Journal Entry #5 - Aomori to The Pacific Ocean
Sunday afternoon, outbound from Otaru, in the Pacific Ocean.
I'm sitting on a deck chair on the third deck promenade, the deck that Abbey and I use for our walks – three times around the ship is a mile. So, our routine: three circuits, and nine flights of stairs by foot, per day.
The sea is sort of the color of my car – grey-green, a color that is often used in novels to describe the face of someone who is very ill. High winds, temps in the 50s – not a day to stay out here for hours. The sea is rather tame, with swells of a couple feet or so, but mostly the wind-blown wavelets and whitecaps. It's The Pacific Ocean.
I started the day terribly disappointed. If you find Otari, Japan on a map, right next to Sapporo, on the west side of Japan's northernmost island of Hokkaido, and imagine a ship sailing from there to Seward, Alaska, that imaginary ship would probably go north from Otaru and around the north coast of Hokkaido. In that case, you'd be sailing through the narrow strait between Hokkaido, Japan, and the Sakhalin Islands of Russia(La Perouse Strait, named for a French explorer who, apparently, really got around during the eighteenth century).
For some reason I was convinced that this was to be our route. We left Otaru about sunset yesterday, and this morning, going up on deck around sunrise, I was delighted to find that there was land on either side of us. I hadn't missed it, the transit of the strait between Japan and Russia! I watched the land to the north slide by for a long time – Russia! - the very most isolated and desolate part of all of that rugged country! - the furthest you can get from Moscow and still be in Russia! No lights, either side – empty wilderness (which is how the north of Hokkaido had been described by our guide yesterday).
I watched for a long time. Very long. Too long. The strait I was sure we were in was just not that long. Then the coast to the south of us disappeared – and appeared again. It was overcast, misty, only silhouettes of the coastal mountains on each side, but it did not look like the strait I expected.
It wasn't. I went down to the Purser's Desk, where there is a digital map that shows where the ship is, sort of, sometimes. The graphics are very old-school and pixelated, the scale usually not helpful. But in this case, it was very clear: we had traveled south from Otaru and the strait we were in was between Hokkaido and Honshu, Japan's main island. We had probably been passing Aomori, the city we had been in on Friday, while I was watching.
Why did we go south? I could not find a paper map of the Pacific Ocean, to see what the heading actually was from Hokkaido to Seward. Every map in the (pretty good) atlases had the Pacific Ocean at the edge of the page, and there wasn't much detail north of Japan, either. The map of “the Pacific Ocean” was really of the south Pacific, which is fair, since that's where all the people live. Around lunchtime, the officer of the watch came on the PA to tell us about headings, weather, sea, etc., and said we were traveling southeast but soon would turn northeast on a heading we would maintain all the way to Seward. So going around the north of Hokkaido would have made more sense, at least from a “miles to Seward” perspective.
So – was it political? Is it unwise to sail too close to Russia, even a coast which rough, forested and without major roads? Some other reason I can't think of? Maybe I'll find someone to ask.
But here we are, after around 7:30 this morning, in the Pacific Ocean. This ocean liner which was such a monstrous presence in most of the smaller ports we stopped at, is now just a speck in the middle (or, actually, still on the edge) of nowhere. This is very exciting. My fingers are already numb, but I can't go inside – this is what I came here for. In the next six days, I will be trying to understand what it is to be riding the back of the biggest monster on the planet.
Six days? I'm not sure. We'll cross the International Date Line in a couple of days, and then what? Do we count the day we lost? Every day, the ship's clock will move ahead one hour, at noon, from 12:00 to 1:00 in an instant, because every day, apparently, we'll cross another time zone. How will that change affect everything else? Will it change our sleep schedules? Will the sun rise and fall at the same times? I did figure out how to re-set the clock on my phone manually, since there will be no mystical network to do it. I need to know what time it is when I wake up, and with no windows, I can't see if it's getting light. So the phone clock has to be right. What will I see tomorrow morning, if I get up at the same “time”?
Looking out over the rail, it's just sea and sky. Grey-green and grey. I can see the horizon; above, overcast and grey clouds of different hues; below, waves and wavelets and whitecaps, but not many of those. And the wind.
So – when we last left our intrepid explorers, they were sailing on a sea day from Yokohama along the northeast coast of Honshu (interestingly, our guides have referred to Honshu as “the mainland” and the other three major islands are “islands”) on our way to Aomori, a small city at the very north of that island. Aomori is at the bottom of a complex bay between two weirdly shaped peninsulas, and there was a lot to see on the way in, early Friday morning. I was at the back of the ship, enjoying the sunshine and the rugged, forested mountains on both shores. The sea was relatively calm. Then there was a splash where there wasn't supposed to be a splash, outside the wake. Then another one. I paid closer attention. Two more. I looked more closely (meaning I put on my distance glasses). Again and again. Forms in the splashes. Smooth dark bodies. Then a snout, a fin, and another and another. And one over there! We were being escorted into the bay by a pod of dolphins! Ten or twelve, but it was hard to tell. They kept pace with the ship, just off the stern, to one side, and followed us for about ten minutes. And then they were gone.
