The Crossing, Day Two

First morning aboard and the QM2 is well out to sea.  Only one other ship is spotted all day: A tanker making its way west, no doubt in time to fuel the great Cunard liner next time it pulls into Brooklyn.

Technically, the Queen Mary 2 is not a ship, it is a liner.  A cruise ship is designed for fair weather and entertainment.  An ocean liner is designed primarily for transport and can weather most anything the ocean dishes out.  A liner is usually capable of faster seeds than a ship.

Three basic levels of service are offered on the QM2: The Britannia, The Princess Grill and the Queens Grill.  All of the dining rooms are beautifully appointed, the latter two being a quarter of the size of the grand Britannia.

The food is very good, sometimes great (the restaurant, Todd English, is available to any passenger for an additional $30 per person surcharge)  The wine list offers a variety of well-priced wines of good value.

The staff, at least in the Princess and Queens Grill restaurants, are extremely accommodating.  If it’s not on the menu they will produce it if they possible can.  We asked for Steak Tartare one afternoon for lunch. It was assembled table-side and was one of the best I have ever eaten. 

Unfortunately, for the staff, we were not the only ones in the restaurant who possessed a taste for the dish.  The result was a run on chopped sirloin and an extra fuss and flurry in the dining room daily, as more and more guests requested the specialty.

Note to self: Make the special requests invisible (no fuss or flourish) or save them for the last day—just to keep the dining room n an even keel, so to speak…

The Crossing, Day One

I have been incommunicado for the past two weeks.  May 27th, I boarded the Queen Mary 2 in New York with my husband to make a very civilized crossing of the Atlantic.

I had grand plans of daily posting.  There would certainly be time.  But, though computers were available in many spots throughout the liner, the Internet connection was painfully slow.  After the first day, and ninety minutes trying to connect, I gave up.  Herein is what I would have written:

We checked in at 2pm and by 2:20 we were sipping champagne on the veranda of our stateroom, overlooking lower Manhattan. 

EFFICIENCY is spelled with all capital letters aboard the Queen Mary 2.

The crew is all smiles—surely not an easy task after just finishing a two hour turnover (the last guests depart the ship at 10am, while the new guests arrive at noon).  Yet, everything sparkles and all is in place ready to welcome some 2600 passengers.

That afternoon I met an Englishman in the steam roomof the Canyon Ranch Spa aboard.  For some reason he found it necessary to tell me what he thought of the differences between Airbus and Boeing planes, no doubt because he took some pride in the continents success of their airplanes (even though England is not part of the EU) as it competes with our home grown Boeing.

At any rate, the gentleman commented on how wasteful Americans were (he does not know that the USA does more recycling per capita than any other nation) and how, surely, the new 787, which is a long-distance flyer, would be a much less efficient airplane than the new behemoth created by Airbus.  After all, because of its time in the air, it needs more than one crew: wasteful, wasteful, wasteful (any flights already carry multiple crews and have crew rest areas for long flights…this is nothing new, and certainly NOT confined to Boeing products).

Well, he was talking to the wrong person.  I know something about Boeing aircraft and, in particular, the new 787.

It will be the most fuel efficient commercial carrier on the market.  It will offer a lower cabin altitude: easier on dehydration and fatigue in the passenger.  It will have larger windows to lessen the impression of being transported in a flying tunnel.  It is pure, in a word, innovation. And, she’s svelte and beautiful: an critical detail if you’re a pilot. It’s important to look good.

My English friend’s last comment was about the cramped space the airlines offer and that if passengers would watch their weight (apparently he’d never seen so many obese people as he had in NYC) that there could be more room on airplanes.  My English friend could barely keep the towel around his own waist, I might add. And, as for Airplane seat configuration: Boeing has nothing to do with this.  How the plane is configured inside is strictly up to the airline.  Blame your carrier.

My engineer-husband did the math on the fuel economy of the Queen Mary voyage (which the above Sir Walter “Really” has traveled upon multiple times so he can, as he put it, reduce his carbon foot print).

Each passenger is responsible for burning roughly 15 nautical miles per gallon.  Sort of like driving a Range Rover from NYC to Southampton…not counting the time the car’s in the shop….

