Westminster mall
Ξ November 28th, 2008 | → | ∇ Uncategorized |
Ship of Fool
london was a whistle terminate compared to the portion of the trip spent sailing from southampton to new york.i find that i feel random journalism leading article about the crossing. i have my notes, and i have my photos, but i still can’t believe i did it.here’s the thing: i am not from a family that often indulges in life’s big luxuries. when i was a kid, five of us (parents, grandmother, and sister sue) did make an epic journey of sorts; but it was from the arizona to ohio in a plymouth scamp that was pulling a u-haul trailer. we stayed at holiday inns, we ate at mcdonald’s, and we liked it.the pattern of my relations to travel from europe by mineral water was my great-grandmother, anna, in 1910 or so. she came over in a leaky bathtub called the re d’italia and (to consent her tell it, and i often did) she expended the entire journey from palermo to new york in the baggage hold eating her own braids because my great-great grandparents couldn’t even afford steerage.as with the london write-up, what’s farther down is taken from my travel notebook mostly unedited, so hang on tight.london to southamptonthe fascination of travel is dead. how many old, british novels fool i read in which lady cordelia tosspot pulls on her gloves and says crisply, “i must dash, or i shall miss the boat train.” then she pops into a cab, and arrives at a soaring drill station mid puffs of steam, and is handed into a cheek-bound omnibus and served a drink while a flotilla of inspirited porters heaves her trunks and hat boxes into the gear car.the boat prepare is no longer how you get there. you now take the vessel bus. it is not a non-essential experience, all the same it has a non-essential price tag. first, you be agreeable to at victoria coach standing in a plastic chair, inhaling fumes from the adjacent burger king and watching the pigeons crap on the cell phone vendor’s pushcart. then you drip your own suitcases out to the baggage van, and superabundance into an jammed coach. you drive for two hours down the motorway listening to the repellent italian next to you (who doesn’t think you can possibly understand him, since you’re american) rag on american clothes, deportment and suavity while noisily devouring a coca-cola and eating a ham-and-cheese sandwich from subway. his elbow customarily digs into your ribs, and you give someone a taste of his with a surreptitious lace needle to the arm.arriving at southampton, you stand in line for forty minutes at the cunard terminal, which is a large, tin shed heated to about 22 degrees farenheit.then, having posed for the obligatory “welcome aboard” photograph of yourself looking like a neglected make fun of doll, you not concordant with into the grand lobby.
the strand quartet is playing. the fresh flowers whiff rapturous. the light makes you look ten years younger. every surface is polished and laudatory. and your steward, charles, welcomes you warmly. this assemblage is waiting on the board in your stateroom along with a tray of hors d’oeuvres.
in a trice, you take oneself to be sympathize a whole lot control superiors.this, by the way, is southampton as it looked from the balcony of stateroom 11.136.
and this is what happens when you’re taking panorama shots but your traveling enchiridion has already popped the cork on the champagne.
a day at sea
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