Good start to our day in Aomori! No musical welcome, but as we walked through the terminal to our shore experience buses, there were a dozen or so folks with matching t-shirts and big foam hands waving to us, cheering and smiling. When we got on the bus, our guide told us they were high school and college students “and employees of city hall.”
We had chosen this shore experience because it included a visit to a commercial pottery works that used climbing kilns, about which more later. We didn't really pay much attention to what else was on the tour. So when we got to our first stop, in a neighboring city whose name I will retrieve once we get back on-line, we didn't know what to expect – just “a museum with parade floats.”
Neither words nor pictures will express the monumental stature of these floats. All three are housed in a large room encircled by a spiral ramp. Each float is 75 feet tall. That's just a number to me, but imagine a seven story building. Imagine designing and building a wire frame, adding Japanese paper (not rice paper, we were told) to create a detailed stained-glass effect. Support it with 1x3s inside, hundreds of light bulbs and a power source, and attach it to a large cart with an iron rod that extends from top to bottom. Put wheels and handles on the cart, and get (very eager!) volunteers to trundle these 18 ton behemoths through the streets of the city, preceded and followed by all sorts of dancers and musicians and revelers. Oh – and it's at night, so these things, lit from within, take on an even more dynamic life.
We also got to go up to the studio where this year's float was being constructed. Wood supports, lighting and wire frames were mostly done; paper was being meticulously pasted into each panel by three volunteers. We saw a drawing of this year's design, but the work hadn't progressed enough to identify which piece was where in the design. The colors are added later, and waterproofed – the festival proceeds, rain or shine.
I sent a link in the last e-mail to a video of the festival; there may be better images and videos to find, but our time at the free wi-fi is limited (laptop on battery power; network shuts you off after a period of time and you have to re-log-in, which is often a laborious process, planning e-mails to answer, lots of people sharing the bandwidth which slows it down). I for one am so glad I was there, standing at the foot of these giants, enjoying the vision and artistry and design intelligence – and sense of fun! – that went into them.
The resulting pottery is all generally the same color (very few pieces use glazes, from what I could gather) and slightly rough. There are a few dozen standard pieces which are turned out in great number. We also watched a potter working at the wheel, and one making plates, before being offered a small mug of tea in the gift shop. I'm sure Abbey will have more to say about this, filling in details that I missed.
 |
| Inside the climbing kiln |
After the pottery, we stopped at a local farmers' market kind of place, with some permanent booths and shops. It might have been interesting if any of the words anywhere had been in English, but – no. Abbey bought a package of bite-sized morsels she though were potatoes (?) but were probably more likely calamari. Then back to the ship, greeted by the “employees of city hall” who were just as enthusiastic as they had been in the morning.
Back out of that odd-shaped bay at sunset, and the next morning we arrived in Otaru, which is on the island of Hokkaido, the northernmost major island in Japan. Otaru is right next to Sapporo, where the 1972 Winter Olympics were held (sorry if I'm repeating myself; this sounds familiar). Interestingly, no one all day mentioned Sapporo at all, giving the impression that Otaru was very happy to maintain its own independent identity, thank you very much.
Our final pre-ordered shore experience was in Otaru; the next day we'd be launching ourselves into the Pacific. Unfortunately it was not as memorable as we hoped. The high spot was the “herring mansion.” Otaru had made its living from its herring fleet for centuries, and about a hundred years ago one of the herring magnates (the 1% of his time) build a house on the hill overlooking Otaru and the wide bay. It was two stories with about eight or ten rooms and three gardens, and today it is a wonderful example of an intact historic Japanese house – which was one of the items on Abbey's shortlist for Japan.
The house filled the bill – sliding rice-paper door-panels, ornate carvings, more high-quality art on the walls and on screens in the rooms than we'd seen in the entire trip so far (except for the museum in Tokyo), a “western room,” decorated in the Victorian style of the west and startling in its difference from the rest of the house, gorgeous furniture, exquisite wood carvings, two bathrooms with painted porcelain fixtures (one a “squatter” and one a urinal, with porcelain slippers to stand in), and what must have been an awesome view of the bay before larger houses were built downhill.
