Tom & Lynn's Excellent Adventure

Our last full day in Paris was chilly but clear, and our mission was to visit both Jardin des Plantes and Luxembourg Gardens. Normally this would be a two-day affair, with one park each day. But we were out of time. We sucked it up and made them both on the same day.

And we were glad we did.

Luxembourg Gardens is where Hemingway used to take his son Jack to capture pigeons (so he wrote). It is the quintessential Parisian green space in the 5th that stretches from the busy streets near the Sorbonne and the Pantheon all the way down to Montparnasse. It is the Tuileries of the Left Bank.

On the north side of the park, the French Senate building looms over the green space. It too was under renovation on one wing. Even in the dead of winter, flowers bloom around the large basin, and parents take their children around to romp and play.

Most months of the year, little sailboats are rented to the kids from a small shack, but not in the middle of winter. Instead, private owners brought out their personal RC boats to sail and motor around the basin. Some were fanciful homemade craft; others were serious race models.

We enjoyed our short stay at Luxembourg Gardens, watching the boat owners, the kids, their parents and assorted couples strolling the grounds. The crowds were smaller for sure, in the winter, but Luxembourg Gardens draws them out anyway, just like us.

But we had more pressing and important issues since it was, after all, Sunday. So we took the short walk back to the Pantheon and The Bombardier, a proper British bar that knows how to make a proper Bloody Mary. It was also an opportunity for a quick British lunch, so I ordered their excellent fish and chips, and Lynn had the chicken tenders with Thai dipping sauce, sort of British, I suppose.

And then it was back to the hotel for a quick rest and down rue Lacepede to Jardin des Plantes. We really did not expect what we found.

The Jardin had been transformed into a winter wonderland, a Celebration in the Oaks starring LED-lit, silk structures of bugs and plants. Instead of gardens, it was an insectarium of educational features spread through the length and breadth of the central grounds.

We wandered up and down, as mesmerized as the kids. It was true sensory overload. We were so lucky, because this was the last day of the exhibit. But now we understood why the entrance near the river had been closed off, because after dark they charged admission.

Finally, after gorging ourselves through the maze of color, we started back to the hotel and found a hill near the Lacepede entrance that was topped by a metal pergola. It wasn’t so late or so cold that we couldn’t walk the path up there, and we were rewarded with a view of the impressive metal structure that overlooks the gardens. I’m sure it is more scenic in the spring and summer, but it was an interesting perspective even in winter overlooking the park.

Back at the hotel, we began early preparations to leave the next day for a five hour train ride to Nice. But first, we had one more must-do–a visit to George and Pomme D’Eve to watch NFL football.

To our surprise, the place was full. Normally when we arrive at 7 p.m. on a Sunday, we are the only customers. Not this time. The room was full of people waiting for an improv night. George explained that he learned that people now want to interact with other people now that they are free from the bondage of Covid. So he has scheduled comedians and improv groups like this one at earlier times than he normally is open. Business is coming back, he said, after some two years of struggle, most of which he was forced to shut down entirely.

We enjoyed a couple of glasses of wine with some quiet conversation while the improv class was going on. We offered our regrets on leaving so early. But we promised to return on our next visit to Paris, as we always do. Pomme d’Eve is all but home.

On the way back to the hotel, we stopped off for a pizza right around the corner from Pomme d’Eve at a place we have visited on a number of occasions, La Campannina. The entire experience, including the service and the food, was the worst we have ever had in Europe. I’ll say no more, because it was so painful. But we’ll not return there, and it was a most disappointing way to leave a wonderful city.

Saturday started cold and windy with the promise of rain. That promise of rain was fulfilled not too much later in the day, which turned out to be as uncomfortable as forecast. But conditions did not stop us from our rounds around Paris, notably thanks to the BatoBus.

We started with a short walk to the Metro stop at Place Monge to take the 7 line across the river to the Marais and one of the museums sponsored by the City of Paris. They are all free to visit, except the Catacombs, where visitors line up hours before entrance to walk through the macabre underground caves holding the bones of literally millions of Parisians whose remains were transferred to the vaults from the late 18^th century to the middle of the 19^th. But we have seen that before, and the bones don’t change after all these centuries.

Our goal on this non-Chamber day was the Musée Cognacq-Jay, displaying the huge collection of 18^th century art and furniture amassed by Ernest Cognacq, the founder of the Samartaine department store (which incidentally re-opened while we were last in Paris less than two years ago). Cognacq and his wife, Marie-Louise Jay, gave their personal collection to the city as a museum in their name. It was originally located in an annex to their legendary store (think the Bloomingdale’s of Paris), but then moved in 1990 to the Donon, an old hotel in Marais, which was extensively renovated to house the collection.

