“We are two countries, separated by a common language”. That was very evident when, soon after moving to Ripon, the cashier at the Boots Pharmacy above, says “ta luv” (“thanks love” in American) to mum after completing her transaction.
Mum was quite taken aback by being referred to as the cashier’s “love”. I don’t recall if she expressed that to the cashier but she certainly did to us afterwards.
We inevitably ended up here after whatever party or disco we went to on Friday or Saturday night for a bag of greasy chips that we subsequently soaked in malt vinegar. A special item not on the menu was “scraps”. Basically, a bag of the batter crumbs scooped out of the fish case. We soaked these in malt vinegar as well.
While in Ripon, my dad reminded me of one of their delicacies that I’d forgotten about, pineapple fritters. Pineapple rings covered in the same batter as the fish, and deep fried…Mmmmmm….
What did those Riponians under the age of 18 do to occupy the time on Friday and Saturday night? We often went to “discos”. Now these weren’t Studio 54, mirror ball, polyester suit discos. Just a DJ and a hall playing British top 40, the good, the bad and the bloody ugly.
Now, I don’t recall all of the locations. There was one in Kirby, I recall it being quite a ways out of Ripon, the Saint John’s Ambulance hall on North Street and the Methodist Church Youth Club below.
Now I remember a few common things about these discos:
There’s one incident in particular I remember. There were a few of us headed to the Methodist Church one night. In preparation, I’d performed the age old trick of skimming a bit of liquor from each of the bottles in my parents liquor cabinet.
I think others must have done the same or somehow procured other forms of alcohol. Anyway, we all end up getting a bit drunk. Barno, however, get’s completely legless. We all end up outside at some point and Barno’s sitting on the wall below where he proceeds to fall backwards off of it.
At some point Barno get’s completely sick as well. Not sure if that’s why we were outside. Anyway, one of the nice church ladies ends up calling someone’s parents to give everyone a ride home.
And the funny thing is, is that I actually remember her being nice, not all pissy and scolding as I’d imagine it would be at some Methodist church over here.
It was at one of the benches above, or a predecessor thereof, facing the bowling green below, that I was dumped for the first time.
I wasn’t so much dumped as abandoned. I don’t recall her name and have only a vague recollection of the face. Anyway, I think we’d been going out for a couple of weeks and for whatever reason were spending a weekend afternoon at the Spa Gardens.
So at some point she gets up to go to the loo or get something from the cafe, never to return, leaving me alone and sniffling on the bench.
And thus were sown the seeds of my musical career writing such touching lines as “You look into the land of the living and you want to cry” and “I wake up screaming in the night, where are you now?”.
So yesterday, Saturday, I began my journey home, starting with a trip on the train from Thirsk to King’s Cross in London. I arrived in Thirsk a little early, and while waiting for my train, turn around to see a very smoky diesel passenger train go by. No it wasn’t a diesel, it was an honest to god steam train with a full complement of passenger coaches travelling at full speed down the mainline! We later passed another one after York. I believe that that one was the new Tornado locomotive.
Once in London, I dragged my luggage across the street from King’s Cross, got myself a room in Kensington, on the Piccadilly line so I could go straight to Heathrow, and dragged my luggage to the London Lodge hotel. I was quite disgustingly sweaty by the time I got there and probably not brand positive.
Once I’d freshened up I decided to take a walk down Kensington High Street to see if I could find the English versions of Harry Potter for Kerry. Yes, after suffering with all the luggage, I thought I’d be a good idea to add seven books. What I do for love.
The first Waterstone Books I found was missing two, but they had the others at the larger Piccadilly shop. Figured, what the hell, I’ve got nothing better to do and walked up to Piccadilly.
So London is this giant loud, crowded cosmopolitan city. And the users of the road, drivers, buses, taxis, cyclists are pretty much insane. Everyone’s driving as fast as they can with clearances of millimeters between them and other vehicles, the curb and pedestrians. And for a country that’s supposedly pedestrian friendly, I didn’t find the drivers that tolerant.
I also questioned the value of bus lanes. There’s a bus lane on Piccadilly Street that went for blocks and had bus after bus sitting on it. I mean there was no free space and as far as I could tell, the busses never actually moved.
On the fence around Green park on Piccadilly street, there is a block of vendors set up selling souvenirs, junk, bad art, really bad art and just plane intolerable art. I’m still trying to figure out one of the sellers. He was this anarchist with little framed anarchist diatribes against Obama, the US, corporations and society in general. Each one had a little tag with an anarchy sign on it. These were followed by cute pictures of dogs faces, again with the anarchy tag, but apparently for sale…Really, I’m not making this up.
While walking down Kensington High Street and Piccadilly street, I kept running into this couple. One of whom was a very effeminate cross dresser/transvestite. Except that he she had a clearly deliberate wispy blond beard and mustache. London is very fashion forward that way.
And finally, my hotel room had a phone mounted on the wall next to the toilet.
