When I begin railing against such manifestations of modern vulgarity as the demise of strict dress codes in fine restaurants and hotels, Moschino fashions, Wolfgang Puck pizza, Rollerblades, the Three Tenors, using mobile phones in restaurants, and a president clomping around in designer sneakers, those who know me best invariably exhort, “It sounds like you’re ready to escape back to your ocean liner.” And they’re right on target. While the Queen is on her annual world cruise from early January to late April, I remain on land in psychological limbo—a prisoner condemned to serve out a short sentence in an environment that is as alien to me as a disco.
With joy in my heart I board the noble greyhound as she waits grandly to resume her true function on the North Atlantic. As we pull slowly out into the Hudson and upriver past the Statue of Liberty, the crowd gradually dissipates. To starboard, a man and his small daughter look up in awe as we steam under the Verrazano Bridge and aim for open sea, and it dawns on me that the lucky child will one day tell her own children how she once crossed the Atlantic on the last superliner. Then they stroll away, leaving me blessedly up top to readjust to the clean salt air and consoling sound of the wind in the rigging and a gracious style of travel that most of the world has chosen to abandon. Down below, there’s elated anticipation as passengers unpack, get acquainted with stewards and stewardesses, and generally settle in for six days and nights of nonstop sailing. Most will eat and drink much too much and pay extortionate prices in the gift shops. Some will jog mindlessly, sun themselves idly in deck chairs (if and when there is sun), or play bridge throughout the day. And others will read, gossip, or make love.
Me, I’m just along for the ride.
Pinterest