The Metro stop was a pleasant walk of several blocks to the museum or as pleasant as the weather conditions would allow. Getting there is half the fun, because the Marais is now quite the trendy neighborhood in Paris, with young people strolling the streets lined with stupidly expensive clothing stores. We found the Cognaq-Jay right past the Musée Carnavalet, the museum of the history of Paris, which we had visited last time we were here. 

Inside, the Cognacq-Jay collections are gathered on four floors of the old hotel (sorry, no lift). While 18^th century painting is not my favorite, it does have some historical interest in explaining the manners and mores of the times. And some of the small personal objects like watches and gadgets were quite fascinating, as were many pieces of furniture displaying exquisite marquetry. They don’t make them like that anymore. 

The museum only took about an hour to walk through, and the rain was temporarily in abeyance, so we took the opportunity to walk over to Place des Voges, the beautiful square in the Marais that is a normally lush park surrounded by four symmetrical apartment buildings resembling the Pontalba. But not now.

Place des Voges is undergoing extensive renovation itself. Barricade fencing stretched around the interior of the square, so we were forced to walk around rather than through the park to reach the other side and the Metro. And by now, the rain was returning. We ducked into the St. Paul Line 1 Metro stop, which would take us to Paris’s ornate Hotel de Ville, their City Hall. Even in the misty rain, Hotel de Ville is something to behold. Parts of the building date back to 1533 and King Francois I, protector of Leonardo da Vinci. 

Only Parisians would erect an edifice like that to house the mayor and assorted bureaucrats devoted to creating regulations to make the lives of regular citizens as miserable and complicated as possible. 

Today, sure enough, standing in front of the ornate Renaissance building are the Olympic rings, ready to show off Paris to the world in summer 2024. We walked across the courtyard (under renovation, wouldn’t you guess) and down to the riverbank and the BatoBus stop where we saw the boat leave before we could quite get there. A cold wait of 19 minutes later, we boarded the next boat and enjoyed yet another cruise up and down the Seine all the way back to the Notre Dame stop where we had started the day before. 

Now it was truly raining, so we ducked into a souvenir store where Lynn could buy a stocking cap in the hope of keeping her hair reasonably dry and tucked away from the wind. Raining or not, we needed to find a place to eat, because it was now mid-afternoon, and we were running on a shared croissant from 8:30 in the morning.

We found Cosmo, a little bistro on rue des Ecoles, a street we have walked so many times. Neither of us remembered seeing this place, but it was friendly, dry and warm, so we shared a huge meat and cheese planchette (12 euros!) with a glass of wine each. Just what we needed for our larger Italian meal planned that evening.

I made reservations at Terronia, a terrific Italian restaurant right around the corner from us and down the street from our old apartment on Jussieu in front of the Sorbonne Curie College of Really Smart Kids in Paris, the MIT of France.

We had been to Terronia a few times before although not at least since 2019. But we were greeted like family, and gleefully took the table closest to the kitchen, where we could watch the three magicians in the kitchen pump out incredibly delicious Italian dishes.

Our servers were two gorgeous young women, one from Milan who is working on her master’s in politics, the other who is working on her master’s in philosophy but has been dating the chef for the last 15 months, so she is not likely to become a wandering philosopher in France. The combination of pleasant servers and a frenetic but cheerful kitchen created one of the great restaurant nights that we will remember for a long time.

The tiny place filled up quickly, and the kitchen ran non-stop but not so fast that the chef could not serve us personally and commend us on our choice of pasta dishes. We passed on an appetizer, although I was sorely tempted by the octopus carpaccio. But we had long since learned that Europeans eat vastly greater quantities than elderly Americans do. For instance, the German couple sitting next to us each polished off an appetizer, a full main dish and a dessert. Of course, they were much younger. 

Our polite decline of dessert did not stop Emilio. He personally brought out two plates of the lightest, airiest cake we had ever tasted, studded with small bits of dried fruit and dusted with powdered sugar. It is normally served at Christmas in Italy, but they told us that Emilio likes to make it for his favored guests. This dish was, to paraphrase Stanley Tucci (now canceled by CNN, by the way), “incredible, wonderful, the best I have ever tasted.” In other words, it was really good.

If you find yourself in Paris, you must dine at Terrronia. It is the Bar des Oiseaux of Paris. And if you ever read this peroration, you know that is the highest restaurant praise possible.

Our first morning in Paris was dark. We didn’t wake up until dawn, which in the middle of winter in Paris comes after 8:30 a.m.