Today I boarded my flight home. Nothing much of interest getting to the airport. Terminal 1 seemed much nicer than Terminal 4 that Lee flew into. IcelandAir is quite nice. Good selection of food, free movies and flight attendants with funny little pill box hats.
Iceland – flat, barren, cloudy, drizzly, cold (looking…I haven’t actually been outside) and apparently closed on Sundays. All of the shops and restaurants in the terminal are closed. Or maybe it’s just because I think the only plane in right now is ours.
The men’s room doesn’t have urinals. I actually stepped back out and checked just to make sure I hadn’t walked through the wrong door. In fact the stalls are actually fully enclosed closets with walls to the ceiling and doors.
My mistake on the closed on Sundays thing. They apparently open once a flight has arrived and everyone’s sitting here waiting for there connections. Looks like all the flights arrive around the same time and the outgoing flights leave around the same time. Ours just arrived first.
There’s a couple interesting snacks, Paprika Pringles and Cool American Doritos, which I believe are Cool Ranch.
It feels a little odd wearing shorts and sandals in this climate, even though I’m not going outside. Of course, I’m assuming that they’re appropriate for the Boston climate on my arrival.
A few odds and ends.
I learned from Peter that the reason some Imperial measurements, such as pints, are different in the UK and US is that during colonial times, Britain and the colonies had the same measurements. However, in the 1800s, after the American revolution, Britain updated their weights and measures standards, changing some, and the US never updated theirs.
Another weights and measures tidbit. The UK still weighs people in stones. Mr. Serious, a non-smiling, but nice and friendly individual I met at The One Eyed Rat, relayed a story about a Texan friend of his from “RAF” Menwith Hill Station. At his first physical over in the UK the doctor asked him is weight. After answering in pounds, the doctor asked what that was in stone he responded “how big?”
I think I forgot to mention the story I heard at breakfast at the B&B on Thursday morning. A couple there mentioned that they’d gone to see the hornblower the previous night. They mentioned that the new deputy was an American and I piped up that I thought that was interesting because my dad, an American, used to be the deputy. They then relayed how the old American deputy was there. The man who donated the plaque and that he got to blow the horn in front of city hall.
Small world. The previous morning, I was speaking to an English couple and it turned out that there son lives in Hopkinton.
As if to prove Peter’s point about English, I stare at the seat in front of me and read “Bjorgunarvesti Undir Saetum”, “Life vest under seat”. I’d give it a good guess that German/Saxon and Icelandic (?) are closely related.
While wandering around London I saw a store TK Maxx. Seemed to be the same logoish as TJ Max. Why add one to the letter?
I was disturbed to learn that Lyme disease has spread to the UK. Apparently not as bad as here yet but there nonetheless.
Finally, on my arrival at customs at Logan, while carrying my Whole Foods reusable shopping bag with grapes on it, I was asked if I was carrying grapes. I said no, it’s just a Whole Foods shopping bag. “But you’re not carrying grapes, right?”
Welcome back.
As I sit on the train, watching the countryside of Yorkshire fade into the distance, I reflect on my journey. How I got here, what I expected.
When I began the journey, planning the trip, contacting old friends, I was alternately, and at times simultaneously, filled with excitement and anxiety. What did I expect from this trip? Would I be accepted as who I was and have become or had I simply disappeared into the ether, maybe the occasional subject of some night out, nostalgic “I wonder whatever happened to” question?
I wonder if I still needed confirmation of acceptance all those years ago. After six years, had I really become one of them? Or was it all a myth in my mind.
My memories were frozen in time. In a time of youth, of growth, of change. 18 years since I’d last been back to Ripon, 25 years since moving away, 26 years since leaving Ripon Grammar school. For most of my classmates, I’d been away for 10 years longer than we’d even been alive when I left?
The memories were not so much burned in my mind as softly molded, morphing and fading over time but still the memories, the myths, the faces of youth.
So who are we now? The reality is as mundane as it is revealing. We’re no different than any other group of 16 year olds having reached middle age. We’ve enjoyed our successes, suffered our failures, known happiness and sadness, had marriages and divorces, births and deaths.
Was this such a surprise? Not really, but sometimes you have to see it to know it’s true.
Having made this journey, I can now return on my own terms, comfortable with who I am, what I have become. I can travel without the extra baggage of the past on my shoulders.
It was good to go back. And I hope to return.
My last full day in North Yorkshire. I got another high speed, whirlwind tour of The Dales, courtesy of Adrian. Again, more beautiful scenery. Visting the Buttertubs Pass, Hardraw Falls, Bolton Castle, Aysgarth Falls, Middleham Castle and finally Brymore Dairy for Jersey cow ice cream.
Had a lovely tea of fish and veg at Adrian’s house with his dad, went back to The Box Tree Cottages and off to The One Eyed Rat.