The problem was that there were about four busloads of people trying to see the house at the same time, and most of the hallways were wide enough for only one person. So time in (or in front of) any room was very limited; the signs and labels were all in Japanese with no English translations. Each guide was in front of a single-file line of 40 passengers, so essentially no one could tell what she was saying. And then we had to leave, because we were on a schedule.
The boat's daily schedule noted that Otaru was “a maiden stop,” meaning (and I had to find someone to ask to learn this) that it was QE's first time there. Perhaps they didn't have a lot of experience with large tours, or perhaps they hadn't solicited any feedback (no one's asked us anything about how the shore experiences went), but that was a real missed opportunity, and Abbey was justifiably disappointed. I did, however, take lots of pictures of everything, so there's that. More pics at the bottom of this post.
Otari has some ski slopes on the mountains that rise right up behind the city, and we took a cable car up to the top and got a great view, including the ship (pic). Then to the downtown shopping street for 90 minutes before returning to the ship. This might have been fun, and interesting, as the shops were small and idiosyncratic, and it being Saturday, the streets were crowded and active and lively. But again, everything was in Japanese, and nothing was in English. I had been on my feet long enough, and I thought it might be great to find a coffee shop and sit and watch the city go by. But since we couldn't read “coffee” in Japanese, we didn't know where to go. Abbey found a shop that offered “Kombucha sample” and was given seaweed in hot water. We wandered a little, and then discovered we couldn't identify where we had entered the street; the bus was one block back, but back from where? Lost in Otaru. We found the (extensive - block-long) bus parking lot and finally found our bus. A frustrating day, to say the least.
T-shirt seen on the shopping street in Otari: “California of Science.”
I know that Otaru is a Japanese city and has no obligation to translate anything into English (how much in Oneonta provides a Japanese translation?). But when a cruise ship with thousands of English-speaking passengers sits looming over the small port, and business people are eager to do business with those customers, perhaps a temporary, hand-lettered sign in English here or there might be to their benefit. It would certainly have sold me a cup of coffee. One shop did have a hand-lettered sign: “Welcome Queen Elizabeth!” But there was no indication of what kind of shop it was, so how welcome were we, really?
Back to the pier, and to find the free wi-fi. This was by far the most primitive set-up we've seen. Outdoors, near the gate that led to the ship, was a box the size of a small side-table, with a solar panel on top; the router/modem must have been inside. A sign on a pole next to it said “Free WiFi.” And that was it. No chairs. No password or network name. There were a couple of booth tents nearby (one manned by “The English-Speaking Society”) and I grabbed a chair, moved it closer to the box, sat down and opened the laptop. The “no chair” thing apparently worked OK for everyone else, who was on their phone. The sun was bright and shining over my shoulder, even when I moved under the tent, so the screen, and especially the cursor, was really hard to see. It took me a while, then, to realize that the laptop had frozen up, and nothing worked. After fiddling a while and saying some things that frustrated people tend to say, we gave up, not wanting to spend money to turn our phones on. So – that's why there was no dispatch from Otaru. Sorry! BTW, the next time I turned on the laptop, it worked fine.
Our send-off from Otaru was, however, awesome. A twelve-member (six men, six women) drum group set up the same kind of big drum we had seen in an earlier port, and four upright drums the size of the bass drum on a drum kit, and drummed for us with exceptional energy and enthusiasm. The did not do short, rehearsed pieces, but took turns at each of the drums and extemporized, changing seamlessly at prearranged intervals, and went on for over a half hour without stopping. The most energetic work was done on the big drum, which each member took turns on; their passion and elegance brought to mind the drum circles designed to exorcise personal demons, and I'll tell you, many demons were exorcised that afternoon. The passion and energy – and fury – were contagious, and the response from all decks was thunderous. Watch the video here.
And then off to the north but, as noted above, it was really the south.
It's the third day at sea, [checks schedule] Tuesday, I think. We've lost an hour every day for three days now – noon immediately becomes one o'clock. Since that first day in the strait between the two Japanese islands, it's been overcast: the first day the horizon was visible; yesterday it was not, just a fuzzy approximation. This morning when I came up at six o'clock (sleep schedule is off) you couldn't see more than about twenty feet off the rail – thick fog. And the ship's horn blasted every two or three minutes. Even with radar, sonar, GPS and so forth, a good shout with the foghorn might be just the thing. One wonders whether to be concerned: the fog was so thick that you couldn't see another ship soon enough to avoid hitting it. We assume that the technology would work – but if so, why the foghorn? We're on the Pacific Ocean!
