2016 TRIP: OCT 22-NOV 12 "CANADA & COLONIAL AMERICA" CRUISE, CARIBBEAN
PRINCESS (2 WEEKS) PLUS MIAMI BEACH (1 WEEK)
CANADA/NEW ENGLAND/FLORIDA
This plane is not only 1/3 hour late but overbooked. Bob
says let's take the $150 credit and stay over in Newark. I say when you said
that I felt dizzy and almost fainted. Then I receive an update text from
United. Flight on time. Huh? And there's our mini-plane being towed in. Why?
Can't it fly or are we going to be tugged to Canada? Fly-bus transport, newest
thing baby.
We wonder if it's because we're
two men traveling together that we are asked to go to the right for special
scrutiny. Particularly annoying because we think we have to wait longer for a
taxi. (But that's just the shuttle line.) Bob wonders if this treatment is because we look like
terrorists with our leather jackets. Nah. Nasty night. Raining hard.
Dinner at the Coral Dining Room. That wonderful service
with eager servile (oh dear) Asians. I’m going all American for my Night One
favorites (though I've been disappointed in the past). Shrimp cocktail. (I like
the cocktail sauce); Artichoke bisque ‘cause it sounds interesting. (It is.
It's wonderful). The prime rib (tender) with corn on the cob and baked potato
(it hurts to have the fixings?). Bob. Spring roll ("a little tough").
Salad and the prime rib. Bob: "A successful opening night dinner."
Get
15 feet of snow.
Roofs first wood--fire; slate--snow
was too heavy--collapsed. Finally tin.
We see where St Lawrence narrows. Our ship is tiny in the distance. 
Fall colors: Quebec first ones to
turn.
Native girls in the 1600's wouldn't marry French guys. Thought them unclean.
We see a copy of the Pieta. She tells
us that Michaelangelo hated girls so all his women are big buff guys. (Ok. I know Michaelangelo was queer but I didn't know THAT
queer.)
And
so to lunch at a lovely old house. Nice pate and sweet ice tea. We order Red
wine plonk and we’re not talking your average schoolboy plonk. Yuk. And poor
Bob struggles with the credit card machine humiliatingly for five, count them,
minutes while I sip on my wine. We can't guess the provenance of the soup over
conversation with our neighbors from Ohio. He collects garages full of cars--can't
be paupers. Jack also makes wine and at Bob's prodding we are treated with a
course on the process. Wife visits his cellar daily. Hmm. When our entrees
arrive an hour later, flavor is not the issue. At about 2:30 our dessert
arrives. Bob was hoping for something "authentically ethnic".
"Like pancakes and maple syrup?", I ask. 
Our guide tells us that when we'll be warm in Florida she’ll be working as head guide at the Ice Hotel in Quebec.
3:30 we have some little sandwiches (the egg salad/water
cress and the mozzarella/prosciutto are excellent) and chardonnay upstairs--our
food clocks being awry today.
We're late for the 5:0'clock platinum etc. cocktails. In
fact we pass our new friends (whose names we've yet to learn) leaving as we
enter Fusion Lounge. A couple of chairmen of the board (this choice will be
prophetic--more on that later) shrimp (watery--our Cosco does better--Bob
cheese).
And then the countdown to the Voice auditions. I've been
practicing Jerry Herman's Shalom from Milk and Honey most of the day--finding a
very traditional version on YouTube--the accompanist for the operatic tenor
wears a head scarf. We cadge enough tea and lemon from the buffet upstairs,
sufficient quantity that I feel like burping, only to discover, when we get
there (that Fusion Lounge again) too early that the auditions are karaoke,
which I've never done in public before. Oy. What to do? I look through the
books. Josh Grobin and Frank Sinatra are more my vocal range. Don't know the
Grobin tunes. So it's either My Way or Strangers In the Night, which after
trying to hum the tunes in my head, I choose. I tell myself What the hell but
that's scant comfort.
Then after an in-room breakfast of cereal with banana, Bob
has the McMuffin. It's time for Zumba. The scene of my previous night's
debacle--voice of the ocean audition--club fusion now--is now the scene of a Catholic
mass presided over by two antique priests.
Alter candles, the whole smear has to be removed for the Zumba class
which an Aussie ("it’s the Capital of Zumba") gal presides over with
athletic flair while I survive the slightly turbulent ocean's tilts and weaves.
Bob has Chimichanga "Satisfying peasant food. Not
sure a Mexican would recognize it," mixed salad and baba au rhum. Me
potato leek soup (passably good) Fritos misto platter (fish totally lightly
fried but if you dip the pieces in the Tatar sauce it's not bad). Ironic that
it is sort of like the fish and chips I'd have at the pub lunch we avoided in
favor of this meal, topped off with baba au rhum. I have a piece of feta from Bob's lovely
Greek salad but I don't offer him a piece of fried fish because I know he'd be
horrified. We suspect that our slightly chilly (ok preoccupied efficient)
female server is Russian--remembering how we were treated by the servant class
when we were in Russia. She's Ukrainian. Close enough.
I note that a dapper gentleman who passes by in a tux is
what "they" call a Silver Fox and that he, Bob, is a silver fox and
would be perfect for any young man looking for that. He is speechless for a
moment, ponders, then sings "After you're gone . . ."
As to our mains I pass on the Roasted Cornish Game
Hen. I say it's too small. I wonder if I
can ask for a giant mutant game hen. Nah. I’m tired of choosing so have what
Bob's having. Waldorf salad with Stilton mousse (kind of abstemious but
beautifully presented). B. "A lovely deconstructed Waldorf." We
really like it--gourmet quality and hope it stays on the menu, asparagus soup
(ok) and the medallions of beef tenderloin with carrots, roasted squash, almond
croquettes and truffle Demi-glacé. This time a winner. Nice cut of beef well
prepared.
We're not going to get to the Piano Man production show
at 10. Because we go to the 2nd night of auditions for the Voice of the ocean
which Carla, the mistress of ceremonies (who has dubbed me a diva--a title I
accept) repeatedly calls "prestigious". Anyway, after listening to a
number of new auditioners, including a guy who does a country tune with
verve--seems to be the favorite musical mode onboard-and whom I declare will be
the final winner (alas I will be correct)--not big, serious voiced moi-the
finalists are announced. I'm one and as Bob says you get what you asked for.
What have I done? We're lined up, offered champagne and ushered offstage for
our instructions. We're to select a first and second choice from songs on a
list. Most of them I don't know. I declare to Carla and Monique that I'm a
diva. Carla says I need my manager and I call Bob, who is nonplussed, to join
us. (I inform the contestant next to me that I have a manager--he is decidedly
unamused.) I choose Unchained Melody because it sounds more or less heroic and
Carla, (who will not acquiesce to my request to turn off the bar's music so I
can make my choices--I am a diva) Monique and Bob favor Fly Me To The Moon over the girly songs Summertime and Wind Beneath My Wings. What do they know?
Rolling into Sydney on Breton Island Nova Scotia at
Sunrise and here's Morning Joe from the beginning, a dubious luxury we don't
have on the west coast of the US--looks like a small prosperous village. We'll
soon find out.
Lorraine is our guide. Sydney is a maritime
climate--controlled by the water. We're 44 Fahrenheit now. 6 Celsius. Double the Celsius plus 30 to 32 = F.
Midmah indians. Here in Membertu.
1st nations people traded beaver pelts with British who
used it for hats. In England used mercury to skin hats, went mad. Hence Mad
Hatters.
Bob and I agree it’s kind of like Bethlehem, PA, his
birthplace.
Cute little fort is my summation.
Interesting that she's a local. Tells stories of her
family. Pass her small house. She car-raced on the ice on the water. Cape
Breton has a large moose. Up to 1400 pounds.
"You'll see pretty quick why we call it the memory
factory", says a gentleman in the museum.
Charming in its provinciality and earnestness to capture the ethos
through mundane (mean that in the best sense) detail of a community. Downstairs
we enjoy tea and oatcakes (very tasty). One of the town ladies tells me they're
easy to make. I ask if they're easy to buy. We sit by a map of the area as we
eat our oatcakes with our tea and coffee. There's Sydney in Cape Benton then
west to Halifax and up to St. John. Bob asks at the steel exhibit about blast
furnaces. No longer here. (They are Preserved in his "native"
Bethlehem by the Smithsonian.)
Since I think I'll probably wind up singing the
intolerably sappy Fly Me To The Moon at the contest, I tell Bob that I'll have
to apply the acting technique the great singing coach Ken McMillan taught me:
with this kind of love song, pretend the other is dead and you're trying to
bring that person back to life (this advice Ken tailored to my audition song If
Ever I Would Leave You). I tell Bob he must not reveal this to anyone. He
promises "I won't tell a soul. Don't kill me." I guess the secret's
safe with him. From my more serious perspective, It's like if you were so
privileged to know it you'd never reveal what the secret ingredient of Kentucky
Fried is.
But I must bestir myself for a quick refresher at the
spa. As soon as I enter the jacuzzi my fellow occupant begins talking. He's one
of those glad handy, garrulous fellows. And he begins with his soliloquy. How
lucky he is to have children and grandchildren, to have retired at age 55--now
60, to have his hobby "obsession" trading cars--he has 40, but he's
not, mind you, rich (I say he's rich because of his positive/grateful attitude
and I believe it) even though his wife trades auction houses and they've done "pretty
well" with the ten they've sold this year and with their share of the sale
of his parent's 3 million dollar apartment community, etc. etc. etc. when his
corpulent wife comes by to enter our tiny jacuzzi, I excuse myself for the
delights, temporal as they are, of steam and sauna because Bob awaits my
appearance for our very early dinner reservation at Sabatini's.
At Sabatini's which we remember fondly as the breakfast
with endless mimosas retreat when we once had a real Princess suite and enjoyed
the perks thereof the waitress has a heavy Italian accent. She asks if we want
sparkling or cows milk. That's what I hear. I say cows milk please. As she
leaves, bob says, she said "house milk". We are in hysterics, a good
way to start the evening. In fact we're having a splendid time.
Antipasti. R. Burrata Allan Panna con Carpaccio do
Pomodori. Delicioso with the balsamic that she pours on in artistic stripes. B.
Sformato di Carciofi Granatini al Castelrosso Good Pasta. R. Spaghetti allo
scoliosis. B. Manacotto Main. B. Chicken. Very flavorful. I'm enjoying it. T.
The risotto
We're full after the pasta course but where there's a
will . . . Maybe.
We're looking at
after dinner drinks . We're choosing our drinks and Bob going to have to pay for this (our meal was
complimentary as was our $49 wine). "I'm going to have to pull out my
card." I: "so your motor skills are impaired now?." Courvosier
it is to accompany the incredibly sublime (yes such a category exists)
tirimisou.
Shall we go to the show? The whole ship is devoted to
country music, the cruise director even is dressed in a black cowboy hat with
matching country formal outfit and the main stage performer, a youthful looking
violinist with a Jewish lady name who plays Ave Maria in memory of his
grandmother whose photo flashes on a screen also does a hokey country western
ballad--I hum Flying To The Moon to Bob--I'm in an alternate universe.
First thing we hear over Morning Joe babble is "This is your captain and ONCE AGAIN you ain't getting near St. John!" Well that's the gist. Our St. John landing was cancelled when we were on the Royal and now on the Caribbean. Geez. So we get an overnight in Halifax as a result--visit all the gay bars because that's what we do--not--and there are so many in a place like Halifax--double not. We consequently didn't book any Halifax tours.
At least a bagel and lox is a glorious thing. Didn't need
the delicious banana muffin. What has a true first world country denizen to do
with need anyway? That seems to be Bob's sentiment too as he enjoys his banana
muffin plus a cheese omelette which he rhapsodizes over despite admitting that
he too had enough to eat after said muffin. 
We've got to give Rod, our steward, room-fixing time so we ascend to Skywalkers, the bar sitting atop the ship--no longer the locus for Elite cocktail hour libations. It's perfect, however, for a little nap which I think I'll have.
Dinner. R. Grilled calamari steak and poached baby squid.
My my. (Lovely discovering unfriendly calamari. I say to Bob who asks, its sort
of like pasta with a different texture. "Except it's fish," he
replies.
Which makes it non-grata. actually nice choice. Seasonal field greens, celery hearts and tomatoes. (Good choice.) The tomatoes are the clincher. Stroganoff is the main. (Not brilliant. But Bob's not sure stroganoff can be. I on the other hand have fond memories of my college Hungarian restaurant's strongonoff as heavenly. But that's more than a half century ago and, goodness, palate and memory fade.
The cancellation did afford me time to go to stretch (let
it be noted that I experienced sufficient shoulder pain, after experiencing
similar while shaving, to leave early though Zumba got added onto this ad hoc
sea day schedule and I'd be damned if I'd miss it. (Didn't. Danced with
semi-dangling arm.) Bob chooses not to wear his leg brace today in order to
exercise it--so he's moving slower than usual. We're quite the impaired pair!
At special-people's cocktail hour, we discuss the guys we
met earlier, how the younger one looks in Bob's word "cheap". All in
white--shoes to match and we're way past Labor Day but appropriately close to
Halloween. Meow. Bob says the other gay guys one of whom goes over to pay
obeisance to couple #1 look really great. They do. Bob suggests that the first couple were turned off when I
approached and the old guy began flirting with their server, "I dream all
night of you gorgeous" I, with roll-of --the-eyes-Voice, "ok. . . .
Enjoy" (your bloody Mary's) to join Bob, reluctant to take the social
gambit all because he says he, dressed all in black, looks like the Spector of
death. I say he's really gorgeous tonight (and to me he is). He says I am too.
No, I say. But I did lose five years in the steam room and 2 more in the sauna.
We both find this hysterical.
2 chairmen of the board and we wend our Byzantine shaky
way to the theatre for the production show. Looking at the scrim set piece we
recognize it--but not in the last several voyages says Bob. It's an office set
with a clock turned to 5 minutes to 5. The show's called Born To Be Wild. Aha!
The kids give it their all. And as we head to the dining room we realize they
did that all on rocking seas.
R prosciutto, gnocchi ( didn't realize it was potato
filled pasta so although well prepared its s little heavier than I expected. No
gnocchi!), lobster tail (lovely--small--but wonderfully ready to be devoured,
buttered and lemon laced in advance, plus serviceable crab cake. Bob. Also Prosciutto,
(good choice; we especially like the ricotta flan with it), gnocchi, vegetarian
chili. ("Mine’s good. A person can eat vegetarian and still be fat." And
looking for a more robust wine than we've been having, a cab. (The Thing wrote
"can" instead of cab so I guess The Thing thinks we're having a can
of wine.) Bob chooses a 2012 Chilean cab. It has presence.
Going for broke (although and perhaps because it's been
paid for) I’m having the chocolate cake with raspberry sauce (we agree it looks
like a breast, nipple and all, but I eat it anyway and am in heaven--what's
that about? I didn't know you were such a chocoholic, says Bob. I'm learning to
be. “And a Courvoisier please”--true voluptuary.