This time I met up with Adrian (Korka), Stuart “Pilly” Borchard and Garry “Gaz” Turner. Stuart’s had quite the life, travelling the world, first with The Royal Navy, then for business. Garry seems the most stable, getting an IT job at the University of York, getting married and, like us, finally having a child after 11 years. Spent the evening talking about what we did in school, what had happened since and what others were up to.
A good time was had by all. Back to the B&B.
It was a good note to leave on. My Spaulding Gray, perfect moment.
After a lovely, saturated fat filled English breakfast, I lazed around my room a bit until I got a text from Adrian that he’d meet me in front of the B&B at noon.
It was weird to see him. The picture in my mind is of the 24 year old I saw last in ‘91, but he’s obviously the 42 year old we’ve all become. The odd thing is, is that when I’m not looking at him and he says something, I still have that 24 year old face in my mind.
Turns out things have been a bit rough for him lately with some serious health issues and the problems with the shop. After talking about what’s been going on in his life, he talked about what’s happened to the people we used to know. He’s a fount of knowledge. He rattled off what had happened to familiar faces, names and a whole lot of people I couldn’t remember at all.
He rattled off teachers. There was Mr. Eberidge, our geography and assistant gym teacher, who had made us write out each misspelled word in a test 1000 times. For Adrian it was “separate”. Not sure what the words were for me but I know it was two. Apparently he was shagging a sixth form girl but it was OK because she was over the age of consent. He later left RGS and recently died at 52 of cancer.
There was Dr. Petchley, history, RIP, Chippy Chambers, woodwork and tech drawing RIP, Miss Richardson, English and Latin. There was Harry Locke, our evil, tooth deprived gym teacher who was apparently engaging in some bedroom gymnastics with Mrs.. Holland the married deputy head mistress. I’m still having trouble picturing that. There was Graham Finch our English teacher and one of my favorite, despite the fact that I still failed English Lit and Language miserably. He left RGS for another school. And there was Dolly Denton, who is apparently still alive! Even back then I was sure she was old enough to have actually experienced most of the history she was teaching.
I was actually surprised at the number of teachers that are still alive 26 years later. They all seemed so old at the time but I guess it was more that we were so young. Even old Poselthwaite, Mr. Stanley’s (headmaster, RIP) henchman and chemistry teacher is still around. And according to Adrian pretty much the same.
Among our fellow students, most have left Ripon and even North Yorkshire. Adrian seemed to feel somewhat abandoned by everyone to a certain degree. The interesting thing is that I would have put Adrian as the one most likely to have ended up travelling the world, doing music or whatever. He always seemed the most cosmopolitan. I guess he was tied down to Ripon by the family business.
As far as I can tell, most of our fellow students seemed to have been a bit of a sorry lot, so many divorces, single parents, job issues. I’m sure it’s no more than any other group of people. Gaz seems to be the only other one still married (17 years) to his first wife.
While visiting the past, we walked through Studley Royal Park and Fountains Abbey. Later, we drove through the Yorkshire Dales. The countryside is just breathtaking with a desolate beauty.
Let’s just say that Adrian drove a bit faster than dad. The speed limit outside of the towns and villages is 60, regardless of how narrow and twisting the road is. And Adrian usually hit the limit and then some.
After dinner at a nice Italian place on Kirkgate with Adrian, I yet again frequented The One Eyed Rat. This time I stopped at two. I tried to leave at one and done but was prevented by Malcolm. This time we were joined by the bar side comedy duo of Phil and Paul. Paul had this craggy Yorkshire face with a permanent grin. According to Malcolm he is a beer guru among other skills. One of those people that seems to have an endless knowledge of trivia. Phil seemed a bit younger and had worked all over the world, but seemed to have spent a lot of time in Africa. He was the straight man of the team, who seemed to start to talk randomly to no one in particular about whatever subject crossed his mind.
And yes, I did actually leave after only two.
Today was my first full day in Ripon. Decided to put my feet to work and visit some of the old haunts. Walked around the city center (yes, despite a population of only 15,000, Ripon is a city by royal charter), up Quarry Moor Lane to our old houses, down the Harrogate Road, past the Lead Lane chippy, by the Grammar School.
For having been away 26 years, Ripon hasn’t changed all that much. The old railway station and viaduct have gone, replaced by the new (for me) bypass road. There’s actually a McDonalds, on the Harrogate Road near where the new bypass splits off. There are now three supermarkets. Not sure how a city of 15,000 can support that. And there’s a new road in the city center that goes up behind Abbott's (now closed but that’s another story).
Sadly, there seem to be quite a few businesses and buildings on North Street that are closed or for sale. Not really sure if that is any indicator as to the health of Ripon, but the city center was certainly very busy.
In the age of the supermarket, particularly now that there’s three, it was pleasantly surprising to note that Ripon has two butcher shops in the city center. One thing I noticed is the large number of small shops that seemed to sell a bit of everything, tools, cookware, small electronics, bikes. It seems hard to see how differentiate your business with such small real estate. It’s one thing if you’re Target or Walmart to sell everything, but your average American Target store is a couple times the size of Ripon’s market square.
