Cruise 2015: London, Gibraltar, Spain, Monaco, Italy, Rome

[title type="h5"] Days 1&2: Sunday, May 24, 2015. A Smooth 787 Flight To London. [/title] Long-distance travel of the kind we are doing in the next two and a half weeks makes me tense. I find that even after I check all the items necessary to hit the road several times, I lose track of many of them. Passports, for example. I thought I'd lost two of them today. But it was only my daughter's deciding that she will take care of her own passport from now on. She's certainly old enough, and so is my wife, who tells me that I'm more likely to lose her documents. She is probably right. So my long stint as custodian of Everybody's Passports is over. This morning, as we prepare for this year's Eat Club cruise in Europe, I do something that engenders even more stress than getting ready to leave town. I give a solo performance of the Pentecost Sequence--the Song of Joy in Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, but with new words. I start on the wrong key, and then goober up a few of the words. That was enough to make me shake. But once it was over, the preparations for our flight to London today seem trivial. Not that there are no loose ends. As of this morning, the plan for getting the dogs fed while we're gone is not solid. The lady across the street has the job, but she is afraid of the dog Susie. Suzie is very protective, especially when we are in residence. She snarls and snaps and demands a wide berth. We work out a scheme that keeps the dogs in the large fenced area, and we place plastic trays on the inside of the fence. Our neighbor will just reach over the fence and fill the trays with food and water. That should make Susie like her fast enough. The Marys give me grief about my wanting to leave earlier than they were thinking. We are at the airport with about an hour to spare. I like having what Dick Brennan used to call "uh-oh" insurance. By the time we are across the lake, we have lots of time. The Marys are hungry, and would especially like hamburgers from Atomic Burger. It's not really out of the way, so why not? We get what I think is the best slider I've ever eaten. The meat is fresh and hand-formed. The fries are fresh-cut. The service at the drive-through window may be the slowest in the category, but they could use that as a promotion. It takes a long time to get a made-to-order burger cooked properly. We still have an hour to kill at Moisant. Long enough to get the feeling that we have already left New Orleans. When we board the Brazilian-built airplane--somewhat smaller than usual--we are told by the captain that no beverages or snacks will be served, because he is expecting a rough transit to Houston. I knew about this, having racked a big, red swath of thunderstorm radar square in our path as we go from New Orleans to Houston. But the turbulence is minimal. We land on time. We have three hours to kill in Houston, whose airport is enormous and good-looking. The kind of place that convinces one that we do indeed live in a great time in a great land. Like many major airports, it has rethought its food services, getting rid of most of the anonymous servers of the most ordinary food with restaurants that you might well visit in the outside world. We wind up at Pappadeaux, an outlet of a large chain of regional restaurants around Texas, all managed by the Pappas family. I have never dound any of these especially good, with the worst being the Mexican-themed Pappacito's and the best being Pappas Steak House. I've only been to Pappadeaux once, some ten years ago. It reminded me a lot of Copeland's then, but not that good. In the times since, it has upgraded its act, with an emphasis on seafood. But most of the seafood species on the menu are exotics: tilapia, farm-raised catfish, Chilean sea bass, scallops and the like. They do have an oyster bar. The food was better than I remember. The servers were friendly but not especially adept. Somehow, in an airport, this seemed appropriate. The back of the house also had its problems. The entree that appealed most to me included a crab cake, a skewer of blackened shrimp, crabmeat in a buttery sauce, and seared scallops. But the place was out of scallops, and the waitress offered more shrimp in lieu of the lack. I ask, "How about giving me another crab cake?" To my surprise, not only did they go along with this plan (which certainly raised their food cost for the dish), but the food was pretty good. Even the crabcake. We adjourn to our gate. Mary Ann extolls the virtues of the Boeing 777, particularly those with "pods" in first class. She has at times (as in the Marys' trip to Germany a month and a half ago) finagled her way into these very comfortable. . . well, the word "pod" about captures them. You can lie down in them and stretch out. "The whole airplane is magnificent and comfortable," she says. "It's the best in the world, except maybe for the 787. But I don't think the 787 has been around long enough for me to feel good about it." Little did she know that this very night, too late for her to back out of it, we would fly on the selfsame 787 Dreamliner. It is indeed a fine airplane, with creature comforts extending well beyond any other in my experience. Two matters in particular impress me. Overnight flights across the ocean typically turn off most of the lights a couple of hours after dinner, to give passengers a fighting chance of falling asleep. But the next morning, at sunrise, a few people start opening windows, letting the sunlike penetrate the cabin. Then the attendants snap on the bright main lights. If you weren't already awake by then, you soon would be. But on the Dreamliner, some sort of shading in the windows keeps the early morning sun from washing through the plane, and it remains sleepably dim. When it's really time for breakfast, the few blue lights are replaced, slowly, by a nonviolent orange, then to a yellow. No irises are roughly squeezed down to dots. In addition to that, the plane goes up to over 40,000 feet, above the tops of all but the most aggressive storms. Unfortunately, we had just such storms most of the way across the eastern half of America and the Atlantic ocean. But it wasn't as bad as it would have been at, say, 35,000 feet. (One of the several readers who are retired pilots will now point out that heading east, planes stay in the odd number of thousands. Or do I have that backwards? Here some the emails now.) One more thing: the Dreamliner flew at Mach .84. That's five-sixths of the way to exceeding the speed of sound--which would make it impossible to talk, right? I'd never been on an airplane that came close to flying that fast. Anyway, even the landing was smoother than I'm accustomed to. Now we walk a very long trail through Heathrow, the busiest airport in Europe for passenger traffic and the third-biggest in the world. My guess is that we walked four or five blocks en route to British customs. Never for a moment was it less than obvious which way to go. We are about to grab a taxi when we see a man from the Cunard cruise line standing there with a sign. We don't get on the ship until three days from now. Could it be possible that he is here to pick us up and take us to our hotel? Not only possible, but already paid for (by us!). Our travel agent Debbie Himbert was really on the ball with this one. As far as I know, we're the only people in our group staying at the Langham Hotel. The Langham dates back to 1865, and has always been a classy hostelry. But the reason Mary Ann wants to stay here is that she is a regular at the Langham in Pasadena, California, staying there whenever she visits our son Jude. She loves the West Coast Langham, and suspects that the flagship hotel here in London must really be something. This expectation is a setup for disappointment. How could the near-center of London compare for beauty with the hilltop views of the mountains and valleys around Pasadena? In London outside our window is an alley of utilities. But it's more than nice enough to my sensitivities. The staff of the hotel is as helpful as could be imagined, and the neighborhood is full of shops and restaurants of note. MA goes out to scope out the neighborhood of the Langham, and finds a number of attractions she will revisit later. Meanwhile, I do a little writing of this stuff, and Mary Leigh--who is not feeling well--konks out in her separate room for hours. I shortly follow suit in the adult room, and get a delicious two-hour nap before Mary Ann returns with the results of her reconnaissance. [caption id="attachment_47784" align="alignnone" width="480"] Entrance to Criterion Restaurant.[/caption] Her main find is a restaurant called the Criterion. It's approximately the same age as Commander's Palace, having opened in the late 1870s. The dining room walls are mainly constructed of marble in a Roman style. It was a favorite of Winston Churchill and other famed Brits. In the Sherlock Holmes stories, the Criterion is mentioned here and there. Mary Ann says that the menu is rather hip, despite the antiquity of the premises. She thinks it's the perfect place for a person with my tastes. So we go there for dinner. She is wrong about any au courant quality here. The cooking is good but very traditional. On the other hand what looks at first like a menu of British specialties is revealed to be more French in style. It all still needs more salt, pepper, and Tabasco for my palate, but I have encountered much worse. [caption id="attachment_47781" align="alignnone" width="480"] Criterion house salad. [/caption] We start with a salad that Mary Ann likes because it includes a lot of arugula and lamb's lettuce. We also have a Caprese salad made with house-made mozzarella cheese and a very tasty, pureed pesto sauce. I have a refreshing and interesting version of gravlax, nicely cured to a big, slightly tart flavor. [caption id="attachment_47785" align="alignnone" width="480"] Roast ribeye with Yorkshire pudding. [/caption] The entrees bring forth a plate of pappardelle pasta with greens in a buttery sauce that Mary Leigh likes very well. Mary Ann has a beef sirloin roasted to medium-well (her idea, not the chef's). It comes out with a gravy that suggests prime rib. It even comes with Yorkshire pudding, the variation of popovers made with drippings from the roast beef. They are terrible. Popovers absolutely must be sent out immediately after emerging from the oven. For a few moments afterwards, they are a major thrill. But, that's why hardly any restaurants serve them. [caption id="attachment_47782" align="alignnone" width="441"] Seafood stew.[/caption] I like my entree, but it gave me much to think about. The Criterion calls it "British Isles Seafood Stew." Like a bouillabaisse? Not really, even though mussels, scallops and various fish are in a stock. Is it Brit gumbo? There is a roux and even some of the Creole trinity, but this tastes nothing like any gumbo I've ever had. [caption id="attachment_47780" align="alignnone" width="480"] Cheese board.[/caption] The Marys are not up for to dessert. But that course comes with the twenty-pound sterling (thirty-dollar) dinner, so I claim the assortment of cheeses. One of these is Mrs. Montgomery's Cheddar, one of the most famous cheeses in Great Britain, where cheese is liked very much. I also lay claim to ML's dessert, a sort of bread pudding made from croissants. Pretty good, with whipped cream where we would have the whiskey sauce. Did I say twenty pounds for three courses? I did. Add fifty-five percent for the exchange-rate difference between pound and dollar, and the fifteen-percent service charge, and it's still a better deal than I expected from such a venerable restaurant. It could be called the Antoine's of London. Mary Ann breaks away from me and ML so she can do more looking around this crowded, hip part of town. We take a taxi back to the hotel. ML is still shagged out after a weekend of baking three enormous cakes for people's weddings, and still on somewhat low power. We talk with the taxi driver about his work, which he likes, along with his hometown. "When you get tired of London," he says, "you're tired of life." That would be a good slogan for New Orleans. [title type="h5"]Day 3. Tuesday, May 26, 2015. Shopping For Two Bags Of Cookies. Indian Dinner @ Gaylord's.[/title] I get nine and a half hours of lovely sleep, despite Mary Ann's knocking around the room. She is eager to get out into London and start shopping, and doesn't bother waiting for the rest of us. Our daughter--still not feeling well--is still abed when I get back from breakfast in the Palm Court, the all-day restaurant of the Langham Hotel. (Strange coincidence: the Hassler Hotel in Rome, which will be the final hotel on this trip, also calls its restaurant the Palm Court.) The restaurant is busy all the time. Even the break between lunch and dinner is a long afternoon tea, accompanied by a good pianist. I considered having dinner there last night, but MA talked me out of it. She says that it would be a disservice to you, dear subscriber, for me to waste a dinner opportunity on a hotel restaurant. [caption id="attachment_47777" align="alignnone" width="320"] BBC headquarters.