That’s about one gallon of fuel per second of travel for approximately 3200 nautical miles.  Far less efficient than transporting all those people across the pond via 777, or any Airbus you might choose for that matter.  In fact, more than 5 times more fuel per QM2 passengeris burned  than for one who flys a Triple Seven (215 gallons per passenger on the ocean liner vs. 39 gallon per passenger on the airliner.  Sir “Really” obviously had not done his homework, or simply had an axe to grind. 

But I digress.  The QM2 may not be the most efficient mode of transport there is, but efficiency is still in all caps in my book.  I guarantee the food is better, the windows, larger, the jet-lag, less…and the passengers more entertaining.

Stay tuned for Day Two…

Take a Bite of the Apple

“It doesn’t matter how good or bad the product is, the fact is that people don’t read anymore… The whole conception is flawed at the top because people don’t read anymore.”—Steve Jobs

I know this is old news.  It hit the ether in January of this year.  But I heard it again yesterday, ringing in my head as I walked through the beautiful library of the Queen Mary 2.

The room itself sits on deck eight, forward, just under the bridge.  It’s full of light that streams through the wrap around windows, and it is always packed with people: READING.

I wonder: Does Mr. Jobs ever take his eyes from the screen?  Or does he simply slide his vision from liquid crystal to liquid crystal?  Does that hardware in his hand satisfy like the brush of an antique page against his thumb?  Can he possibly take himself so seriously as to believe his own proclaimations?

I thank him for Apple.  I love my Ipod, my Mac and my Iphone.  But, I confess, Steve, I’d trade them all in for a quill pen, a pad of patchment and a library card…if I had to choose.  Or maybe just to spite you.

 

Yankee Stadium

I am in New York for the umpteenth time.  The weather is perfect: Spring, broken clouds and temperate climes equals baseball.

For the first time in my life I attended a Yankees game in their own house.  And none too soon.  The iconic structure is slated to come down.

It’s 2008, it’s final season, and the stadium has hosted games since 1923.  More World Series games have been played there than anywhere else.  It cradled Babe Ruth and taught him how to hit his first home run as a Yankee in his very first Yankee game, and inside it’s walls the Yankees won their very first title in the Stadium’s inaugural season.

Holding a some 57,000 fans, (the new stadium will seat 4000 fewer), it is certainly the most famous and the most thrilling stadium to have ever held the game.

It cost $2.5 Million to build.  The same amount would not even buy a staircase in the new $1.3 Billion stadium situated on an adjacent lot.

The old stadium is to be demolished; tuned under for parkland, as though it were never there.  But, I’ll bet the Yankees next title that anyone who crosses that new park, with eyes closed and hearts open, might hear the crack of Babe’s bat and feel the breeze of a passing ball if they just listen…and remember.

Malapropisms

Anyone remember seeing George Burns and Grace Allen together on screen?  Gracie was a master of the malapropism: The misuse of a word in a sentence. 

It’s not an easy task to exchange the right word for one that sounds the same but has a totally different meaning.  The result can be hilarious in most cases, painful in the rest, and Ms. Allen did it with the effortless flick of her tongue and slow, easy bat of her eyes.

The word, malapropism, comes from the play “The Rivals” by Richard Sheridan in 1775. The character Mrs. Malaprop tried to present herself as cultured and refined.  She used sophisticated words that she obviously didn’t understand.  As a result, Sheridan coined the word from “mal a propos”: French for inappropriate. 

Examples from the play:

“Promise to forget this fellow–to illiterate him, I say . . .”

“He is the very pineapple of politeness.”

“She’s as headstrong as an allegory on the banks of the Nile.”

And more from elsewhere:

God asked Abraham to sacrifice Issac on Mount Montezuma. Jacob, son of Issac, stole his brother’s birthmark (birthright).

One of Jacob’s sons, Joseph, gave refuse (refuge) to the Israelites.

Moses went up on Mount Cyanide (Sinai) to get the ten commandments. David was a Hebrew king skilled at playing the liar. 

 Solomon, one of David’s sons, had 500 wives and 500 porcupines (concubines).”

Ouch.

A sentance composed around the appropriate (err, inappropriate?) malapropism can be an entertaining exercise.