Another thing I noticed is how most of the old banks are still in existence and still in their same locations. I don’t know that there are any original banks left in Boston in the last 10 years, never mind 26. I mean, if you count the latest TD Bank name change, the new Boston Garden, opened in 1995, has been sponsored by four different bank names.
On Stuart Borchard’s recommendation I checked out the One Eyed Rat as an alternative to The Black Bull for our get together. Wise move. Six taps of cask conditioned, hand pulled ales. There was a chalk menu board on the back with the current list. Now having six casks did concern me about it’s freshness, but on Friday the board was almost completely different, indicating a pretty good turnover.
I started with a Black Sheep, but was quickly turned by Scotsman, farmer, truck driver, and most importantly, beer aficionado, Malcolm to some of the stronger varieties available.
Malcolm was a bit of a character. He owns a 300 acre farm, but when prices dropped in half, he had to pick up a day job driving a truck and hiring someone to farm for him.
Not only did Malcolm steer me towards the stronger pints, but then proceed to order another round each time he was done. Needless to say, I was a bit on the tipsy side wandering back to my bed and breakfast. On top of that, I hadn’t had any dinner as I’d intended to eat at whatever pub I ended up at. The One Eyed Rat, of course, being the only pub that didn’t have a menu. On top of that, once I’d left, all the chippies were closed.
I spent a lovely evening and had a badly needed good nights sleep at Peter and Anne’s farmhouse. Not sure if I was in the 15th or 19th century part of the house. The MacNamara’s don’t have WiFi, so I used their computer to check my email and update my Facebook status. It is then that not only are we two countries separated by a common language, but also by a common keyboard. I mean it was QUERTY, but there were just enough keys in different places so as to make touch typing a real nightmare.
After breakfast, I decided I would spend the day with dad and Lee so I could see some of the places I wasn’t sure I could hike to. We went to Brimhan Rocks, where I used to love to have dad take my brother, myself and our friends to go exploring and play hide and seek. As an adult, it doesn’t seem like quite the “kid safe” playground you’d have your kids run around.
We had lunch in the Dales, valley village of Pately Bridge and then did a bit of driving around the Harrogate side of The Dales and around RAF Menwith Hill Station where dad was stationed. A “Royal Airforce Base” with not so much as helipad, but a lot of large golf balls, dog dishes and a field of antenae. I quickly took some pictures out of the windows of the moving car so as not to attract the attention of the people with the black helicopters, not that they’d be able to land at Menwith Hill.
That night, Peter and Anne took us to dinner at there friends, Ron and Jacinta(?). They were lovely and had great conversation. My dad regaled them with the stories of his various car accidents, after which I’m surprised either Lee or I ever got in the car with him again. Fortunately, Anne was driving that night.
At some point Peter and Anne gave us a tour of their house and grounds, 3 acres isn’t bad in the UK, although a large chunk of it is taken up by a sheep pasture he rents to a local farmer. By the way, does everyone live on a golf course?
The manor house dates back to the 15th century, with a major addition, pretty much a doubling, in the 19th century (I believe, may be wrong). So the house is a real mismatch. Interior doors where exterior windows used to by, stairwells where there were none.
Peter also believes that one wall of the 15th century portion may actually be a wall of a medieval tower. There’s also one beam in the house that Peter believes was recycled from a medieval structure.
They have a stone lined well, which I guess is rather unusual. Most of the wells in the area are brick lined. They used to dig them by taking wagon wheels, removing all but three spokes, placing it on the ground and digging within it. The mason would build the brick lining on top of the rim of the wheel and the whole thing would sink into the ground as it was dug out.
Peter, being a history professor at York University, engaged in all sorts of interesting conversation with us. At one time we were talking about how confusing English is and he pointed out how it’s a combination of Saxon/German for the common language, French for the aristocracy, Latin for government administration and Greek for learning. What a mess! He pointed out that animal names, such as cow and sheep, come from the Saxon/German, whereas food, such as beef and mutton, come from French.
One thing I’d like to know is why does everyone have separate hot and cold taps? It’s not that hard to combine them. Really.
Also, I gather that central heating is still not standard. When Anne and Peter moved into the farmhouse 15 years ago it was still heated by coal fires in each room and Ron specifically pointed out that they had central heat. That’s something I’d sort of assume in the US unless you were living inn the Unibomber.
'After dinner, Anne gave me a ride to my B&B in Ripon and I’d moved there for the rest of my stay.
We chose the “Self Help” disembarkation option which meant that we had to lug our bags of the ship on our own, but did get off pretty early.
On our way out I noticed that one couple were disembarking with two bikes, all of their luggage packed into various bike bags. Given what I learned while looking into bringing a bike on the trip, I bet it’s cheaper and easier to do by boat, as long as you have the time to spare. Not sure where they put the tux and gowns though.
