“If anything is worth doing, it is worth doing in style, and on your own terms and nobody goddamned else’s!” —Lucius Beebe
It was during my 64th transatlantic voyage aboard the majestic Queen Elizabeth 2 that I faced the fact that I am out of touch with reality. There I was, seated blissfully one day around noon in the Chart Room lounge on Quarter Deck, a restorative bourbon Manhattan in hand, when my contemplative mood was abruptly shattered by a young, chatty, carelessly dressed woman at the next banquette who was drinking inane mineral water and referring repeatedly to my beloved liner as the QE2. No doubt she would also call the ship a boat and a stateroom a cabin, or refer to a crossing as a cruise, or wonder why she and her equally scruffy beau would not be allowed to frolic on the prow of the ship like the pubescent Jack and Rose did in James Cameron’s idiotic blockbuster, Titanic.
I realize that after all these years I should have adjusted to the popular use of the liner’s snappy, fatuous diminutive. But the truth is that I loathe the tag (so often erroneously printed with the royal Roman numeral) as much today as when I eagerly booked passage on the liner’s second transatlantic crossing back in 1969. Why couldn’t she have been christened something more original and sensible, like Victoria? I even dislike the ship’s full name, Queen Elizabeth 2, not because I have anything against Britain’s illustrious current monarch (though, shamefully, she has never once crossed aboard her namesake), but because tacking that Arabic numeral onto the name sounds, well, tacky. I prefer to call the liner simply the Queen.
What does continue to surprise me is how others find my obsession with the ship to be extraordinary, if not wanton. Having sailed on legendary greyhounds of the past—the old queens Mary and Elizabeth, the Ile de France, Michelangelo, Bremen, and, indeed, France—I’ve always loved luxury liners with a passion, and the first and most logical reason I’m so devoted to the second Queen Elizabeth —to the Queen—is because, frankly, I don’t have much choice: She’s the only ship left to regularly transport me in comfort and style back and forth across the Atlantic—at least until Cunard’s putative plans to build a new superliner actually do materialize and promise further transatlantic service. That flying in one of those ghastly jets has never been a viable option except in emergencies should be taken for granted. Obviously, I’m just not a man of my time.
What’s important to remember is that I’m strictly a crosser, not a cruiser, and that I’ve crossed aboard the Queen with 17 of her 19 captains in every manner and under every circumstance imaginable: first as an impecunious student in the bowels of Tourist Class (stateroom 4027); then as an ambitious food writer in ordinary First Class staterooms on Two and Three decks; and eventually as a swaggering bon vivant ensconced in penthouse 8014 up on Signal Deck, with a private butler and access to the exclusive Queens Grill dining saloon.
I have no problem admitting that for years I’ve been a quasi snob aboard this ship by virtue of an extravagant habitude that has not only suited my particular brand of hedonism but led to rubbing shoulders with numerous commanding personalities: Garbo, a Beatle, Sheridan Morley, a few dukes and duchesses, a Titanic survivor. So far I’ve gone through no less than nine formal dinner jackets; about two dozen waistcoats of varying styles, fabrics, hues (and sizes); seven pairs of black evening slippers with grosgrain bows; and certainly hundreds of miniature chrysanthemum boutonnieres. I’ve squired countless fascinating ladies of both august and dubious character, danced with Petula Clark, and dined with Sir Stephen Spender. I’ve even shared Niagaras of late-night Champagne with a filthy rich, cheerful Chicago investment banker some three hours before he mysteriously committed suicide by climbing over the rail of his penthouse veranda and throwing himself into the water.
Aboard the Queen I’ve served more than once, in fact, as an official witness to burials at sea. I’ve ridden out two hurricanes and countless ten-force gales; cringed when a Royal Air Force bomb squad was deployed to parachute down and investigate threats of hidden explosives; watched davits lowered when an engine-room fire temporarily paralyzed the ship mid-Atlantic; gazed at more menacing icebergs than I care to remember; and experienced the indomitable ship’s collision with a gigantic whale, which she then carried on her prow all the way to New York. I’ve also written much of a long novel and reams of articles while crossing on the Queen, shown the head chef how to make a proper southern pecan pie, and mastered a few Bach preludes and fugues by practicing diligently on various bar pianos. I’ve lost $5,000 at blackjack in less than 20 gin-soaked minutes in the casino, spent a small fortune on dry cleaning and pressing, and disbursed maybe $20,000 in tips overall.
In the ever-changing restaurants through the years, I’ve consumed everything from kidney-stuffed Southdown mutton chops to raised duck-gizzard pie to rare Blue Vinney cheese and sapid spotted dick, but I’ve also enjoyed what must amount to scores of briny, meaty, utterly delectable tuna-fish-salad sandwiches on English brown bread as only this kitchen can make them.
My heart belongs to the Queen because, even with her minor flaws, she remains for me the sole anachronistic link between a deplorable present of Reeboks, computers, mobile phones, salsa, body piercing, sewer language, and nonsmoking restaurants and a more engaging era of just 40 or so years ago, to which what is left of civilized society wishes it might return. Gone are the days, to be sure, when, at a cocktail party on the Michelangelo, I watched an orchidaceously feathered and irate Hermione Gingold withdraw a small revolver from her purse and brandish it menacingly at a clod who kept interrupting our conversation; or when, in full evening dress on the France, I cordially offered to walk Salvador Dali’s pet ocelot, Babou, around Boat Deck, then led the reasonably well behaved cat to the corner table in the Chambord dining saloon, which I and the outlandish artist shared with a uniformed Irish Republican activist and two charming demimondaines.
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.
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.