Champlain "discovered" the island, drew maps.
The French called it Arcadia. The British wanted it too for white birch trees.
The French and British Fought 150 years. 1761 first settlers after the war.
Carla, who is very pleasant and with whom I have a
routine about being a diva (snap) presides as we eight "finalists"
get up and try out our songs with the orchestra with our "mentors",
two of the four production singers. I have trouble with the chorus of
Wonderful--too high--World and as I feared Fly Me To The Moon is an uptempo
jazz style version a la Frank Sinatra. Bob, my mentor, who is showboating, and
Carla all say Fly Me works better and the orchestra, following their sides
slavishly, is inflexible. I join Bob who has been drowning his sorrows with a
glass of wine as the others go through their paces. I am well aware that of the
group I have three viable competitors and I will lose. My mentor comes over and
says essentially I should undertake the challenge of the jazz style. They do
many different styles in their shows. But I've only one song to prove my mettle
idiot. Harsh. Pat the only woman comes over--her husband has been sitting near
Bob and shows him a magazine with photos of their house in Sarasota Florida
that he designed-he's an architect and sculptor-it's a mansion--she asks if I'm
a professional. I say I may have done a little professional stuff 50 years ago
(we're supposed to be amateurs I guess) and she says she did some musical stuff
then too (she and hubby are 71). We find comparability with them. Their house
took three years of review with the authorities in Sarasota before it got
approved. In the last year while it was being built, his mother and his son
died. Life throws crap at everybody even the overprivileged. 
Movietime. We're not watching incessant politics with our
club sandwiches-and bottle. This one is
with Keira Knightly and Mark Ruffalo and that Oscared Mr. Darcy actor of The
Kings Speech as a famous debunking magician who falls in love with his
debunkee.
Hop on hop off surely suggests rapidity of motion. Not
yet as we start our tour marching from Boston Harbor Terminal outside to the
Old Town Trolley. I like the big open air windows. Hugo is the driver/guide.
Brash Boston sense of humor, accent a mile long.
Here we sit in our front row seats at the Captain's party
for Special Passengers Like Us. Which means we get to listen to a blonde
Hitchkockian ice-princess songstress singing she's crazy for loving me, cadge a
free martini of uncertain origin and a pig in a blanket as god intended for me,
and a puff pastry for Bob. We swear there's the same Japanese couple we see on
every cruise dancing up a storm. And there's the Japanese guy and his Anglo wife
who form the core, with the hail-fellow, of our morning stretch class dancing
to the strains of the Tennessee Waltz. OMG and here's another free martini.
Though it has lemon peels in it, I'll grab it. 963 platinum 799 elite
passengers. Wow. "The $150,000 free laundry." Quick calculation:
that's close.
NEWPORT, RI
It's Halloween. The dining room is festooned with holiday
appropriate ditzi, carved pumpkin (and we know they know how to carve), black
and orange balloons, even a noose (I could have done without that touch).
Bob
wonders if Mrs. Vanderbilt has decorated Breakers for the occasion. God I hope
not is my reply. Let's keep it pure. I pass on a pastry proffered by the
importuning pastry boy. Good for you says Bob. For God sake I'm having a bagel
with my lox. How many carbs can a person consume? Pause. I'm testing the
proposition. I take a photo of my (delicious) apple wedges. Bob: That's why you
have no memory left. I think, that's because I'm old. Oh he was referring to my
iPhone's dwindling remaining capacity.
Tender ride is rather long. I hear people talking about
selling their multimillion dollar home on 5 acres outside of Seattle to a
Microsoft executive. Others talking about their ungrateful children and I think
these are the people I will entertain at the Voice show. It's windy and unwarm
but at least it's bright out. 
Marble House was a gift to Vanderbilt's wife, Alma.
Always a family home.
First breakers burned down in 1892.
The
boyz require a hardy breakfast and receive their omelettes with trappings happily
with all the leisure in the world to spare. We're mighty pleased with ourselves
having made the decision not to walk along the Promenade at Brooklyn Heights,
Bob remembering that it's a long and expensive taxi ride there. "And what
if we can't get a taxi back?" So, happy alternative, we alight to an
upper deck where there are sunshine, lounges and an incredible view of the New
York and environs skyline. We fiddle with my selfie stick frustratingly though
we do manage to get one glorious photo of Bob's forearm. Luckily, (though from
his moan I realize Bob doesn't think that's the case) I spy our French Canadian
guys and ask them to take our photo against the landscape--a surefire
"Reuel's canvas Picture Wall" selection. Gille's, that's his name,
the other's whom he calls his Boy, is Bruno, who shortly finds a lounge to nap
on. 
Time
for my closeup Mr. DeMille. Photo shoot for the contest. My competitors are all
assembled by the photographer's stand, big white background. There's Harry,
cute little old guy, who will proceed me--Give 'em hell Harry, I say. We all
put on our smiles. My Chinese friend who I see carries a cane, God, 7 old men
competing, says he should be having fun on a cruise, why this? It's a funny
riff bearing that essential nugget of truth. He and Harry are from San
Francisco. And the 50 (maybe 60) something hunk (it's relative) of the group lives nearby I
discover after the session. He's got a grandkid in college . . . so no chicken
he.
R.
Starter: Herb and sea salt marinated seafood antipasto with shrimp, squid,
black mussels, creamy lemon emulsion (it’s delicious); soup minestrone
all'ortolana (really fabulous); spaghetti con polpette in salsa do pomodoro
fresco. 
Cannonball imbedded in oldest revolutionary church, St. Paul's Episcopal.
Having
trouble recollecting the Voice completion because it wasn't my finest moment.
As I arrive at Dolphon deck having steamed, I see a frantic Bob in the hall.
They called. I'm late for 7 pm rehearsal! They're waiting for me! I thought we
were supposed to meet at 8:30 and missed the fact that we had a 7 pm rehearsal.
Monique is calling me. I throw clothes on--t-shirt--sandals rush out and trip,
splat, falling headfirst at the entrance to the elevators. When I arrive
onstage, breathless and wounded, they are indeed waiting for me, orchestra and
contestants. I kill at my song—really—I’ll win if I sing like this at the
performance though when Davis one of the production singers asks me why I’m
frowning afterward when I was “great”, I feel I daren’t tell him or the
orchestra leader that I’m unsure of my entrance after the “vamp” because well I
made them all wait for me. Fatal flaw as it turns out.
In the tense green room, Carla apologizes that we are bound by rules and can’t have fun but must try to have it anyway. In performance I start late so the orchestra is playing one thing and I, not having my note cue, sing another thing in a higher key. Despite this punch to the gut upset I’m frankly not bad, automatically in performance mode—Bob manages to videotape half—the not as good first half of my 90 seconds of song—and when I have the nerve to review it a few days later I realize my rendition is creditable but I need to rely on falsetto for my big notes because of the self-inflicted key change and basically a capella free-of-orchestra singing. The other problem is that the judges when asked what criteria they will apply tonight say “if it’s fun”, “if it makes me smile”. Fly me to the Moon not! So the finalists are the Chinese guy who does a Roy Orbison imitation complete with sun glasses and an old guy (who isn’t?) who does a whiteface James Brown imitation complete with screams wins, though neither has a “Voice”. Yup, they’re “fun” and karaoke addicts—which I guess is the point. To add to the calamities a woman takes Bob’s passenger card instead of hers so, hunting it down, he’s late for the gloomy after party for contestants and their family.
Despite my initial optimism I'm clearly not up to either abs workout or to Zumba so Bob and I proceed to crowded breakfast where we're seated next to what I call the "happy couple" who insist on breaking through Bob's somber mood--what's with that?--with tales of happy sailings especially to Japan since they notice my Japanese t-shirt. The happy traveling retirees are replaced by a younger couple who I warn that I hope they'll have better luck in getting their food than we. When our big breakfasts arrive, mine an English Breakfast, eggs with sausage and bacon, I feel their disapproving eyes on our selections and their exchanged derisive glances preliminary to their receipt of fruity spare plates.
Bob
chooses an admittedly strange breakfast from the buffet. Peanut butter on
walnut bread, a buttered raisin challah and a watermelon slice. Our sunny
Ukrainian waitress from Sabatini's serves us our coffee and tea. I enjoy lox
and bagel and an omelette and . . . Just Normal people fare. It's all better
for being devoured outside under the welcome sunshine. I opine about our
potential 2020 (?) 3 1/2 month round the world sailing that it could lead to
great overeating and fatness hence requiring tremendous discipline . . . which
has not been heretofore in evidence. Alas.
I
note that the Chairman drinks are not as potent as usual as we order another
required round. Bob suggests that they want us sober so we can get off the ship.
Dinner:
the servers are dressed with All American red white and blue vests; we're
finishing the last of our allotted bottles, Puerto Viejo Cab--worked out well
R. Sautéed chicken and veal sweetbreads, (sort of a mini chicken pot pie--I'm
not sure); curried pumpkin cream soup, (cold not flavorful); NY Strip Steak
(not so great a cut, hard to cut, but pleasant to eat once sawed; I didn't need
to finish it) and the baked Alaska of course.
"Any port in the storm" says Bob as it has begun to rain and we are three blocks from the Flamingo where we will reside in Miami Beach. That port is Via Emilia, a charming restaurant with a charming waiter from Spain. Our wine is Sauvignon Bianco ($35). Our food is amazingly 50% off. Our antipasto to share is eggplant parmigiana and it is excellent. Bread in a little bag to dip into vinegar and oil. No wonder Anthony Bourdain recommends it. I ask our server what kind of music this is for an Italian restaurant. He says it is Spanish, the boss is not here and he misses Spain. (He’s Spanish and charming or did I say that already.) Bob has the delicious chicken. Reuel the terrific meatballs in sauce. Since we are fat off the ship--oops meant just off, we share a big bowl of strawberries dipped in lemon--perfect. A woman behind me is making pasta--her machine whirrs but it is not unpleasant. Part of the atmosphere. Bob tops off with cafe Americain. We've plenty of time to "kill" before our condo is ready.
For
fun we do responsive readings from my old emails, I taking one line, Bob the
next. As in Bob, "Thanks." Reuel, "Sheryl". (Read with a
hint of mystery.)
However, that is one of the pluses of this condo choice--we realize it's not all negative as we settle in and the hurdles getting to it are behind us. Yes, the denizens of all hues are mostly young but many are beautiful in this land where display of one’s physical attributes is necessary by default. So much eye candy. Hard (but essential) to avert one’s eyes in the slow moving elevator. And that's one of the negatives. Of 4 elevators in this, the north, building only 2 work, the others sidelined for essential renovation. And then it arrives at a corridor that takes minutes to walk though--it's a wide contemporary updated hall at that--leading to the end-unit bay side of the building where our condo looks out at incredible views, the Miami Beach skyline, the behemoth cruise ships (we see 4 , Celebrity, MSG, Norwegian and ?), and watch them move out past that skyline and under the twinkle lighted causeway out to sea into the sunset; we see the Promenade along the bay below but also look out at the thousand windows of the other two buildings of the Flamingo complex. And though the condo is well-supplied including martini glasses which will contain some of our unused smuggled vodka it was not well cleaned by the little guy we surprised when we returned. Some of the furnishings are old and worn (don't really care), some lightbulbs and closet hangars are missing but on balance it seems a pretty good choice. We'll see if its distance from the "real" South Bay, i.e. Lincoln Road, is daunting. Also the tv's provide unusable Spanish and generally undesirable other channels leaving mainly PBS and C-span which I watch sustained by a crackers and cheese spread purchased at the downstairs mini-mart with other provisions such as olives and wine (another on the plus column) until I fall asleep at 7 pm a victim of 4 hours snooze-time disembarkation night and am gently put abed by sweet Bob.
We're
at Balans restaurant one of a plethora of restaurants-outdoors on Lincoln
Road where we actually walked infirmities be damned. "My name is Lucas and
I'll take care of ya." Ok, you do that young guy. Ahem. $25 pitcher of
bloodies (exactly right, a buzz but not the roaring buzz we might desire) and
the huevos rancheros (beautifully served, sunny side atop tortilla atop
potatoes) will have to do.
Though
we are all mobile impaired to lesser and greater extent, we brave a walk to
Lincoln Road in search of food. Found are even more conversational gambits,
such as Dorothy's despair that her brother and his family will vote for Trump,
our despair that anyone would.
R.
Pollo Criollo. 1/2 chicken (it is the winner--delicious). B. Caesar Salad. Nice
bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
Nearby
is the Holocaust memorial park, impressive and touching. The giant hand
sculpture reaching to the sky, the wall of photos of holocaust scenes from the
early humiliation and persecution of Jews through the unspeakable murdering of
Jews in the camps, to the liberation. We must not, we cannot, ever ever forget.
We do not, resting and contemplating by the reflecting pool and that giant
unforgettable sculpture up close.
1986
moved into original bldg. museum opened in 1995. By 2005 only 22 congregants so
became part of museum. University operates museum. 10 active synagogues in
Miami Beach.
Several
blocks to the west and we're at the famous Joes Stone Crab. Not in the mood for
the $50 Classic stone crab meal. So New England fish fry basket for me, (just
ok), burger for Bob, "excellent", fried chicken "better than
chicken places" and chopped salad "an Israeli salad with a zest"
for Dorothy. We decide to share 2 key lime pies. Why not? 
Since
we're in the neighborhood we stop at Swatch, one of many enticing shops along
Lincoln Road, and buy me a lovely, fanciful watch. I tell Bob we can buy him
something equally nice now. Luckily he declines. (O the cruelty) but emboldened
by his growing facility with his walkability, he suggests we walk on to the Art
Deco district--a great joy to those of us (i.e., us) who are architecturally
inspired. We pass all the importuning shills along restaurant row with
practiced resistance and stop at the Art Deco center and that attached
fascinating gift shop with all that 50's memorabilia. Pass the Versace mansion
and look at the shockingly priced menu in front of the steps where Versace was
shot by fellow San Diegan Andrew Cunanan (boy toy of an aging gay socialite we
sort of know, knew. Ah the creepy celebrity of it all.) Thence we advance
homeward with a stop at the I Love Liquor store for vastly overpriced vodka and
an eponymous shot glass for our bar at home.
Thence along the bayside Promenade to the condo. A diet (ahem) of late evening remains of our quiche and tacky mindless tv shows like Empire (what's going on?) and Midsummer Murders (what's going on?) as I (at least for now) vow not to look at the news for the next four years lest I become seriously ill.
Watching
an Aida and then an NCL cruise ship enter the harbor to a Chopin Nocturne
occasionally being interrupted by imperfectly placed rabbit ears. And then
listening to crooked Chris Christie discussing an intra administration
rapprochement (really?) and the transition (oy) breaking immediately my vow to
not tune into politics for four years lest I contract a hideous disease. Then
Bob says maybe it's all a bad dream (a notion it must be noted he rejected
yesterday when I suggested it. So we're both having the same nightmare now.
When will we wake up to "Stronger Together"?).