A few hours later it cleared up just a little bit, and they turned off the horn. It's a full gale today, with wind speeds in the 30s (knots), but the sea doesn't look like it. Just some whitecaps. At lunchtime, the sun started to come out, and now – mid-afternoon – there's not a cloud in the sky. The sea has returned to deep blue, and there's the horizon! Still, it's not wise to go out, with gale winds blowing and temperatures in the 40s (F). I couldn't get out onto the Lido deck this morning, because it was so windy that I couldn't safely open the door – which is good because it was cold enough that I wouldn't have stayed long.
Which reminds me that I need to say something about our daily routine – what life is like on the ship.
 |
| The first sunrise at sea |
During the first part of the trip, which was in the south of Japan, it was warm enough for me to stay out until Abbey came up for breakfast, usually around 8:30. The ship's schedule is such that it pulls into just about every port between six and eight AM, so I'm always there to “help drive the ship into port.” In bigger ports, there's a pilot boat to bring the pilot on board, and in smaller ports it's a tug which then sticks around in case it's needed. All the piers we docked at were plenty long enough to accommodate the QE (in Yokohama it was two or three times longer than our ship and in fact accommodated an enormous freighter while we were there). But the smaller ports and harbors often look overwhelmed by the size of our ship. In all ports but Busan and Yokohama, there were a lot of people out on or near the pier, apparently just to watch the ship come in. In each port, there are two teams of guys in matching jumpsuits and hardhats ready to take the lines, fore and aft; the ship's crew throws out a weighted line about the diameter of clothesline off each end of the ship, and that's attached to a thicker line, which is attached to the actual line that will secure the ship to the pier. The hardhat guys pull and pull until the loop at the end of the big line is over the bollard, and then they're done. The ship's winches pull the ship tight against the pier, and the gangway goes out. In two ports, there were only two guys and one van on each team; one guy jumped out, attached the clothesline (which is clearly much stronger than clothesline) to the front bumper of the van, and the driver backed out until the big loop was by the bollard. Automation! (so to speak).
I've watched this many times, but I'm not tired of it yet. It's amazing how gently and precisely such a monumentally huge ship is snugged up against the rubber bumpers of a pier, exactly where it should be.
Anyway, Abbey and I have breakfast at the Lido buffet, and if it's a sea day, we go our separate ways afterwards – she almost always to a two-hour watercolor session, and I to whatever lectures are available. I think I've mentioned that since our return to Yokohama and the beginning of the northern part of our journey, we have had a military historian, an astrophysicist, a Canadian astronaut, and a travel writer speak, usually for about 45 minutes. Each will be speaking five or six times throughout the voyage. So far (day 3 into the Pacific) I've enjoyed all of the talks, although the travel writer is not good at taking about writing, but would rather tell stories about the trips she's taken to get her stories.
Then I pick Abbey up from watercolor and we go to lunch, afterwards she's usually back to painting for the afternoon, and there's usually a talk for me at 2:00, and/or a concert. I've mentioned the pianist, string trio, and piano/flute duo who play around the ship all the time, but mostly popular songs. In the afternoons, however, one of them often (not always) gives a “classical concert,” which is a nice change, even though about half of the pieces they play are the classical “greatest hits.” I spend time most afternoons out on the third floor promenade deck (the deck where you can walk all around the ship) on a deck chair writing this journal. After four, Abbey and I take a turn around the promenade deck, read, get dressed, and go to dinner.
On shore excursion days, we have to finish breakfast at a certain time in order to gather for the bus. In another curious communication lapse, the tickets say the tour leaves at a certain time, but the Daily Schedule, in a remote corner of the page, sets up a deadline that is a half-hour earlier. Apparently, we are to gather when the Schedule says, and the bus actually leaves the parking lot when the ticket says. Not knowing this for the first couple days resulted, as you might imagine, in some difficulties. On returning to the port, we find the free wi-fi (we've brought the pack with the laptop, but left it on the bus until the end of the tour) and answer e-mail.
Dinner is a trial for me, but Abbey likes it a lot. I feel constrained, wary, way too formal. There are constant interruptions as your water glass is refilled, your plate is cleared, the crumbs are scraped, the sommelier asks if you want any wine, the guy with the rolls comes around. I think I went into this in some detail in a previous rant, so I'll stop. The food is sometimes really good, usually OK.
We have gone to only a few performances in the theater in the evening. They haven't been very good. If you like hyperbolic song and dance designed to get you cheering at the anthemic climaxes, you might like it, but I just prefer good music. We've seen two magicians, who did pretty standard tricks but lacked much stage presence. So we stick to the two guys who do Irish music in smaller venues, and in the evenings we usually go to the ship's library, where there is a desk with two chairs, and Abbey paints while I read or write.