When researching trains to Heathrow, I’d figured we wouldn’t get of the boat until at least 9, so the first train I’d found was for 9:30 for around 39 pounds. Once in the taxi, the driver sold us on having him just drive us to Heathrow as train fares before 9:30 were double for peak travel. A little hemming and hawing and we bargained him down to 110 pounds.
One thing that was a little odd was that he didn’t know which terminal Delta was at. I guess that in itself isn’t odd, but more that he expected us to know it. I sort of expected you’d drive in the airport entrance and look at the terminal signs. I turns out that Heathrow is so big that terminals 4 and 5 are completely different exits off the motorway.
Anyway, on a hunch and a phone call, he dropped us at terminal 5, which is quite nice. Turned out however that Delta is at terminal 4, which was something like 15 minutes and 4 bus stops away. Also turns out that terminal 4 is quite a dump. I think Port Authority bus station is nicer.
We actually managed to squeeze dad, Lee and I and our luggage into the rather small car dad rented so I didn’t have to take the train. Not sure how much room Lee really had in the back seat.
As much as I sort of hoped to have to take the train, I think it was good for dad to have me around to get comfortable with driving on the wrong side of the road and get out of London. It really did take the both of us, and a few u-turns, to stay on the correct side of the road and onto the motorway as fast as possible.
The drive up to North Yorkshire was fairly uneventful. I managed to get a bit of sleep to make up for the lack thereof the prior night. I also rediscovered that they don’t automatically serve ice in their somewhat lukewarm fountain beverages. But I did have a lovely egg and bacon sandwich. Lots of English bacon on egg salad. Mmmmmmm….only in Britain.
Since we were way ahead of schedule, dad decided we should head straight to Ripon first, before stopping at Peter’s. I wasn’t too jazzed about the idea. I really wanted to start in Ripon alone, wander around on my own terms, but dad seemed pretty determined so I didn’t really argue.
Once parked and settled in the market square, I sort of abandoned dad and Lee and did a little exploring on my own. An hour or so later we met back up and had our first real pub dinner at The Unicorn. I had steak & ale pie, and a pint of Black Sheep Best Bitter, cask conditioned, hand pulled. This time around not only was the beer excellent, but the food was tasty too.
Maybe they’ve finally figured out how to do both!
After dinner we made our way to Thirsk and Peter and Anne’s farmhouse. Had a lovely evening and retired a bit on the early side…before 4am!
On the morning of the last day on the QM2 I finally got up early enough to have breakfast. Enjoyed English breakfast sausage and black pudding. After which we enjoyed our final lecture by Bill Miller.
The last couple of days were fairly calm, sea wise. Just the occasional roll and shuddering of the stabilizers. However, there there wasn’t much time spent outside.
The most time I spent outside was on the first day, leaving New York, and the final morning as we arrived in Southampton. There really isn’t any playing of shuffleboard on deck 12 when you flying across the North Atlantic at 26 knots.
I’m guessing that the pool and shuffleboard decks are really only used during cruises, when your travelling slower or stopped, and in warmer climates.
In that regard, there was one thing that I did wonder about. Occasionally, I would walk by one of the outside staterooms with a balcony and hear a tornado like noise coming from behind the door and wondered if the cabin steward had accidently left the door open and now all of there papers were flying around like a tornado.
One of the great things on the ship was sitting down at a table and meeting whoever might join you. One day at afternoon tea, dad and I met a couple from Northern Virginia.
In the Commodore Club, I usually took a table with three chairs and inevitably some couple would join me. There were the couple from Naples, FL who were in broadcasting, owning several radio station. There was the English couple who were in property and as far as I could tell spent there entire lives on holiday. They’d been an another cruise before the QM2 crossing, were going to spend a few days at home putting the furniture back into there house after having work done on it, and were then moving to Spain because they liked it better than the UK. They seemed to have a dim view of North Yorkshire. There was the couple who worked in philanthropy, who I actually dared to discuss politics with.
Then there was the Liverpudlian I met in G32 who’d visited the John Lennon memorial in NYC, only to be asked by people to tell them about The Beatles as soon as they learned where he was from.
Since I was talking to an Englishman, and I’d had a few drinks by then, The accent came back a bit. And at some point we ended up talking about accents. He was a long distance (by UK standards) lorry driver and would travel through Yorkshire, up into Scotland and back again, and found he would pick up bits and pieces of the various accents while he was travelling. So at one point asked my an interesting question. What accent do I think in? The answer is, whatever accent I’m speaking in.
Anyone who knows me knows that I really do have trouble saying something with a Yorkshire accent. There’s some easy phrases I’ve come up with for demonstration purposes, but I can’t just wing it. In preparing for this trip and hooking up with old friends on Facebook, I’ve found that I’ve started channeling the accent again. Phrases, words and pronunciations that I never remembered have come back and when I would think about the trip, I would often think about it with a Yorkshire accent.