Our plan was simple—grab a croissant down the street, then head to Notre Dame to see the progress of restoration. After that, we would buy a two-day pass on the BatoBus for the best roundabout tour in Paris, right past and in front of all the major spots you want to see.

Reconstruction of Notre Dame remains actively underway, although the visual panels surrounding the site have not changed since we saw them about 15 months ago. But it was easy to see the actual construction progress.

The huge wooden braces that support the flying buttresses are now in place all the way around the church. The original twisted, burned scaffolding has been completely removed, and new more elaborate, almost delicate scaffolding surrounds the damaged part of the building like a web of steel.

The front wall and towers have been scrubbed clean so that the stone is no longer a dingy gray but a handsome beige. The crowds of tourists are still there, taking photos of the towers, when the damage is on the other side of the church. We remarked at the number and size of the guided tour groups walking through the plaza in front of the historic cathedral. Most seemed to be narrated in English, and none make note of the Crypt right in front of them.

We circled Notre Dame and walked back across the river to catch the BatoBus that would take us right in front of all the major attractions we, like every other visitor to Paris, must see.

Our first stop was the Louvre, where we walked through the middle riverside entrance to find the Arc and the Tuileries under major reconstruction. Obviously, the French are getting the place ready for the Olympics in less than a year and a half.  

Napoleon had stolen the horses from Venice’s St. Mark’s Basilica back in 1797 and had them mounted on the top of his Arc. They were later returned to Venice, and the current sculptures of horses and chariot were erected during the 19^thcentury. Now they are in desperate need of renovation.

Additionally, all the stone sculptures of soldiers that line the facades of the Arc are being restored after more than a century of pollution, revolts, fires and foreign occupation.

We walked through the Tuileries, where the entire grounds are under repair. The fountains and their basins are empty, preparing for installation of new mechanics. Much of the grounds on either side of the central walk have been cleared for replanting new trees, because the chestnuts are dying off, victims of lack of biodiversity. Even the entrance on the Place de la Concorde side is being restored. 

Luckily, one of the two dining pavilions was still open for lunch, and by then, we were hungry and cold. The outside tables were empty as expected, but we were greeted by the friendly staff inside and seated right away. Our timing was fortuitous, because by the time we finished our lunch, the small dining room was filling up fast.

Lynn ordered the onion soup, which was thinner than normal but still tasty, she declared. I ordered a simple croque monsieur that was served with a generous helping of frites and a salad. It was plenty to hold both of us to dinner at La Forge later that night.

We strolled out of the Tuileries to Place de la Concorde and Napoleon’s obelisk that was “gifted” to him by the Egyptians. After he conquered them, of course. As we walked out, I longingly gazed at the entrance to Monet’s L’Orangerie museum, which had no line at all. It was beckoning me. But we had to move on, I was told. 

Our task at that moment was to locate the Place de la Concorde BatoBus stop, which is closer to the Pont Alexandre III than to the traffic chaos of Concorde. 

We reached the stop just as the boat was pulling up, and we boarded the nearly empty BatoBus for the short ride to the Eiffel Tower. The BatoBus stops directly underneath the Eiffel Tower, the closest place to reach Paris’s favorite icon. Passengers simply walk off the boat, up the stairway, and cross the street to reach the Eiffel Tower. The nearest Metro stop is blocks away.

We turned left to enter at Gate 2, where we walked through security and then into the courtyard underneath the massive structure. Remember, it’s free to walk in. Tickets to take the elevators to the upper levels range from 18 to 28 euros depending on how high you want to go. If you’re willing to climb the steps to the second level, the price is only 11 euros, but you can only buy those on site. And, even in the windy cold weather, the lines were long. In fact, it was so windy that access to the top level was closed. As I have mentioned before, a better deal is the top of Tour Montparnasse, which gives you an interactive 360-degree view of Paris below.

But I suppose Tour Montparnasse is not Tour Eiffel. 

After our short walk through the sparsely populated area underneath the structure, which itself is undergoing continued maintenance and painting, we walked out the opposite direction through Entrance 1 and back to our BatoBus for the pleasant, sheltered ride back to our neighborhood. 

We wanted to walk back through the Jardin des Plantes, but the nearest entrance was closed off, and we were not willing to walk all the way down to the Austerlitz end to enter. So we just proceeded up the street along the wall that separates Paris’s science college from the park. We had put in our regular 3-5 miles on this day, so we didn’t feel the least bit guilty or lazy.