Today we went to High Tea in the Queen's Room, one of the bigger venues. There's High Tea every day, but we've never made it, being too busy with painting and music and lectures. There are tables for two set throughout the room; waiters with white jackets distributing teacups and saucers, pouring tea, and offering small sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and later on, baked goodies – tarts, etc. There is jam, but no butter. The tables for two were cheek-by-jowl, but there didn't seem to be much conversation. A harpist played across the room. I had eaten lunch, so was not hungry, so I had a cup of tea; Abbey had skipped lunch and had a little of everything. Most of our time was taken up with confused attempts to offer her non-dairy alternatives: all sandwiches had cheese or cream cheese, and they're still not clear on the fact that if a cake has dairy as an ingredient, but has been baked, it's OK. So that was the High Tea. If I had to guess, I would say that the majority nationality on the ship now is British, and the majority is certainly combined British, Australian and New Zealander. This was certainly the case here, considering the accents we could hear. Again, a much-too-formal ritual for me.
Now it's First Wednesday May 31, as distinct from Second Wednesday May 31, which is tomorrow. We cross the International Date Line this afternoon. As the Captain let us know during his noon PA announcement, the IDL – 180 degrees from the Prime or Greenwich Meridian – is just a nice idea, but no country is bound by it; each country can decide on its own how it counts the date. However, international commerce would be a nightmare if everyone didn't conform to one nice idea or another, and this is the one that has stuck, for about 150 years. As we have come to expect here in the Pacific Ocean, noon became one o'clock instantaneously; we've now lost four hours since Otaru. I have been getting up at 6AM each day, which is late for me. So much for sleep schedules.
Interesting details about our route (interesting to me; to others, maybe not so much). I mentioned a long time ago that our flight from Newark to Tokyo really skirted the Pacific Ocean, due to the Great Circle Route trajectory, and – for somewhat the same reason – we are now skirting the edge of the Pacific Ocean, and by no means are coming anywhere near “the middle.” After emerging from the Honshu/Hokkaido strait, our route has taken us in a curved (on a flat map) route just to the south of the Kiril Islands, a chain that, geologically, stretches out to sea from the northeast coast of Hokkaido (once again, running on memory). We've run out of Kirils, but are now due south of the westernmost of the Aleutian Islands and will, apparently, follow them into the vicinity of the Kenai Peninsula, and up Redemption Bay to Seward. So – not so isolated from the real world as I had hoped. But the islands we will be skirting, the Kirils and the Aleutians, are populated very sparsely, if at all. Nevertheless, the idea of islands over the horizon kind has an impact on the whole “in the Pacific” vibe.
 |
| View forward, aft, port and starboard for six days |
Sky is still grey; sea is more slate-grey, iron-grey. Temperatures in the 40s (F), sea temperatures also in the 40s. Winds alternate between moderate and high gales, 20-40 knots. They haven't even folded out the deck chairs, or unpacked the cushions, since that first day on the ocean. We are taking one turn around the promenade deck now, wearing as many of our heavier clothes as we can, holding on to our hats.
Just need to record a recommendation before I forget. In the dining room, we can request a seat at a “table for two,” or we can request a seat at a larger table with other people who requested the chance to eat with whoever showed up. We always ask for the “table for two,” since I am not socially competent enough to ensure a pleasant dinner conversation. However, most of the “tables for two” are set literally one foot away from the next “table for two,” and often there are three or four of them in a row, that close. So in those cases, you're really committing yourself to conversation (as long as you speak the same language). Abbey enjoys the situation; I try not to embarrass us.
Anyway, a couple of nights ago we sat near a couple who were nearly our age (they happened to mention they were in their 60s) with whom we got on pretty well. They were from Newcastle, England, up in the borderlands between England and Scotland (Dorothy Dunnett territory, for those who partake). They were partisans, of course, like most borderlanders for a millennium, and spoke of “us” and “them,” with the Scottish as “them.” It didn't seem like they meant anything by it; very laid back and sociable. We found that we had a lot of the same tastes and experiences.
Anyway – they highly recommended two British TV shows, and I want to remember what they were: “Blackadder” and “Vera.” Blackadder, with Rowan Atkinson (Mr. Bean) is a historic political farce, with, they said, some sharpish jabs at the current politics, especially in the later series. “Vera” is a police procedural, and most or all of it was apparently filmed near and in Newcastle. So there's a good reason for maintaining a travel journal – you've got a place to record stuff you want to remember but would forget if you didn't write it down. I find that if I don't have some sort of structured writing routine, I never write anything down and I forget a lot of stuff. (Later note: a few days later, we sat with a couple from Australia (Sidney) who recommended a map app called “maps.me”. You can download maps and follow your progress in real time without wifi, which is perfect if you're somewhere in an ocean.)