[/caption] We finally begin our walkabout. First we pass in front of the world headquarters of the BBC. I wish I had known. I would have asked whether they'd be interested in interviewing a guy who was on the radio during the approach of hurricane Katrina ten years ago, and who can talk cogently about the food of the affected area. We almost go in there to offer this opportunity in person, before it hits me how many kooks wander in with what they consider a good story. [caption id="attachment_47776" align="alignnone" width="480"] Carnaby Street, a blast from the past. [/caption] Our wanderings take us into a very touristy part of town, centered on Carnaby Street--the center of style during the hegemony of the Beatles. Mary Ann tells me to take note of the many hamburger specialists we come across, each of which claims to make the best hamburgers in the world. We slowly make our way to Piccadilly Avenue, where a great deal of really serious shopping is found. The Marys enter just about all of them, inspecting everything from fabrics to dresses to shoes. The latter market seems to be dominated by rubber boots. Do they go crawfishing around here? [caption id="attachment_47773" align="alignnone" width="320"] Kobe beef sirloins at Fortnum & Mason. Check out the marbling. [/caption] The girls buy nothing even as they proclaim London to be the most interesting city in the world. But they are saving their main effort for a store called Fortnum and Mason. F&M, as their bags call the place, occupies some seven stories with more or less traditional department store merchandise. But my antennae tuned the way they are, I find myself spending most of my time on the three floors where fine foods are found. [caption id="attachment_47771" align="alignnone" width="480"] Very fresh fish and octopus at Fortnum & Mason.[/caption] We are talking here about a serious emporium for gourmets. It starts with a full-fledged butcher shop, a charcuterie, a fish monger, and a cheese shop. All of these are as comprehensive as can be imagined. Not beef wrapped in vacuum packs, but actually cut to order from primal roasts. Whole fish and shellfish on ice. Lots of rare goods, too. Beluga caviar comes from Iran, where roe from this nearly-extinct sturgeon is continually taken despite the effort to close that market. (It's illegal to sell it in the United States). Real Kobe beef sirloins, so heavily marbled that there is more fat than steak visible. This is something else that the governments involved keep out of the U.S. Here is goose foie gras in a can at £75. (I am tempted.) There's a big wine and liquor section, in which the F&M house brand of wines like Margaux are found. Lots of Bordeaux, enough to demonstrate that the Brits still have a preference for claret. I discover a menu's room on the fifth floor, where also are men's furnishings. I consider buying a tie, but I am deterred by the £130 price. I find something more amenable to my budget: a straw hat that comes close to matching the one MA is wearing. This hat--amazingly, it fits me perfectly, although it's the last one they have--is £70. Okay. That's it for my shopping on this trip. When I rejoin the Marys, they tell me that my hat makes me look like a rube. Which should make it perfect for me. They are each carrying a basket of F&M goods. They will soon find a small grocery cart, whose capacity will be strained by the volume of their selections. These are mostly cookies, with a good bit of chocolate. When they check out, the clerk says that they may want to have all this stuff shipped back home. But when they go to the shipping window, they are told that the many items in glass jars can't be shipped. We will be lugging this hoard around not only London but the ship, the hotel in Rome, and the airplanes bringing us home. It's $131 worth of cookies and chocolate. How can these women not love me? [caption id="attachment_47774" align="alignnone" width="480"] The Marys find a chocolate store. [/caption] We head back for the hotel. I am pleased that I have done more than my quota of walking for the day, with one of the bags of cookies and chocolate serving as my weight-lifting exercise. It's so much that it requires being packed in double bags. However, the Marys were not done yet. They find a shop full of nuts and chocolates. I am happy to find espresso in this same shop. It's the only thing I have ingested since breakfast. My hunger starts straining in the direction of the likely suspects for dinner tonight. One of the restaurants we pass is Veeraswamy, a famous old Indian place. I remember a 1970s French Quarter restaurant whose manager--a Brit--added shimp curry to the menu and the surname "Veeraswamy." Maybe we should return here for dinner tonight. Eating Indian food in London is a popular habit. I remember that on the back of the Beatles' second album in 1963, in a Q&A the Fab Four said that they liked to eat curry. [caption id="attachment_47770" align="alignnone" width="480"] Gaylord's, a long-running Indian restaurant in London.[/caption] When we get back to the hotel, I stop at the concierge's desk and ask what he might recommend for Indian dining nearby. He is enthusiastic about Gaylord's, a name I have heard in connection with Indian food for a long time. (It has nothing in common with the long-extinct discount store on the corner of Airline Highway and Labarre Road in Metairie, but that's the first thing I think of.) The concierge says that the food is spicy (no problem there), and that it is very popular among the locals. I interpret that last comment as meaning that the food is great but the premises are less than glitzy. And I make the mistake of passing along that idea to Mary Ann, who cares more about what a restaurant looks like than she does about the excellence of the cooking. She tells me that she wants to take a look inside before committing her supper to Gaylord's. Mary Leigh, who is shy about trying any new cuisine, adds to the dubiousness. [caption id="attachment_47769" align="alignnone" width="480"] An assortment of tandoori meats at Gaylord's. [/caption] But when we approach Gaylord's door four blocks from the hotel, we find a handsome restaurant and a wide-ranging menu. Indeed, they sell me right off the bat with a three-course table d'hote menu that starts with three kinds of tandoori-roasted meats, followed by lamb rogan josh (a spicy stew) with lentils, then Indian rice pudding. The girls take a bit longer and require more explanation of the menu. (I try to explain it all, but they don't believe a word I say.) [caption id="attachment_47768" align="alignnone" width="480"] Two very different curries.[/caption] A stack of light, very thin poppadums comes out with some chopped onions and peppers and three chutneys. Mary Ann surprises me by finding the chutneys--particularly some very hot pickles--delicious. And they are indeed. [caption id="attachment_47767" align="alignnone" width="480"] Biryani, the Indian equivalent of jambalaya. [/caption] We get some garlic naan from the sides of the tandoor, and some vegetables with an extremely hot red sauce. The girls have butter chicken, with its different tomato-based sauce, and lamb korma--yet another variation on curry sauce with a large tomato component). Until they are quite full, the Marys dine enjoyably. So do I, with the added pleasures of a Bombay martini and a pint of Kingfisher beer from India. A copious cold beverage is essential with these pepper levels. I will have to cross the concierge's palm with silver for this fine recommendation. Back at the hotel, the girls take themselves to bed at around ten. I want to slide my sleep period a bit later, and I stay awake watching the BBC on the telly. One show is a game whose rules I can't quite figure. The feature is a competition called "Pointless," but the contestants indeed get 1250 points by figuring out something that makes no sense to me. (It has to do with soccer somehow.) Then a news program with a feature on Bulgaria's new iron curtain. The Brits take more interest in world affairs than we do. A talking-head interview show has a member of the House of Lords engaging a member of the House of Commons, both egged on by the moderator. None of these people have television good looks. Their teeth, for example, are gappy and dull, instead of the perfect white choppers comparable Americans would have. It is refreshing for me to see this, given my own looks, which are made for radio. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"] Day 4: Wednesday, May 27, 2015. Overtaken In London.[/title] In contrast with Mary Ann's well-planned day of shopping through an extensive, looping, moving-right-along route around London, her attempt to have an equally satisfying and expensive day of shopping today didn't come to much. The Marys left at around eight a.m. for Harrod's. That's the world's most impressive department store, offering for sale such a wide range of potential purchases that it can be said to sell everything. But for some reason that didn't bring any satisfaction to the girls. Perhaps this is because a) it is rather cold outside, and the Marys are dressed as if it were New Orleans, or 2) MA's feet hurt, due to uncomfortable shoes--the only kind MA owns, near as I can tell. The shoe matter is probably my fault. I don't own a pair of shoes that I would not be able to wear for ten or twelve hours at a stretch. The karmic imbalance might explain everything. [caption id="attachment_47758" align="alignnone" width="480"] Breakfast in the dining room at the Langham Hotel in London. [/caption] I go to breakfast downstairs in the Langham Hotel, where the opening meal of the day is complimentary and good. The best part of breakfast is reading the Financial Times and the just-plain Times, both of which have a clever style of journalism that doesn't take politics as seriously as we do in the U.S. The articles all seem to wink an eye at you, regardless of the topic. I am just finishing my work for the morning when the Marys appear in the room to collect me. Mary Ann says I should go to see the Transport Museum in Covent Garden, which itself is more than interesting. Resembling the French Market but much older and larger, Covent Garden encloses at least a dozen restaurants, most with tables on what the Italians would call a piazza. (English has only "public square" or "marketplace" for this, neither of which sing.) The area is filled with mimes, particularly the kind that pose motionless as statues. Some of these are truly astonishing. Also here are opera singers, yo-yo artists, comedians, and other performers. I get the impression that all of these just show up with their props and/or background music, and just begin their acts, without a by-your-leave to any sort of authority. [caption id="attachment_47705" align="alignnone" width="480"] Covent Garden, and one of the many restaurants there.[/caption] The Transport Museum is about getting around London, starting with boats and ferries on the Thames, then getting into the above-ground roads and railways, and finally a close study of the original subway system--the Tube. That begins with coal-fired locomotives pulling their cars underground through their own smoke. It goes through the electrical era, with special features about how the cars functioned during the world wars. [caption id="attachment_47761" align="alignleft" width="133"] Inside an antique London subway car, with a guide (rear) in old Tube conductor duds. [/caption] Some of the older cars look almost identical to New Orleans streetcars. I am pleasantly surprised to see that our city is given credit for more or less creating the get-around-town streetcar. (The St. Charles Streetcar is, you probably know, the oldest street railway in the world.) We make our way through several floors of old railcars in between the many children who find this all fascinating. [caption id="attachment_47760" align="alignnone" width="480"] An old double-decker bus with an equally old invitation for Brits to visit New Orleans.