Dinner was to be at La Forge, our very favorite restaurant in Paris. We walked over to rue Mouffetard, our very favorite street in Paris past the Tournbride where we had dined the night before and past the shops selling wine, cheese, groceries, vegetables, fish, meats, clothing and various restaurant cuisines. We are not the only people in Paris who love rue Mouffetard.

La Forge is located at the lower end of Mouffetard in a warm, friendly building whose interior looks like an old stone farmhouse in central France. The proprietors welcomed us warmly, asked why we hadn’t visited in so long and escorted us to a delightful table for two in the corner.

They still offered their delicious Cote du Puy Beaujolais Morgon on the wine list, which I eagerly ordered. We were shown the English menu, which did not adequately describe the beef bourguignon, which was actually made with beef cheeks. I was thrilled. The dish was even more thrilling, so rich I ate the gravy and debris with a spoon.

Lynn ordered the duck confit, which would come out firmly pressed and crispy throughout. She was thrilled too.

Our delicious plats were preceeded by an appetizer of melted St. Marcellin cheese in a crock served with two lengths of toasted baguettes. St. Marcellin is a somewhat rare cheese, produced only in a small corner of southeast France named Dauphine. (How appropriate!) Its legend is that it was the favorite cheese of King Louis XI more than 500 years ago, and when you taste it, you can understand why. 

Sadly, after only one night at the Royal Thames, we had to say goodbye to our club. There just wasn’t enough time for a longer stay. 

Our Eurostar train left for France at midday, so we weren’t rushed to get out. We enjoyed breakfast at the club, then grabbed a taxi for the short ride to St. Pancras, where the Eurostar starts and arrives in London from its various European destinations like Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam and others.

St. Pancras now is a major international travel hub, so the security is correspondently tight. To even enter the waiting area, passengers must scan their tickets, then go through the usual security line, which is somewhat more relaxed than a typical airport. The next step is to go through French passport control and once through that, one more passport recognition station before entering the major waiting area. 

We were early, so we had a choice of seats to wait, but the huge station filled with hundreds of passengers for the trip to Paris. We made our way with the crowd up the flat escalator, and when we reached the platform, I immediately turned to walk to our coach—in the wrong direction.

We turned around dragging our luggage upstream through the crowd milling in the opposite direction until we could find our coach 11. Of course, by then, most of our fellow passengers in Coach 11 had already started to board, so there was no space on the luggage rack for our bags, which were way too large and heavy to be hoisted up the overhead racks. I worked all the way to the opposite end of the car, where I found plenty of storage space for our luggage, so we hauled it on the rack and settled into our seats.

Second class on the Eurostar is about the same level as first class on most commuter trains. The seats are leather, wide and comfortable, and there is a charging station under each row. Unfortunately, we forgot to bring any sort of compatible converter. What were we thinking? No British or European plug on a British and European train? 

The ride across was comfortable and pleasant. I sprung for two wines and a ham and cheese baguette. Before we knew it, we were in France. There is no sign that says Welcome to France as you emerge from the Channel. The only way to know you are in France is to see the wine barn whose sign on the side is in French rather than English. Next thing you know, you are pulling through the suburbs of Paris and into Gard du Nord. It’s quite a nice ride.

Gare du Nord has solved its shit show of illegal taxis that we endured and almost fell for the last time we pulled in on the Eurostar. As our crowd spilled out of the train, we were guided by a phalanx of large, armed security guards to a legal taxi line outside the station, where we waited in a relatively short line and boarded a taxi that took us to our hotel in the 5^th, the Hotel St. Christoph on rue Lacepede. We wound our way through heavy rush hour Parisian traffic along rue Magenta and a row of wedding shops offering every sort of male and female formal attire you could imagine. They line both sides of the street for blocks.

Nearly 30 euros later, we reached our hotel. The receptionist welcomed us warmly, and we took the tiny elevator up to the fourth floor and our room, spacious by Parisian standards. We semi-unpacked, since we are only there for a few nights, then ventured out for a dinner at Turnbride on rue Mouffetard, where we were greeted with familiarity.

Our meal, as always was delicious. Good to be back in France.

We had deposited our luggage in the hallway before going to bed, and sure enough it had disappeared when we awoke at 6 a.m. Wednesday morning. Our departure was scheduled for 8:20 a.m., so I dressed quickly and headed out to the King’s Court for one last run through the trough. 

The omelet station was reduced to a single location, so I ordered my last fresh breakfast on the ship, then took a croissant and a couple of strips of bacon back to the room for Lynn. At 8:15 a.m. we walked out of our room for the last time. By then, it seemed like home after eight days and nights.

