Atlantic Crossing: Day 4
We are, this afternoon, passing about 35 nautical miles north of the Titanic. No, you can’t make this up. They actually proudly announce it. (Last night on the closed circuit TV they showed “The Titanic,” not the great original, but that awful, more recent piece of jetsam that was woefully miscast and directed with the finesse of an ax murderer. But I digress.) I’m wondering if they’ll screen The Wreck of the Hesperus tonight.
Last evening, already in my tux, I wandered out to the balcony to watch the sun set. (It’s very simple here: It rises over the bow, sets over the stern, and travels during the day down the starboard side of the ship.) The aft deck and pool were empty, but suddenly a half-dozen people emerged from nowhere to rush to the port railing, and the people two balconies over appeared with binoculars.
The field glasses were unnecessary. In a moment of great good luck for me, the liner Aurora passed by headed west, a scant two hundred yards away, like a great ghost ship. All white, looking more like a cruise ship than a liner, and perhaps even more like a beluga whale, I watched her pass at the equivalent of 50 knots (each ship doing 25 in opposite directions.) In ten minutes she disappeared into the horizon. A great meeting in the middle of the ocean.
Dinner at Todd English was up to expectations: grilled octopus and squid, followed by perfectly cooked tenderloin, accompanied by a very smooth ’98 Saint Julien Meritage.
We then wandered back into the 1930s, visiting the ball rooms, art galleries, and public areas, where everyone wore formal attire. There was nothing grandiloquent—the ship, after all, is not Italian or French—just stately British, upper crust atmosphere, the kind that once prevailed during the Raj.
You cannot walk more than 25 yards on the QM2 without finding a lounge, bar, pub, or saloon, depending on the deck and class of service. I have never, ever, seen so much liquor in a confined space, not even within an equivalent square footage in Boston.
This morning I began my workout with my treadmill clearly underperforming. Since nothing is broken on this ship for more that two minutes, I couldn’t figure out why I had to juice up my usual numbers. Some of you, no doubt, have guessed: The readings are in kilometers. (Yes, I know the British use miles, but there you have it.) Doing a five-eighths conversion in my head was more work than the treadmill.
Tonight we meet the Commodore, stay tuned.
(Click on images to enlarge)
© Alan Weiss 2008. All rights reserved.