Try it sometime.  And rent some Burns and Allen while your at it.

Smile!

I was in Santa Barbara County last week.  It was a pleasant change from Seattle as long as the temperature hovered at the 75 degree mark.  But, I confess, I wilt at 80 unless there is a cool puddle of water nearby.  So, on Sunday as the mercury hit 95, I recoiled when my youngest daughter, a budding photographer, suggested she take some pictures of me sitting in the yard of my former house in the Santa Ynez Valley.

After all, I had just spent the week riding horseback across the furnace-like Figueroa Mountains in water soaked shirts trying to keep cool.  Now, the air conditioning in the house was a perfect foil to the sweltering heatwaves rising off the asphalt driveway.  But, the grass was cool and the breeze welcome as said daughter positioned me near a bed of spring flowers and, voila, a new photo is born: Two years hence the previous picture of the author was posted here.

I keep a file of past driver’s license photos, just to examine the aging process.  For me, the years from 16 to 25 have so far shown the most change, perhaps because as I grow older the clarity of my vision has decreased.  I love that soft focus look all photographs take on, like the fuzzy lens of an old movie. 

God works wonders in the exchange of aging eyes for a gentler outlook on life in general, don’t you think?  And much of it has nothing to do with vision.

 

Coincidence?

Did you ever notice that when things get bad, they seem to get worse?

I began my annual week-long horseback trek on Mother’s Day.  It is a nineteen-year tradition for me.  A group of fifty ladies, their horses, their wisdom and their humor set out for six days, camping and riding the California mountains.

One thing I’ve noticed over the years: the trip in usually sets the tone for the rest of the week. 

This year?  I am driving down a back-country road on my way to camp with my friend, the physician, who has happily accepted my invitation to join the ride.  Around the bend we sight a downed biker, head cradled in his wife’s lap: He has fallen and he’s out cold.  I pull over knowing my friend will want to offer her assistance.  The EMT’S and my doctor friend sends the victim to the ER…incident over, right?

We arrive in camp, set up and spend a old night as the late spring temperature drops to a chilly thirty-six degrees.  No one sleeps.

The next day all seems well—until my friend closes her fingers in a car door.  The surgeon’s calender is suddenly curtailed.  She takes four Advil and crawls into a cold sleeping bag. The next day her heavily insured hand is the size of Minnesota, but she’s game and we’re off on the trail again until we discover one of the campers is on fire (no, not a person, a vehicle).

A few of the younger, more agile, members of our group leap to the aid of the motor-home.  The grass is long and dry and if a fire gets going the only thing to do will be to let the horses loose and head for the main road.  The fire department finally arrive.  This is the best part as normally no men or dogs are allowed in camp (notice the correlation), and we are now surrounded by extremely able an handsome bodies (WHAT is it about firemen?)

The fire is out, the professionals depart and we’re off on another ride.

The next day one of our members falls ill and Dr. Friend sends her second patient to the ER. Are we having fun yet? I ask her as she puts fresh ice on her broken fingers as the temperature has decided to take a turn and the heat of the day is above ninety-eight degrees.

The day before the ride is over and I am rethinking the wisdom of venturing out on the “long” ride offered that day. Six hours in the saddle seems to ask for trouble.  I chose the short ride, a mere three hours.  When I return, one of my camp-mates has packed up and left: her mother is dying.

When things get bad, they just get worse.  Last day and a hapless rattle-snake has wandered into camp.  Rattlers are territorial and, though they may be removed and re-placed, they tend to return.  Long grass, hot venomous snakes and people are never a good combination.  I now have his rattle to prove it.

It is now so hot during the day that the only time we ride is in the early morning.

The day we leave camp, it is one-hundred-three degrees.  Dr. Friend’s finger is now infected and she will be sending herself to the ER upon returning to Seattle.  I tell her that if I see a biker lying by the side of the road I will insist she close her eyes. 

The last leg of our journey home is by plane and I have every intention it be non-stop!

Dog Day Afternoon

I recently created a new writing space for myself.  It took me some time to claim it, but the north and eastern windowed wall of my eldest daughter’s room beckoned for months.