Down on Deck 3, we joined a couple of hundred passengers disembarking for buses to Heathrow, Gatwick, Paddington and Victoria (ours). Our bus to Victoria was held up for about a half an hour while the crew searched for two missing passengers. They finally showed up, and the elderly American husband admitted that they had overslept through their alarm because he had stayed up until 3 p.m. to watch the docking. His selfishness and lack of responsibility cost the rest of us time and convenience; luckily in our case, the Royal Thames would wait for us.

The trip into London took more than two hours through the traffic, as our route took us right past the Queen Mary Reservoir, where the Royal Thames Yacht Club sails the Cumberland Cup every other year. We reached Victoria Station shortly after, departed our bus, grabbed our bags and had no wait at all for a taxi to take us to the club.

Despite the forced delay, we were still just a bit early, and our assigned room was not ready, so the friendly desk agent simply gave us a different room. We felt most gratified that he welcomed us by name as soon as we walked through the front door, even though we visit only a couple of times a year.

We arrived at an awkward hour of mid-afternoon, without enough time to do any sort of real exploration beyond the immediate neighborhood. Instead, we walked through the misty rain to Harvey Nichols across the street, where we laughed at the prices of menswear, such as 350 pounds for a t-shirt. Not a Burberry or other luxury branded t-shirt, mind you. Just a regular cotton t-shirt.

We retreated to the comfort and relative bargain of our club, where I made dinner reservations at Osteria Romana two short blocks down Knightsbridge. Before leaving for dinner, we walked down to the Britannia Bar, where again we were greeted by name and asked for our order.

As I waited for our bartender Romano to prepare our drinks,

ian, another member, walked up and asked for a shot of rum flamed on top to cure his laryngitis. Romano’s cigarette lighter was ineffective, so I suggested he go up to the kitchen to get the chef to come down with his blow torch. Sure enough, that worked, and the run burned off alcohol until Ian, the afflicted, put it out and drank the medicinal Mount Gay. 

Meanwhile, Lynn started chatting with Ian’s wife Kerry, who related that she runs not just any old marathon but ultra-marathons through the Sahara Desert and the entire width of Costa Rica. We need to tell our marathon-loving friend Jill Kenyon about this.

While Lynn and Kerry talked, Ian and I compared sailing notes. Our little jaunt around the Caribbean back in 1995 paled in comparison to his voyage from Grenada to Bali across the Pacific in their 57-foot boat with their four young children. They now live in Wimbledon and also spend half a year at their home on the Cote d’Azur just west of Nice. More things in common between us, except that their experience is on a much higher level than ours, like the difference between a Roman candle and a moon rocket.

Their friend Emily, who had just flown in this morning from New York for legal work, finally made it to the bar, where we continued our conversations about living and working in multiple continents and cultures. They left for dinner upstairs, asking if we would like to join them, but we had to decline, since Osteria Romana already had my credit card and would have charged me for a no-show.

But no sooner had they walked out of the bar when Vice Commodore Tony Hanna came over from the other side of the room, accompanied by Rear Commodore of Sailing. Another drink, more stories, and more invitations to sail in each other’s regattas. It was becoming more tempting by the moment to stay at the club, but common sense and Lynn prevailed, and off we went down the street to Osteria Romana.

The restaurant proved to be as delicious as we had ever remembered. Service is impeccable, their wine list is extensive and reasonable, and the dishes are huge. Lynn and I split a salad big enough food dinner by itself, and then split the tagliatelle in a sauce of beef, lamb and pork cheeks. Decadent.

Two gentlemen were dining at the table next to us, one from Parma, the other a Canadian-British citizen, both of whom apparently work in London. From what we could tell they were having a semi-business meeting, but we engaged in a pleasant conversation anyway. The Parma resident declared Osteria Romana the best Italian restaurant in all of London. That was high praise coming from a knowledgeable source, and it validated our admiration of Osteria Romana.

We awoke as the ship entered the English Channel, less than a full day from the end of our crossing. Our speed had slowed down considerably to 10 knots or less as we made our approach through the shipping lanes of the Channel to land in Southhampton at 0330 the next morning.

The last day at sea is always a bit melancholy, knowing the voyage is ending and it’s time to pay attention to chores like packing and finalizing arrangements for transit to London. 

Our task on this day was to begin the packing, because our bags need to be left outside our door before 11 p.m. It’s an essential part of getaway day, and not my favorite. Saying goodbye to your stuff before you go to bed is never comfortable. At least we now have Air Tags in the suitcases, so we can track them inside the terminal to load on the buses.

