain on tequila' tank top). When I read about this policy in advance I was a bit irked at first, but now I love it. Elegance makes a very persuasive argument for itself when you are surrounded by it.

There is also some entertainment value in the dress code. Last night for example the wind strength was up to Beaufort 8, literally 'gale force', so when the men went onto deck to get some air the penguin effect of the tuxedos was enhanced by the side to side waddle imposed on their stride by the pitching deck. I, on the other hand, tried to cultivate a suave James Bond demeanor, standing at the railing, not waddling. Then I remembered my geeky tie.

Day 73 A Strategy Regarding The Visitation Of Drinking Establishments Whilst On The High Seas

"In all my years ‎of school I never once got a grade below 80!" The speaker was a gold buttoned blue blazer type with a Midwestern accent. I don't know his name, but for convenience will call him Thurston Blowhard III. "We made sure that all our children excelled in school too."

"Education is so inportant!" one of Thurston's admirers interjected.

"‎Our eldest got all As in every single class from kindergarten on," Thurston continued. "Seven top universities competed to give him full scholarships."

"He's so lucky to have such good parents," another admirer swooned.

"I'm sorry sir, but I couldn't help but overhear and I absolutely had to come over and shake the hand of such a superior human being. My name is Philipp and I am a complete spaz as a parent and my children seem fated to become spazes as well."

I made the last bit up, but the rest is sadly true. I would like to be less reticent about speaking to strangers, but I couldn't pull it off, so I swallowed the last of my beer quickly and left the Chart Room to go and vomit over the side. Ok, I made that bit up too, but I did leave the Chart Room quickly.

The Queen Mary II has eleven (count 'em) bars and lounges. Three are my favorites, but visiting them requires a strategy. It turned out that the otherwise serene and genteel Chart Room was about to host a trivia quiz which attracted Thurstons like French fries attract seagulls. I next went to the Golden Lion, a brilliant English pub, but was confronted by a pianist who had a disorder which compelled him to belt out Elvis Presley covers. I then retreated to number three: the Commodore Club. It sits high above the bow, just under the bridge, and offers a hypnotic view of the ocean sliding by beneath as if on an infinite shimmering blue conveyer belt. The Commodore tries for a more sophisticated vibe with white leather, light trance music and an astonishing martini menu, although any pretensions evaporated when the Russian waitress smashed a huge flower vase and burst into a fit of giggles.

The moral of the story is that the daily entertainment program merits study as much for what to attend as for where to avoid.