[/caption] We head outside to the "public square" and have a little snack of fries, juice, and coffee. Then the Marys run out of ideas, as things get colder and colder. ML tries to buy a jacket, but the stores either don't have her size, or they don't take American Express. MA continues to wince in pain from the inadequate shoes. Maybe she'll buy a pair of those rubber boots we saw yesterday. [caption id="attachment_47706" align="alignnone" width="480"] Rules, on the right, London's oldest restaurant. And Big Easy, on the left. [/caption] At around fiveish, we head over to Rules, the restaurant where the Eat Club will gather in a loose way for dinner. Rules--the oldest restaurant in London, dating back to the 1700s--is a place I enjoyed twice in the past. I needed no reservation either time. But this time I arrive when when every major restaurant in town is full. The Eat Clubbers' reservations are scattered across the book from five until nine-thirty. Unfortunately, my reservation is for the latter time. I can't talk the maitre d' into any kind of accommodation. None of this is of any concern to the Marys, who have written off Rules as the kind of ancient restaurant that I love but that they hate. They leave me at Rules and head out for dinner in Soho (not very good) and pub-hopping (without taking a draught). I cab it back to the hotel, take a shower and a nap, don a suit, and return to Rules. As I get out of the cab I meet four Eat Clubbers--the ones with the five o'clock reservations--just as they are leaving. Indeed, they take the cab in which I just arrived. Nobody else with our group is currently in residence at Rules. I go upstairs to the bar and have a gin and tonic. Three men at the next table are talking about hunting wild game. Wild game is the main stock in trade of Rules. These guys fit right in. [caption id="attachment_47765" align="alignnone" width="480"] The bar upstairs at Rules, the oldest restaurant in London. [/caption] Nothing else much happens until, at eight-thirty, two groups of two Eat Clubbers each show up. One of them gets a table for four, and mentions that I may be on the premises somewhere. The waiter finds me and beckons me to the table. Hurrah! I will not have to dine alone after all. [caption id="attachment_47763" align="alignnone" width="480"] Lamb sweetbreads at Rules.[/caption] [caption id="attachment_47762" align="alignnone" width="480"] Duck two ways.[/caption] These folks take full advantage of the game orientation of the restaurant. She has lamb sweetbreads (!) as entree. He has a roast duck that is perfectly done. I have a special lamb presentation of a lamb neck, a lamb shoulder, and a lamb saddle. The two men each have the soup of the day, a creamy potage made with smoked haddock. It needs some Tabasco, I say, crossing my fingers that they have the stuff in house. (They produce it immediately.) All of this is delicious, and the prices are fair enough. My check, with a cocktail and a glass of wine, is about £75. The other couple is at a table that will hold only two. I pop over there a few times during the meal, as well as after the other couple finishes dinner and departs. Turns out the deuce people are also staying at the Langham Hotel. So we share a cab back. Sort of. The gentleman is a convert to Uber, the New Age taxicab, relying heavily on the internet and smart phones. He has the app on his phone, and demonstrates how it works. After he links in (the Uber outfit already has his credit card number), it is three minutes before a Bangladeshi driver arrives with an ordinary car to pick us up. He follows the GPS to the hotel, and makes it there faster than either of the two black cabs did earlier today. (In fairness, I note that traffic was much worse then, and now it's almost midnight.) I can see why the method of travel is so popular. But for the moment, I think I'm going to stick with the classic London black taxis. [title type="h5"]Rules. London: 35 Maiden Lane, WC2E 7LB. www.rules.co.uk. +44 20 7836 5314.[/title] [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Day 5: Thursday, May 28, 2015. London To The Queen Victoria. Settling In Easily. [/title] The Marys plan to give their London's shopping endeavors a final go before it's time to head out to the ship that will carry us from Southhampton--the port for London--to seven cities in their turns along the Mediterranean shore. I know before the day starts that it will drive me nuts. For Mary Ann, if the carriage is leaving in one minute and there's an interesting shop twenty seconds away, she will go there, if only to wring one more experience our of London. My job is to hold off the driver, who has only such silly tasks like a schedule to meet and a few dozen people to pick up from several other hotels. The traffic exiting London is tremendous. It's a couple of hours before we are on a free-flowing highway. Our sympathies extend to the traffic heading into town, which is blocked by a bad traffic accident. The line of cars is backed up for over five miles. The ride for us is so long that the bus driver pulls into a rest area and its Burger King, KFC, Starbucks, and other canteens for the desperate. It looks as if it could be in northern Alabama. We still have an hour's drive before the road begins a clear descent through the chalky hills of the southern British coast. It reminds me of West Texas, but with more greenery. Like every major port, Southampton is frankly industrial. That a pleasure palace of the kind that Cunard Lines operates appears here is just a fact of life. We check in and board the ship in a breeze. That's a big contrast with our earliest cruises over a decade ago, when the lines to get checked in were so long and exasperating--everything was done by hand in the spot--that one couldn't wait to get on board to grab a quick drink before taking a nap. One other miracle: en route to our stateroom, we find our luggage--all four overweight bags--waiting in the elevator to be rolled about fifty feet to our room. Never, ever before has our luggage beat us to the ship. Still, we're not on board until well after four. Then there is the unpacking, followed by the emergency drill. By which time I'm ready for a shower and a nap. No time for me to write and deliver my daily on-board newsletter to the Eat Clubbers. Mary Ann volunteers to call the Eat Clubbers to invite them to join me for cocktails in the Chart Room. As per Eat Club tradition, I buy the first round of drinks for everyone, thereby running up a tab well into three figures. This deficit will repair itself as the cruise goes on. With luck, I will not have to buy myself another drink for the duration. To dinner in the tri-level Britannia dining room. For the first time this trip, I encounter the Charvets, who have accompanied us on many cruises and even one train trip in the past. They are getting up there in years, and I'm relieved to see that they have made it with no problems. The dinner is pretty bad. I start with a tomato and pumpkin soup. It desperately needs Tabasco. Which, the waiter tells me, is available on the ship. There is a bottle of it downstairs. He duly fetches it. In a few days, I will begin to see evidence that only one bottle of Tabasco is in service in the entire Britannia dining room. And that one is a two-ounce job. A few cruises ago, I bought a box of those teeny bottles of Tabasco sold in tourist shops in New Orleans. I gave one to everybody cruising with me. I think I might need to revive that practice. Certainly if the cruise involves British culinary influence. Back to dinner: After the soup comes a salad of much better greens that we would have seen ten years ago, with not quite enough dressing. My entree is a sirloin strip steak that appears to have been braised rather than grilled or broiled. It comes out with a light demi-glace with mushrooms. I don't know why, but I almost always have a steak on the first night of a cruise. I wish I had forgotten that tradition this time around. [caption id="attachment_47787" align="alignnone" width="480"] Cheese plate in Brittania dining room.[/caption] In lieu of a dessert, I have a cheese plate with four offerings: something like brie, something like Roquefort, and sticks that seem to have been made out of several variations of Cheddar. It came across as a processed cheese, and not good enough to get again. Drat! Cheese plates on cruise ships are usually pretty good. Especially among Brits, cheese at the end of a meal is considered a touch of elegance. Not so back home. The wine is a Carmenere from a Chilean producer I don't know. This was a good deal at $30. Otherwise, I am surprised by the loftiness of the prices. The bargains that were typical in cruise ship dining rooms on our first ten or twenty voyages are not to be found on Cunard. The earlier prices probably came from a tax loophole enjoyed by vessels operating under international laws, like the casinos do. The friendship at our table keeps dinner going until almost ten o'clock. Overnight we will cross into a new time zone, and suddenly it's eleven o'clock. I'm bushed. The girls are already long sleeping, or trying to sleep. An incredible racket penetrates our stateroom, a combination of a whistling through the door leading to the balcony, and a banging of the door that separates our balcony from that of the passengers next door. It sounds like a crazy man whaling away on the steel walls with a ball-peen hammer. I find I can eliminate most of this by pulling the door to the balcony closed and locked. But it won't be completely ameliorated until tomorrow, when our room steward comes in with some wooden shims and, with a tool I've never seen the likes of before, and whacks them into the door gap until it no longer moves. I'm glad that's done with. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Day 6: Friday, May 29, 2015. Sea Day #1. Throwing My Newspaper Route. A Better Dinner. [/title] The day begins with the usual disagreement as to where the Marys and I will have breakfast. The usual outcome: they don't eat (or so they say), and I have breakfast with a group of strangers. I find that entertaining. But today that doesn't happen, because when I walked up to the front door of the Britannia dining room, the maitres d'hotel don't agree right off as to whether they are still open. (The time change overnight is the culprit.) It is decided that I can be the last breakfast customer for this day, but that I must sit alone. My standard menu: fresh melon and pineapple slices, a croissant, some orange juice and coffee. Today is one of only two days at sea. We have another one tomorrow, but after that it's seven days in the various ports. Those who want to relax must do it today or tomorrow, unless one is willing to give up a port's attractions. For the Marys, even one day at sea is a waste of time, and to miss anything in a port is a lost opportunity, never to be regained. The Marys go up to the spa for exercise. I write a bit to the accompaniment of cappuccino. The waiter in the gourmet coffeeshop sells me on what I later decide is a terrible deal. I pay for nine cups of specialty coffee, and get the tenth one free. A voice in the back of my head predicts that I will not get around to my free cappuccino, even if I always have my club card with me. The voice calls the outcome accurately: when I leave the ship nine days from now, the ship will still owe me four cappuccinos. I spend most of the morning trying to figure out how to print out the newsletter I deliver most days to the Eat Clubbers. By the time I solve the puzzle, I have used up $40 of my internet time. Which is not only expensive but unbelievably slow. Remember dial-up? That's how bad the web is on a moving cruise ship. But I make up for this by discovering that I can move a pdf of my Cruiseletter into the internet cafe's workstation with a thumbdrive. And then I can print out the twenty-two newsletters I need for nothing. This has got to be a loophole. I'd feel bad about it if it weren't for the certainty that ML and I will use at least $150 of web time. I never had a newspaper route as a boy. I make up for that by walking around the ship and delivering my daily bulletin to our travelers. It's a long walk, and I force myself to use the stairs instead of the elevators. But I always like doing this. Our nightly pre-dinner cocktail club convenes at seven. Will people show up if I don't buy the first round? They will, and they do, about half the crowd from yesterday. This is the friendliest group we've ever had. Already a few passengers have told me how much they've enjoyed the friendships. Dinner tonight is much better than last night's. I begin with a soup of peppers and tomatoes. The waiter once again has to go two floors down in the dining room to find a little bottle of Tabasco. But the soup is good either way. Next a cold confit of duck, which would be better described as a rillettes. I am no fan of rillettes (yet another dish that you and I would consider a pate, but that the French deem as deserving of its own word). The best dish of the night follows: five sea scallops in a butter emulsion, with a few vegetables in morsels. At some point on every cruise, a hot soufflee shows up as a dessert option. Tonight is the night. It's a little soufflee with a lemon flavor, but its fluffy texture is just right. The sauce is a little unusual: it's a creme anglaise, which is sort of a liquid version of custard. This one had set a little, but that took nothing away from the enjoyment. After dinner, Vic and Barb Giancola--longtime Eat Clubbers--say that they have found an exquisite place for after-dinner drinks. The Commodore Club is up on the highest deck, all the way at the front of the ship, with a 180-degree view. A woman plays piano and sings in a style reminiscent of Diana Krall. This is my kind of music, and we stay for well over an hour, listening and telling jokes. Another excellent day with the Eat Club. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Day 7: Saturday, May 30, 2015. Sea Day #2. Juggling Diners. [/title] Going to bed past midnight makes it easy to sleep until almost nine. The gentle rocking of the ship, and a kind of throbbing that goes on most of the time, make it even more restful. We have the second and final day at sea today. The Marys are bored silly, although they do get a lengthy round of ping-pong in. I spend most of the day writing and sorting through my photos, trying to figure out how to publish them online. The satellite internet on board the ship is too slow and expensive for the effort to make sense. I decided to pull it all together when I get home, and create one big document about the entire cruise. I get many requests for that anyway, even years after the cruise in question. [caption id="attachment_47751" align="alignnone" width="480"] Fish and chips in the Queen Victoria's Pub.[/caption] We do have a nice family lunch in the Pub, a space we liked a lot on our first Cunard Atlantic crossing years ago. At lunchtime, they have British food like fish and chips (Mary Ann loves the idea of that, if not entirely the reality). I ordered the steak and mushroom pie, a toned-down version of steak and kidney pie. It comes out in a broun sauce with mushrooms and ale. I have a half-pint of Guinness, and felt very British. ML ate the Ploughman's Lunch, which is more or less a ham sandwich, made with the baked ham they prefer in England. [caption id="attachment_47748" align="alignleft" width="270"] A Negroni in the Chart Room.[/caption]The Chart Room is the meeting place for the Eat Club during the hour and a half before dinner. It's already so popular that we have to move a lot of chairs to seat all the ladies, leaving a few guys standing. I have not had many Negroni cocktails lately, but I associate it with cruising, and so I have one in most of these pre-dinner parties. And then I find myself with one of my least favorite tasks as host of these cruises. Our group has five tables in the main dining room. On most nights the roll call at any particular table is different. Tonight, because some of the diners have gone elsewhere than the main dining room for dinner, two people will wind up sitting alone. I have an obvious remedy: ask a couple of people seated at one of the full tables if they wouldn't mind moving in with the couple sitting by themselves. But I couldn't get them to budge. Luckily, just as I was about to move myself (Mary Ann is not dining tonight) to the sparse table, another couple shows up late and solves the problem. [caption id="attachment_47752" align="alignnone" width="480"] An Eat Club table in the Brittania dining room. [/caption] The only bottle of Tabasco on the ship (my conjecture) has made its way back down to the first floor, but our waiter finds it and brings it to us, the better to flavor the beef consomme. Now there's a soup you don't see often. But it always comes up in every cruise we've ever taken. Old classics live on at sea. The highlight of the dinner is venison as an entree. It's a bit overcooked, and the sauce could have been more complex, but this makes up for the venison I was hoping to have had in Rules a few days ago. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Day 8: Sunday, May 31, 2015. The Rock Of Gibraltar.[/title] Our first port of call is determined--so the rumor goes, anyway--by the availability of fuel at low taxation in the British colony of Gibraltar. And although Cunard's ships are officially registered in other countries, the line has many British connections. The time in port is brief. We arrive around ten and depart at three. This gives us barely enough time to penetrate the town, whose 23,000 residents brag about having zero unemployment (indeed, 10,000 people come in from Spain to fill open positions). Also here: the fifth most dangerous airport in the world. A four-lane highway crosses the single airstrip at grade. Sounds like a good reason to go there by ship. The Marys and I walk in front of the Catholic cathedral just as Mass is beginning. It's Sunday, so we go in and are blessed by a priest who looks Hispanic but speaks with a thick English accent. Mary Ann tries hard to find a way to the top of the Rock of Gibraltar. The tramway--like a ski lift--is the most popular way. But a power outage early this morning had it out of commission. As we walked around trying to figure out what to do next. A fellow driving a van pulls over and tells us that for fifteen pounds per person he will take up up to the spot where the tramway would have. Will we see the caves and tunnels? Yes. What about the famous Barbary Apes? the ones that come right up yo you and attempt to steal anything hanging from your body? Yes, I know all the monkeys personally, says the driver. Who, as we drive up the steep incline, tells us that he is an actor, a singer, and a producer of big musical events. He is also well-versed on the history of Gibraltar the city, the rock itself, and its involvement in a number of wars over the years. The caves in the rock don't look entirely natural, but they predate a time when preservation was on anyone's mind. Now the stalactites and stalagmites are illuminated by eerie electronic lights. Chairs arranged in audience mode can seat about two hundred people, who most recently came here for an evening of opera. [caption id="attachment_47788" align="alignnone" width="480"] From near the top.[/caption] We get as close to the summit as possible in a vehicle, and we meet up with the monkeys. They are not scarce. The rule, we are told, is that the monkeys are allowed to touch you, but you can't touch them without risking a bite. They seem tame enough. But suddenly two of them have a a disagreement with one another about two feet from Mary Leigh, who is alarmed. We give the monkeys a wider berth. It is very foggy near the top, and there's not much to see. The Singing Driver takes us down the road to the spot where the British built a redoubt during World War II. Tunnels with barely enough headroom for me snake through the very solid rock. Displays tell about how the feat was accomplished (with great difficulty and some loss of life) while tunes from the era play in a peculiar, worrisome way. It's one of those trails that goes downhill all the way, so it's a panting climb back up again. The whole tour is much better than we dared hope for. The ship sails away from the Rock at three. I try to do a little writing, but all the walking gets the better of me and I must take a nap. Then it's dinnertime. The Giancolas join us for dinner in the Verandah, the gourmet restaurant of the Queen Victoria. (Unless you count the restaurants in Queen's and Princess's Grills, which by all accounts shame all other services on this and the other Cunard ships, at a much higher cost.) Upscale cruise restaurants are usually difficult to reserve. Buit not only was it easy for us to get a table, but there were hardly any other customers in it. Were it not for the string quartet playing there, it would have been much too quiet in there for comfort. We took a sampling of the menu, which delivers a four-course repast for a $25 upcharge. The Marys ate the usual variations on steak, their fingers crossed that they come out well done. As usual, one or the other orders something she hates. In this case, it was a pate de foie gras, smooth and rich, with a terrine of wild mushrooms. These get passed to me, and I both enjoy and overeat. The starter that I actually ordered is a feuillate of smoked salmon, cheese, and a creamy sauce, all cold (intentionally). It is the first dish I've had by that name since Louis VXI was still in business and made an appetizer of thinly-sliced seafood layered between flakes of pastry. The entree made composed of some handsome sea scallops in orbit around a clump of monkfish wrapped with bacon. Monkfish is known for its pearlescent white color and its textural resemblance to lobster meat. This worked for me. The only real dessert on the table was a warm, somewhat underbaked Grand Marnier soufflee. Even a dismal failure in the browning process wasn't enough to make this less than enjoyable. One of the Marys sends over a creme brulee that the waiter brought for her, since she hadn't ordered a dessert. I am writing this five days later. We have not returned to the Verandah. We would usually go to the specialty restaurant at least twice more on a cruise of this length. They need to rethink this place, I think. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"] Day 9: Monday, June 1, 2015. Valencia.[/title] After six days within the gravitational field of Great Britain, we penetrate the hegemony of Spain. Valencia is the first all-day port on our sailing itinerary. The Marys intend to spend all the time allotted to it. What, exactly, are they looking for? They don't exactly know. The first stop as we begin walking about is a kicky store aimed at young women. The Marys wonder why I don't find their quest interesting enough! They need shoes, a dress, and a few other odds and ends, and spend about fifty Euros on them. This would hardly be worth mentioning were it not for a problem that crops up in this simple transaction. We discover not only that few stores in Europe accept American Express--our main spending card--but that they don't especially like Master Card either. I have the cash to cover the girls' purchase. But at the first respectable ATM I see, I take out two hundred Euros just to make sure that the problem isn't the account balance. Valencia is much more beautiful than we expected. The word has been that Valencia has taken a back seat to Barcelona for so long that it has dwindled. Nowhere do I see any evidence of this. [caption id="attachment_47802" align="alignnone" width="480"] Serrano hams in the Valencia food market.[/caption] Indeed, it seems to me that the fresh-food market shames in size and variety any other I have seen anywhere. This is not produce meant to sit in a produce rack for weeks, but veggies at the peaks of their goodness. Mary Leigh buys a number of unusual tomatoes, in many shapes and colors. Also here are fish and shellfish that exceed the total inventory of every seafood market in New Orleans combined. [caption id="attachment_47804" align="alignnone" width="480"] Valencia oranges.[/caption] I am interested in Valencia oranges, which have spread the world over and are easily available in the United Staed this time of year. The fruit vendor in the market has juiced some of his naranjas, and the drinking is what I wish I could have every day of my life. He tells us that if we go out to the orchards, we will be astonished by the beauty and sweeness of the oranges. [caption id="attachment_47808" align="alignnone" width="320"] One cannot escape hamburgers.[/caption]We hang around the market for nearly an hour. We don't have to go far before we find a restaurant district, serving paella, tapas, pastries, and sandwiches. Interspersed among these local specialties are--you can't escape them--hamburgers. And not the ordinary kind, but the better-burger thick-meat sandwiches with with better buns and dressings. [caption id="attachment_47807" align="alignnone" width="480"] The first four of seven tapas I eat in Valencia. [/caption] All that is forgotten when we find the main target of my reconnaissance: a tapas bar, the culinary greatest idea to spread from Spain to the rest of the world. This one is a bar in the more conventional sense. But on the counter are plates of some three dozen appetizer-size dishes. Most of these are set atop (and sometimes athwart) what look like crosswise slices of poor boy bread. [caption id="attachment_47806" align="alignnone" width="320"] A well-stocked tapas bar. They kept bringing more items from the kitchen every few minutes. [/caption] I select seven items: a cold, poached small mackerel on a thick, chunky mayonnaise. A salad of chicken with lots of herbs. Cold tuna seared that the edges. Poached mussels in a tomato sauce. Another herbal salad with a white fish. And, inevitably, slices of Serrano ham. All of this is at least as good as it looks, which is to say very. The Marys take not so much as a bite. Not only does that leave them bereft of one of the great culinary thrill of Spain, but stuffs me beyond the capability of further eating for awhile. Nevertheless, we find between a hamburger joint and a pizzeria, a take-out paella stand. Of course, they go for this. I am very surprised to discover that the chicken-and-sausage Spanish answer to jambalaya is actually excellent, even served out of a plastic container. Which, delightfullly, is shaped exactly like a paella pan. Mary Ann now books a taxi to drive us around the town and show us the things only the locals know. His English is sketchy but his knowledge is excellent. He drives us alongside a river that has been redirected, widened, or eliminated, depending on the other needs of the area. This takes us to the opera house, among the most striking buildings we have ever seen, flanked by a number of other structures by the same architect with at least as great an impact. For starters, these edifices are enormous to the degree of a pyramid or the Eiffel Tower. The Marys walk all around the Opera House, and it takes them about forty-five minutes to do so. [caption id="attachment_47799" align="alignnone" width="480"] The Valencia Opera House.