We
wend our way back via our new favorite route, the Promenade, for our late
afternoon nappies. Then at 4 I find my way down to the one remaining huge, but
empty of swimmers, pool for yet more relaxation--my job after all--and um
Spanish-speaking people-watching from my chaise and otherwise reading from my
book of Sherlock Holmes stories (last read 65 years ago) that I purchased today
at the lovely bookstore--since I may no longer occupy myself with tales of
government.
At 9 AM we're lined up for our city tour tickets. Bob got
the confirmation online for $25 each. Tour is 9:30-1:30. We'll be hungry
because there were scant pickings for breakfast (though Bob generously let me
have the last sliver of coffee cake--he a toast shard) not inappropriate for a
last full day here. 
Ocean drive closed for the Veterans Day parade. We're in South Beach.
Collins Ave. named after the guy who built the 1st bridge to connect to Miama Beach.
The Ball and chain is the oldest jazz club. At night Jazz
then salsa. Roosters seen everywhere in plaster are good luck to Cuban
community. Festival every 2nd Sunday of March. Close street for 27 blocks.
Latin celebrities sing.
Confusion reigns as we're parked at the pier. We're not taking the boat tour as most are. We finally learn we can get the bus back at 12:30. However while we get $5 mojitos (Bob) and marguerites (me). It's 11:30 and it's "happy hour" in Miami. 1/2 hour later we get our drinks which taste like fruit juice. buzzless in Miami in the morning. A salsa song.
On the slow way back over MacArthur causeway we see our
building in the distance behind Star Island looming ahead. It must be said that truly amazing
skyscrapers dot the landscape.
Free at last and we head for YUCA where we are recognized
as three-timers. Loyal customers and drinkers of the $4 house wine by the
glass. We start with bacon wrapped dates. Stuffed ground beef "lovely" quothe Bob. This time Bob
is having the Piquillos de Pepin which consists of roasted Spanish piquillo
peppers filled with chorizo. ("The Cuban take on the classic European
stuffed peppers. Delicious.") I'm having the portobello burger (I know
unimaginative; pass on the more adventurous cevice.) We decide Yuca is our
natural choice because it has an upscale appeal and we naturally gravitate
toward it. (A little pat on our upscale backs. Ahem.) We are indefatigable and
actually order desserts, Bob chocolate ice-cream, presumably home made, and me
Titianoff de Chocolate (which sounds Russian/French not Cuban) described as a
chocolate sponge cake soaked in 3 milks finished with chocolate ice cream. "It's horrible" I say.
"That good? " Asks Bob. "Yeah."
Incredible walk along the malecon--for such it probably
is--with the lowering sun-dappled water plashing against the walls of shore.
We're
surrounded by alien languages, destined to be forever in the dark. (“I do make
out "aperitif". My my.)
Then
when we finally check our luggage in, Bob's is 3 pounds overweight which would
result in a $100 extra charge if he doesn't laboriously remove 2 pairs of shoes
from said container. And then we are not TSA prescreened but both being 75 or
over don't have to take off our shoes. Again my bionic shoulder doesn't set off
alarms. (I'm a little disappointed--Medicare Plus and I paid a lot for that putative
titanium replacement). And final (I hope) insult, there's no lounge in our
concourse. However some Pizza Hut deep dish pizzas imbibed at the next door
beer bar with large glasses of their beer satisfies immediate and pressing
hunger and thirst needs.
First
lap is to Houston. We splurge on the extra leg room of an exit aisle. I've got
no middle (Bob not so lucky) seat but there is a squirrelly German lad in the
window seat who insists there can be no stowing under exit aisle seats (not
true) and then has a sudden need to climb over me and an aisle cart to get to
the bathroom. I'm pleased flight attendant likes my designer Swatch watch and
the captain at the goodbye signals his regard for my colorful shirt. Fashion
victim indeed.
PRINCESS (2 WEEKS) PLUS MIAMI BEACH (1 WEEK)
CANADA/NEW ENGLAND/FLORIDA
SAT OCT 22, 2016
 |
| UBERING IT VERY EARLY IN THE MORNING |
We’re on our way, and it's not yet 5:30 AM. John our Uber
driver is at Sprucewood Condos even before we're out of the building.
Incroyable! (Practicing French for first stop on our journey back east, Quebec.)
Everything's so efficient, it's scary. We're TSA so we are fast-tracked (out by 5:45) and yay my replacement shoulder does not set off the
machines. Why is Bob lagging behind?
Irony. He's the one who beeps and has to be examined by the nice young
man. Has Bob been abducted by aliens who've implanted metals in his body while
I, innocent, sleep the sleep of angels?
Still we've got an hour to devour. For me that means breakfast.
 |
| BIRDIE IN DEPARTURES |
On our way we pass a bookstore which sports a journal
cover on display from the Harvard Business Review: "What keeps CEO's Awake
At night?" I say, it's renting
apartments. But we're saved this time since I rented one at the last
minute--showed it to young couple who enquired just yesterday, Friday, and by evening as they waited I wrote their
lease. Free at last. Thank God almighty . . . My eggy burrito from Tommy's
Pizzeria is entirely edible and should not (?) lead to a disease of the
stomach.
Once a-planed, I notice that there are no tv's--all media
is apparently available through United's website on one’s personal device--the
assumption being that one owns so marvelous a thing. Revolution! The aisle I'm
certain has shrunk, United’s quite wrong assumption being that you are thin--certainly
not true of the corpulent dad spilling out of his seat next to mine, he with
his young noisy daughter, his wife behind with their young noisy other young
child. I think I'll write one of my 10 minute plays about a poor air passenger
beset by a myriad of annoyances including flight assistants demanding,
passengers kicking seats, children wailing, spilling liquids on oneself. Or how
about two passengers in argument over seat room who wind up killing the flight
attendant referee. Okay I'll calm down. I did refuse the proffered caffeine for
god’s sake.
This segment of the flight to Newark is shorter than I
envisioned. In fact we're arriving 15 minutes ahead of schedule. "Saving
time!" But it's Newark and it's cold. Not unpleasant. I guess that's one
reason for this particular Fall trip—to experience the change of weather,
change of leaves. Lots of black workers in phalanxes. It's Newark! Then O the
Undistilled Joy of it: We take the shuttle bus from Terminal B to terminal C
walk walk only to discover our gate to a delayed Quebec flight is now Terminal
A walk walk shuttle bus to Terminal A.
This plane is not only 1/3 hour late but overbooked. Bob
says let's take the $150 credit and stay over in Newark. I say when you said
that I felt dizzy and almost fainted. Then I receive an update text from
United. Flight on time. Huh? And there's our mini-plane being towed in. Why?
Can't it fly or are we going to be tugged to Canada? Fly-bus transport, newest
thing baby.
We wonder why there are so many old people boarding and
realize (I see the tags) they're Princess passengers! Cute leetle plane. We've
got the exit row and the legroom at least but we've got to perform the pledge
that we'll assist the flight attendant, follow the arcane pictographic
instructions, and heave the doors open in case . . . The responsibility sits
heavily with us.
We're not aloft until 4:50 and it feels like we're in a
perambulator on a rocky road. Though a virtue of the small craft is that you
ride just above the clouds and they are tres jolie (more practice). As the
craft bumps around, especially as we near our destination, I write notes for my
next play and dialogue and wonder if I'll have the, what, resolve to work on it
during this sojourn--didn't work out during Japan. Let's stay optimistic. Hey
that's the traveler's (not the tourist's) pledged refrain after all.
I ask Bob if we're visiting Celine Dion, the capital of
Quebec, as we chosen few swiftly but annoyingly are required to go through
passport check before collecting our luggage.
 |
| RAIN, OUR NEW FRIEND |
 |
| NOT A SUITE BUT A MINI-SUITE: IT WORKS |
We know this cabin--the same as all the other Princess
mini-suites we've occupied. Our steward is Rob (for Roberto) and he dutifully
brings us our glasses of champagne. Among our perks also is a platter of yummy
h'ors deuvres. We've only a few (what resolve) because dinner awaits.
 |
| PRACTICE MAKES PERFECT |
Dinner at the Coral Dining Room. That wonderful service
with eager servile (oh dear) Asians. I’m going all American for my Night One
favorites (though I've been disappointed in the past). Shrimp cocktail. (I like
the cocktail sauce); Artichoke bisque ‘cause it sounds interesting. (It is.
It's wonderful). The prime rib (tender) with corn on the cob and baked potato
(it hurts to have the fixings?). Bob. Spring roll ("a little tough").
Salad and the prime rib. Bob: "A successful opening night dinner." |
| HELLO GORGEOUS |
We lay waste to it and a bottle of "cut--above"
red.
SUNDAY
OCT 23. QUEBEC
It's
morning’s cuddle time talk and I say that I overate last night despite no rolls
and no dessert but eating everything on my plate so from now on I'll eat half a
plate. "Why don't you order things you don't like," says Bob. And
then he offers a disgusting choice. "Chorizo and . . . "
Following this bon mot is the 2nd amuse from the wit of Dr. B, when I note that there’s no LGBT listing today in the Princess Patter, "Why don't we go to the AA meeting instead. We'd meet more interesting people."
Following this bon mot is the 2nd amuse from the wit of Dr. B, when I note that there’s no LGBT listing today in the Princess Patter, "Why don't we go to the AA meeting instead. We'd meet more interesting people."
In-room
McMuffin breakfast perfect for our trip day needs except we have to pass on the
croissants.
Alas
it’s rainy out and this is our whole day tour of Quebec with a lot of walking.
We've got to see it all forever in one day! Even through it’s raining,
our Balcony view of the rise on the shore is charming and rain-plus
atmospheric. Perhaps it won't be all bad.
No
news channels it would appear in Canada so we are confined to watching morning
cooking shows ("you're chopped") and a brassy woman named Theresa who
channels "your dead". Gasp.
QUEBEC.
It's nasty out. Cold and it's damp but we must tramp tramp tramp. A woman boarding the bus falls, "Oh my knees collapsed"; it’s that time of life. Sprightly tour guide. She's Sandrine. "Call me sardine." At least we shouldn't have trouble understanding her; much as they resist, the Quebecoise are bilingual. I say that the nice thing about cruises is that you let things happen to you; you don't happen to them. Bob. "You let the rain wash over you." We decide to pretend it's raining maple sugar.
It's nasty out. Cold and it's damp but we must tramp tramp tramp. A woman boarding the bus falls, "Oh my knees collapsed"; it’s that time of life. Sprightly tour guide. She's Sandrine. "Call me sardine." At least we shouldn't have trouble understanding her; much as they resist, the Quebecoise are bilingual. I say that the nice thing about cruises is that you let things happen to you; you don't happen to them. Bob. "You let the rain wash over you." We decide to pretend it's raining maple sugar.
QUEBEC Became British after the
French and Indian war. Brits let them be so as we shouldn’t join with the
Americans against them. New France over 80% of North America. Quebec kept its
walls. Whole city is a world treasure.
It's
unbelievably charming.
Champlain was the founder. Beaver fur
waterproof. "Garde aloo" story. (It’s
about the ancient custom of heaving shit on the streets.)
Champlain married 12 year old Elaine.
Her money founded Quebec and Montreal.
 |
| THEY LOVE HALLOWEEN IN CANADA |
Place Royale. Smaller window squares
French. Older than larger squares British, because need smaller glass
transported on ships without breaking.
Roofs first wood--fire; slate--snow
was too heavy--collapsed. Finally tin.
Village burned down 8 times.
Rebuilt.
Canada means "small
village". (Indian name)
Place Royale is so charming that I want to take loads of photos but I’m afraid
my batteries will die. We'll see how long it lasts.
We're on the St. Lawrence 800 miles
from the ocean. Through Great Lakes. Quebec means where river narrows.
Sandrine
Says if you cross the street the wrong way they're allowed to hit you.
Hotel Frontenac. 620 rooms.
Reuel
of the 1000 calamities. My hat flies off into the Dali statue enclosure. Much communal
groaning until a gentleman lifts one of the gates for me and a lady puts my
rain hood over my head. Nice to have help.
 |
| THE DALI. ENCLOSURE FOR HATS |
Touring
the interior of the Hotel Chateau Frontenac--it's not spectacular but its
famous.
Everything is provincial in Canada.
Even healthcare.
We're 100 miles from Maine. Nice
seeing the colorful fall trees. Halloween is a big holiday in Quebec.
Sugar maple trees turn bright
red.
Snow geese: when tide is high they
line up on the highway.
We see where St Lawrence narrows. Our ship is tiny in the distance. 
Fall colors: Quebec first ones to
turn.
We
pass a lot of charming stone cottages.
Use only 20% of hydroelectricity and
sell 80% to USA.
Can fit up to 6 or 7 cruise
ships here at one time.
We're
driving around the island. It's beautiful.
Huron Indians helped Quebec to cure
scurvy. Women run their councils.
I
run out to take photo of the trees colors. We
pass by oldest French house, built low despite the snow.
At
St. Anne de Beaupres Bob refuses to get blessed by a priest (our guide offers
to engage the priest).
We
don't think the hall's tiles compare to St. Marks or Hagia Sophia's. Interior
impressive. Not finished yet; this is the 5th rebuilding of it. It's just a
village church but it's huge.
Native girls in the 1600's wouldn't marry French guys. Thought them unclean.
The men therefore Imported indigent
French girls. These Starving girls chose fat guys--had 20 kids.
We see a copy of the Pieta. She tells
us that Michaelangelo hated girls so all his women are big buff guys. (Ok. I know Michaelangelo was queer but I didn't know THAT
queer.)
The
searing winds as we head back to the bus make us glad we live in San Diego. One
virtue of trips to colder climbs is building up reserves of appreciation for our
adopted hometown.
And
so to lunch at a lovely old house. Nice pate and sweet ice tea. We order Red
wine plonk and we’re not talking your average schoolboy plonk. Yuk. And poor
Bob struggles with the credit card machine humiliatingly for five, count them,
minutes while I sip on my wine. We can't guess the provenance of the soup over
conversation with our neighbors from Ohio. He collects garages full of cars--can't
be paupers. Jack also makes wine and at Bob's prodding we are treated with a
course on the process. Wife visits his cellar daily. Hmm. When our entrees
arrive an hour later, flavor is not the issue. At about 2:30 our dessert
arrives. Bob was hoping for something "authentically ethnic".
"Like pancakes and maple syrup?", I ask. 
1759 French and Indian war on Plains
of Abraham lasted 15 minutes, victory to the British. If they lost we Americans
would be speaking French. (Ok, there's a rule of travel: The guide
will tell funny stories, and it doesn't matter if they're true.)
 |
| IMPRESSIVE FALLS AFTER A RAIN |
Our guide tells us that when we'll be warm in Florida she’ll be working as head guide at the Ice Hotel in Quebec.
Next
up The Stupid Safety Drill onboard at which we scope out who might be gay from
the hundreds of poor suckers standing around with their life vests. We see one
couple f'sure. And I congratulate Bob on after 20 cruises he still can't put
his life jacket on. Meow.
