The Long Journey Home

BY THIS TIME, we were so accustomed to packing and moving on that the finish of our stay in London seemed no sadder than that of any of our other stops. My wife and I had given ourselves enough time at each of those places so that we didn’t feel too rushed – three nights in each, two nights in London – and there’s a psychological advantage in knowing that you’ve still got a week on board an ocean liner ahead.

On the morning of August 11, we met our driver, Mohammed, outside the Euston Square Hotel, and set off for Southampton and a 4:30 PM departure of the Queen Mary 2. Mohammed was a native of London, whose first words after greeting us were, “Don’t touch that door!”

This was directed at take-charge Susan, who was about to slide open the side door of his van. But, as he pointed out, the door was motorized and would slide when he pushed the appropriate button. This is not to suggest that he was in any way unpleasant; I heard in his comment too much experience with obtrusive passengers in what, we learned, was his own vehicle.

I should take a moment to note that all of the car-service limos and vans we hired were equipped not only with comfortable seating and plenty of room for our luggage, but also bottled water and charging ports. Like a good waiting room, but without TV screens and, of course, other people.

We scheduled another of those sightseeing stops the limos suggest, this one at Kew Gardens. It’s a 330-acre site in southwest London, boasting “largest and most diverse botanical and mycological collections in the world.” We barely saw a corner of the place, so I’m not going to try to gainsay that. It dates from 1840, and, once you understand (as I didn’t) that a “taxa” is a group of organisms understood by taxonomists to form a unit, you can appreciate that there are some 27,000 taxa at the Gardens. You just can’t possibly see them all during a 90-minute stop. Which means there’s absolutely no hope of taking in the 8.5 million preserved plant and fungal specimens. It’s the kind of place that you fear could issue a warning that a fungus just escaped, one that will now take over the world. But maybe not: Kew Gardens even has its own police force.

We unpacked the transport chair and Susan careened me along walkways flanked by colorful, never-ending rows of flowering wonder. We made our way through the Palm House, a structure of wrought-iron arches supporting endless panes of glass, inside which is all manner of palm tree and other subtropical species, many of them endangered or extinct in the outside world. And then we visited another ornate building, the Orangery, for a self-serve lunch.

Mohammed came into his own during the rest of the 90-minute drive. A keen student of conspiracy theories, he let us know how both Britain and America were driving the world to the brink. “I’ll tell you about Afghanistan,” he offered. “It’s the only place where they make heroin. The heroin trade went up 70 percent when America and England were occupying the country. I wonder how that worked out? Before the war, they were only getting a little bit out. After the war started, the heroin trade went through the roof.” Which, naturally, led to CIA and MI5 activity. I’ll admit: I encouraged him to hold forth.

I like to think that the good feeling thus produced came in handy as headed into Southampton, because the city was clogged with traffic and an accident up ahead was slowing things even more. “I’ll get you there,” Mohammed promised, and he whisked us through some side streets until the Ocean Cruise Terminal came into view.

Getting on board was a pleasure. Susan wheeled me to the check-in desk and the rest of the process was literally out of her hands, as Cunard attendant named Eric took over my transport. “Follow me,” he told Susan. “Don’t worry about what anyone else says.” The route to board the ship begins with a series of corridors in the terminal and then an elevator ride to put you level with the gangway. But that turns out to be a series of switchback ramps, each of which was fully occupied by a line of passengers. Signs along the way warn you to stay to the left. We were the reason. “Pardon us, please!” Eric would announce, keeping enough momentum for the uphill travel. It was a fellow Cunard employee who tried to confront him about this, saying something like, “These people have been waiting!” but he flew us by with a “No time for that now!” He got us to our cabin and then on to the meeting area for the mandatory safety instructions, where he bid a polite good-bye. And we were just in time to hear the Captain announce that our departure would be delayed to accommodate passengers who’d been stuck in the Southampton traffic jam. It sure isn’t the world of air travel!

This was the “Dance the Atlantic” cruise that I wrote about here, which meant that I kept somewhat busy attending performances and rehearsals and interviewing some of the English National Ballet company members. Susan, meanwhile, couldn’t get enough of the lectures that were offered, ranging from a talk by Nelson Mandela’s onetime bodyguard to a survey of the poisons used in Agatha Christie novels. And there still was plenty of time to plop into a cushioned chair near a window in the Chart Room and sip a latte while reading a book. Unless you’re completely imagination-free, you can’t be bored on board this ship, although we did meet one young lady at breakfast who confessed that traveling with her grandparents, which should have been a joy, was hampered by their reluctance to engage in any of the activities – although she’d now freed herself to explore the ship alone.

Susan pursued her annoying habit of talking to anyone who sat within earshot, and our first night at supper we were seated beside an older couple (which these days means about our age) from Florida. They embodied a philosophy I ascribe to my father’s generation, where your corporate work hands you a wife (probably number two or three) and a retirement fund so that you can finish your years amongst like-minded souls. But they seemed to have nothing cultural or intellectual to offer. And I don’t recall what we (or, more likely, I) might have said, but they sure weren’t there the next night.

As on the trip over, the food was uniformly excellent, served in the most gracious and attentive style. And, also as on that first crossing, we were given a discount at the ship’s steakhouse, and were happy to cash it in. This time there was a blustery malcontent a few tables away who seemed to find the dessert he was served about the most insulting thing known to God and man, and demanded to see the chef. Who, alongside the mâitre d’, seemed to soothe him. We couldn’t hear any of it, so I later tried to pry some gossip out of the mâitre d’ – nothing doing. They’re good.

I have long insisted that I’m not particularly a memorable person. Susan disputes that, but she’s prejudiced and generally inclined to be nice. Nevertheless, I was stunned to see someone I recognized approach our table, glance at the two of us, and sit without a word of greeting. Someone I had no idea would be on this ship. Jeffrey Sweet is a NYC-based playwright I’ve known for something like thirty years, and even if we don’t see each other that often, you’d think something about my aspect might ring familiar. Still, as I say, he’s by no means the only one.

So I had some fun. I turned my gaze on him and murmured his name. “Jeff Sweet,” I said. “At last.” To say he was startled puts it mildly. I gave my best Harry Lime grin and intoned, “We finally meet. After all this time.” I took a rich Orson Welles pause. “I’ve been following you. New York. London. Finally, here.” Then I gave a for-real smile and extended my hand and pronounced my name. Which killed the suspense, to be sure, but at least we could settle into some high-spirited plays-and-movies chat.

There’s a phenomenon that kicks in when you’re heading for home, something like that which a horse exhibits when she knows the stable is nigh. It becomes an idée fixe. You can’t seem to get there fast enough. You may even lose sight of your surroundings during that final leg of the journey.

None of this happened with me. The last thing I wanted to do was leave the ship. I was ready – I remain ready – to wheel right around and depart once again, and I will. The coffers need refreshing, for one thing. For another, I’ve decided it’s time to visit France. It seems customary to finish a travel journal by contemplating that which you learned on the trip. What did I learn? I want to keep traveling.