May 19, 2001 (Day 73): QE2 bound for Southampton, England – 7.30pm
Health: Good.
Morale: Fair.
New York City was sunny and warm – the temperature was pushing into the 70s – as we departed. A wonderful brunch with Anna’s uncle only seemed to underscore all that I have not seen in that city. His discernment and interest in architecture – as witnessed by his casual comments – demonstrate a history hidden from my unpracticed eye, but visible to the cognoscenti. I need to return, if for nothing other than the Cliffs Notes.
Uncle Mark took a different route back to the apartment after breakfast, particularly to point out a statue by an artist he had mentioned a couple days ago. The statue was an alligator coming out of the manhole catching a business man in a suit and tie with a money bag for a head. It is whimsical and I must admit that is well done; fun, but thought provoking as well. Anna thinks she has seen more of Brooklyn this trip than on all her other trips combined.
Knowing we were as prepared as we were ever going to be, we grabbed our bags and said our goodbyes as we undertook our odyssey by foot, subway, and cab to the Passenger Ship terminal. Tucked into its berth between two other vessels was our ship, the QE2. The cavernous terminal added to the look and feel of class registration at college with its vague lines, confused huddles of bodies in the middle, and balloons and streamers seeking to enliven a nondescript room. Despite this, the boarding process went fairly quickly.
But what the fuck was up with security? We dropped our bags on the X-ray belt. Anna walked ahead through the metal detector to collect our bags since, as expected, it beeped when I went through. The security guard with the wand gestured to a table with a number of containers on it. Presuming to ‘know the drill’, I took a container and put all of my suspicious metal items therein. When I turned around, I found no security guards took an interest in me. Should I be wanded? Go back through the gate? I even waved my hands to get his attention, but to little avail. There was a cloud of people who had set off the metal detector (aka beepers) and only one wand guy. Taking matters in hand, I went past the guard monitoring the metal detector – between him and the detector – and went through. Seeing that no one was paying attention, I collected my stuff, which had not been examined, and went up the gangway feeling much less secure. A mustachioed pole dancer on stilts with a bandolier might not have warranted a second glance from the security detail.
Once aboard, we were off to explore. Here we are, aboard the world’s most famous passenger liner not (currently) at the bottom of the Atlantic, the jewel of the Cunard line, the very ship to take us on the final leg of our fantastic trip around the world and, at that moment, I am thinking…
… “what a dump.”
OK, so it is probably not as bad as that. The initial impression upon boarding was less than awe-inspiring and it has been one disappointment after the other since then. Our cabin is a bit worn and shabby, and located about one floor under Steerage. The “Barnacle Deck”, I believe it is called. The doors are dented and scratched. Repainting, where it has been done at all, has not been done particularly well. The corridors have the pervasive odor of a malfunctioning humidifier and the perfume liberally applied to cover the smell.
Our cabin is serviceable, but we are back to twin beds again. This is, apparently, the Cunard approach to birth control for the lower classes of passengers. The cabin is really meant for three people so we have a ladder we don’t need and a closet for our suitcases. We also have a porthole which isn’t too bad since we won’t have much to see but water on this trip anyway.
We then discovered that the theme of this cruise was not film, as I had expected. Instead, the next few days are being billed as a “floating jazz festival” full of seminars and performances, some by apparently famous jazz groups. I will pass on the seminars and perhaps many of the concerts. While this is a major disappointment, it is comforting that it is not a “floating ululation and throat singing (or, even worse, country music) festival”.
To add pretension to injury, four of the six nights we are aboard are “formal” nights. The other nights are “informal” which is defined as requiring a jacket and tie for men. I have nothing against wearing a tuxedo – I tend to think I look pretty good in one – but cost per night is extortionate (compared to the Regal) and does not include shoes. I am giving serious thought to my wardrobe, trying to decide if the $2 canvas shoes from Shanghai or the hiking boots make the more appropriate fashion statement.
While lamenting these facts, I sat on the edge of my bed and one of its legs broke. Disheartened, I could barely manage a laugh. I looked around the room for some rosy sign. Looking out the porthole only seemed to assure me that before this trip was done, we would be required to use it in conjunction with an oar to keep the ship moving. Then I wandered into the bathroom and thought, “OK, this is not so bad”. It had been remodeled. There were nice little packages of soaps and bottles of shampoo. The fixtures seemed modern and efficient. All was well until the toilet would not stop flushing.
10.30pm
The carpenter and plumbers have been in to fix our room so the outlook for the next few days has improved.
We just embarked and I am already bored with my attitude about this ship. Much of it is disappointment. This was to be the crowning moment. What better way to complete this trip than aboard the QE2, “the last of the great ocean liners”, the flag ship of the Cunard line – hailed by Condé Nast as the best cruise line? Yet, despite the raves, the crew feels more stand-offish and the passengers seem less friendly than aboard the Regal Princess. And little things, like not enough “you are here” maps of the vessel, add to the disappointment. I get the feeling that opening the wrong door will lead us into the Roman galley-like slave quarters.
OK, it can’t be all bad. Things I like: the library. It has a nice, almost proper library complete with someone monitoring the desk so the blue-haired matrons don’t walk out with 500 books under their arms, screwing the rest of us. Laundry is free. There are more shops. More restaurants. More pretension – wait, wrong list. I mean, seriously, this ship has a Harrods.
On the minus side was the German crew aboard who filmed our departure from New York. Indeed, as I stood entranced, watching the city skyline fade from view, seeing Lady Liberty bidding us bon voyage, the only thing that shattered this moment were the Teutons trying to get into my personal space with their camera. I admit I was not obliging knowing that every inch I lost to them was an inch I would never recover. But they were much better at it than I. Eventually, we had to admit defeat and retire to some other place to watch. The capping insult is that they continue to encroach on my personal space: they inhabit the adjacent cabin.
I am all too good at channeling negative energy. I need to be careful or I will not enjoy this final portion of the trip. This is the celebratory leg. We have nearly done it! I mustn’t focus on the unpleasant now to the detriment of the more pleasant whole.
Fogg was due to sail on the China in December of 1872. According to various web sites, on September 21, 1872 she was put into port for repairs and did not resume the Liverpool to New York service until 1874. She had a couple of different owners after ending her service with Cunard, ending up owned by a Norwegian company. On March 2, 1906, while en route from Tampa to Yokohama, she went missing.
Diesel Duck / Norway Heritage
Excerpts from Anna’s journal included.
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