Obligatory
visit to the young attractive internet guy to just open up our internet
accounts. O technology. O Princess. We'll see how long our complimentary 250
minutes each will last this cruise. I tell our guy we'll see him tomorrow.
And
then, since there's no LGBT cocktail hour indicated (I vow to
-complain if this continues) we proceed to our first platinum/elite cocktail
soirée, in Club Fusion where, unlike the traditional venue upstairs offers no
great panoramic ocean view, we have lovely Chairman of the Board (vodka
primarily of course) drinks and since we catch the eye of the likely
December/May gay couple emptying a bottle of champagne (my goodness) when I
pass them back from the h'ors deuvres table I ask if they are celebrating
something and I get the impression from the animated and charismatic older gent
that downing a bottle of bubbly is just an everyday occurrence. I chat, and
discover commonality with the older guy--certainly not with the younger,
surprisingly age 46 though still an apparent boy toy--with "eyes this
big"--an old queen's phrase uttered by his um papa--in that he knows of
the Gripsholm where I was cruise singer since he was "master" on
cruise ships years ago (this is his 108th cruise). Bob anxious that we get to
the 7 o'clock show joins us and scurries me away.
The
Show. Dance number new and energized. Lots of black light. We meet the slick
cruise director and animated staff and hear the very funny comedian's riff.
(Not usually the case). His misadventures getting here, interaction with
audience--newbies vs. old timers--mostly extempore.
Dinner.
I get to taste Bob's "I like this a lot" red and white bean casolet.
Excellent. Our capable server is from Mexico. Very Aztec look. "Racially
pure" I embarrassingly say. We're taken with our assistant
server/sommelier "I'm all things alcohol" (Me. "You're our
guy".)
My
Tandoori Fire Roasted Tiger Prawns. With yogurt and saffron rice.
Bob
really likes his English tiger ice cream. He thinks that Princess' Ice cream
typically has too much air in it. Not this! So to my cheese plate, a can't
miss. Deciding not to have the Chocolate Praline Torte because I declare I
think it has something to do with the Law. (Tort, you got it.)
At
home, without the news get to see a well written tense drama called
"Match" with Patrick Stuart as an old dancer whose paternity vs. a
cop’s at the prodding of the cop’s wife, presumed to be Stuart’s daughter, is
in question. It’s strongly acted. Zzzz.
MONDAY OCTOBER 24
PORT SAGUENAY
Pretty view from our balcony of the green hills dotted
with the gold of turned leaves. Bob sitting next to me on the bed says he
prefers warm and sunny.
It appears "we" didn't sign up for a tour of
this outpost. Sin of omission? Who knows? So we'll play it loose, which has its
virtues. Besides we've heard warnings that it will be C o l d.
OMG At 3:15 in the afternoon I dozed and iPhone in hand
must have deleted the rest of this: blecch. And it was good stuff.
What can I remember? While Bob slept I did the 7 AM
stretch and abs classes. “Tall Finn” (the cruise director’s description) takes
us through our paces. Classmates talking about past cruises, especially the
round the world on the small ship. Will we get to do it?
At 10 AM breakfast upstairs. We don't eat everything in
sight. We brave a walk into the driving wind and cold and stop at a kind of
terminal building full of ditzy goods stores and then walk around to the town
churches. We enter one and are besieged by friendly religious ladies. We escape
without giving them anything. Good tourists! Let's get back before we freeze.
I find lyrics for Shalom by Jerry Herman as an audition
song tonight for the upcoming Voice concert, which is a big deal, heavily hyped
on Princess ships--which means competition damn it. And I'm not sure I want to
exercise the discipline of getting ready for it. Isn't that counterproductive
to cruising?--where the mantra is indulge and enjoy?--although I do expend lots
of effort writing these notes and taking thousands of photos. (A compulsive
personality is a hard thing to revamp.)
We're moving. I say there are supposed to be whales. Bob
says they're gone in October. There they are I say. I see creatures! Grab the
binoculars! They're not moving! Maybe they're dead! (They're rocks.)
 |
| NOT ME |
And then the countdown to the Voice auditions. I've been
practicing Jerry Herman's Shalom from Milk and Honey most of the day--finding a
very traditional version on YouTube--the accompanist for the operatic tenor
wears a head scarf. We cadge enough tea and lemon from the buffet upstairs,
sufficient quantity that I feel like burping, only to discover, when we get
there (that Fusion Lounge again) too early that the auditions are karaoke,
which I've never done in public before. Oy. What to do? I look through the
books. Josh Grobin and Frank Sinatra are more my vocal range. Don't know the
Grobin tunes. So it's either My Way or Strangers In the Night, which after
trying to hum the tunes in my head, I choose. I tell myself What the hell but
that's scant comfort.
Big audience, estimated over 500. I'm number 2. First guy
does a Frank Sinatra up-tune and damn does it really well, sounds
Sinatra-esque.
I sing Strangers bel canto and more or less follow the
tune. I'm full of doubts afterward but I’m a finalist anyway. Bob says I was
very brave and he's proud of me. Wonderful man he. I make him my manager.
TUESDAY OCT 25 AT SEA
Up at god knows quarter to five and that's an hour
forward yet. Got to somehow make my weary way up to the gym for some elliptical
and then stretches and ab work with Hennie, gorgeously bodied South African (not
Finnish) guy.
Then after an in-room breakfast of cereal with banana, Bob
has the McMuffin. It's time for Zumba. The scene of my previous night's
debacle--voice of the ocean audition--club fusion now--is now the scene of a Catholic
mass presided over by two antique priests.
Alter candles, the whole smear has to be removed for the Zumba class
which an Aussie ("it’s the Capital of Zumba") gal presides over with
athletic flair while I survive the slightly turbulent ocean's tilts and weaves.
On the way to lunch the fruit carvers in the atrium are
amazing, three Philipino guys in white carving sharks, birds and flowers out of
watermelons.
Bob asks if there were any tiny Japanese women jumping
around in Zumba today. Of course, I reply. Any black women. Of course not. In
fact we've yet to see any black passengers. Hmm.
Back at the cabin we devise our evening schedule. It's a
formal night.
6:30 Comedian Steve Caouette who was so funny opening
night.
7: drinks Explorers
8: dinner
9:15 Voice of the sea auditions part 2
10: piano man production show
We're here at the Explorers Club where we are way too early but
having blessedly found seats, no longer available minutes later when we are
sipping our martinis. I tell Bob that I feel safe on cruise ships (ocean liners
in my day) because they are away from the world where it is dangerous. He asks
if I'll feel safe in Miami. No.
I note that a dapper gentleman who passes by in a tux is
what "they" call a Silver Fox and that he, Bob, is a silver fox and
would be perfect for any young man looking for that. He is speechless for a
moment, ponders, then sings "After you're gone . . ."
We get to the dining room before it officially opens for
anytime dining. Smart. Well-seated. Uncrowded.
Bob orders our new best friend, Deseno old vine Malbec.
"It's a quiet wine. It doesn't dance on the palate. It naps." He's
into bon mots. I comment on another gent wearing glasses on a string the way I
do. "You see, distinguished gentlemen wear them." Bob. "And
visiting nurses."
It pisses me off that the gal photographer passes us by
and photographs every other couple but us. The question always is, shall I make
waves. And our perfectly efficient waiter is "no fun" when we banter
about finishing the bottle. The photo gal greets us with a smile later and,
finally, she is solicitous. So big deal.
 |
| AUDITIONS NIGHT 2 |
Back to our cabin with the instructions for the more or
less demanding rehearsal schedule with the conductor, mentor and orchestra. Hey
this old guy tries new (?) things. And as I said to Bob last night when I
auditioned, I really put you through it (or some such). God I hope I don't
embarrass myself . . . or Bob.
WEDNESDAY OCT 26.
SYDNEY
On this cruise the tours move out with efficiency,
certainly not the case in former ventures. Our specific outing is billed as the
Big Pink Bus tour and true to billing ours is. In fact we get the upstairs of a
Big Pink double decker.
Ok, it's cold but we're layered and ready though the
windows are fogged which just might impede picture taking. Our guide tells us
the fog on the windows will move off.
I tell Bob that Moon River the Henry Mancini Breakfast At
Tiffany's song, my second choice, (I look later at my notes--looks like it's
Fly Me To The Moon) that he and the gals advised is "all his fault".
He's my manager after all! (I am a pain in the ass.)
 |
| COLONIAL GREETERS |
Entering Kings Road for George 3, king at time of
founding. (This is Cape Breton Island pop. 130k--Sydney was the capital-- then
Halifax of Nova Scotia. Brits took fortress from French in 1869. Had been built
to protect the entrance to the St. Lawrence Seaway.
First Europeans were Basque--fished here 500 years before
Columbus. 100 days for Catholics of fasting= fish. So this was a great fishing
hole.
We pass their buildings. Convention center, schools.
Belong to the Algonquin nation. Next territory Iroquois--own south to NYC.
Teach their children the Midmah language.
Cape Breton mainly English speaking but teach children
French. Also Gaelic taught in some schools.
Looks like hockey is a big deal. Tim Horton conglomerate.
Hockey rinks. Strong coffee.
Canada has 13 publicly funded health care systems. Pay
for it thru taxes. 15% taxes on commodities. Grey goose vodka $60. At first
there were complaints about Medicare. Now they like it. Don't pay for health
care directly.
Hardwood Hill where wood for ships came from.
Steel came to Sydney in 1900. (We'll visit a museum.) Had
big Jewish population--not now.
Recently Hurricane Matthew ruined many homes, flooding.
Electricity out 30 hours. Most people have generators in preparation for bad
weather.
We pass houses that were flooded, their belongings on the
street.
Big houses-steel execs-$300 k. Middle $200k. Workers
houses $90k.
Owners of steel owned everything. Took tent, electrical,
etc. out of salary. Often left nothing.
Whitney Pier. 55 different ethnic groups lived well
together.
Bob and I agree it’s kind of like Bethlehem, PA, his
birthplace.
Here No segregation of schools.
Many churches closing for lack of attendance.
South Bar. Has a sandbar that runs out into the harbor
for a mile. Near Sydney.
I notice peaked roofs everywhere. Snow!
People pick blueberries in the Fall.
Sydney Harbor dredged in 2011 to support cruise ships.
Ferry system to Nova Scotia Newfoundland. 3-5 hours. Otherwise must fly.
First dredged for ww2.
Convoys sent out in 1940. War over by 1945.
We pass a Church that historical society just
rescued/purchased for $45k. Will use it for wedding receptions, etc.
Fort made to look like a church to fool Germans. Had observation tower.
As we leave the bus for our view of the fort I tell bob
there's a certain kind of charm in its smallness and ordinariness (referring to
the whole tour).
At one time sent 85% of Canada's coal. Mines were
numbered. Closed. Not economically viable and for environmental reasons. Same
for the steel plant sold to Asians and now making steel in Asia.
Mines were built under the water. Coal plant material. Lignite too wet for commercial. Goes to bituminous. Best is anthracite.
Mines were built under the water. Coal plant material. Lignite too wet for commercial. Goes to bituminous. Best is anthracite.
Pass former coal sites.
Flags of countries where killed miners came from.
1925 miners fought against oppression. Davis Day to
commemorate it.
Import coal now from the USA and South America.
Community of Lingan.
Bell invented telephone for the mines.
Miners developed black lung. Would get disability
pension.
Underground mine ponies were blinded when brought out to
the light.
Interesting that she's a local. Tells stories of her
family. Pass her small house. She car-raced on the ice on the water. Cape
Breton has a large moose. Up to 1400 pounds.
Nova Scotia: Mayflower is the flower. Tree: Red
Spruce-tree can live 400 years.
We note the houses are modest clapboard but very well
kept up.
Museum given by Jewish temple.
We're going to get our tea, coffee and oatcakes.
"You'll see pretty quick why we call it the memory
factory", says a gentleman in the museum.
Charming in its provinciality and earnestness to capture the ethos
through mundane (mean that in the best sense) detail of a community. Downstairs
we enjoy tea and oatcakes (very tasty). One of the town ladies tells me they're
easy to make. I ask if they're easy to buy. We sit by a map of the area as we
eat our oatcakes with our tea and coffee. There's Sydney in Cape Benton then
west to Halifax and up to St. John. Bob asks at the steel exhibit about blast
furnaces. No longer here. (They are Preserved in his "native"
Bethlehem by the Smithsonian.)
Much discussion about oat cakes. How they were made for
ocean voyages.
High incidence of cancer so gov’t remediated subject
land- encapsulated it.
Pass the colonial houses. Stop at a park--band plays
every Sunday. Depiction of small town life that she paints has charm.
 |
| HALLOWEEN'S A BIG DEAL HERE |
Minimum wage is 10.20 then after 3 mos. 10.70. Pension
starts at $1400/mo. Then old age security. Statue of Debars man who founded the
city, a cartographer.
Big Fiddle largest fiddle in the world. (I didn't know
there was a competition)
Big craft hall at the port and that big fiddle
commemorating the importance of fiddle music (started by the immigrating scots)
in Cape Breton.
We decide to walk around old town, first take in St.
George's church. Bob tells me there were British New England loyalists who fled
to this part of Canada. We're looking for Georgian houses. Nada.
Despite my pronouncements Bob offers "I can't say
Sydney has a lot to offer the mature traveler."
Bob asks where's the gay bar. We're it, I say.
After a fast fix of the election polls in the key states
at this exact minute we are enabled to go to the trough, I mean buffet, for a
presumably small lunch in advance of our 5:30 early complimentary dinner at
Sabatini's the Italian "specialty" Restaurant. A simple glass of
wine, consommé, an egg salad broogie sandwich and a slice of cheese does it for
me. Bob is able to squeeze in a small--emphasis small--pastry among his meager
selections.
Since I think I'll probably wind up singing the
intolerably sappy Fly Me To The Moon at the contest, I tell Bob that I'll have
to apply the acting technique the great singing coach Ken McMillan taught me:
with this kind of love song, pretend the other is dead and you're trying to
bring that person back to life (this advice Ken tailored to my audition song If
Ever I Would Leave You). I tell Bob he must not reveal this to anyone. He
promises "I won't tell a soul. Don't kill me." I guess the secret's
safe with him. From my more serious perspective, It's like if you were so
privileged to know it you'd never reveal what the secret ingredient of Kentucky
Fried is.
Needed nap time ensues. 4 hours of sleep doesn't cut it.
At Sabatini's which we remember fondly as the breakfast
with endless mimosas retreat when we once had a real Princess suite and enjoyed
the perks thereof the waitress has a heavy Italian accent. She asks if we want
sparkling or cows milk. That's what I hear. I say cows milk please. As she
leaves, bob says, she said "house milk". We are in hysterics, a good
way to start the evening. In fact we're having a splendid time.
We, especially me, show our enjoyment by soiling the
table cloth with oils and sauces. A custom I'm told. The Japanese belch.