[/caption] How does this magnificence live in a country whose economy has lately been called "the next Greece"? How is it that the entire city is extraordinarily busy, clean, imaginative, and impressive? Not even Mary Ann has a logical answer to this. Until I can find out how this dichotomy of apparent affluence and well-known debt can exist, I will keep in my mind the idea that Valencia is a city in which I would greatly enjoy living. I had put the word out to the Eat Clubbers that I would probably be lunching in a restaurant in the Hotel Neptuno, not far from the ship dock. We ask the taxi driver to take us there. We find not one but three Eat Club couples there. One of them is the Gutierrezes, who we have encountered twice already today in various parts of Valencia. And this is no small town. The Marys and I eat more paella, bringing the number of pans of the stuff for the day to three. I was the first to arrive at the restaurant among our trio. The girls wanted to check out the beach, was more than a little beautiful. I sat with the Gutierrezes until they arrived. Then a slip-up occurred in their paella order, resulting in the chicken version they ordered going to another table, with a panful of seafood paella going to the Marys. Mary the Younger doesn't eat seafood. Another pan would have to be prepared. By now we were running short on time. I like a substantial buffer when it comes to such deadlines. Being left behind by one's cruise ship is no fun. You never know what's going to happen. In this case, not only the paella massacree occur, but when we finally got a cab, he had no idea what a cruise ship dock was. We didn't have to run, but the timing was too close for my comfort. The Marys, on the other hand, kept their cool, and berated me for being a worrywart old man. It wasn't the first time such an impasse came up. MA grew up being tardy for school on a daily basis. I'm on the radio. Showing up late is a disaster for me. How will we ever work this mismatch out? [divider type=""] [title type="h5"] Day 10: Tuesday, June 2, 2015. Barcelona.[/title] [dropcap1]I[/dropcap1]t's our second visit to Barcelona, the famous Andalusian city of we got to know during the Olympics some years ago. Smaller than Madrid but larger than Valencia. Our first time in Barcelona in 2004, the city was the starting point for our first European cruise. Then and now, the city seems much busier, in better condition, and more interesting than I expect. [caption id="attachment_47860" align="alignnone" width="480"] The beach and marina in Barcelona, Spain.[/caption] The ship docks close enough to the center of town--not far from an active beach with a misplaced Ferris wheel--that we can grab one of those jump-on, jump-off buses. It takes us to a random spot from which we begin searching for what seems to me an impossible target. Mary Leigh's cousin Hillary spent an extended time in Spain during her college years. In Barcelona she found what she said was the best chocolate shop in the world. We followed the route she gave us, starting with an enormous thoroughfare, turning onto a boulevard, into a street that led to a passageway from which branched another, smaller passageway. To my astonishment, we find the place. A tiny shop, with a special liquid beverage made with hot water and The Chocolate powder. It is indeed very good. So what's next? Finding Prester John? While we consume The Chocolate and espresso, Louis Armstrong's voice comes over the shop's sound system singing "La Vie En Rose." I point out this coincidence to the waitress, who registers a blank look. The Marys laugh as if I had just said the most embarrassing thing in the world. [caption id="attachment_47845" align="alignleft" width="133"] Barcelona's cathedral, for now. [/caption] [caption id="attachment_47844" align="alignnone" width="300"] Inside Barcelona's cathedral.[/caption]While we were looking for The Chocolate, we encountered Barcelona's main cathedral, a spectacular edifice of enormous size and with a couple dozen side chapels, each honoring a different saint. I add it to St. Bavo Club, a mental list of the the most impressive churches I've ever seen. (St. Bavo's is in Ghent, Belgium, and was my first really mindblowing European church.) [caption id="attachment_47843" align="alignleft" width="300"] Electronic candles.[/caption] The votive candles in Barcelona's cathedral are interesting. They are not aflame, instead holding little LED bulbs with what looks sort of like a lit candle. I slip a few coins into the slot, and immediately five more lights begin to glow. They don't strike me as overly modern, even though they are. Maybe I would have taken that impression if this were Rome. Our wanderings bring us to Las Ramblas, the famously well-populated row of shops selling everything from food to clothing. We try to hop on the bus there, but so many people were in line for it that we just kept walking. We pass a women's clothing store that Mary Leigh likes. We spend the next forty-five minutes there. Daughters: you don't know how much fun your fathers have waiting for you to make your selection in such a shop. We make our way to the most famous site in Barcelona: Sagrada Familia ("Holy Family"), the masterpiece of Barcelona's fantastically original architect Antoni Gaudi. The church he designed over a century ago is still under construction. (I hear that it will be finished in 2026.) One look at it makes your eyeballs bulge. We toured it eleven years ago, walking around on high ramps made of boards. The construction has come astonishingly far since then. It now looks like a church, but not like any you've seen before. It is not only an essential stop on a visit to not just Barcelona but Spain or even Europe. [caption id="attachment_47862" align="alignleft" width="320"] Sagrada Familia. [/caption] Getting tickets for an impromptu visit--the kind favored by Mary Ann--is not easy. Let's just say it involves Wi-Fi, which was available on the hop-on, hop-off bus, but not at the church site. While we wait for our time to come up, we board the long lobe of the hop-on, which is like riding the St. Charles Streetcar, the Tulane Bus, the Canal Streetcar, and back around the belt again several times. It kills enough time for me starting to worry about whether we can fit all MA's objectives into the schedule. We managed to get our tour of Sagrada Familia, and it is indeed astounding in its size, design, originality, and holiness. We find out that it has eleven more years before it's completed, God willing. Will any of us see it then? That done, we head to the beach to look at the tremendous restoration around there. The hop-on guide says there are many restaurants there. I don't think we have time, but the girls say we do. We order and the Marys head down to the beach for a look. When they return, their order is here: a row of ham croquettes, a big pot of steamed mussels with no detectable sauce, a sort of guacamole made with smoked salmon and avocado, and a couple of other things. It's all terrible. [caption id="attachment_47863" align="alignleft" width="480"] More paella, this one in Barcelona near the beach. [/caption] The time situation inevitably comes up. MA orders me to get out of her face so she can have some fun for a change. She tell sme to take a cab back to the ship by myself, and that they will follow when it's really time to board the ship. My cab driver takes the long way around and briefly is lost. The Marys' driver delivers them--after checking out all the sailboats in the blue-and-white beach--right on time, not a minute to spare. Formal night again. My tuxedo will get more use on this two-week trip than it did in the past two years. The menu in Britannia is exceptional tonight. Beef Wellington. Consomme madrilene soup, which I have not encountered on a menu in thirty years, at least. Headless cold-water lobster tails. (You can have all of mine.) Chicken curry. Four vegetarian appetizers and four vegetarian entrees. Carroll and Marilyn Charvet buy two bottles of St. Supery Cabernet Sauvignon for our dinner table. It's one of Carroll's favorites. I haven't had it in many years, and it's a lot better than I remember--and it wasn't bad then. After dinner, I hang with a few of the Eat Clubbers in the Commodore's Café, with its magnificent view. The Giancolas are there, and I hold out as long as I can. But my energy is flagging. The Marys are rabbits, and I am a snail, steady but slow. Or it could be that I am drinking much more than usual. Two glasses of wine is all I drink at a sitting anymore, and not often. The way most of us are drinking on the cruise is past my tolerance. Or maybe I really am a drag, as the Marys insist. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Day 11: Wednesday, June 3, 2015. Monte Carlo. Trapped In France.[/title] [dropcap1]L[/dropcap1]ast year, Mary Ann and I celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Europe. Her sisters and some others in her family joined us for a cruise, mostly around Italy. The day we were in Monaco, the four sisters rented a car and drove around the area, having a time so grand that she has talked ever since about doing something like it again. And so it happened. MA was off the ship first thing in the morning, renting a convertible in Monaco, with the idea of tooling around in some swank places on the Mediterranean. [caption id="attachment_47835" align="alignnone" width="480"] Eze-Village. barely in France.[/caption] The only problem with this plan is where to fit me into it. MA's idea was to work her way east, stopping in a series of charming Riviera towns. The first was in a magnificent hotel and restaurant in Eze-Village, 1401 feet up in the mountains overlooking the Mediterranean. A lot of restaurants are there--mostly small cafés, plus with one large, expensive dining room in a hotel. We walked around the grounds of the hotel, and felt the luxury and beauty of the place soak in. I wonder how long it will be before MA decides she must spend some time here. [caption id="attachment_47834" align="alignnone" width="480"] La Caravelle in Villefranche-sur-mer, France.[/caption] The next stop was in a place that has some history with us. In the Eat Club's first Euro-cruise, the ship put in at Villefranche-Sur-Mere, a little French town with a beach and a large marina. But our memories of the place are not vivid enough for us to find it easily this time. We drive back and forth along the waterfront, falling into absurdly narrow dead-end streets, not finding any of the many restaurants that I recall seeing on our first visit. Suddenly, while an argument raged among us as to what to do next, we found the place we remembered. We pulled into a large pay parking lot and took a fateful ticket from the machine at the entrance. The Marys walk down to the beach and take a dip in the cool blue waters. About half of the other bathers are at least partially nude. Meanwhile, I walk along a row of restaurants. Many years ago, the Frenchness of the menu was enough to interest me. The eats are still quite French, but to my senses they are less exciting, not poking their high points much higher than the average French bistro in New Orleans. No, wait. They are even more commercial than our local places. [caption id="attachment_47833" align="alignnone" width="480"] Mussels with a butter-and-herb sauce at La Caravelle.