Incompetent Abroad: When My Ship Comes In
While my periodic effusions about the Queen Mary 2 might lead you to think otherwise, I am not in the pay of Cunard, the ship’s owners. (Their motto: “Decadence. Want More?”) As I write this, we Morrises are in our eleventh day astride this floating fantasy, with four more days to go before we return to earth. And I’ve got to tell you, the voyage really is the bee’s knees, the top drawer, the penthouse suite, the crème de la crème of easy living.
Yesterday, I bestirred myself to take David to the ship’s library, already one of Roger’s favorite retreats. You can understand why when you see the semi-circle of tall, inward-slanting windows that overlook the ship’s bow. There, eight stories above the waterline, you can lounge in hypnotically comfortable arm chairs and read from a selection of the 9,500 books shelved directly behind you. Or you can just loll and watch the “road” ahead. That’s what David and I did until I noticed the old chap seemed to be getting restless. “Why so, compadre?” I inquired. Gesturing toward the majestic expanse of ocean stretching away before us, he growled, “Beyond that horizon it’s just another horizon.”
I should note that the library houses none of my own titanic writings (insert your own quip here), and I fully intend to lodge a complaint with Cunard (a variation of canard, as I understand it) as soon as I’m safely ashore.
It would take weeks to sample all the ship’s delights. There are outdoor hot tubs with 360 degree views of the vessel’s surroundings; restaurants whose menus are heavy enough to serve as anchors; a luxurious spa with so many treadmills in motion they appear to be propelling the ship; Hermes, Gucci and other high-end fleecing stations; and a Ukrainian maid named Ilsa who clearly needs the solicitous mentoring of an older gentleman.
You’ve heard the saying, “Your money’s no good here.” Well here they mean it. None of the shops, bars, restaurants or other vendors accepts cash or credit cards for individual purchases. Instead, you register your credit card number at the outset of the trip, after which all purchases and tips are charged to your cabin. In our case, that meant that Roger got shafted going over and David speared coming back. I’ve tried to hold up my end of the finances by picking up a cab fare here and there and freely sharing my supply of Tic Tacs. The brothers have generally been good sports about my thriftiness, and I’m convinced that the word “leech” I found scrawled across my suitcase was not their handiwork.
The one luxury Cunard can’t offer is those life-changing discoveries that are, alas, available only to the young. We are a jaded lot, spending an inordinate amount of money for minuscule, short-lived jolts of pleasure. What’s another port of call, another great meal, another drive-by lecture on the art of the Renaissance to those of us already steeped in such diversions? How much saner it would be to use that money to enhance the dreams of the young. I think of a granddaughter so bubbly with first love that she practically floats in the air when she speaks of it and a grandson so transported by learning a Buddy Rich drum lick from YouTube that he absolutely has to demonstrate it to first person he can corner. We will not find that kind of excitement here, either among our fellow passengers or within ourselves. Instead of trying so hard and spending so much to jump-start our fading senses, why not spot Juliet and Romeo a romantic weekend, buy Buddy Jr. a drum kit, pay some would-be scholar’s tuition or cover a single mom’s rent for a month? Then we could sit back and bask in knowing we’ve authored real joy rather than just simulating it.
A spokesman for the ship says that as a safety measure all the food that’s been out for four hours is thereafter tossed into the sea. You could keep thousands from starvation on what’s wasted here. Elegance comes at an ugly price.
Most of us aboard this pleasure palace are old, decrepit and dying fast. For some, perhaps for me, this crossing of the Atlantic will be the crossing of the River Styx as well. All the pampering in which we indulge ourselves is a life-support system ultimately destined to fail. How much richer this voyage would be if, instead of congregating with our own kind, we surrounded ourselves with youngsters who were falling in love, discovering Moby Dick or writing a song and couldn’t wait to share it with us.