So the last day was a time for goodbyes. Wished farewell to the bartenders I’d become a little too familiar to and enjoyed our last dinner with our table mates. John and Amy’s cat had fared well with the eight dogs on the crossing. They’d also discovered that they had two fewer pieces of luggage to load into the car than they thought. Hopefully they hadn’t lost anything overboard. Pat had wished farewell to her favorite dance host, Bruce. And she and Melissa were all set to Eurorail around the continent.
I didn’t sleep much the last night. Couldn’t get to sleep and once I did woke up two hours later. Ended up wandering the decks as we approached Southampton and witnessed our docking.
And then the crossing was over. On to North Yorkshire.
Tonight was the last of our formal dinners for the voyage. The dilemma for me was which tie and vest, cummerbund or nothing. Really, the choices I’m having to make these days are tortuous.
Anyway, I’m just not a fan of cummerbunds. They slip down, they spin around. Just a general pain. However, I’d worn the vest at the last meal. Do I really want to be seen in it again? On the other hand, I really do like the maroon tie that the vest came with but I can’t really wear it with the black cummerbund. The decisions are endless.
Now I had noticed that many men went without the vest or cummerbund. Hmmmmm….Seems like a solution, but I’ve never heard that was acceptable. Decided that since, while standing, the jacket is buttoned I should be able to get away with it and gave it a shot.
Things are not entirely as they seem. If Melissa said that she was a onetime Miss Texas, you’d pretty much respond “OK”. Would seem natural. In fact her grandmother told he that she would in fact be Miss Texas. However, turns out she was a bit of a rebel in the early ‘80s and actually had the sides of her head shaved and had a flattop. That being said, she was a member of the drill team. Because as she said it, as a girl, you were either a member of the drill team, a cheerleader or a lesbian.
So one of the things I looked forward to most prior to the trip was having a cigar at Churchill’s. Now, I hadn’t seen pictures of Churchill’s prior to the voyage, but assumed that it would be some type of old British cigar room. Sadly, it turned out to be basically a rather small, glassed in humidor off the Commodore club.
So I could use that as the excuse for not going there, but the reality is that I got rather intimidated. The room seems to be filled, which doesn’t take much, with a lot of older white gentlemen who probably actually know something about cigars. I tried to peer pressure our tablemate John into joining me but no such luck. Was he not into it or equally intimidated?
So last night, after retiring from the Commodore Club, I decided to wander the ship, which seemed like a fairly safe activity. After all, all of the bars were closed. Just to double check, I wandered aft on deck three, through the Queens Room to G32. Given that they were vacuuming the Queens Room, I assumed that G32 was closed. However, I decided to wander in and see what it looked like.
Turned out that it was not only open, but that DJ Graham Cracker, was still at the turntables. My bartender was from Romania, has been on the ship for four years and is married to someone else on the ship.
It turns out that because they are contracted as singles, that he’s not officially given a cabin with his wife. However, they sort of trade around and they pretty much end up living together.
Well, tomorrow we’ll be packing our steamer trunks in anticipation of disembarkation early Monday morning. Our little fantasy life is soon coming to it’s end.
Until then…
I am a creature of habit. I must go to the gym first thing in the morning, though “first thing” may be 11 o’clock. I must have the official cocktail of the day before dinner and I must end my day with my laptop and a Gibson in the Commodore Club (deck 9, fore). The bartenders know me.
I was put out a little earlier, as prior to leaving round one at the Commodore Club to retrieve my laptop, I noticed that there were a couple sitting at my designated table. Fortunately, when I returned ten minutes later, it was open. All is well.
I took it easy today. I don’t believe there are any pictures of note. There’s a video of them serving our Grand Marnier Soufflés, which was quite the production, but I’m leaving the videos for later, when I have less expensive internet.
Dad and I went to a wonderful lecture on the history of the great Atlantic ocean liners. Today’s topic was on the last great liners of the 40s and 50s. It was sad to learn how quickly they met their demise.
The first scheduled transatlantic jet flight took place in 1957 (or 8). The president of Cunard Lines at the time declared that flying was simply a fad. Within 18 months the transatlantic liners had lost two thirds of their passengers. Within a few years, they’d lost 98%.
We had afternoon tea with Pat and Melissa again. This time I was educated on the crew position of “Dance Host”. Apparently, there are older gentlemen on the ship whose sole job is to be a friendly dance partner to the older single ladies. Within weeks, I half expect dad to announce he’s taken up dancing lessons!
Today, afternoon tea was a dance tea and several dance hosts stopped by to say hi to Pat and ask if she wished to dance. She declined. Too early in the day. I believe that Pat’s favorite is Bruce.
Melissa is quite the character. She’s purebred Texas cheerleader with an attitude, and smile, to match. Not having fun is not an option.