[/caption] The restaurant I choose for lunch is La Caravelle. "The pirate." The restaurant has tables both outdoors and in. I go inside, where I am the only customer in the house. The sole waitress is working with a young chef. When they are not busy cooking or serving, they keep up a heated conversation in French. It seemed a little discordant. Or maybe it came across that way because MA and I have been speaking the same tones to one another today. La Caravelle's menu is classic French bistro, but a little diluted. The menu du jour, for example, is not the chef's specials of the day, but more along the lines of a collection of the restaurant's most popular dishes. Pick one each from three courses. I begin with a half-dozen mussels in a garlic and herb butter, hot enough to sizzle, and therefore something like escargots. I gobbled these up, along with half a loaf of baguette to get up the garlic butter. Now I have a filet mignon au poivre, with a creamy sauce riddled with crushed peppercorns. Fries on the side, of course, which makes it the classic bistro entree. Creme brulee for dessert. I drink a glass of Provencal red, taking my time, trying to tune in the staff's palaver, and removing from my list the need to finally dine in Villefranche-sur-Mer. The Marys have a fine time in the water and join me just as my perfectly-timed two-hour lunch is done. MA is ready to move on to the next town. We back the convertible out and point it toward the gate. I am the official parking-ticket holder for our family, because I have never lost one. MA pushes it into the slot at the gate, and follows it with a credit card. Not only does the gate remain down, but the machine keeps both the ticket and the credit card. She keeps trying to make something happen, as cars back up behind us, honking ever more loudly. We pull out of line and try to figure out what to do. MA walks around and tries to find someone who can finish the transaction and let us get on with our tour--to say nothing about the need to get back to the ship. Nobody seems to have any authority or knowledge of who to call to get the gate working. A few people come over to offer ideas about how to proceed. One of them swears that if you pull under the gate, with the steel pole a few inches in front of your windshield, and then just sit there, the gate will open. We'll try anything now. Not only does the gate open, but the credit card is spat right back at us. But now there is another gate, and our spirits sink again. We try the trick a second time. And. . . I'll be damned, the thing rises and lets us out! Must have been a language problem. By now, whatever pleasure we enjoyed in Villefranche-Sur-Mer is trashed by the tension of this modest but potentially very problematical malfunction. We extricate ourselves from the absurdly narrow streets and get back on the main road. This does have points of interest: some of the most expensive resorts and summer homes line the highway for many miles. MA pulls in to take a look, and manages to not be shooed away by the guards at the gates. Mary Ann has an idea. She knows that I will be anxious about getting back to the ship on time and that this will drive her nuts, which in turn will make me further nuts. She suggests that she let me out in Villefranche-Sur-Mer, where I will walk to the train station and take the next run back to Monte Carlo. I know this train well enough, and have traveled on it from Monte Carlo to Nice. But how often it runs and where the station is are mysteries. I am hesitant to float free in this environment. Just not enough time buffer here. So we head back toward the famous gambling capital. The Marys let me out of the convertible, and I walk alone back to the ship at around five. They keep tooling around. The ship does not sail until around ten--a very late night for a cruise ship. They were thinking about taking two of our regular Eat Clubbers to one of the fabulous restaurants in Monte Carlo, but the couple is too tired for it. So am I. While all that is going on, I catch a nice nap and head down to Deck Two for Tom's Pre-Dinner Cocktail Club. I continue to be surprised by the inability of the bartenders on the Queen Victoria to make Negronis. For most of my cruising career, I found that the floating bars usually handle that classic cocktail without flinching. We have a widely varied but still less than wonderful dinner. The vegetable cream soup wth pesto grabs me away from the consomme with barley. I seem to have made some new friends for the latter. Tuna sashimi seems the best appetizer for me, with seaweed salad and rice. My entree repeats that of the first night: sirloin strip, trimmed out twice to make it tenderer. It comes with "Pont-Neuf"potatoes, named for a bridge over the Seine in Paris. They look like scaled-down wooden beams, very regular in their cut, and very good. A lot of good desserts tonight. I somehow miss out of the Florentine basket with strawberries and orange mousse, going instead with dulce de leche and pistachio ice creams. I join the Giancolas in Commodore's Café after dinner. I have a gin and tonic, mainly because Barb has turned me on to a variation on the theme. It's a martini with bitters and muddled cilantro. Better than it sounds. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Eat Club Cruise, Day 12. Thursday, June 4, 2015. The Best Dinner, In Genoa, By Train.[/title] [dropcap1]T[/dropcap1]oday's port is, unlike yesterday's and tomorrow's, a new one on me. And a new one on the Queen Victoria, too. Rapallo is a charming but unshowy little town in a cove off the Italian Riviera. It's new enough to cruising that the ship must disgorge its passengers from its offshore anchorage by means of a tender. When we are onshore, Mary Ann offers to let me do whatever I want--clearly to make up for what happened yesterday. But I know nothing of this port. We dawdle in the open market along the waterfront, and I buy a smashing new shirt exactly my size. (Bigger surprise: the shop accepts American Express!) We keep dawdling until MA decrees that I am incompetent for orchestrating a proper day's activities. She takes over, and we march to a little pastry shop and café a few blocks into town, stopping to take a look at a modern church whose interior is composed of dramatic stripes of light and dark grays. [caption id="attachment_47830" align="alignnone" width="480"] Rapallo.[/caption] MA gets the idea that we could go to Genoa on the train, whose station is only a few blocks away from the coffeeshop. She knows I like trains, and figures that will be a sop to keep me from causing too much trouble. The ticketing is puzzling, but this is Italy, not France, and the timetable is comprehensible. We ticket ourselves to Christopher Columbus's home town. The train runs along the coastline with stops at every significant town. We could have taken it all the way back to Villefranche-sur-Mer and beyond, or in the other direction to Florence and Sienna. Some of the trains through here have sleeping cars and café cars. This one is strictly a local, and feels more like a subway or a bus than a train. It is also filled nearly to capacity. [caption id="attachment_47883" align="alignnone" width="480"] The track to Genoa.[/caption] At the first train stop, my eyes behold a familiar phenomenon that I haven't seen in nearly fifty years. Its essence hard to describe. If I did, the result would be the most boring piece of writing ever to spill from my mind. Some readers would find it evidence that I am truly crazy. So I will keep it brief. The main players are a pair of inward-folding doors through which passengers enter or leave the train car. Oval-shaped windows are in each part of the doors. They are almost identical to the front doors on New Orleans streetcars. Doors like these were standard in the final three decades of streetcar constructions, after which they appeared in electric trolley buses and then, finally, in the diesel buses that supplanted streetcars 1950s. Something about the motion of those old folding bus doors, from the time I was a little kid until today, fascinates me. They open with an accelerating movement, slow down to a complete stop, then re-open slightly before finally opening all the way. Its rhythm is utterly unique, in the same way that the rods on a steam locomotive are. Come to an Eat Club dinner and I'll tell you more, if you can stand heavy minutiae. Anyway, the doors on these Italian trains look and operate almost exactly like the ones I remember so long ago. I watched them with relish a dozen or so times before we arrived in Genoa. [caption id="attachment_47882" align="alignnone" width="480"] Downtown Genoa.[/caption] If the northern third of Italy were an independent country, it would be the most affluent nation in Europe. Remembering that from an article I read a few years ago explains Mary Ann's feeling that Genoa is the least interesting Italian city she's seen. While the architecture, style, and even the cuisine of southern Italy are way over the top in terms of showiness, enthusiasm, and flagrance, northern Italy seems polite and restrained. (Milan comes particularly to mind in this regard.) Despite that, one part of our visit to Genoa is impressive. We are directed to the old part of town by a concierge, who adds that the restaurants there are very good. Which is what we are looking for. [caption id="attachment_47881" align="alignright" width="320"] The maitre d' gets a big table ready at Zeffirino in Genoa.[/caption]We find this almost immediately. A restaurant called Zeffirino is welcoming to a degree we can't ignore. The maitre d' steps up as soon as he detects interest on our part. Inside is a much larger and substantial restaurant than we had in mind. Two of the tables in the center of the dining room are set for around a dozen people. When the party for whom this reservation was made arrives, they are the kind of people you'd find at lunchtime at Galatoire's: well dressed, possibly politicians or businessmen, pillars of the community. We have our own excellent table in a corner. The waiter comes over with welcome glasses of Spanish bubbly wine. Then another welcome gift of paper-thin slices of marinated octopus. The Marys stop our host in the nick of time before the cephalopods land before them. I eat my share of octopus and find it brilliant. I wish I had grabbed the girls' rejected portions. [caption id="attachment_47880" align="alignnone" width="480"] Pesto ravioli at Zeffirino: the best pesto dish of our lives.[/caption] Genoa is the home of pesto--the sauce of basil, garlic, parmesan cheese, olive oil and butter. We begin by having pesto tossed with thin pasta sheets of absolutely perfect consistency and flavor. The three of us agree that never before have we eaten its equal. Mary Leigh goes to the extreme of continuing the thrill by having cheese ravioli al pesto for her secondi. [caption id="attachment_47879" align="alignnone" width="480"] Zeffirino's seafood with spaghetti alla chittara. That's a real scampo in the middle.[/caption] Zeffirino's specialty is clearly seafood. I order a platter of spaghetti alla chittara afloat in a seafood stock-based sauce, thick and throbbing with flavor from chunks of fish, shellfish, and mollusks. In the center is what looks like an enormous shrimp in its shell, with long, strong claws. This is a scampo, the Mediterranean crustacean for which American-Italian "shrimp scampi" (shrimp cooked the way scampi would be) is named. The sauce gets better the more I eat, with a superb assault of seafood broth, herbs and red pepper. The bowl is so large that my stomach capacity is exhausted before I get halfway through. . There is nothing to compare with this in New Orleans, with the possible exception of the occasional seafood pasta special at Fausto's. It would be a good target for more of our local Italian restaurants to shoot for. This lunch, so unplanned, will stand as the best meal we have during this entire European excursion. If it weren't so unlikely that we will ever return to Genoa, I'd already have it on the Eat Club's list of great restaurants for next time. We hire a taxi to take us around the town. First landmark: the place (but not the building, which is relatively modern) where Columbus was born. Then a look around the center of the city, with its grand arch and big green meadows, surrounded by buildings of very substantial size but not much Mediterranean soul. We can't quite put our finger on that, but we all agree. The cab driver says he knows where the train station is, but he takes us to a different depot from the one we came in on. He assures us that this is the place, as does the señora at the information desk. I find a posted paper map of the train system. It concurs: Train 1-S will indeed take us back to Rapallo. The problem proves to be that this station is a couple of stations eastward of the one where we alighted. Like the inbound, this train is full. I grab a seat at the end of the car, giving me a great view of the folding doors. One of the doors is a little out of sync with the other, but I still enjoy this visual treat--perhaps alone in the world. A little girl sitting next to me falls asleep, and her head lands on my shoulder. Her mother smiles at me and I smile back. The little girl stays there until it's time for the family to exit through the magical folding doors. I still have my daddy skills. The train takes about an hour to return to Rapallo. The Marys seem to have lost all faith in my ability to find my way back to the ship, something I will be doing alone. Theye want to do more shopping. And, of course, they must not board the ship until the last possible minute. Tonight is the private party for the Eat Club, in the very handsome, lofty Hemispheres club on the tenth deck. This party was supposed to have happened six nights ago. But somebody slipped up and didn't get the word out to me, even after I asked about it the day before. The party was held with drinks and appetizers and a full staff of waiters--but no guests. Why did nobody on the staff notice there was something wrong with this? After a couple of conferences with the management, they re-assemble the event for tonight, and it is fine. I arrange for the ship's photography staff to take a group picture. Some of the Eat Clubbers who had been keeping mostly to themselves showed up. That happens on every trip, but I have learned to leave them alone as long as they seem to be happy. Even after they management cuts the drinks off at seven-thirty, we remain in Hemispheres until dinnertime a half hour later. The oddball dish of the night is "soused mackerel with fennel bavarois and sauce Viege." I don't see any orders of it come out. I began instead with a soup of asparagus and chervil. Mary Leigh and I once again indulge in the consomme du jour: madrilene, with a bit of ripe tomato added. It is especially good. My entree is filets mignon of pork wrapped in bacon, and that's what I have. Steak Diane is another popular option, with its Worcestershire-based sauce woing well with the filets of beef. Pont Neuf potatoes make their second consecutive nightly appearance. [caption id="attachment_47735" align="alignnone" width="480"] The Queen's ballroom, before the dancers arrive.