After the rich meals of the few days, we ate a light(er) breakfast in the Carinthia lounge and salads for lunch in King’s Court in preparation for our Last Supper in the Britannia, which we know will be rich, sumptuous and accompanied by a full bottle of wine. In deference to an early awakening the next morning and a late packing this night, we chose a 7 p.m. reservation. 

Lynn wanted to finish her book in a more humid atmosphere to rejuvenate her face, so she walked up to the indoor pool on Deck 13 while I caught up e-mail in the library. Even there, where a row of computers is set up. the ship’s Internet service is balky. Safari was having trouble connecting, so I switched to Chrome for initial hookup, then back to Safari for regular browsing.

When I strolled upstairs to the indoor pool to meet Lynn, I realized our money shot was right there on the deck under the ship’s name. Lynn was none too happy to walk out into the wind and the fog to get the photo, but we were exposed to the elements only a few minutes as a helpful Cunard associate took our photo. Then Lynn chased back into the relative warmth of the pool pavilion while I explored more of the upper rear deck, including the helicopter pad that had come into use earlier in the passage to evacuate a sick passenger.

Shortly before 3 p.m., we went down to the Main Lobby to hear the passenger choir, a tradition of Atlantic crossings. Fellow passengers sign up early in the crossing and practice an hour each day for performance in the Main Lobby in front of their fellow passengers. The singers are coached by the professional entertainers who put on a show during the voyage. A small crowd gathered on the second and third levels of the lobby to hear the choir sing a half a dozen numbers ranging from traditional spirituals like Amazing Grace to Broadway tunes. I was not sure who had the better time, the singers or their professional coaches.

Back to our room, we (Lynn) packed most of our clothes in preparation to leave our luggage out in the hall after dinner. She is a master at that. We were soon ready to dress for dinner early and walked down to the Carinthia Lounge for a last performance by the Irish folk duo of Shane and Brendan. They would be leaving the ship as we do, but they go on tour of Riverdance in Germany, while we head to France.

Our last dinner was fine but repeated some of the small things we do not like about the service in the Britannia. First was our table placement. For at least the second time, we were seated at the end of a table adjacent to a busy traffic area and waiter station, which added to the noise. Earlie in the week, it was so bad, we asked to be moved and were given a table just one row removed from the clatter of silverware and plates. 

Our second peeve is the wine service. Our waiter came to the table for our food order, which we have learned to hold off until the wine arrives. The sommelier arrived, we ordered, and then—nothing. Assuming the wine cellar is in the hold of the ship, we still could not understand what can take so long to fetch a bottle. Meanwhile our waiter hovered nearby, eager to take our food order. Cunard needs to work on its service sequences.

But dinner was fine, if not outstanding. We ate our final desserts, such a rarity for us. We finished our Last Supper and walked up to the Carinthea Lounge to hear Shane and Brendan one last time. They are great musicians and entertained the small crowd of fans for one last time before we all leave the ship. They were off to Germany for a month-long tour of Riverdance.

And that was it. We repaired to our room for final packing and stacking our bags in the hall to be removed overnight. They would leave the ship the next day before we would.

After our splendid dinner the night before, we slept well, not the least because our ship did not roll as much in the seas. 

I rose early in the morning to dress and run down to the Tour Office to check on our bus transport to Victoria Station in London. The reason was that I had two conflicting confirmations, one early in September 2022 confirming the transportation to Victoria but another in November that showed a credit and no ride to London.

Sure enough, somehow the London transport had been canceled. Not by me, for sure. It was fortunate that I checked. The helpful Irish agent in the Tour Office efficiently booked us on the bus and said he would check with the home office to see what the actual situation was. Later in the day he sent word that indeed our reservation had been canceled. I could only speculate that the air transportation mess caused the ground transportation to be canceled with the flight that was to send us home with a 12-hour layover in Toronto. In fact, the ground transportation was indeed canceled the same day the air travel was changed. Hmmm…..

This will not go unreported to Cunard.

My next mission was to consult with the Connexions office about my inability to log in to the Internet the day before. Unfortunately, no one was in the office when I visited early, and no one would be there the other three times during the day when I walked down.

I finally was able to get online to read e-mails and catch up on news from home using Chrome, which I don’t prefer. But once on through Chrome, I was able to get on with Safari too. The browser didn’t matter; access was painfully slow regardless. I understand that we are in the middle of the Atlantic, and I commend Cunard for improving access plans from packages by the minute to packages by the day. 

But, hey guys, satellite access is much improved. Call Elon Musk. Get with the program or you will never attract a younger demo. Half the passengers on this ship will not be walking the earth in five years.