When she asks us "shall we start to cook the
pasta?" after we finished our antipasto we know we're In for a long
evening. Also we discover our Italian waitress is in fact Ukrainian.
I've always coveted the Sabatini's Maitre d's job. He
greets people and then asks them how they like their food. What a deal.
We're full after the pasta course but where there's a
will . . . Maybe.
We're looking at
after dinner drinks . We're choosing our drinks and Bob going to have to pay for this (our meal was
complimentary as was our $49 wine). "I'm going to have to pull out my
card." I: "so your motor skills are impaired now?." Courvosier
it is to accompany the incredibly sublime (yes such a category exists)
tirimisou.
We manage to spend more than two hours here. Orlissa is
our server.
Shall we go to the show? The whole ship is devoted to
country music, the cruise director even is dressed in a black cowboy hat with
matching country formal outfit and the main stage performer, a youthful looking
violinist with a Jewish lady name who plays Ave Maria in memory of his
grandmother whose photo flashes on a screen also does a hokey country western
ballad--I hum Flying To The Moon to Bob--I'm in an alternate universe.
After the show a woman approaches me and asks if I made
the finals. I say I did. And vote for me. She says I did very well or some
such. Hey one fan at a time. And I mean maybe one.
Then waiting at the elevator to ascend to our cabin, a
woman with a drink in her hand addresses me and says it's hot in here don't you
think so? My repost "now that you mention it" gets a big laugh from
the assembled.
Set the alarm for 6:15 in prep for tomorrow's fitness
class though I'll arise at 4:45. Oh boy.
THURSDAY OCT 27
HALIFAX
First thing we hear over Morning Joe babble is "This is your captain and ONCE AGAIN you ain't getting near St. John!" Well that's the gist. Our St. John landing was cancelled when we were on the Royal and now on the Caribbean. Geez. So we get an overnight in Halifax as a result--visit all the gay bars because that's what we do--not--and there are so many in a place like Halifax--double not. We consequently didn't book any Halifax tours.
We've got to give Rod, our steward, room-fixing time so we ascend to Skywalkers, the bar sitting atop the ship--no longer the locus for Elite cocktail hour libations. It's perfect, however, for a little nap which I think I'll have.
We've been to Halifax in the aforementioned Ruby
(Tuesday?) cruise, to Peggy's Cove-/I held up live lobsters, ventured up to the
lighthouse and the rocks, marveled at the pretty houses and the rugged scenery,
walked along the developed urban pier and we had lunch with the nieces at the
Bicycle Thief restaurant.
From our shop vantage, Halifax nestled unprepossessingly
below looks cold. Probably because it is. We've seen the tour group
participants marching to the exit in their overcoats and gloves. Have fun
dearies.
Not that all is well aboard. In our cabin the electricity
goes out. Announcement from the bridge. Restored more or less though TV
reception is sporadic. Then another announcement 15 minutes later. Cabins on
the 9th deck. Fresh water supply has gone out. Guess who's on Deck 9? Us! My
god, infrastructure is crumbling around us. We might as well get off the ship now
before the floors give way under is.
And off the ship we get.
At the farmers market I say they speak English here. B
says where? I say what? He says I thought you said Newt Gingrich is here. Oh
boy.
Dinner after lovely martinis in our cabin, actually the
first of our trip and truth to tell puts us in a happy mood. However we Curse
at the newest Putin wiki revelations of Bill Clinton's profiteering on his
Foundation. Phooey. Let's move on.
Dinner after lovely martinis in our cabin, actually the
first of our trip and truth to tell puts us in a happy mood. However we Curse
at the newest Putin wiki revelations of Bill Clinton's profiteering on his
Foundation. Phooey. Let's move on.
Which makes it non-grata. actually nice choice. Seasonal field greens, celery hearts and tomatoes. (Good choice.) The tomatoes are the clincher. Stroganoff is the main. (Not brilliant. But Bob's not sure stroganoff can be. I on the other hand have fond memories of my college Hungarian restaurant's strongonoff as heavenly. But that's more than a half century ago and, goodness, palate and memory fade.
B. Lichee and watermelon. (Fine) Black bean chowder (“It's
delicious. I'm always pleased with the food here." ! ) and that
aforementioned Stroganoff. Bob's
analysis. "The corporation has curated good recipes."
As to desserts. Since I can't miss with either Norman
Love selection, I go for the chocolate mousse. (It's amazing. Sublimity.) For
Bob it's the Vienesse apple strudel with chocolate sauce. (Not European strudel
but very good on its own terms.)
 |
| OUR SELFIE STICK WORKS! FOR THEM |
What fun. We buy a selfie stick (it's like the 4th of a
trail of selfie sticks that don't work for us) for $10 and the photo people
actually figure out how to make it work. We take a selfie photo together to
prove that this is so.
Bob hears the last two bars of this evening's performer
and we decide to take the evening refuge in our cabin. That's goodnight Gracie.
FRIDAY OCTOBER 28.
Sitting here in the piazza watching passengers trying to
throw paper planes into a hoop. It's come to that on this day of a cancelled scheduled
stop--St. John, Newfoundland. Denied entrance, ironically, on our last trip in
these waters, the transatlantic Copenhagen/NYC on the then-new Royal Princess.
Guess we're not fated to see St. John in this life. (I don't know that it would
be on the top of my list for the next anyway). The captain assures us that
we'll get our tour refunded.
The cancellation did afford me time to go to stretch (let
it be noted that I experienced sufficient shoulder pain, after experiencing
similar while shaving, to leave early though Zumba got added onto this ad hoc
sea day schedule and I'd be damned if I'd miss it. (Didn't. Danced with
semi-dangling arm.) Bob chooses not to wear his leg brace today in order to
exercise it--so he's moving slower than usual. We're quite the impaired pair! 
In the dining room there are lots of choices. R. Four
flavors in oriental broth, roast duckling, shrimp, pork, shiitake mushrooms, (a
success; has quite a kick and all those ingredients chopped up) and for the
main, pork spareribs. Beautifully done B, the salad (he doesn't think they do a
good job with the salads--never artfully served) and the pot pie (looks great,
server peels off the top, "what I was expecting; very flavorful") my
napkin is a mess after my bout with the ribs honey-flavored sauces and our
waitress unasked provides a replacement. Good service. We note our neighbors'
dessert, chocolate pecan pie ala mode, looks heavenly so why not. No need to
answer. It's heavenly.
I find in our inbox a nice letter apologizing "for
having caused any anxiety" from Marahscalh Stanton, entertainment
director, saying "there had been no intent to ignore our LGBT guests"
in response to my yesterday's complaint that the meeting has not been listed in
the daily Patter.
Steam/Sauna in that order. Steam is full of ghostly guys
wearing towels demurely. Little can be seen. Just as well. The sauna is pure,
barely used.
At special-people's cocktail hour, we discuss the guys we
met earlier, how the younger one looks in Bob's word "cheap". All in
white--shoes to match and we're way past Labor Day but appropriately close to
Halloween. Meow. Bob says the other gay guys one of whom goes over to pay
obeisance to couple #1 look really great. They do. Bob suggests that the first couple were turned off when I
approached and the old guy began flirting with their server, "I dream all
night of you gorgeous" I, with roll-of --the-eyes-Voice, "ok. . . .
Enjoy" (your bloody Mary's) to join Bob, reluctant to take the social
gambit all because he says he, dressed all in black, looks like the Spector of
death. I say he's really gorgeous tonight (and to me he is). He says I am too.
No, I say. But I did lose five years in the steam room and 2 more in the sauna.
We both find this hysterical.
2 chairmen of the board and we wend our Byzantine shaky
way to the theatre for the production show. Looking at the scrim set piece we
recognize it--but not in the last several voyages says Bob. It's an office set
with a clock turned to 5 minutes to 5. The show's called Born To Be Wild. Aha!
The kids give it their all. And as we head to the dining room we realize they
did that all on rocking seas.  |
| WHAT'S GOING ON? |
R prosciutto, gnocchi ( didn't realize it was potato
filled pasta so although well prepared its s little heavier than I expected. No
gnocchi!), lobster tail (lovely--small--but wonderfully ready to be devoured,
buttered and lemon laced in advance, plus serviceable crab cake. Bob. Also Prosciutto,
(good choice; we especially like the ricotta flan with it), gnocchi, vegetarian
chili. ("Mine’s good. A person can eat vegetarian and still be fat." And
looking for a more robust wine than we've been having, a cab. (The Thing wrote
"can" instead of cab so I guess The Thing thinks we're having a can
of wine.) Bob chooses a 2012 Chilean cab. It has presence.
A large group of People sitting at share tables look uncomfortable-unhappy. We don't share! Even
if we have to wait. Our Cri de couer. . Bob says "it's been a deliciously
lazy day; you've got some exercise at least." It works.
Going for broke (although and perhaps because it's been
paid for) I’m having the chocolate cake with raspberry sauce (we agree it looks
like a breast, nipple and all, but I eat it anyway and am in heaven--what's
that about? I didn't know you were such a chocoholic, says Bob. I'm learning to
be. “And a Courvoisier please”--true voluptuary.
Bob who declares he's had enough libations enjoys a
simple petite four selection and coffee. Shame on me.
My dreams will be heavy watching someone try to rescue
his play not well rendered in some derelict factory building. No one is
interested in my perception that an earlier version I saw was better produced
and acted. What am I doing there anyway? And as a consequence of the
playwright’s frenzied activity he can't drive me home--how am I to get back to
Jersey City? I'll need to rush through the strange city streets and hope to
catch the train on time, possibly 4 pm, or night and god knows what terror will
befall me here.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 29.
BAR HARBOR, MAINE
Since all my colleagues decamp from part 2 abs workout
class, I won't be the only man standing (and sitting, and crunching, and
planking) so back to the cabin early.
We go through American customs lickerty split--certainly
not the same for breakfast where we wait for our Mexican omelettes for a half
hour at least. Then, after getting increasingly angry at James Comey for
releasing unspecified and yet to be examined info about Huma Abadeen's emails
11 days before the election, we begin the waiting game, at first in the Island
dining room for the call to meet our tender. This makes us angry too. Will we
even make our tour though it's more than an hour and a half away. And I've got
to be back for first Voice rehearsals by 4:30 and have yet to hear the melody
for Wonderful World, my presumed first choice. Bob is nervous because he wants
to walk around in Bar Harbor.
Pretty harbor from the tender and ashore. Loads of shops
in the town, inns, restaurants featuring lobster. Trees with leaves still
turning--in the autumn of life. Are we? Or is this our winter? Don't think
about it. Tour.
Betty is our tour guide for Acadia National Park. Called
Bar Harbor because of the tide. (She has difficulty projecting even despite the
objections of those of us in the rear half of the enormous bus.) Low at 4:30.
Pass summer cottages 1890. Wealthy built one for themselves, one on other side
of the street for guests.
This is the 3rd largest island on the east coast.
Shortening of day creates colors--chlorophyll. Red maples
turn first. Then sugar maples. Red oaks last. Variety of colors, reds, goldens
and browns.
Champlain "discovered" the island, drew maps.
The French called it Arcadia. The British wanted it too for white birch trees.
The French and British Fought 150 years. 1761 first settlers after the war.
The Island. Is volcanic. It Has many granite quarries.
Residents now don't want the quarries activated.
Hudson River school of painting depictions brought
wealthy visitors here. Summer cottages., 50 to 100 rooms.
We Pass beaver pond. See the dam.
68 lighthouses along Maine coast.
Great fire of 1947, one third of great houses burned
down. Death knell of the gilded age.
Martha Stuart has an estate here. Rockefeller had 100
room house here. Donated 1/3 of Acadia National Park. Built roads here.
Descendants live and visit here. David, youngest of children, celebrated his
100th birthday last year and donated 1000 acres.
Pass carriage house at entrance to the park.
Highest peak--Cadillac Mountain--1500 feet high --between
here and Rio.
As we go higher, vegetation gets shorter. Thin soil.
View of Eagle Lake. Provides water for Bar Harbor.
Ours is the last cruiseship of the season. 10,000 year
round residents. Maine one of poorest states because of high tourist
industry--seasonal jobs. Youth leaving. Oldest population. Only 2 counties have
more births than deaths.
Came into union in 1820. Free state.
I am desolate. Not only has fog rolled in on Cadillac
mountain from which we are promised great views, but my camera conks out as a
bit of fog lifts and despite my frantic canceling of everything I can find, it
does not return even for other views out over the islands down to our ship below.
On the tender going back however I cancel all songs and get photo access again.
These are tenuous times.
A bite upstairs. A bit of contretemps with the servers as
one waiter takes Bobs order for coffee, not mine. I find him for my tea order
and then he disappears.
Carla, who is very pleasant and with whom I have a
routine about being a diva (snap) presides as we eight "finalists"
get up and try out our songs with the orchestra with our "mentors",
two of the four production singers. I have trouble with the chorus of
Wonderful--too high--World and as I feared Fly Me To The Moon is an uptempo
jazz style version a la Frank Sinatra. Bob, my mentor, who is showboating, and
Carla all say Fly Me works better and the orchestra, following their sides
slavishly, is inflexible. I join Bob who has been drowning his sorrows with a
glass of wine as the others go through their paces. I am well aware that of the
group I have three viable competitors and I will lose. My mentor comes over and
says essentially I should undertake the challenge of the jazz style. They do
many different styles in their shows. But I've only one song to prove my mettle
idiot. Harsh. Pat the only woman comes over--her husband has been sitting near
Bob and shows him a magazine with photos of their house in Sarasota Florida
that he designed-he's an architect and sculptor-it's a mansion--she asks if I'm
a professional. I say I may have done a little professional stuff 50 years ago
(we're supposed to be amateurs I guess) and she says she did some musical stuff
then too (she and hubby are 71). We find comparability with them. Their house
took three years of review with the authorities in Sarasota before it got
approved. In the last year while it was being built, his mother and his son
died. Life throws crap at everybody even the overprivileged. 
We're having our drinks after the rehearsal (thank God).
Bob sees a woman across the way who looks familiar. Who is she? Do we know her?
Much speculation. Finally, Bob's eureka moment. Bernie Sander's wife lookalike. Two count them two chairmen of the board.
Scary is that chairman refers to Frank Sinatra and my competitors are singing
Sinatra songs and, I think to my detriment, so am I.
Home. We catch a Woodie Allen that we've seen--critics
said mediocre but we enjoyed it--and do again.
SUNDAY OCTOBER 30.
BOSTON
 |
| ANOTHER SHIP SIGHTED IN EARLY MORNING DARK |
 |
| MORNING RITUAL |
Hop on hop off surely suggests rapidity of motion. Not
yet as we start our tour marching from Boston Harbor Terminal outside to the
Old Town Trolley. I like the big open air windows. Hugo is the driver/guide.
Brash Boston sense of humor, accent a mile long.