[/caption] All of the Cunard ships have a large dance floor near the center of the ship. Here they program a big band most nights, the better the dancing. And many people do dance, very well. I wish I had learned how. But even if I had, would Mary Ann dance with me? [title type="h5"]Friday, June 5, 2015. Livorno. Florence. Sienna. But Not For Me.[/title] [dropcap1]T[/dropcap1]oday, Mary Ann accomplishes a feat. It is one I have jokingly reported as her standard practice when were in port on a cruise ship. But today it is no joke. She really is the very first passenger to leave the ship, at around six-thirty in the morning. Her mission is to get to the rental car desk on the dock before anyone else, to get a good automobile for the day. She can now navigate all over Tuscan creation, with Florence, Sienna, and a number of other possible towns of interest. Part two of this accomplishment is that whe comes screaming onto the dock just in time to board the ship before it leaves Livorno. I have already taken two calls from the ship's census takers, wondering where she is. Indeed, she is the last passenger to ascend the gangway to the ship. [caption id="attachment_47891" align="alignright" width="270"] The longest hallway of the Queen Victoria. There are two more like this, three on each side. Long walk.[/caption]I was reasonably sure that something like this would happen today. Which is why I decide to stay on the ship. This is the sixth consecutive port for the Queen Victoria on this itinerary. Three or four is about all I can stand of MA's peripatetic, down-to-the-wire wanderings. I am exhausted, as I always am after a long day of following Mary Ann around. Even though one can never get enough of Tuscany, we have been to all these cities numerous times before anyway. Nevertheless, MA's list of must-see items is long and highly personal. Example: she has tried over eleven years to see the original David sculpture by Michaelangelo on all the four visits we've made to Florence. Today she finally succeeds at doing so. Good for her! My plans made (and eagerly endorsed by my wife), I have a great day, even though it may sound boring. The ship is beautiful and comfortable, and I take full advantage of it. I have a cappuccino-and-pastry breakfast, then spend most of the morning writing and checking on things back home. (No problems.) I try to collect and touch up at least a hundred photos I have taken since our tour embarked. But my old laptop and the very slow satellite-fed internet makes that effort frustrating. Publication will have to wait until we get back home. Good menu in the main dining room tonight. A salad of crabmeat, avocado and tomato. A vegetable bisque with truffle cream. A second salad of celery root, artichokes and hearts of palm can't be resisted. Entrees: fillet of lemon sole with a shellfish-based sauce. It's the best entree I have had aboard the ship. Also appealing are the mushroom-filled tortelloni (little ravioli). I ask the waiter for two extra orders of it and pass it around to the others at our table. There are still some who don't know that you can order more than one entree at dinner. My dessert is something I've heard of before but never eaten. Treacle is sort of a bread pudding made by soaking cake in a custard sauce, then serving it cold. My liking of this shows once again that I am a custard kind of guy, in both the literal and metaphorical senses. This is our final night on the ship. There is much for the girls to do. I'm pretty well packed. I write one more cruiseletter for my fellow travelers, and deliver them. That's always a wistful activity for me, and as I walk around the ship I remember past cruises, and the possibility of future ones. Mary Ann has made it very clear that she will not be joining me on any more cruises. Nor does Mary Leigh have any cruise-related bucket items left. Cruising will likely enter the same compartment of my travel pleasures that trains have occupied for years. The two modes are sort of similar, come to think of it. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Eat Club Tour 2015: Day 13. Saturday, June 5, 2015. Going To Rome The Hard Way. Most Expensive Hotel Ever. [/title] [dropcap1]I[/dropcap1]t will take days or even years to decide which which were the best moments, most delicious dishes, nicest people, most interesting sights, and other superlatives of the cruise that ends today. But there is no doubt as to the worst moment. That comes today, when we roll our bags off the Queen Victoria's gangplank onto the ground in Civitavecchia, the maritime entry to Rome. There we learn that there is no bus, car, or taxi waiting to take us to the Hassler Hotel in Rome. some fifty miles away. We ask numerous Cunard staffers as to how this missing link might be connected. Their answer is consistently, "there is nothing." A few cabs were parked in a line, but all are reserved. We could have taken a shuttle to Civitavecchia and try to find a cab there, but the shuttles are running sporadically. There's also a train to Rome--same outfit we got to know in Rapallo two days ago. But even thinking about getting our eight big, heavy bags onto the train is daunting. Our situation seems only to get worse as the minutes went by. The only remote possibility was a grumpy driver with a van. He had three ladies in roughly the same situation as ours. He said he would accept sixty dollars per person, no less, for doing what he suggested was the impossible. We signed on, but I know of a problem. I only have only €80 in my pocket. The three ladies had already riled the driver up by asking him to stop for something or other as he complained about how bad the traffic was going to be. In the hour that followed, I mentally went over all the possibilities. The most sensible is to ask the driver to pull over at a bank so I could get some cash from the ATM. But the road from Civitavecchia is mostly rural, and we didn't see any banks until we were entering the legendary traffic jams of Rome. And there was also the possibility that an ATM may not deliver. Not for lack of funds (of that I was certain), but for repeatedly obscure reasons that made ATM use much less reliable on this trip than any we can recall. I didn't want to be thrown out with the Marys and our luggage in an unknown place. Or worse. I decided to wait until we arrived at the hotel. At the Hassler, the doorman said there was no ATM in his building, but there was another one about three blocks down the street. I figured that by the time the driver had our bags on the ground, I would be back. I shove the card in. The first four screens display normally. Then the machine says that the transaction can't be completed. I try my backup card, which is at least as flush with cash as the first one. But I get the same result. I try both cards a second time. A new wrinkle: the machine threatens to swallow my card if I don't get out of there in ten seconds. Yikes! Now what? We go inside the hotel and ask for advice. The front desk clerk says that he can negotiate the cash transfer as soon as we are checked in. He accelerates that process, then hands over two hundred blessed euros. I run out to the street and hand the cash and a big tip to the taxi driver. Who is starting to regard me as a deadbeat. I am saved from having a hit put out on me by the reputation of the Hassler as a hotel for wealthy, well-connected people. For once, Mary Ann's love of luxurious hotels comes in handy. [caption id="attachment_47895" align="alignleft" width="480"] The clock ticks by in the Hassler Hotel in Rome.[/caption] All that took a big toll on my nerves. I wanted nothing more than to relax, preferably with a nap. But our room wasn't quite ready. And Mary Ann was--very much ready indeed to start exploring Rome. What has been cool weather since we left New Orleans is now in the high 80s. The three of us wander aimlessly through the neighborhood. After awhile, we find ourselves in a produce market. The Marys thread their way through the displays and the many customers and vendors for what seemed like an hour. At times I lost track of them. Again and again, we walk past the same displays of the same vegetables and fruits, plus large displays of dozens of dried herb seasoning. It was almost mesmerizing, but not in a good way. The Marys take a break from the market and head over to a bread bakery that was also making pizza. Mary Ann hands me a piece and we returned to the produce market. Again we pass among the jars of the same old dried herbs and shouting vendors. Why are we spending so much time here? I wonder. It's nowhere near as appealing or impressive as the markets in Barcelona or Valencia. But I just keep following. Finally, the Marys escape the market's gravity field, and we head somewhere else. We walk and walk and walk. We climb the Spanish Steps, all 139 of them, and enter the hotel. Thank God, our room is ready. Room #222 is enormous and lavish, furnished with antiques. The Marys take their showers, then I mine. I pulled myself under the freezing, thick sheets for what I hoped would be at least an hour of sleep. [caption id="attachment_47817" align="alignnone" width="480"] One side of the Spanish Steps in Rome. We went over the 130-170 steps. I get a different count every time I go over the summit, which I do many times in the next few days. [/caption] In the final Cruiseletter I sent the Eat Clubbers yesterday, I invited all who would remain in Rome for a few days to join me for dinner tonight. We dine at Ristorante Alla Rampa. It is well named, under a ramp leading away from the Spanish Steps. You could almost say that the restaurant is beneath the Steps, a fact that makes it very easy to find. [caption id="attachment_47893" align="alignnone" width="480"] Ristorante alla Rampa, our favorite casual eatery in Rome. [/caption] Chef Duke Locicero of New Orleans's Café Giovanni fame turned us on to this place a couple of years ago. It was a big hit with that group of Eat Clubbers, and it would be even more popular tonight. [caption id="attachment_47894" align="alignleft" width="320"] The Eat Club dining with abbondanza in Ristorante alla Rampa. [/caption]The first to arrive were longtime Eat Clubbers Marilyn and Carroll Charvet. We top out with thirteen people, nearly filling the entire big table set for us. The waiter is exceptionally accommodating. I place orders for appetizer. They include insalata Caprese, fried calamari, prosciutto, stuffed zucchini flowers, fried green beans, and a few other things. I distribute a few bottles of Collio, an excellent white wine from the little-known Friuli department of Northeastern Italy. The most popular dish in Roman restaurants these days is pasta cacio di pepi--a peppery answer to fettuccine Alfredo, tossed inside a big, hollowed-out wheel of Pecorino Romana cheese, with cream and pepper. We also have large piles of spaghetti carbonara and spaghetti all'amatriciana--both considered distinctive Roman dishes, although there is some question as to their roots. Only a few of the Eat Clubbers order on after the pasta to have a secondi (entree to you) course of veal, chicken, or fish. I have the most offbeat of these: grilled swordfish, a spectacular treatment thereof. The last time I had it this good was the last time I dined in Rome, a year and a half ago. When it turns red wine time, I find a Primativo, the ancient Southern Italian wine that's said to be the ancestor of Zinfandel. We are having a ball. The waiter, with a pleased expression, tells me that we eat like Italians, much better than most Americans he serves. Maybe he says that to everybody, but I accept it as truth. The waiter further wins my appreciation in his handling of the check. We split the price evenly among us, about €47 each, tip and wine included. It may be our best meal in Rome. But it is certainly the best bargain we make during in our three days in the Eternal City. [title type="h5"]Ristorante alla Rampa. Rome: Piazza Mignanelli 18. (Adjacent to the Spanish Steps.) 