On her own now, she visits home from time to time, nestling back into the nest as though she never left…and I love those times.  So, it was with a somewhat reluctant heart that I moved two pieces of her bedroom set in order to clear a space for me.  But the reluctance paid off.  I now sit at my computer, facing  lovely lake and a fresh palette of inspiration.  I settle into a day of writing.

Springtime has brought the regular cleaning and sprucing up of the home.  A corner of the kitchen is undergoing repair for some of winter’s water damage.  The process is near complete…the re-shingling of the outside has now given way to paint.  The contractor is very pleasant and very thorough and generally quiet as his eastern European knowledge of English is limited.

Enter: one small dog.

I am sitting at my new, tranquil place when my Jack Russell wanders into the room and plops down at my feet.  The window is open to the sprig day and the faint odor of paint wafts into the room.  I glace at the dog.  The dog glances at me, seemingly halo-ed in a grey fog upon the carpet. 

Dust, I wonder?  No, it looks like wet concrete….his belly and paws are covered.  I shriek, he spins.  I scoop up the goods and proceed toward the laundry-room sink. 

It’s easy to find–just follow the trail down the stairs!

There is a dog-door in the laundry room so the dog may come and go as he pleases…and he has come and gone and come, again: through the roller tray of paint placed upon the ground outside the dog door, into the house, down the hall, a confused trail of prints from one side of the house to other, through the dining room, into the kitchen; a pause-and-cirlcle in front of the treat-holding cupboard, then on to the living room where a single paw is placed upon the green couch before, I’m sure, the memory of being told that loose-hair dogs belong NOT upon fine furniture. 

The prints turn, and turn again, as though calling for divine direction.  Back down the hall and up the stairs to where the chaos seemed to begin with that first shriek of intervention.

The dog is bathed, the contractor, urged to move the roller tray, and heaven is asked to “please make it all go away.”

“No p-r-r-roblem,” says the contractor.  “Is water-based.”

I settle into a day of cleaning.

 

The Art of Racing in the Rain

Garth Stein is excited and he should be!  His new novel, The Art of Racing in the Rain, will be released this coming week.  It is a wonderful and heartfelt tale told beautifully from the point-of-view of Enzo, an uncommonly cerebral dog with a penchant for car racing.

Starbuck’s has chosen the book to be their selection-of-the-month, and Road & Track just published a great review of the work.  It’s sure to be a sell-out summer must-read.  I had the privilege of being offered an advanced reader’s copy by Garth and thoroughly enjoy edit.  I know you will, too.

Canine fiction is become the “au courant” genre.  Give it a try.  You’ll be glad you did.  And while you’re at it thank Garth in person for imagining on paper this lovely tail…er, tale.

Check out Garth’s two web sites: www.goenzo.com and www.GarthStein.com for more information. 

Garth will be appearing around the Northwest at the following venues:

May 13 - Starbucks Madison Park, Seattle, 7 pm

May 14 - Barnes & Noble University Village, Seattle, 7:30 pm

May 15 - Starbucks Beaverton, Beaverton, 7 pm

May 16 - Powell’s Books Cedar Hills, Beaverton, 7 pm

June 2 - Border’s Books, Tacoma, 7 pm

June 25 - Elliott Bay Books, Seattle, 7:30 pm

July 4 - Book Stop at the Gorge, Hood River, 5 pm

July 8 - Third Place Books, Lake Forest Park, 7 pm

July 23 - University Books Bellevue, 6:30 pm

New to Market

I visited Seattle’s Pike Place Market today. 

It sprawls over nine acres at the base of the city where Seattle dips it’s toe into Elliot Bay.  If you get there before eight in the morning, the usually crowded aisles are free to roam at your own pace while the vendors put finishing touches on their daily setup.

New to market this week: fresh local asparagus, super-sweet strawberries, ramps and fiddleheads. 

Spring lamb, shad roe and king crab are plentiful as well.

The coming and going of seasons are all well and good enough when looking out your window, but to stroll along the edible bounty of spring into summer into fall brings every sense to attention.

Local farmer’s markets abound with local gifts, and most are just opening their doors this time of year.  Patronize them and they will continue to flourish, offering us all a deeper look into the nature of our surroundings and all things edible.