Note for Lily: there's an organized knitting group on board which meets regularly in the Commodore Lounge (known as the Crow's Nest on Holland America ships), which has the best indoor view on the ship. That's were I am now, and they're a few tables down, maybe a dozen of them. Most accents are British. I can tell that because it seems a very sociable group, and generally socialize at high volume.
This morning, we did the salsa. Abbey asks me to take part in one dance activity per cruise (although given the length of this one, it may be more than once) and today was it. She understands my limitations: I can't clap along with a song without going off-beat after a few measures, and moving smoothly and naturally are activities that are unknown to me. Nevertheless, we joined a few dozen other passengers in the Queen's Room to learn the salsa. Very shortly, Abbey had to take me off the dance floor and over in a corner to help me learn the basics, because I hadn't gotten them yet and everyone else was moving on pretty quickly. We did the simple steps, at half speed, and sometimes I got them right and sometimes I didn't. My brain has just never been adequately connected to my body or, more accurately, to my proprioceptive senses, so knowing where my body is in space, and directing it with any precision or complexity, is very hard. I've done enough waltzing (often on stage) to be able to do it competently but not fluidly, but I always have to be thinking about what I'm doing. It's always work. I really feel sorry for Abbey, because she likes to dance and doesn't get to do so very often.
Abbey here: I've been painting or sleeping while Gary works on the journal, and now he's caught up. Sitting here in the ship's crow's nest, looking out over the bow, and the grey, low swell waves ahead. Some rocking movement up here. Our room, in the middle of the ship, down on the first deck has minimal movement. So far there has only been one day with any serious movement, the long waves, which were lovely when we were lying down, being rocked to sleep. So far, no throwing up or taking of meds, though I did have Gary buy some that day, just in case. (Holland-America gave them out free, just saying...)
All our sea days on the Pacific have been cloudy and gloomy (Gary claims he saw blue sky at one point), and it's been getting colder. We still get out for the promenade walk, but definitely bundle up in many layers. We were told 40*F at noon.
We get to do something I've never done before- experience the same “day” twice, as we cross the international date line. The speakers have been referring to the schedule as May 31st, the first one, or the second one. The watercolor teacher, who teaches on sea days, said she didn't plan enough lessons. When she counted up the days, she didn't count the 31st twice!
We've also been adding an hour each day, which is really messing up my system!
I was delighted to find the watercolor classes offered. Not much new to me, but the structured times have been good for me, and it is very sociable to paint and chat. I haven't painted anything worth framing, but I am painting. I also found out that I could teach watercolor classes in exchange for the cruise cost. It's not a great deal, one has to pay for airfare, gratuities, the agent's fees, and one gets an inside room, but it's worth looking into. [Gary here: she neglects to mention that the watercolor teacher's husband is welcome along, free of cruise-charge, as well!]
We are semi-adjusting to lack of internet, reminding us of how much we use our cell phones, computers, and TV in our lives. We are also adjusting to being alone by ourselves. We did on the last Prairie Home Companion cruise, but there were a lot more of the interesting activities to keep us occupied. Though there is not a lot of eye contact in the elevators and corridors, and the buffet (Lido), the formal dining room's tables are very close together, and quite often we interact with those next to us. Social interaction is pretty easy, names are never exchanged, but origins, “where are you from?”, are usually the first order of business, which generates stories, common interests and even politics. (Politics can be a safer topic when one is from different countries, than back in the US!) Almost all the people traveling are senior citizens, most are heterosexual couples, some singles, a few gay couples, very few children.
The food for the most part is disappointing, somehow I think I was expecting gourmet meals on Cunard! The formal dining room is a cut above, but we suspect that the really good food is served in the restaurants where there is a charge over and above the cost of the cruise. There is certainly a lot of food, groan. I haven't managed to skip any meals, though I have cut back, some...
Gary again – we are, according to the daily schedule, delivered to our room the night before, in the fifth day of a seven-day crossing – also known as Wednesday May 31 II. We are following the Aleutian Islands, between about 70 and 100 nautical miles south (I keep meaning to ask at the desk about knots and nautical miles). In his daily noon (actually, 1PM) PA announcement, the captain noted that we are entering an area that is frequented by humpback whales, who spend the winter around the Hawaiian Islands, not eating anything, and then move up here in the spring, where whale food is, apparently, abundant. So – we're all on the lookout for hungry whales.
Sea: same. Sky: same. Horizon: visible and crisp today. Temp: same. Wind: same. Sea: same. One of the lectures this morning was by the astrophysicist, on our sun, sunspots, solar storms and the Earth's magnetosphere (did you know that a strong solar storm can induce electrical current in long wires running east-west?). She felt that she had to introduce us to the sun, since it had been so long since we've seen it.