We decide to stay on to the penultimate stop, Quincy
Market, and walk to the ship. (Bob's
getting bold with his brace).
 |
| EVERYBODY KNOWS YOUR NAME |
 |
| FENWAY PARK |
 |
| BERKLEE COLLEGE OF MUSIC |
Hugo's got Judy Garland singing Clang, clang, clang went
the trolley. His Italian grandmother: "What a ya gonna do? I stir the
sauce."
North end is the oldest residential neighborhood in
America.
Botta boom—the jokes: "An Italian guy with one arm?--Speechless."
"I heard your restaurant burned down."
"Shh. Tomorrow."
Paul Revere. Workaholic. Died rich. 16 children.
"Real father of the country."
Back bay all made-man land.
Boston only 2.8 square miles at first.
We pass the brownstone where we last stayed on Backbay's
Beacon Street right in the heart of everything.
Get off at Quincy Market, looking in vain--once
again--for a Boston snow globe. Wonderful food court. Bob likes the smells, the
variety.
Great street performers. Some guy comically using
audience to boost him up to his Unicycle, and a Brilliantly talented kid at the
keyboard.
Soon we are back on a trolley, heading back to the pier
where some passengers will board either the Aida or the Sea Something or the
Caribbean Princess, all parked there.
Too much food was acquired at the buffet (note passive
construction; the guilt is infecting my sentence structure). Our Poor server
when we ask for glasses of Cabernet asks "Is that white?"
Sunday dissections of the 11th hour Clinton/Comey email
scandal sandwich my jacuzzi (hot today) steam room plus sauna excursion.
Here we sit in our front row seats at the Captain's party
for Special Passengers Like Us. Which means we get to listen to a blonde
Hitchkockian ice-princess songstress singing she's crazy for loving me, cadge a
free martini of uncertain origin and a pig in a blanket as god intended for me,
and a puff pastry for Bob. We swear there's the same Japanese couple we see on
every cruise dancing up a storm. And there's the Japanese guy and his Anglo wife
who form the core, with the hail-fellow, of our morning stretch class dancing
to the strains of the Tennessee Waltz. OMG and here's another free martini.
Though it has lemon peels in it, I'll grab it. 963 platinum 799 elite
passengers. Wow. "The $150,000 free laundry." Quick calculation:
that's close.
Oldest passengers contest: 3rd. 1,295. 2nd. 1,315. 1st. 2157 days. Oy. And we’ve only got
160something in Princess. No champagne bottle prize on that route.
"Ships that pass in the night are easily forgotten
but nights passed on a ship are always remembered." Says the hostess. Ok.
But as usual we don't win the champagne drawing despite having two invitations
in the drawing (advantage: they don't know how to classify us).
Here we are in the Princess Theatre awaiting god knows
what entertainment. We're our usual half hour early listening to oldies on the
speaker.
Well if I don't win the Voice thing, I did get to win
Teacake's (that's her name) CD. We're sitting in the 2nd row and she hands it
to me while she's singing. "Singer to singer," says Bob. Of course
her gesture endears me to her. Dressed
in a skin tight leopard print she exudes terrific presence. Upper range a
little strident at first but then she kills on Whitney Huston's "I will
always love you".
Din din. Bob asparagus (especially good), the Mexican
soup and the Austrian specialty-wiener zwiebel rostbraten. ("Not what I
expected. A strange version of sauerbraten." It's essentially a Giant
steak sitting in red cabbage. R. Gravid lax (marvelous), the Mexican soup
("another flavorful soup, very X 3 good"), and the Curtis Stone
Seafood Stew with Chilean Sea Bass, in a cream sauce, Black mussels, fennel,
etc. (I'm not enamored. It's rather spare though the cream sauce has its
blandishments. We're discovering the Curtis Stone restaurant is quite fine but his
dishes on the dining room menus are somewhat less so). We order another bottle
of the rather unbashful Estate Series Cabernet Sauvignon 2012 Errazuriz.
Our waiter though a very pleasant and solicitous fellow
from Thailand is a bit too chatty. Sometimes they barely speak at all. So you
never know.
Dessert. We both order the cherries jubilee. Bob’s theory
of the evening is that it's clever of cruise ship companies to hire Asians
because they, small and thin, can navigate between all the big, fat passengers.
And then our server and his assistant inveigle us into
ordering the B52, Kalua, amoretto and something else. Only $3 and you get a
glass. "It sounds disgusting," says Bob. It is lovely.
We talk a little politics and I come up with the phrase,
"Don't Pillory Hilary" which I'll offer the campaign (or her
presidency) absolutely free of charge.
MONDAY OCTOBER 31.
NEWPORT, RI |
| "HALE FELLOW" WITH HOT INSTRUCTOR |
It's Halloween. The dining room is festooned with holiday
appropriate ditzi, carved pumpkin (and we know they know how to carve), black
and orange balloons, even a noose (I could have done without that touch). 
Astrid is our guide. Newport Founded 1639. Only 9 families.
Invited people from all religious creeds including Jews. Called an experiment.
Geo. Washington worshipped at Trinity church when he was here. John Kennedy
married here. Summer white. Had many
famous furniture makers here.
We're the last cruise ship this season. Last year 3.5
million visitors. Year round 24k residents. Main business is tourism. Have
naval war college here. Teaches officers. University 2700 students. So rental
market both summer and winter is good.
Rockbury Hall big house. Gothic revival. Restored.
Belleview Ave. 1875-1920 giilded age. All the big
industrialists were here 2 months from July 1 to labor day. Many homes
constructed.
Marble House was a gift to Vanderbilt's wife, Alma.
Dining room. children spoke French at lunch. She doted on
them. symbols of the hunt.
Morning room.
The Vanderbilts were here only 6 weeks a year.
Here Consuelo accepted duke's proposal.
Grand salon. Coated in gold.
Mezzanine.
Designed as a perfect cube.
7 bedrooms on 2nd floor.
Son, Harold Vanderbilt an integrationist.
Only one Guest bedroom. Rose wallpaper.
Gilmore, manager,
Servants entrance. Locked during day.
Kitchen. French chef hired at 10k a year.
Neat gift shop.
Bob disappointed that the house is not bigger.
Mother and daughter. "Inherited wealth is a hardship".
Alva divorced Vanderbilt.
She "longed to be a pioneer in my class."
Larry Elison, tech billionaire, bought a mansion here. We
pass by.
Breakers 70 rooms 130,000 sq. ft.
Preservation society owns 10 of these properties. We'll
see 2 floors of the 5.
 |
| GOTTA CALL THE SERVANTS |
Had indoor plumbing, electricity all modern conveniences
of the gilded age. 40 servants.
Gilded age combined the classical with technology of the
modern age--typified by cherubs and a train relief.
I tell Bob the library is like our opium den at home;
he's not buying it. Says this has better lighting.
15 bedrooms. 2nd floor more understated.
Cornelius had 7 children. Only enjoyed breakers one
season before getting ill.
Women changed outfits up to 7 times a day.
The only servants that were allowed to be seen were men.
First breakers burned down in 1892.
Edith Wharton introduced Owen Coffman to the Vanderbilts;
he designed the simple uncluttered upstairs. They wrote a seminal book about
houses together.
Breakers had over 30 million visitors since it opened.
Bob: “I was a little disappointed by the Breakers. Not as
large as I thought it would be.”
He tells me Breakers and Marble House are important for
their architect Richard Morris Hunt.
Gloria Vanderbilt was Cornelius' grandchild. Her Father drank.
Bob's favorite is the music room. He sees the problem being
that the lights are too low, can't get the brilliance. Sorry we didn't see the
so ago get--an 18th c Georgian Palladian building--important architectirally.
He saw it 45 years ago; that's before me! He thinks it's a Peter Harrison
building--a favorite.
One Lord of the manor whose servants dared to strike? He
fired them. Gets new servants from New York the next day. As Bob points out,
that's telling.
Rehearsal at 5:30. Discover that Pat the only female has
opted out. The Chinese guy next to me says he was tempted also but his wife, a
professional singer, encouraged him to continue. We agree that the band helps themselves
not the singer. I'm up second after Harry, who has a good voice. My
"mentor" David has not arrived for my song and when he shows up after
it and asks me how it was and I say not good. Apparently he is going to be
behind me showboating his jazz moves while I do my thing. Not cool. I'm very uncertain
about my entrances so after all have finished, I ask Eric the bandleader to
help me, only to discover that some of the chorus has been cut, etc. etc. was I
supposed to just guess? I tell Eric I'm going to sing a Capella. He says do
that, they'll just play their thing. Great. [It turns out that is what will
happen and I'm screwed.]
Those $5 drinks in Club Fusion (great tartare and cheeses
appetizers surrounding a Halloween pumpkin display--actually some passengers
are festooned in costume, an over-abundance of witches, I'd say, and I get help
on operating my $10 selfie stick from a photo sales witch.
There's the French Canadian gay couple in
Vines--strangely I hadn't noticed their rather strong accents before--and we
share pleasant chit chat. As we wait for an elevator, the younger one comes
over full of abject apologies that we might have thought they were rushing us.
He's really sweet and we try to assure him no offense could be taken. Not the
first time we misjudged people.
Dinner. R. Crab cake starter,( the apotheosis of its
genre); sweet corn & spicy Italian soup (wow); main--grilled salmon with
herbs and lemon butter (talk about substantial--bob notes that it looks
beautifully done --it is ok. Brilliant maybe not.)
B. Chicken salad
(more substantial than expected; nicely done chicken breast on beans,
could be more spicy since allegedly Mexican but he's not faulting it); sweet
corn & spicy Italian soup, Vegetable korma with basmati rice. (It's that
good that you realize, not faulting it but in India it’sprobably a lot spicier,
but this is excellent: we Americans don't understand that it's as lovely as it
is).
Dessert time and this time it is I who press for the
proffered after dinner drink including glasses for $3. Sorry, it's my growing
up in the Ukrainian shtetl although we only drank a little schnapps on the
Sabbath then. That was it!
As to dessert, I have the cheesecake, and macerated
cherries (it's incredible!), Bob the chocolate Norman Love special with
caramel.
Such hard work deserves a little sleep.
TUESDAY,
NOVEMBER 1.
NEW
YORK (BROOKLYN)
No
stretch class though I'm here bright and early to Exercycle along with viewing
sad election coverage on my machine and putting out my mat and scrubbing it
because we have from the captain's barely intelligible Italian mouth that there
is a neurovirus epidemic in the making onboard and we're all going to die if we
don't wash our hands. However I am the only man standing and when I find my
hale-fellow compadre in class has decided to opt out, we dismiss our tall
instructor to his hardly disguised pleasure.
The
boyz require a hardy breakfast and receive their omelettes with trappings happily
with all the leisure in the world to spare. We're mighty pleased with ourselves
having made the decision not to walk along the Promenade at Brooklyn Heights,
Bob remembering that it's a long and expensive taxi ride there. "And what
if we can't get a taxi back?" So, happy alternative, we alight to an
upper deck where there are sunshine, lounges and an incredible view of the New
York and environs skyline. We fiddle with my selfie stick frustratingly though
we do manage to get one glorious photo of Bob's forearm. Luckily, (though from
his moan I realize Bob doesn't think that's the case) I spy our French Canadian
guys and ask them to take our photo against the landscape--a surefire
"Reuel's canvas Picture Wall" selection. Gille's, that's his name,
the other's whom he calls his Boy, is Bruno, who shortly finds a lounge to nap
on. 
Bob
announces over our 2nd glass after our pizza slices that this is All-Saints
Day. I ask, so they all get a free pass or what? He ponders, "No one
has ever asked me that question but with my knowledge of canonical law I'd say
yes."
Captain
announcing whilst we are finishing our drinks, I'm imitating his Italian accent
version of frequent handwashing as “a fragrant hantwashink”. A man walking by
laughs and gives me a pat. Bob says that's another vote. Referring to The
Contest. We're in hysterics. (Doesn't take much.)
Dinner.
This time we get the deuce table by the door. Bob remembers we had it on
another cruise. This way we can greet everybody coming in.
R.
Starter: Herb and sea salt marinated seafood antipasto with shrimp, squid,
black mussels, creamy lemon emulsion (it’s delicious); soup minestrone
all'ortolana (really fabulous); spaghetti con polpette in salsa do pomodoro
fresco.
Bob:
eggplant, pasta e fagioli; bean soup with pasta; (he really likes both) breaded
chicken breast, mushrooms and fontina melt, spinach, roast potatoes. We share a
plate of the Maitre d's special concoction penne arbiatta. All the pasta dishes
are excellent, well spiced and sauced. Dessert is Neopolitan (3 ice creams) and
it is spectacular accompanied by $3 limoncello and glasses (red and blue).
Almost
time to see Teacup in the cabaret. She's the dynamic singer we saw on the
Mainstage. And I've got her c.d. looking up at me from my bed table as I pass
through our cabin.
In
front of us a table clearly with a gay couple. I can tell because one of them
hoots, claps and hollers at each singerly riff as if she were Judy Garland
incarnate.
Consumed
both: lunch-4 glasses of red wine, cocktails--2 vodka chairman of the board,
show--2 glasses white wine, dinner--1/2 bottle red and 2 limoncello's. A sea
floats in us.
WEDNESDAY
NOVEMBER 2.
NORFOLK
VIRGINIA
All
waking moments of last night, that infernal song haunting me. What have I
wrought? Glad when this exciting but challenging event is Over!
LUNCH.
In the Palm dining room (not our usual but this time as opposed to last time we
get immediate seating). This is not a usual day--docking around 1pm and our
tour doesn't begin until 2:30. The other unusual aspect and dominating most of
my sensations is that tonight is the rather grandiosely named Voice of the
Ocean contest and I am one of those voices (7 men of age as it turns out) to be
extravagantly picked over and judged. I tell Bob that if I win, I don't need to
compete again, if I'm one of the three finalists, I'll compete again, and if
I'm not, I'll retire--not to mention it again. (Unless "I been
robbed" or there's a snafu then maybe I'll reconsider.) Oh we have consomme
soup and a roast beef sandwich. Bob wine, Reuel tea.
It's
Balmy as we glide into Norfolk VA. though a little scary as we pass warships
along the way and as a boat with machine guns heads toward us. Bob and I have a
pair of binoculars aimed at them. Hope we're not inciting them to
violence.
 |
| AIMING AT US? |
Walking
tour. Only 18 of us. That's unusual. Terence tour guide. Has produced and acted
in theatre here in addition to his regular job. Though he’s a Norfolk
native he lacks experience with Norfolk tours.
Home
to largest naval base. The pagoda. Gift from Taiwan. Known as mermaid city, 40
or 50 of them around the city.
Ft
Norfolk 1790's.
Freemason
district 24 blocks. National registry.
A
Carnegie Library.
Augustan
Daly Broadway impresario directed a play here at age 18.
At
one point 40 community theatres in Norfolk.
Bob
points out Flemish Bond on an old structure; he knows his stuff. "Header,
stretcher".
 |
| IT'S CALLED THE CITY OF MERMAIDS |
 |
| NOTE CANNONBALL |
Cannonball imbedded in oldest revolutionary church, St. Paul's Episcopal.