Dinner was the last of only two formal nights on the trip. The theme was the Roaring Twenties, which has become top me sort of a historical oddity, since they were now a century ago. I couldn’t resist having the venison on the menu, and Lynn ordered the filet steak herself, a rarity. But we can always eat salads for the rest of the trip. (In France? Sure!)

After dinner, we decided to revel in the occasion and stepped into the neighboring Chart Room for their version of a gin rickey, another rarity for us. A couple on their way home from a month on the ship through the Caribbean joined us for the same cocktails, and we got to talking about the launch of Richard Branson’s rocket that night, the first ever orbital rocket launch from western Europe. 

Perhaps it was the gin, but we found ourselves walking to the stern of the ship and outside in the cold wind, rain and spray to watch the launch through the heavy cloud cover. Alas, we could see nothing, so we retreated to the shelter of the ship and called it a night. We would arise the next morning to learn that the rocket launch turned out to be a failure. Still, it would have been fun to see the ignition.

Wash Day. 

After a night of rolling around, we did not get up until after 8:00 a.m., and we couldn’t even use the excuse of the time change, since the clock didn’t move up Saturday. 

It was Sunday, you know what that means—brunch and Bloody Marys. And Wash Day.

I walked half the ship’s length down our hall to the launderette and was happy to find one of the two machines available. I stuffed our laundry, whites and colored together, into the machine, threw in the supplied wash sheet and turned on the Eco program that would take 58 minutes. Perfect timing for a nice omelet in the King’s Court.

Breakfast consumed, we transferred the wash to the dryer, then repaired to the library where I signed up for Internet service and started to wade through four days of e-mails. Internet service was slow but eventually, I was able to get through e-mails in about an hour. Lynn walked down the length of Deck 8 to the launderette, where our clothes had already dried and someone had emptied the machine and tossed our load into a  basket, less one sock. 

Then it was up a deck to the Commodore Club, our favorite spot on the ship, for our Sunday Bloody Mary. We walked in to find all the tables in front of the windows filled with people, most of whom did not have a drink or even the pretense of one. This annoys me. The ship should reserve the window tables for groups of at least two people and require them to buy at least one drink. Instead, passengers simply squat, sometimes singly, in the best seats depriving the drink-paying clientele of the views over the bow of the ship.

Luckily for us, a couple decided to quit reading and move on, so we eagerly grabbed the table and waited for our waiter. And waited. He served another couple two glasses of water first, then finally came to us, squandering the additional tip I would have given him. But the Bloody Marys were excellent, and he even brought a small pitcher of Worcestershire sauce when I asked for extra in the drinks. He earned back his additional tip with that small gesture.

The rest of the day was devoted to two more lectures. The first was the aerobatic pilot describing his love of the legendary British Spitfire WWII airplane, with some fascinating video of flights and a full measure of technical information. Then Lynn joined me for the account of the Tudor royal family by the numbers presented by the American author Carol Ann Lloyd. She was most entertaining, starting the with explanation of the British Rose that dates back to the—you got it—War of the Roses that established the Tudors in power for more than a century.

By the end of that lecture, it was too late for lunch, and our dinner was not scheduled until 7:45 p.m. This is a bit of scheduling problem on the ship. The clocks move forward an hour at noon, so the first lecture starts only 15 minutes later. The second session started at 2:30 and did not finish until almost 3:30, when lunch had already been taken down in all the dining venues. All we could scrounge were some tea sandwiches, not the best of the ship’s fare.

I was also hungry for sports scores, but by the afternoon, the Internet service was inoperative, despite having signed up in the morning. I could only surmise that everyone was trying to use the very limited bandwidth at the same time, and I was odd man out. In fact, I couldn’t get on at any time of the day later either. Scores would have to wait until Monday.

Dinner was a special night in the Verandah, the upscale extra-cost dining room at the far end of our deck featuring steaks and high-end seafood. We were given a special credit as a little benefit of our membership in the Gold Level, since this is our fourth cruise and third crossing on Cunard ships. 

The Verandah is clearly a step up in the class of the clientele, the wait staff and the menu. But strangely it is a major step down in the wine list. The Verandah’s wine list is one sheet of paper listing a number of truly ordinary wines at some truly extraordinary prices. Seghesio Zinfandel for $60 a bottle? Please.

But dinner was indeed excellent. The Verandah is the ship’s upscale steak and seafood restaurant, imposing a $45 per person surcharge for the hoi polloi like us to dine. My 12-ounce strip was excellent, and Lynn’s small filet was cooked exactly to her liking. Our choices of sauce (au poivre for Lynn, Bearnaise for me) were served on the side in separate saucers. The salads were crisp and cold, although Lynn found an anchovy in her Caesar. (I gobbled it up.) 