Pat and Melissa were celebrating Melissa’s birthday at Todd English’s tonight, so it was John, Amy, dad and I at the dinner table. After dinner we all retired to the Commodore Club for a martini. John and Amy got cold feet about participating in The Marriage Quiz at The Golden Lion.
John and Amy befriended the American Idol karaoke singer, Hannah, last night after I left The Golden Lion. Apparently, she writes country western songs in Nashville and there was something about her parents not flying so she’s spent 80 days of the last year on the QM2. Life is hard.
It’s been a little odd not having cell phones. We actually have to coordinate on where to meet at specific times. Yesterday, we arranged to meet at the planetarium but didn’t specify which door, port or starboard, and ended up at different doors. All worked out in the end but it does remind you of the work required before instant anywhere communications.
Point to note, however, I just saw a woman walk quickly out of the club answering her phone. I can’t imagine how much that must be costing her. Hope it’s important.
Well, since I’ve finished my post for the night, I think I’ll break habit and move from my chair to the bar and chat up the wait staff.
So when I originally wrote the blog title a few hours ago I was going to start with the the rough seas. However, tonight, after hearing about dad, ladies man, I actually got to experience dad, ladies man. Not that he made the ship a rockin’. He did end up back in the stateroom alone. But he did charm Pat and Melissa, the mother/daughter couple at our dinner table, tonight. John and Amy were quite impressed.
We’ve managed to get a great table. For the third night in a row, we’ve been one of the last tables to leave. After dinner tonight, I went to The Golden Lion, the British pub, for Karaoke with John and Amy. None of us participated, but it was quite fun to watch. There was definitely one woman, from Nashville, who was trying to get over an American Idol rejection. Definitely a “show off” moment.
Where’s Simon Cowel when you need ‘im.
Felt like a bit of a fifth wheel with John and Amy so left before them.
Anyway, t’ get back t’ ti’le. Went t’ gym this mornin’. Since I was unsuccessful in me attempt to procure a sweatband, I wuz sweatin’ all over the equipment. Decided it might be a nice idea to step out onto the deck for a couple of minutes to cool down.
So I ‘ave me iPod and room card in wun ‘and and me towel in t’other. I push down on t’ door ‘andle and it practically yanks me out on t’ deck. It takes both ‘ands and a fair bit o’ weight to push door closed. Once outside, I decide I’m going to at least lose the towel overboard, if not meself, and decide to go back inside.
Okay, enough of the bloody accent.
So, without any obligations, I have reverted to the natural state of “The Limey”, a night owl. Unfortunately, I’m losing an hour a day. Last night I turned out the light at 4:15 AM.
BTW, the Purser’s Office is open 24 hours. At 2am, after changing out of my tux into regular clothes, so I could wander around on deck, I left the room without my key. The purser’s office was kind enough to provide a new one around 4am.
Unfortunately, although in the middle of the Atlantic, the sky wasn’t clear enough to see the stars I saw in Nevada twenty years ago.
So after I hung out at the Golden Lion for a while, I thought maybe the seas had calmed somewhat, but after I traveled up six decks to The Commodore Club, I found the ship was still rolling quite a bit.
The weird thing is, is that it’s not a regular roll. I think the stabilizers try to stop most of it, so the rolling seems to be somewhat unexpected and arbitrary. Still a lot of the horizontal turbulence going on.
What might tomorrow bring?
Actually, I’ve never been to a funeral where the remains didn’t fit into a shoebox. And, by the way, I’m not fond of funerals.
So my dad’s cousin Lillian dies. Of course she chooses to go the day before my dad’s 70th birthday party, the week he has my brother Jeff, his wife Sherry and all five of his grandchildren down to visit, and two weeks before is three week trip to the UK on the Queen Mary II. So clearly, he has a lot of free time to deal with this.
So my dad’s making the funeral arrangements and mentioned that he’d like me to be a pallbearer. I’m imagining ceremonially carrying this coffin on my shoulders with five others from the hearse up the front steps of some church and down past the empty aisles of mourners to the alter.
I mention this to Kerry and she’s like “only famous people have pallbearers”. Based on a recent news story in the Boston Globe I gather that gang members do too. I guess on Long Island, the funeral parlor handles the physical act of moving the coffin. They move it from viewing to church and church to the cemetery, where they are assisted with heavy machinery, like forklifts. Of course, the careful use of scheduling keeps the mourners from actually witnessing the undignified logistics.
Anyway, we’re wondering if my dad’s gone a little overboard with this funeral thing. Turns out however, that the prepaid funeral simply didn’t include the coffin moving labor. There was no ceremonial march past the throngs of mourners. No, it was more like helping your friend move his oversized sofa to his new apartment, including figuring out how to get it around the corner and out the door. We were basically there to load it into the hearse at the funeral home and then unload it at the cemetery and onto the elevator into the ground…while a backhoe waited at a respectful distance.