Bob
talks of the great humidity in summer here. He visited when he taught at nearby
William and Mary.
Mac
Arthur "when opportunity knocks get off your seat and answer the
door."
Norfolk
Burned during Revolutionary War.
We
walk back through this pleasant city in this pleasant weather.
Clearly
I will take to the "baths" upstairs to clear my throat.
Having
trouble recollecting the Voice completion because it wasn't my finest moment.
As I arrive at Dolphon deck having steamed, I see a frantic Bob in the hall.
They called. I'm late for 7 pm rehearsal! They're waiting for me! I thought we
were supposed to meet at 8:30 and missed the fact that we had a 7 pm rehearsal.
Monique is calling me. I throw clothes on--t-shirt--sandals rush out and trip,
splat, falling headfirst at the entrance to the elevators. When I arrive
onstage, breathless and wounded, they are indeed waiting for me, orchestra and
contestants. I kill at my song—really—I’ll win if I sing like this at the
performance though when Davis one of the production singers asks me why I’m
frowning afterward when I was “great”, I feel I daren’t tell him or the
orchestra leader that I’m unsure of my entrance after the “vamp” because well I
made them all wait for me. Fatal flaw as it turns out. |
| "WHEN OPPORTUNITY KNOCKS" . . . TAKE ZANEX |
In the tense green room, Carla apologizes that we are bound by rules and can’t have fun but must try to have it anyway. In performance I start late so the orchestra is playing one thing and I, not having my note cue, sing another thing in a higher key. Despite this punch to the gut upset I’m frankly not bad, automatically in performance mode—Bob manages to videotape half—the not as good first half of my 90 seconds of song—and when I have the nerve to review it a few days later I realize my rendition is creditable but I need to rely on falsetto for my big notes because of the self-inflicted key change and basically a capella free-of-orchestra singing. The other problem is that the judges when asked what criteria they will apply tonight say “if it’s fun”, “if it makes me smile”. Fly me to the Moon not! So the finalists are the Chinese guy who does a Roy Orbison imitation complete with sun glasses and an old guy (who isn’t?) who does a whiteface James Brown imitation complete with screams wins, though neither has a “Voice”. Yup, they’re “fun” and karaoke addicts—which I guess is the point. To add to the calamities a woman takes Bob’s passenger card instead of hers so, hunting it down, he’s late for the gloomy after party for contestants and their family.
He
seems to be more depressed than I am actually. I’ve had an “experience” after
all, answered opportunity’s knock at the door as it were and though I vow not
to go through this again as we drag our sorry asses and the bottle of champagne
“prize” back to our cabin—I will ask Carla for the karaoke song list from which
the choices are made for future reference. Hmm. Will Reuel give up now that he knows what they’re looking
for? (And will Princess run The Voice on our April South Pacific trip on the Emerald Princess? . . . Watch these pages.)
THURSDAY
NOVEMBER 3
SEA
DAY
My
knee throbs from my fall last night but a hot bath soak at dawn convinces me
that I can manage stretch class which I do. There Hale-fellow (who no doubt has
a name) comments that I'm not wearing stripes today--true--and I reply I didn't
in deference to him--not true. He then confides that he knows a "filthy rich"
lesbian couple (one an heiress, they live in a 14 room mansion) who only dress
in black and white because, since they drink heavily, they don't want to have
to choose when they grab their clothes on those mornings after. I'm beginning
to suspect that this extroverted fellow who especially enjoys chatting up and
telling corny jokes to the hunky instructors is in fact . . . gay.
Despite my initial optimism I'm clearly not up to either abs workout or to Zumba so Bob and I proceed to crowded breakfast where we're seated next to what I call the "happy couple" who insist on breaking through Bob's somber mood--what's with that?--with tales of happy sailings especially to Japan since they notice my Japanese t-shirt. The happy traveling retirees are replaced by a younger couple who I warn that I hope they'll have better luck in getting their food than we. When our big breakfasts arrive, mine an English Breakfast, eggs with sausage and bacon, I feel their disapproving eyes on our selections and their exchanged derisive glances preliminary to their receipt of fruity spare plates.
Well
here we (Bob faithfully accompanies me to all my medical consultations) sit in
the medical office down in the bowels of the ship awaiting a meeting with the
ship's doc. My fall last night on my rushed way to final rehearsal has I am
increasingly aware resulted in my inability to walk well and with twinges of
pain at that. In the waiting room I hear a woman tell an uncaring couple how
this ship doc diagnosed her 87 year old husband's condition accurately when
others of a score of years hadn't. That bodes well. In fact the South African
doc is avuncular and exudes competence. I tell him we could use him in San
Diego and he notes that both my knees "creak" and that I should try
to avoid inevitable knee replacements as long as possible. Outfitted with a
tight knee tourniquet that I'm to wear all the time--except when sleeping--I am
walking marginally better.
In
fact we take a walk on the upper deck limited by Bob's braced foot and my
constrained knee-what a pair of power walkers!
Late
lunch is outdoors—yippee--surrounded by one of the pools and the ocean. Little
sandwiches, B barbecued beef. And a ham with olive paste. The clever server
sells us a bottle of $31 Mondavi cab the eventual remains of which we
scurry back to our cabin with for further um reference.
 |
| WITH GILES |
Reuel
shedding his tourniquet takes advantage of the lovely upstairs
jacuzzi--sole occupant as usual and the steam and sauna prior to joining Bob
for the donning of our more, but not excessively, formal clothes.
Obligatory
visit at 5:30 to cocktail lounge for our pre-show usual. This time the show is "Bravo". And it's very well done. No clunky dancers. David, who was my
"mentor" in the singing competition, told me that this show, with its
occasional arias, was his "challenge" but he acquits himself
well--and he waves to me at the curtain call.
DINNER
B
rice paper wrap; Salad; beef Wellington. Lovely. "The chef really has
things under control." (Bob first had it in New York at Paris Brest with
dear friends Moe and Claire.) "The beef they buy is really good. I have
enjoyed all of my meals but I've particularly enjoyed this." Tira misu ice
cream.
Reuel:
Escargots Bourguinon (yummy),roasted tomato cream soup (basil pesto swirl),
lobster tails and king prawns (grilled asparagus, rice pilaf, lemon butter)
Fabulous.
Dessert:
Tonight's Chocolate Journey. Domed with pistachio. OMG! We pass on the Irish
Coffee special despite that a cute Indian presses us just because Bob
"detests" it.
FRIDAY
NOVEMBER 4.
LAST
DAY AT SEA
I
know why I push for taking these cruises as I watch the glorious sunrise sky
over the calm silver and blue water from our balcony at 7 am, taking brief
respite from election speculations on Morning Joe. (Glad to hear Donnie Deutsch
reflect my thinking when he says he's frightened that this "evil,
dangerous man" could get elected.) I've this leisure because, again
despite optimistic belief that I could work out this morning, I'm a hobbling
guy, no strider yet.
Bob
chooses an admittedly strange breakfast from the buffet. Peanut butter on
walnut bread, a buttered raisin challah and a watermelon slice. Our sunny
Ukrainian waitress from Sabatini's serves us our coffee and tea. I enjoy lox
and bagel and an omelette and . . . Just Normal people fare. It's all better
for being devoured outside under the welcome sunshine. I opine about our
potential 2020 (?) 3 1/2 month round the world sailing that it could lead to
great overeating and fatness hence requiring tremendous discipline . . . which
has not been heretofore in evidence. Alas.
As
we approach the Princess Theatre for the highly trumped (that word. Oof.) War
of the Chefs show, Bob says it's getting colder. "They want to freeze us
so we don't rot."
It's hysterical.
Maitre D short old Italian guy enters with great fanfare and two buxom, leggy
girls.
Remember
the Cruise director’s joke about being an expert at Chicken Ding (he puts it in
the microwave and waits for the ding). All cooking facilities use induction
cookery (and so do we for better or worse in our new kitchen). This is done
more like a comedy sketch.
Lunch.
We finally have the cheeseburgers from the upstairs burgerier which we take
back to the cabin where yesterday's half bottle of wine awaits.
One
way to wile away the afternoon is to see a movie and we do, in the
Theatre--"Absolutely Fabulous", based on the famous camp British series. Tries a
little too hard as the old babes Patsy and Edie get into scrapes as various
British luminaries stand in their way. More concept than execution but a
pleasant enough diversion and very gay, including a romp through a transvestite
bar.
At
cocktails, fabulous pate on puffs. Bob says it takes a long time to pack which
packing he has just accomplished. He admits to being a good packer. I agree and
say "you pack it away". Also true he admits.
 |
| WINDING DOWN: OBLIGATORY MENTALIST |
Very
pleasant conversation with a much-traveled couple who we mutually determine
will be our companions on the 2019 round the world trip on the Pacific Princess
(if we go then).
Our
server when I question her says she's just beginning her contract (she got on
in New York; just as our steward got off; that seems to be a staff transitional
locus). When I ask about her six month contract, if it's on this ship, she says
she hopes to be transferred to the Regal where her husband works--they usually
work together. We wish her well. Bob notes later that they are like
indentured servants.
Dinner:
the servers are dressed with All American red white and blue vests; we're
finishing the last of our allotted bottles, Puerto Viejo Cab--worked out well
R. Sautéed chicken and veal sweetbreads, (sort of a mini chicken pot pie--I'm
not sure); curried pumpkin cream soup, (cold not flavorful); NY Strip Steak
(not so great a cut, hard to cut, but pleasant to eat once sawed; I didn't need
to finish it) and the baked Alaska of course.
Bob,
watermelon and feta cheese, ("very good; I've had it before, watermelon
sweet, feta salty); Philadelphia pepper pot soup, (he's not impressed) Curtis
Stone chicken and leek pot pie.("very disappointing; kind of bland")
I note that the Curtis Stone selections have been generally disappointing. Hmm.
Bob:
You'd think the management would serve something special on the last
night.
SATURDAY
NOVEMBER 5.
DEBARK
FT. LAUDERDALE
How
little sleep can one survive on. Worried whether we'll be stranded with our
luggage at the stupid Flamingo condos front gate, the Florida sun beating down
on us without mercy. Mercy!
Also
revisiting my singing career on this ship and in general, how much had I
defined myself as a singer/performer? Is this a setback for my sense of that
self? Bob says it's in the past. Yes but for me past is present.
We have some
of this conversation over our traditional last breakfast in the dining room,
this time French toast for Bob which as lobster needs butter, this needs syrup
and is thus vivified, delicious. For me bagel, salmon cream cheese again
because I don't have that at home and certainly won't during the necessary diet
period that will follow this trip of excess.
And
now our introduction to what, we expect, will be a day of waiting as we wait in
another, but identical, dining room with our carry-ons.
"Any port in the storm" says Bob as it has begun to rain and we are three blocks from the Flamingo where we will reside in Miami Beach. That port is Via Emilia, a charming restaurant with a charming waiter from Spain. Our wine is Sauvignon Bianco ($35). Our food is amazingly 50% off. Our antipasto to share is eggplant parmigiana and it is excellent. Bread in a little bag to dip into vinegar and oil. No wonder Anthony Bourdain recommends it. I ask our server what kind of music this is for an Italian restaurant. He says it is Spanish, the boss is not here and he misses Spain. (He’s Spanish and charming or did I say that already.) Bob has the delicious chicken. Reuel the terrific meatballs in sauce. Since we are fat off the ship--oops meant just off, we share a big bowl of strawberries dipped in lemon--perfect. A woman behind me is making pasta--her machine whirrs but it is not unpleasant. Part of the atmosphere. Bob tops off with cafe Americain. We've plenty of time to "kill" before our condo is ready.
For
fun we do responsive readings from my old emails, I taking one line, Bob the
next. As in Bob, "Thanks." Reuel, "Sheryl". (Read with a
hint of mystery.)
Bob
who has the window seat says it's a very young neighborhood. I say it's our
antidote to the Princess.
However, that is one of the pluses of this condo choice--we realize it's not all negative as we settle in and the hurdles getting to it are behind us. Yes, the denizens of all hues are mostly young but many are beautiful in this land where display of one’s physical attributes is necessary by default. So much eye candy. Hard (but essential) to avert one’s eyes in the slow moving elevator. And that's one of the negatives. Of 4 elevators in this, the north, building only 2 work, the others sidelined for essential renovation. And then it arrives at a corridor that takes minutes to walk though--it's a wide contemporary updated hall at that--leading to the end-unit bay side of the building where our condo looks out at incredible views, the Miami Beach skyline, the behemoth cruise ships (we see 4 , Celebrity, MSG, Norwegian and ?), and watch them move out past that skyline and under the twinkle lighted causeway out to sea into the sunset; we see the Promenade along the bay below but also look out at the thousand windows of the other two buildings of the Flamingo complex. And though the condo is well-supplied including martini glasses which will contain some of our unused smuggled vodka it was not well cleaned by the little guy we surprised when we returned. Some of the furnishings are old and worn (don't really care), some lightbulbs and closet hangars are missing but on balance it seems a pretty good choice. We'll see if its distance from the "real" South Bay, i.e. Lincoln Road, is daunting. Also the tv's provide unusable Spanish and generally undesirable other channels leaving mainly PBS and C-span which I watch sustained by a crackers and cheese spread purchased at the downstairs mini-mart with other provisions such as olives and wine (another on the plus column) until I fall asleep at 7 pm a victim of 4 hours snooze-time disembarkation night and am gently put abed by sweet Bob.
SUNDAY
NOV 6
MIAMI
BEACH
Here
we sit in the living room. Waiting. At least it's light out now. It was an hour
ago at 6 that we fumbled about the apartment. We have no electricity! Someone
didn't pay the bill since the breakers are intact. No one answers our call at
the "24/7 line" and certainly not the manager Jerry. Will this turn
into a nightmare? Back on at 7:40. Mgt. returns my email saying power outage
for 169 apts in our building.
Other
negatives noticed--area rugs with their curled edges are trip hazards.
Cleaning: Grime on the kitchen counters, cigarette butts on the balcony, etc.
many light bulbs missing. The promised line of taxis available at the entrance
does not exist. Not really 2 bedroom; just a shoji screen by the bed in the
living room, dirty carpets, large rip in the bathtub (where does the water leak
go?) Building: 2 of 4 elevators not working. Front door does not open with pass
card. Dogs barking competitively. But positives: incomparable view. Spacious. 2
tvs, though no CNN or MSNBC (the horror!) LR TV needs rabbit ears (so 50's).
Actually pretty quiet. W/D.
Lincoln
Road is lovely people watching. There's the next door table with twin boys and
two men. Speculation is rife. We figure they are brothers on leave from
the wives. But?
 |
| A FEW BLOCKS AWAY, ONLY GAY HOTEL AND WITH HILLARY SIGNS NATCH |
The
bloodies have a soporific effect--surprise!--and we nap napily. Bob suggests we
forage for provisions at Whole Foods so we have a nice walk along Alton Road to
find that behemoth in the neighborhood.