We enjoyed the company of a couple from Michigan on their first crossing and another couple from England on their second. The couple from Michigan, it turned out, were planning to stay in the very same hotel we stayed in on our very first trip to London nearly 40 years ago. I hope the Strand is as accommodating today as it was to us in 1984.

Today was a bit warmer during my walk around the Promenade Deck with no signs of ice and a milder breeze that didn’t threaten to blow me over when I walked past the entrances to the bow and the Commodore’s Cufflinks.

We have been trying to dine a bit lighter lately. Instead of a full, freshly prepared omelet for breakfast, we have been eating yogurt and fruit. I chose corn beef hash, not exactly light, but with only a single sunny side up egg on top, I felt like I was on a diet. For lunch in the King’s Court we prepared salads, with pizza and shrimp on a stick as the sides. 

OK, so not really eating light. But it’s easy to let yourself go with a virtually unlimited menu every day, all day. And all night too.

Lectures today came from Bill Miller, our cruise ship expert, who related the decline, fall and resurrection of the Cunard Queens. Lynn followed up with the Royal Butler, who brought the crowd to tears (including Lynn) with his account of dancing with Queen Elizabeth II. We skipped Mike Ling and acrobatic flying in order to have lunch at a reasonable time with the clock change, then went out to hear Dr. Emerson Smith talk about the rise and fall of the Concorde and the possibility of supersonic commercial jet travel. He was disappointing, disjointed and boring about a subject that should have been fascinating. We won’t need to see his talks later in the voyage, and we should have attended Mike Ling’s talk about aerobatics.

After our lectures, we walked out on the breezy, cold deck, looking for just the right location to get photos of us holding the Southern Yacht Club burgee. We found the stern with the ocean behind us and a side deck view that included in the frame a lifeboat bearing the ship’s name. I tried to go up on Deck 12, but the wind was honking at least 30 over the deck at that height, and Lynn was having none of that. We’ll try later in the week when the winds may lay down a bit.

Late in the afternoon, we repaired to the Commodore Club for a cocktail in the richly appointed room that features leather seats around large windows facing the bow. Other passengers have figured this out too, and the place is filled with people who commandeer the tables with the best views right in front of the windows but don’t drink. They just squat in the real estate. Cunard should force them to buy a drink to occupy the space when other customers are waiting to pay for the view while sipping an expertly crafted cocktail.

We chose a table that was available only because it was situated against the wall without a direct view of the water ahead. I ordered a Vieux Carré, their version of a Sazerac. It was good but a bit sweeter and smoother than a true Sazerac, probably because they add a bit of Benedictine into the mix. Still, at $11.75, not exactly a bargain but not a bad price at all.

King’s Day. Where’s the king cake?

It was nowhere to be found. The heathen British.

It’s cold today, much colder. Our TV monitor said 32 F early in the morning, and it was 35 F when I went out for my daily walk along the Promenade Deck. I noticed a few patches of ice on the deck, spots from drips the night before. I also cursed myself again for forgetting to pack my heavy socks.

Sailing on the Mary is like a college week of seminars on interesting subjects with no penalty for cutting class.

Our routine now includes lectures that have become quite interesting. This afternoon featured two, Bill Miller talking about the great Transatlantic liners of the 50s and 60s before overseas jets killed the industry. Later that afternoon, we attended Dr. Seth Gopin, a Rutgers professor, relating the development of London from Queen Victoria to King Charles III. We had seen his address the day before about the formation of London form the Roman Londinium through the Great Fire and into the early 19^th century.

Now we know how the term Westminster came into use and what it means. I never knew there are only two other “minsters” in England, including York minster. Now I do.

Meanwhile, Lynn had been attending the lectures by Grant Harold, the Royal Butler regarded as the world’s foremost expert on royal etiquette.

We spent the middle part of the day lunching and taking photos holding our makeshift SYC burgee, since I had forgotten to pack the real thing. 

We spent the middle part of the day lunching and taking photos holding our makeshift SYC burgee, since I had forgotten to pack the real thing. 

Finally, we finished the evening by carrying our last glass of wine to the Carinthia Lounge to listen to an acoustic duo. They were dreadful. The guitar player was decent, but we could easily sense that he wished he were playing with a rock and roll band. The singer was truly awful. She had a weak, whispery voice and showed absolutely no sense of phrasing or rhythm. We snuck out as discreetly as we could, since we were sitting right in front.