By the way, I was a little shocked to learn that the coffin was going into a concrete lined hole. Not quite sure what that’s about. My cousin Kevin, who was nice enough to also be a pallbearer and also once had a job digging graves, informed me that some cemeteries do that, while others prefer the traditional six foot whole in the dirt. Who knew?
Finally, is there some sort of rule that funeral parlors use the same interior decorators who designed Disney’s Haunted Mansion? I mean really, some fake cobwebs, a couple of skeletons and some flickering light bulbs and this place would be an awesome location for a Halloween party.
Did I mention that I’m not fond of funerals? More on that in another post.
I burned 300 calories in the gym this morning. That probably takes care of yesterday’s Bellini and maybe a few spoonfuls of hot and sour soup. Not sure what’s going to happen to the rest of the drinks, lunch (broiled fish in ginger sauce, chicken with vegetables in chili sauce and fried rice), afternoon snack (sliced rare roast sirloin and roasted potatoes) or dinner (sautéed chicken livers, steak with mushroom sauce, parmesan potatoes and vanilla cake with raspberry filling)…Never mind what I ate today…Life’s tough :)
Breakfast was great. Porridge, sausage, black pudding and HP sauce. Who could ask for anything more. Okay, enough with the menu.
Whitecaps were definitely increasing today. And as they were so was the ships movement. The ship only rolls a little bit. It has some pretty sophisticated stabilizers so although there’s a very gentle and small roll, most of the movement is more like mild airplane turbulence. Except that instead of up and down, it’s side to side. It kind of makes you question after that first Singapore Sling…is it the ship or me?
Went to the planetarium today. The “only” planetarium at sea. Everything on the QM2 is either “the only” or “the largest” at sea.
Sky’s cleared up and had a beautiful sunset off the aft deck. Went out with dad and took some pictures in our formal dinner wear.
Accent seems to come and go. It’s a bloody nightmare, We’re seated with Yanks at dinner but end up sitting with Brit’s during lunch. Can’t seem to make up it’s fucking mind. People are going to think I’m schizo.
Went to the Commodore’s Cocktail Reception this evening. Wondering who was manning the bridge while the senior officers were boozing it up with the rabble. someone mentioned interns.
Dude…What’s that button do?
Jill and Peter joined us at our table. They are not travelling together but sit at the same dinner table. Jill is abandoning her husband for two months while he finishes the first chapter of his dissertation. She’s Euro railing around Europe and taking the Westbound passage in November. She’s the only passenger with only a backpack…Ah for the freedom of youth.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to buy two things today. A sweatband, which at one point I’d packed but seems to have disappeared somewhere along the way, and QM2 or Cunard cufflinks. Now you’d think the last item would be readily available…and overpriced…but sadly the best I could find was sterling cufflink with the QM2 logo on the small side. The big side was a porthole. Really? Three black-tie dinners in five days and you don’t sell sufficiently garish self-marketting cufflinks?
I live a tough life :)
It’s black outside. Really black. No stars, moon, land, nothing. Just complete black. We’re booking it as well. There’s a howling of the wind outside the doors, and when you turn the handle the wind just pulls them open.
So I finally got to relax today. For whatever reason, I’ve just been very nervous about this trip. I tend to get a little cranky before most of our trips until I get on the plane and have that first vacation cocktail, but this time it’s been particularly bad.
I must have checked my backpack 30 times in the last 4 days to make sure that my cruise tickets and passport were in there. I double and triple check all of my electronics and associated power supplies. i took a ridiculously early LIRR train to Flatbush and then got paranoid when I had to change at Jamaica that I’d get off on the wrong side and miss the connecting train. Even though if' I’d missed that train, I’d be an hour early.
Anyway, made it to Flatbush on schedule and started to relax once I’d loaded myself into the Jamaican driven cab and headed through the best of Brooklyn’s traffic to Pier 12.
Relaxed more once I’d checked in an hour and 45 minutes early.
Really relaxed once my dad and I toasted our departure with our Citrus Belinis as the ship pulled away from the pier.
We have great dinner companions. Pat and Melissa are on a mother/daughter trip. Pat, the mother, has never travelled to Europe. John and Amy, married one year, are moving to Scotland. They’re travelling with 18 pieces of luggage and their cat.
Very fitting that dad and I are on a father/son trip to commemorate, in addition to dad’s 70th birthday, our trip to move back from the UK 25 years ago on the Queen Elizabeth 2 with our car, cat and 24 pieces of luggage.
Anyway, we all got along great. Ended up being one of the last tables to leave. Oh yeah, and Amy had called Cunard and told them it was there anniversary (it isn’t actually) so the waitstaff came to the table, sang, and delivered an anniversary cake that we all shared.
Spent some time exploring the ship. It’s big. Really big. Exceptionally large. Did I say it was big? Final ending point of today’s exploration was the Commodore Club martini bar, where I enjoyed a most excellent Tanqueray Gibson.
I guess it’s time for bed.
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