MONDAY
NOVEMBER 7.
MIAMI
BEACH
This
is the day Dorothy, my sister-in-law, comes to visit from Ft. Myers--years
since we've seen her. Also it's the day before the election. Exciting times for
us. (And the latter for the world!)
Simple
in-house breakfast which Bob tosses up with ease. Delicious toasted slices from
a bread loaf with cheese. Yup. That's it.
I
get to watch the View on TV. It's an experience, Whoopee Goldberg and 4 other
women being opinionated in fairly unbridled fashion--pertinently just before a
pivotal election.
Dorothy
calls. She's in the valet parking garage. However because she's in said garage,
it's hard to communicate and it's quite a while before we actually meet in the
lobby of our building. Took her three hours to get here.
Dorothy
has a lovely gift for us. She's always so thoughtful, a painting of a palm tree
on "needle felt". We give her a Women for the Vote napkin set from
our visit to Newport and the Marble House Mansion of society doyenne/feminist
Alma Vanderbilt.
So
much catching up to do as we comment on the scene of 6 cruise ships parked
against the panorama of the Miami skyline. Variety of discussions on our
mutual fatness. What's she been up to on her rather too exhausting travels?
Recently, the Poconos, national parks, visit with Son and daughter in law
Joseph and Jasmine and their new baby in San Francisco. Brief visit with step
daughter (my niece) Nancy. And the large cast of other quirky dramatis
personae. Of her not ideal life in Ft. Myers Fla. it's hard to catch a breath
and interject my opinions on how she must lead her life. (But I do--expertly of
course.) Some bombshells affecting people close to us, like suicides,
Alzheimer's, being incarcerated for mental illness, the Big C, push into stark
relief the need to live life to the full everyday damn-it.
Though
we are all mobile impaired to lesser and greater extent, we brave a walk to
Lincoln Road in search of food. Found are even more conversational gambits,
such as Dorothy's despair that her brother and his family will vote for Trump,
our despair that anyone would.
Lunch
at Yuca,"Young Urban Cuban American" restaurant. With outdoor
seating and those interesting looking young servers with black fedoras, happy
scene of a previous Bob and Reuel visit to Miami Beach.
Dorothy's
Hummus Domino is Hummus dip, Cuban style black beans with plantain margueritas.
R.
Pollo Criollo. 1/2 chicken (it is the winner--delicious). B. Caesar Salad. Nice
bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
And
then a walk several blocks away to the now developed site of Dorothy's childhood
home at her grandmother's boarding house for eight borders some of whom paid
the extra $10 a week for kitchen privileges. Another better (?) time when a
young girl felt safe walking to school and along Lincoln Road, far less
bustling then.
Back
to the condo, through the wind tunnel that is the courtyard of the Flamingo
complex upstairs to cocktails and then a simple supper of quiche with wine.
Only one ship left in the harbor and lighted and beautiful it makes its way out
to sea.
TUESDAY
NOVEMBER 8.
MIAMI
BEACH ELECTION DAY
We
visit the Jewish Museum downtown—thanks Uber. Our guide is unfailingly upbeat,
a volunteer who also does walking tours of the neighborhood. 1929 this temple.
12 of 16 businesses Jewish. 1st Jewish residents 1913--Joes Stonecrab. Mid 20's
25 families. Dorothy's grandmother belonged here. 1940 Jewish pop 20% of total.
1960-70 60% of Miami Jewish. Yiddish theatres. Shtetl by the sea. 80% of
Southbeach. By mid 60's affordable. Old people. 80's preservation. Then
economic revitalization. Today Miami Beach is 15% Jewish. Median age 39.
 |
| BESS MYERSON'S ATRIUM |
 |
| SUCH A GENEROUS JEWISH MAN--LANSKY |
Dorothy
belonged to Emanuel. This is the Beth Jacob congregation. Orthodox. Women
sat upstairs.
Bess
Myerson donated to the museum the connecting atrium. 77 stained glass
windows.
Getting
ready for next exhibit on Jewish fashion history. Myer Lansky a
member.
We
watch a movie about the history of Florida's Jews.
We
tell Dorothy that Ft. Myers was named after Florida's 1st and only Jewish
governor. Dorothy says there are no Jews there now. Everyone's voting for
Trump. I say, “You got to move. They want you to move”.
 |
| CANDYLAND |
Several
blocks to the west and we're at the famous Joes Stone Crab. Not in the mood for
the $50 Classic stone crab meal. So New England fish fry basket for me, (just
ok), burger for Bob, "excellent", fried chicken "better than
chicken places" and chopped salad "an Israeli salad with a zest"
for Dorothy. We decide to share 2 key lime pies. Why not? 
Dorothy
asks our sweet server Pedro, a "ConnectiRican", if he voted and he
goes into a dissertation on how the Kennedys kept Hillary out of the White House by backing Obama. Didn't know.
After
a review of the deli section of this great business our Uber arrives within
minutes (as it did on the way here).
Oh
horror! It's 10:30 pm and we are terrified. Oh no. Voting for the guy who
represents the biggest change?
Midnight.
It's not looking good.
WEDNESDAY
NOVEMBER 9.
The
Day After
I
am trying to tell myself that we must go on despite the fact that the world is
teetering on its axis.
At
4 AM I am up and The Times declares Trump Triumphs and there is that same cold
pain somewhere in my stomach, that emptiness I felt when my mother, father,
brother, first sister in law, and closest friend died. Despair. Will I go through
Kubler Ross' stages after a death. Anger? Resignation? Oh God please not that.
Bob,
momentarily up, asks Did Hillary concede? I don't think so, I reply.
Will
we? Appropriate that Bob, Dorothy and I visited the powerful Holocaust memorial
here in Miami Beach Monday. It was a reckless, nationalistic populae that gave
a morally weak, insecure man the power to play to its basest cruel instincts
and wreak havoc on the world. Never again? Fear. I want to return home and lock
our door.
What
plays can I, will I write now? Can there be any laughter in them? Go back to
sleep. You'll need your energy for the trauma to come.
After
breakfast at which we discuss the impact of this new phenomenon, making it a
kind of catharsis, we prepare for Dorothy's leave taking. We ride together down
the elevator and with a gorgeous giant Slav with, as Dorothy remarks, "giant
muscles". I note ("I'm having flashes!") that this is a major plus of
selecting this community of healthy body-conscious youth; it's a
voyeuristic cornucopia. Bob adds that it is an unfriendly place. People
don't say hello to one another. Win some, lose some.
We
find the parking garage, a challenge, and as Dorothy struggles with her GPS
system we say goodbye, hoping that she can visit us in San Diego soon.
We're
both wearing black today, mine deliberately, in respect to this period of
mourning. Just hope the mourning doesn't deepen over four years. Black though
stylish can be boring if worn all the time.
Walk
along the incredibly scenic Promenade to reach Lincoln Road--definitely the
correct route. We're not in the mood for Italian since there's an in-house
pizza in our future. So we stop at one of the outdoor restaurants, Aura, which
offers cheddar bacon cheeseburgers. We'll have ours with mojitos 1/2
"cocktail hour" price at $8 each. Dispirited service but you can't
expect to be as lucky as we've been in that department for our first three
dining outings here in Sobe.
 |
| PRESERVATION |
Thence along the bayside Promenade to the condo. A diet (ahem) of late evening remains of our quiche and tacky mindless tv shows like Empire (what's going on?) and Midsummer Murders (what's going on?) as I (at least for now) vow not to look at the news for the next four years lest I become seriously ill.
THURSDAY
NOVEMBER 10.
 |
| WATCH TO MATCH |
 |
| THE FLAMINGO COURTYARD |
Promenade
Walk
Back
to Swatch for polishing all my face damaged Swatches. I'm certainly hard on
things. Shall I return and buy a limited edition watch, last of only 29? You
get to be in their special club. We'll see.
Back
to Yucca. I've been dreaming of that chicken dish and this time Bob tries the
Ropa Vieja, a shredded beef. Two absolutely beautiful/cute little boys with
their father. "Daddy, daddy, that looks yummy." "Bees on your
knees, ants in your pants." Dad:” I don't know whether one little boy
should eat that much cheese. Are you a boy or a mouse?” “A mouse. I'm a
cannonball chicken. I eat my own kind.” Huh?
We
are in heaven with our food.
Bob
notes that a guide refers to Ocean Drive as the Times Square of Miami Beach.
Wonder what quality they are comparing. Is it the crowds, the touristy
character? Lots of hottie fraternity boys--well that's not essentially Times
Square.
 |
| O BRAVE NEW WORLD . . . |
 |
Up
for cocktails, I ask if Bob would like to partake and as part of our typical
ritual he says if I twisted his arm which he holds out and which I gently
twist.
We've
zeroed in on such as Entertainment Tonight. I feel cheap. Will this be our
plight in the apocalyptic Trump era, gorging on escapist gossipy cheap shit?
Bob clicks PBS. An imperfect life preserver in this horrific storm but we grasp it.
FRIDAY NOVEMBER 11.
MIAMI BEACH
On our way to the tour stop at Lincoln Road and
Washington we see a dead bird. No cats to carry it off Bob notes. In fact no
cats here. I say it's not South America. But it sounds like South America he
replies. Being in Miami Beach is like visiting another country in fact. No
English to be heard.
A great crowded rush to get to the top tier of the double
decker. Guide speaks in both English and Spanish. Art Deco. Berkeley Shores
being renovated. 3 stories 3 colors.
We're a few inches below the overhead light posts. I'm
getting pelted by Palm trees. Bob is on warning duty while I write. Also there’s
a chance of being garoted by cables. Shockingly Hazardous ride! Not what we
signed up for and since we're so busy ducking we see very little.
 |
| WE'RE GONNA DIE! |
We're looking at north side of the port (largest in the
country) holds 7 ships. other side 3.
Coral Gables. Some houses of coral. Pass Serena Williams
house but can't see because of very low hanging trees. Duck! We later will
wonder how many decapitations the tour company scores per season.
On Miami side it’s too windy to hear well. Actually this
is where Little Havana is. In 1959 Castro took over Cuba. Hence emigrations.
We stop for a half hour here in Little Havana. And we get
a shot of Cuban coffee—sweet, I like--in a cigar store and wander over to a
domino park with Cuban men playing dominos--sort of the male version of Mah
Jong click click. Commotion. Tourists and souvenir stores.
 |
| UBIQUITOUS ROOSTERS |
Free trolleys around Miami and Miami Beach. Miami means
fresh water. Florida means blooming.
 |
| THE SPIRIT OF LITTLE HAVANA |
 |
| CUBA LIBRE! |
Confusion reigns as we're parked at the pier. We're not taking the boat tour as most are. We finally learn we can get the bus back at 12:30. However while we get $5 mojitos (Bob) and marguerites (me). It's 11:30 and it's "happy hour" in Miami. 1/2 hour later we get our drinks which taste like fruit juice. buzzless in Miami in the morning. A salsa song.
12;45 Bus leaves
thanks to delay. Poor tourists we. Oops wrong. We just changed parking spaces.
Still Ten minutes more to wait (for stragglers?) Bob decides he'll reactivate
his Trip Advisor review-writing in tribute to this decidedly unstellar tourist
experience. In fact he says it's the worst tour we've had (forgetting that we
were rain soaked and abandoned in Hakodate are you?)
When it comes time to pay, I discover my card is not in
my wallet--apparently still at the pier restaurant. Oy.
AT Swatch nearby we discover "my" limited
edition watch, # 29 in the world is no longer there. I am devastated, can't
join the Swatch Limited edition club and I quickly blame Bob whose fault it
certainly is not. (Saved $135 though.)
Incredible walk along the malecon--for such it probably
is--with the lowering sun-dappled water plashing against the walls of shore.
Home to cancel my card with the nicest customer service
guy ever, Josh. I say he's Jewish but Bob who has been listening disagrees.
Time at 4:15 to descend to the pool which is entirely
subscribed except for a cabana bed which I commandeer. Just two adults bobbing
in the pool and four noisy children cavorting, fortunately at the other end.
Some gorgeous bodies mostly female--amazing breasts. Is it a South of the
border thing?--which I might not be able to photograph.
 |
| LATIN LADIES |
 |
| OMG! |
When I test my magnetic card pass at the front door of
our building, one of the building's exclusively young guys passes by and says
"Why are you doing that? The door is open." That I miss my
opportunity to say, "How dare you address me with that tone young man. For
all you know I have incipient Alzheimer's" pisses me off and I forget to
buy ice cream at the building's mini mart as directed and need to return for
it. Noted-- a couple of signs of advancing old age and loss of grey cells in
swift succession.
 |
| EVERYTHING'S COMING UP ROSES? |
Last of the vodka makes martinis. One cold pizza shard
with cab apiece and I'm about to fall asleep when Bob announces that the West
End production of Gypsy is on the living room tv (PBS) and I'm up until
midnight lip-syncing to Styne/Sondheim's wonderful score and watching Imelda
Staunton's remarkable performance; thus it's Bob who takes this evening's early
retirement instead.
SATURDAY
NOVEMBER 12.
LAST
DAY MIAMI BEACH
Actually
get last night's Washington Week In Review on the faulty living room set (Can
Trump ever make good on his promises? Not likely.) followed by a show with
women mostly arguing with an unflappable Trump supporter. Then dog shows, a
trainer then a vet and then owners all getting emotional about their dogs. There's a
whole world out there that isn't MSNBC apparently. All we need are rabbit
ears.
Human
garbage pails. Forfend we should leave food behind. So for breakfast a piece of
Dorothy's Joe's Snow Crab chicken--terrific. And after the packing and
pre-leaving, a meatball, some pieces of cherry pie and the teeny ice cream I
purchased last night. "We're so ready to get outta here," Sayeth
Bob.
We're
surrounded by alien languages, destined to be forever in the dark. (“I do make
out "aperitif". My my.)
Crawling
like snail on the way to the airport (an accident is the cause. . . Good thing
it doesn't matter.)
My
bad I guess. Our checkin guy tells us that we can't check our luggage until 3
pm which means we get to sit with our big bags for 2 1/2 hours before checking
them and going through security to find a priority lounge for just a few more
hours of comparatively luxurious rest.
Now
how to use the time? It takes me about an hour to complete the Princess survey
questions on our last cruise. Bob reads his detective novel.
I
get up for a walk and discover further evidence that Miami is another
country--the products of a pastries and sandwich kiosk are all labeled in
Spanish with English translations in tiny type. And all Terminal staff seem to
be chattering away in Spanish. Yikes.
 |
| SAN DIEGANS HAVE STYLE TOO |
We're
impressed with the Houston airport--unlike Miami there's a fancy restaurant
serving good wine in good glasses adjacent to our gate--not enough time to
partake though.
The flight? Excruciating. My legs feel diseased.
Afterward Bob will pledge that unless we have wider seats (Biz Class) he will
not fly to Sydney Australia in April for our South Pacific cruise. Clearly I
have my marching—flying--orders.
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