Nobody believes me when I say that the 80 days thing is a coincidence. But it is.
We leave the day after Isabel's last exam and return the day before the first full day of school. 80 days.
Actually from take off to touch down at Winnipeg International is 79 days and 20 hours, but door to door from our house... precisely 80 days.

And a bit about the backstory. In 1993 after three years in veterinary practice Lorraine and I quit our jobs and backpacked around the world for eight months, doing everything from living in a cave in Greece (a very nice cave mind you) to camel trekking across the Rajastani desert to celebrating Christmas in Hong Kong to island hopping in Thailand to volcano climbing in Indonesia to living with a family in Samoa to... well, the list does go on and on. Everyone said, "Wow, that was the trip of a lifetime!" To which we responded, "Nooo! It can't be the only time we do that! It just can't be." We swore we would do something similar again when we had kids. It's 22 years later. Isabel is 13. Alexander is 10.
It's time.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

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.

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