06 678 2621. www.allarampa.it/home.php?language=English.[/title][divider type=""] [title type="h5"] Eat Club Tour 2015: Day 14. Sunday, June 6, 2015. Renewing Commitments In The Vatican. [/title] Johnny Lee, his wife and four friends are with us on the cruise, including the extra days in London and Rome. Johnny and I were early members of the UNO chapter of Phi Kappa Sigma fraternity, and he's a fellow Rummel Raider. I've seen him only sporadically over the years, but we had many occasions to reconnect during the cruise. He tells us that through church friends at home, he and his wife will renew their marriage vows during their stay in Rome. He invites us and some other friends to join in this. It is an even greater honor than we expect. A full Mass is celebrated for us in one of the small chapels surrounding the main altar of St. Peter's Basilica--the most important church in all of Christendom. Mary Ann and I are asked to do the readings, from which it was a short step for us to also renew our wedding vows--an idea that caught the Marys by surprise. At the end of the Mass, it came out that the young priest who led these rubrics has been working in the Vatican for the past two years. Before that, he was a bonafide citizen of Chalmette. He is also a listener to my radio show. Not for those reasons, he took all of us on a personal tour of St. Peter's, including the closest possible approach to the bones of St. Peter himself, which are really and truly interred in this magnificent edifice. What a wonderful addition to this vacation! The Marys went out to do some shopping. (What else?) I return to the hotel room, where MA suggests that I keep out of trouble by having breakfast. This is served in the Palm Court of the Hassler (not to be confused with the Palm Court of the Langham Hotel in London, where we began this adventure). I have my choice of the twenty-eight-euro continental buffet, or the full menu (with actual eggs!) for thirty-eight and change. The former is what I prefer anyway. Melon, a couple of slices of prosciutto, a croissant, a glass of orange juice and coffee. The Marys appear as I am finishing up. They sit down and order a cup of tea for MA and a glass of grapefruit juice for ML. The check comes out for over seventy euros. This must be a mistake, I say. After two revisions of the check, I get it down to right about fifty. And I understand the game in which I am ensnared. Deluxe hotels of the kind that Mary Ann prefers (nay, insists upon) have intentionally high prices for everything to keep the hoi polloi (defined as anyone who worries about the exact price of breakfast) out of the place. On the other hand, hotels like this perform services well beyond what the average hostelry will countenance. Indeed, last night and again this morning, we asked the man at the front desk if he could track down two Eat Clubbers who, we worry, may have wandered astray last night after dinner. He makes a number of calls and finally confirms that our friends are safe in their hotel. Our man chuckled a bit about his dealings with the friends' hotel. "They would not do us the courtesy of calling us back," he scoffed. "But then, they are not the Hassler." Mary Ann will likely repeat this story for the rest of our lives, as she justifies her hotel idee fixe. [caption id="attachment_47849" align="alignnone" width="480"] Alfredo's dining room.[/caption] I spend most of the afternoon relaxing and writing. I get a newsletter out to the Eat Clubbers, inviting those remaining in Rome to join us at one of the city's most famous restaurants: Alfredo's. Although several restaurants claim that name, the one adjacent to the mausoleum of Emperor Augustus has the most convincing story. It surrounds the creation of fettuccine Alfredo, one of the great pasta dishes of all time. [caption id="attachment_47848" align="alignnone" width="480"] Fettuccine Alfredo, the real and original.[/caption] When we gather at Alfredo's, we find the restaurant is sold out. But remembering the last time we dined at Alfredo's, Mary Ann jawbones the manager into allowing us to take up three tables in the main dining room. They didn't have enough servers to keep up the standards, but it wasn't bad, and for the third time in our experience at Alfredo's the food is without flaw. The eight of us have another pass-the-plates around repast with way too much to eat. I buy a few of bottles of Prosecco to share, and everybody seems happy. The final check was nearly as good a deal as last night's. The big question under discussion: is Alfredo's fettuccine as good as Impastato's in Metairie? I would say that the two are almost identical--a surprise, given that the Alfredo's sauce is made with cream, while Impastato's makes its sauce from half-and-half and butter. Same idea, ultimately. It isn't often that New Orleans Italian restaurants match their European counterparts, but in this case you can save a trip to Rome for the fettuccine. And so the Eat Club ends its twenty-sixth cruise, as everyone with us tonight heads for home early tomorrow. I am especially wistful about saying good-bye to Barney Cohen and Joan McCoy, who came from Seattle to join us. Barney is in the music industry, and he has been a consistently entertaining guy to have dinner with. The Charvets and the Giancolas also anchored many fun evenings. But we'll see them back home. I think the Marys believe I am going senile. They depart from Alfredo's to--what else, again?--do a little more shopping. MA wonders if I will be able to find my way back to the hotel all alone. I don't think there will be a problem, although I wound up not walking same way I came. Still, I am reassured when I hear the distant babble of hundreds of young people hanging around the Spanish Steps. It feels almost like the crowd attracted by a Mardi Gras parade. I head in the direction of the sound, and then hike up and then down the 145 steps (I never get the same count twice), and right into the hotel from there. In the Palm Court a man is playing the piano and singing a mix of Italian and classic American semi-jazz. I sit down with a cappuccino and listen to his excellent stylings until the Marys return. [divider type=""] [title type="h5"]Eat Club Tour 2015: Day 15. Monday, June 8, 2015. Dining In A Room Buried In Broken Pottery. Dinner In The Sky. [/title] [dropcap1]W[/dropcap1]e are done with Eat Club activities, but not with wandering around Rome and eating in more of its restaurants. Mary Ann read in a magazine somewhere that a restaurant called Flavio Al Velavevodetto has the best pasta in Rome. Furthermore, it is in the Testaccio neighborhood, which adds a unique atmospheric element. Testaccio is a man-made hill of broken pottery from ancient times. It rises high enough that some buildings back into the pottery stack. After over two thousand years, the shards are still stacked in strata. Open a window into the pile, and cool air rushes out. Very interesting. The food was much less edifying. The menu limits itself mostly to the Roman classics. Since we have been eating those for several days, I feel we're qualified to say that we found the Flavio versions mediocre. The one exception to this was rigatoni all'Amatriciana, the one major Roman dish I haven't yet sampled on this trip. But even this was less than spectacular. We are there at lunchtime. Most of the customers seem to be locals on break. As I noticed in similar situations in the past, every person there is eating prosciutto wrapped around melon, as if it were required by law. At least Flavio isn't expensive. It is, on the other hand, in an inconvenient neighborhood for flagging down a taxi. The restaurant manager gave a complex route to a spot where cabs congregate--about eight blocks away, through a less than appealing neighborhood. On top of that, it looks as if it will rain soon. For the past couple of days, Rome has had New Orleans weather: sweltering humid mornings and early afternoons, followed by lashing thunderstorms starting around three. Mary Ann presses her luck in stopping the cab for a number of churches and shops she wants to check out on our way back to the hotel. We refresh ourselves. The girls head out yet again to look at more things. When I awaken from my nap I go downstairs and do some writing in the Palm Court, where the tables are much more comfortable than the one in the room. [caption id="attachment_47836" align="alignright" width="320"] The courtyard of the Hassler. [/caption] The sun is still shining when the Marys come back. The hotel staff is pushing the rainwater off the overhead awnings, which are then opened to make a pleasant, rather unusual courtyard. I have a Negroni and the Marys have tea. We linger and review the day, the city, and the whole trip. The girls go up to pack. I stay in the Palm Court to listen to a different pianist than the one who was here yesterday. That one was good, but this one is a seriously excellent singer. Even though almost all his repertoire is Italian, I find that I could listen to him for hours. His voice has a superlative timbre, just on the modern side of bel canto. My kind of singer. [caption id="attachment_47816" align="alignnone" width="480"] Rome by night, from the roof of the Hassler.[/caption] The Marys and I have our final meal in Rome in the small seventh floor dining room of the Hassler. Only one other table is dining there, and they are leaving. The two waiters are very eager to serve us almost anything we might want, from a plate of spaghetti al pomodoro to caviar. All of it comes from downstairs, and everything is delicious. The Marys agree that this is the best meal we have had this entire trip, with the possible exception of Zefferino in Genoa. Two atmospheric elements add much to this dinner. First, we are high enough above the city for a magnificent nighttime vista to unfold before us. You can see about 270 degrees of horizon. The field of view is replete with large cathedrals and basilicas, the most important ones lit up brightly. We can see the hotel we stayed in last year, and we recall how magnificent that reciprocal view was. [caption id="attachment_47815" align="alignnone" width="480"] Rome by day.[/caption] The other entertainment is Simon, the seagull. He is large, friendly, and hungry. Although he is a much greater bother for the other table of guests this evening, he comes close to reaching distance of our plates. The waiter says that he's at least seven years old and lives at the Hassler full time. How can he afford it? I wonder. [title type="h5"]Flavio al Velavevodetto Rome: Via di Monte Testaccio 97 +39 06 574 4194 Hotel Hassler Roma Rome: Piazza Trinità dei Monti, 6 Tel:+39 06 699340[/title] [divider type=""] [title type="h5"] Tuesday, June 9, 2015. Flying Home All Day And Night.[/title] We leave for the airport at nine-thirty. I have barely enough euros in my pocket to pay the cab driver, but we will shortly leave the euro zone anyway. The driver flies down the alleyways, piazzas, boulevards, parking lots and every other way he can find to shave a few more nanoseconds off the time of our transit. I swear we left the ground at least twice. Even if he hadn't driven like that, we have lots of time to check in. Mary Ann fills the time to near the limit anyway, going through the rigamarole of saving fifty cents or so on taxes on her purchases. The flight to Chicago takes nine hours. The food is not as good as it had been on our way out. But that was a 787, and this is a mere 777. We go through customs and the accompanying dragging around of bags. We take a train to our new terminal. I stay at the gate while the girls do yet more shopping. The gate changes. They find me anyway. Why is it that the final flight back to New Orleans is always in a grubby, tight airplane? This one was a 737, and if it had been full it would have been very uncomfortable. The video screen on the back of the seat in front of me requires payment if one would like to actually watch something. No pay, and you have a constant commercial, previews of shows I wouldn't want to watch anyway. But I fall asleep shortly after takeoff, not to awaken until the descent begins. Easy landing. Bags all come right out. We pay almost $300 for parking at the airport. It is half past midnight when the dogs Susie and Barry greet us in a euphoria at the gate of the Cool Water Ranch. Hassler to home, we have traveled about sixteen hours, our shortest return from Europe ever. How wonderful to be back to the land of dollars and English![divider type=""]