Pseudosophisticates complain that the Queen has never had an equal measure of glamour, excitement, and intriguing people. That is sheer nonsense. Take Garbo, for instance. There she was one day at Table 5 in the Queens Grill, alone, wearing huge sunglasses, her head swathed in a white silk turban, and nibbling on some sort of salad. Incredibly, nobody seemed to notice her, but how could passengers not notice, even at her advanced age, those wondrous cheekbones beneath the glasses, the still-supple lips, and especially her overall dignified demeanor when, staring straight ahead, she sipped sensuously from a glass of orange juice. “She goes by the name Brown,” confided Norman, my longtime table captain. “This is the first time she’s come in, and she speaks to no one except her waiter.”
Emboldened by Bullshots and Talbot, I determined at that point to take out my leather pad, write only “Thank You” on a small card, and have Norman deliver it to Garbo’s table. Dressed in my standard lunchtime ascot and hacking jacket with a small boutonniere in the left lapel, I watched guardedly as the immortal Camille glanced at the note, crumpled it, and, never once looking in my direction, proceeded to finish her ice cream. Then, as abruptly as she’d disposed of my note, she arose regally, hesitated a moment, walked directly over to me, and, before I could stand, uttered in that mellifluous, haunting voice, “Young man, I do admire your flower.” She then turned, headed for the Grill’s exit, and vanished like a radiant phantom. I never saw her again.
In subsequent years, I crossed with the outgoing, fun-loving, twinkling, tap- dancing star of the 1930s, Ruby Keeler, and held her Bombay Martini while she, sitting high on a bar stool as the world-weary, wonderful pianist pounded out a frisky “Hear the beat of tapping feet &,” hoofed away on a cocktail table like the seasoned champion she was.
Today, I know one lady who routinely books two adjoining luxury staterooms on One Deck for herself and her three attending maids and who has no qualms about displaying on a stand, for passersby to see, her glamorous assortment of wigs in various styles and colors. What attracted me initially to another woman was not so much her exotic hats but the vast collection of stuffed animals that she rotates day and night as dining companions and dresses in outfits to match her own. And how could I not be beguiled by my current traveling companion, a petite, polished lady who wears a ring with the same caliber of dazzling diamonds as the one Helena Rubinstein once inadvertently tossed in a Kleenex box out of a porthole on the Queen Mary—and whose standard breakfast consists of multiple flutes of Moët et Chandon brut and handfuls of M&M’s, which I supply regularly in three-pound bags.
I perceive my current crossings as scarcely different from those I undertook in the early 1970s, making it sometimes hard to believe that the matronly Queen is 31 years old this month, a year more than the age at which most of the old liners were retired. This means, of course, that repeated and prudent measures have been taken by Cunard to safeguard the unique ship’s survival well into the next century, an effort that has not only resulted in a more updated vessel but—due to vigorous promotional campaigns, clever stateroom redistribution, and tempting rates—has also attracted a less felicitous body of passengers, even on the Atlantic run. Naturally, that has had some balky effect on me, but since I’m trying mightily to adapt to the presence of a computer center and health spa, to the prevalence of ridiculous pedomorphic garb, and to breakfast marmalade proffered in silly miniature jars instead of china pots, I never allow such distasteful phenomena to alter my conduct and pleasure.
My routine aboard the Queen is virtually static from year to year and day to day and would surely drive ordinary passengers nuts. I attend no public entertainment or pg movies, never set foot in a shop or the congested library/bookshop, and can’t imagine watching TV in the stateroom except for the live, stationary vista over the ship’s bow shown continually on a channel (enhanced by classical music) called “View from the Bridge.” This does not mean that I do absolutely nothing during the better parts of most mornings and afternoons. On the contrary, I read a great deal, write, nibble, sip Champagne, take lots of naps, and spend the necessary time planning my evenings of sybaritic drinking, luxuriant dining, and semi- compulsive gambling with other longtime crossers who share my interests.
When I do venture out of the stateroom during the day, it’s often to brave the convulsive Boat Deck during a good storm and perhaps count the number of seats indicated on the sides of lifeboats for the umpteenth time. If the weather is appealingly gloomy but brisk, I also relish donning a mink-collared chesterfield, collapsing in my reserved chair up on Sun Deck, and, tucked into a lap rug, sipping cups of hot bouillon while shooting the breeze with my old salt of a deck steward, Dennis.
I still get a childish thrill when a captain invites me to the bridge (by now I’m by no means considered a security risk) around midday for tea and permits me to push the button that sounds the thunderous, reverberating noon whistle. Equally titillating are chats with the head chef in the vast kitchens and the opportunity to inspect the locked caviar vault. And even when my beagle is not on board with me (due to the U.K.’s draconian and stupid quarantine laws), the various kennel masters and mistresses never object to my frequent visitations. Unbeknownst to skittish passengers, it’s not unheard-of on a crossing for a passenger to drop dead for one reason or another, a reality that more than once has given me the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity by being shown the cold lockers down in the four-compartment morgue. And on every voyage, I never fail to determine the exact coordinates of the ship in relation to the Titanic and toss a single white rose into the sea when we pass the vicinity, often in early or late afternoon.
Pinterest