For a trans-oceanic trip during which the wind has been rated at some level of “gale” throughout, we are sailing very smoothly. Wind or not, the waves are small and, as far as I can tell, disorganized. Occasionally this is a small judder, as if we've hit something, but generally there's the very slight vibration of the ship's engines, and gentle swaying.
Abbey here: Just a quick note, as the piano in this room is being tuned and they haven't bothered to turn off the bar music that is playing simultaneously. Brain block. Anyway, just wanted to say that Gary did fine, we skipped the fancy steps, he can do the Salsa with a little more practice. Also, I can help Gary connect to his body, but he has to agree!
Ah, the piano tuner is done, just a few notes needing fixing apparently.
I agree that the bed is very comfortable. I had decided to leave my down pillow at home with some trepidation, but it took up too much real estate in the suitcase. The pillows here are fortunately adequate. However, the long rolling swells (waves) were only one day. The short swells that have been typical of the rest of the sea days create a night time motion more typical of someone bumping into the mattress at random intervals. Between that, the pulled ligament of my rib, and the night time coughing have made sleeping through the night a “wishful dream”. I envy Gary's ability to sleep through the night so soundly!
Someone said that her husband, who had booked this trip eastward across the northern Pacific specifically to see albatrosses, saw 3 yesterday. Now I've got my eye on the sky as well as the sea as we travel.
Patches of blue sky! Clouds still cover most of the sky, but they're white.
Cunard's communication systems are noticeably poor. One example: on the first or second day of the cruise, I requested to the purser's office that they offer non-dairy yogurt and ice cream since they offer alternates to milk. The request made its way through ? layers, and about 11 days later an Indian gentleman, one of the head stewards, approached me at dinner, and asked if I needed special consideration for meals concerning dairy. He now gives me the next day's dining room menu, and makes sure that whatever I order is made without dairy. Lots of confusion, thinking I am lactose intolerant, but Ravee's taken care of me. This morning, only about 16 days into the cruise, I found out that the kitchen does have non-dairy yogurt, but I have to ask for it! Couldn't they have told me that at the beginning of the cruise??? Anyway, Ravee delivered a bowl of it to our room, to be kept in the small refrigerator. Which presents its own problems...but minor! (smile)
I also figured out that the dining room serves sorbet as well as ice cream for dessert most nights; now I just order 2 desserts. (smile smile)
Also, when we get to Alaska, I have to ask Heidi what Adi's last name and hometown are, since Ravee is from southern India.
Gary here. It's day six of our seven-day crossing, and the sun is out! The air is warmer! The wind has diminished to almost nothing! The sea is as calm as we've seen it – just wavelets. It's still cold – high 40s – but people are outside in their woolies, sitting in deck chairs facing the sun, and walking around and around the ship. We're still following the Aleutian Islands, to our north, close enough now that we can see two or three volcanoes – the largest is around 2,000 ft high – on the horizon, almost like mirages. But they're really there (the Captain told us we'd be able to see them). I'm struck by how much they look like Mt. Fuji. Fuji gets all the glory because it's in clear view of millions and millions of people, but these are just as elegant, even though no one usually sees them.
A knot is about 2.2 kilometers per hour. To get miles per hour, multiply kilometers by 0.6. So – a knot is about 1.3 mph. Our 30-40 knot winds over the last few days have been, then, about 40-60 mph, which is why none of the deck chairs were out and hardly anyone (except us) went out to walk around. And a nautical mile is about 1.2 regular miles, so the Aleutians probably average 90-100 miles away, although they're starting to get closer. (No – we're starting to get closer to them). And that's enough math for quite a while.
So I'm sitting here, in the sunshine, in the Crow's Nest, with an almost 180ยบ view, typing and looking for whales and albatrosses. Abbey is painting. I've got a dead-tree version of a Dorothy Sayers novel, a Libby version of an Emily St. John Mandel novel (she wrote “Station Eleven,” which the book club has done; the TV version is about the best TV I've ever seen), and an audiobook (and wireless headphones) of a five-hour interview of Paul Simon by Malcom Gladwell (with music), which is about the most interesting and exciting thing I've listened to in a long time (more on that if anyone's interested).
Which brings me to the topic of music, and entertainment in general. Most of the music on the ship, and pretty much all of the entertainment, is disappointing. I know that the music and entertainment is carefully designed to appeal to the market it is provided for. Cunard has had decades – actually, more than a century – to fine-tune what they offer to their passengers. This is a ship, then, where a vast majority of passengers are happy with the music they hear and the shows they watch. Happy with, then, the familiar, the predictable and the flashy.
And it's not about the musicians, actors or dancers themselves. They seem technically skilled, and energetic. But their programs are crowd-pleasers (which makes sense, there are crowds to please here) without any complexity or feeling. And that's what I look for in music: complexity and feeling. That's what engages me.
Instead, there are, as I've noted, professional pianists, guitarists, a string trio and harpist, who play popular songs like this: one-note melodies, accessorized with trills, grace notes and arpeggios. No interesting arrangements; no improvisations. I've listened to many pieces, or parts of them, walking from here to there, just to make sure I'm describing this accurately, and it's nearly always the case: there's a trill, a couple of sets of grace notes, and arpeggios to lead up to the big finish. I can't remember a tune I've heard that I couldn't name, except for a few pieces by the trio, which were classical. Nothing original, nothing to get you to lean forward and really pay attention, nothing to make you feel anything significant.
The musical infrastructure in the ship is actually well-done: As you walk around the ship, you're within earshot of a performance maybe half the time (more so in the evening), which is nice, or would be if the music didn't make you grind your teeth. And some of the groups have done “classical concerts” in the afternoons, but only about twice a week, and at least half of those concerts have been (as I've mentioned above) classical greatest hits that you've heard a million times before.
I wonder what the musicians think of all this. They all, I am sure, can play interesting and intricate pieces with passion and elegance, given the chance. Instead, they're playing the melodies of well-known Beatles tunes and songs from “West Side Story” and “Sound of Music.” I'm sure they can all play – have probably been trained to play – and maybe even love to play – all kinds of classical music. I suppose it's a living.
There is obviously a comfort in familiarity – especially when you're away from home. I get that. But what is musically familiar – and satisfying – to me is not to be found on this ship. I guess that's the gist of what I'm saying.
So I guess that was a rant, and so I guess I'm sorry. There are some bright spots. The piano/flute duo does some really interesting and unusual music (including actual Japanese music), but they play so irregularly that it's only a rare pleasure (and their concerts are not well-attended). We like the two Irish guys who sing mostly in the pub, and mix up traditional ballads, stories, instrumentals and some modern Irish music. And last night I ran into a guitarist (who at the moment was playing for exactly no one except me) who was playing jazz with a beautiful, mellow tone. He relied on thoughtful phrasing instead of flash. In jazz, it's common to hear “the old standards” - that's the way jazz is supposed to work – and I enjoyed his improvisations on “Autumn Leaves.” I hope we run into him again.
 |
| Land ho! |
It's Friday, the last day of our passage, and the sun is out again, the sea is calm. It's a little windier and just as cold. There are whitecaps now, enough that it drives watchers-for-whales crazy. I did see three or four spouts, probably the same whale, at some distance, but did not see the whale. We did see land, the first since that Japanese strait a long time ago, a bleak brown rocky island with a few peaks, and then there was Kodiak Island, further away – almost like a mirage – with real mountains with real snow on them. They're out of sight now (late afternoon). We'll be in Seward, Alaska, tomorrow – named for Lincoln's Secretary of State who arranged for the purchase from Russia - “Seward's Folly” - in the late 1860s, for 2 cents an acre. Actually, he was Andrew Johnson's Sec'y of State, as Lincoln had been assassinated in 1865. Looking forward to getting back in touch.
Looking forward to not losing an hour a day, as well. Yesterday I slept until seven, which is unheard of, and today I was up before five – and couldn't stay awake all day. Ship lag?
Abbey here: the add-an-hour daily is wreaking havoc with my system too. I said to Gary that, “ I feel hungry but I'm full. I slept to 10:30 am yesterday, woke up at 6am today.
Haven't seen any whales yet, but I did see a “blow” yesterday, off in the distance. I'm waiting for one to come right up to a window I'm looking out of. I'll be waiting all the way to Vancouver, I'm sure.
The Irish duo is really good. Unfortunately, they're usually scheduled when we eat dinner, and later, at 10:30 at night.
I'm on a first name basis with a number of people, mostly from the watercolor class. One couple, from New Zealand asked me where we were going next...uh, home? Another woman is full of fascinating experiences; for 10 years now, her husband picks a place somewhere in the world, and she plans it. They own no home, just travel from place to place. Their next stop is Virginia, to visit with grandchildren.
There are 11 washer and dryer sets on board (one has been broken all cruise), available between 7:30am-9pm for approx. 2,000 people. Enough said.
More pics from the "herring house" in Otaru (sorry about the formatting; nothing to be done about it):
 |
| Detail of screen |
 |
| Carved beam |
 |
 |
| Squatter |
Comments
Post a Comment