Are We There Yet?

Halfway across the Atlantic

Beth Browne
Sep 9, 2018 · 5 min read

It’s day five of our seven-day journey across the North Atlantic and the bloom is off the rose. The orchids on the first class tables, seen only through the windows from the promenade, are fresh, but everything else is beginning to get old.

Last night we decided to go back to sitting down at dinner because the portions are tiny

and at the buffet it’s too easy to overindulge. We’re assigned to the second sitting at 8:30pm, but I don’t like to eat that late, so we crash the first sitting at 6:30. This means instead of getting a private table for two, we sit at a big round table for eight. The first two times we did this, we got lucky. The first night we sat with a trio of charming older gentlemen, an adorable tiny old lady from Scotland and a woman about my age from Oregon. It was fun to learn about them. The second time, we sat with a youngish (my age?) couple from Northern California. They were very interested in Lucy’s school program and we enjoyed making small talk with them.

But this time we were seated early and when the other six arrived (two Scottish couples and an American one) there was some kerflufle with the waiter about another couple who had been seated at the table previously. We sat with our hands in our laps and our heads down while the poor waiter sweated in his black jacket and tie and tried to soothe the anxious Americans and explain in his heavily accented English that the other couple were to be seated elsewhere and all would be well.

Fortunately, the gentleman from Glasgow (where my great grandfather emigrated from) recovered his manners almost immediately and began to chat amicably with us. I had a sense that the American on my left was stewing a bit so I left him to his double vodka on the rocks with a wedge of lime. By the time our appetizers arrived (two quarter-sized rolls of tuna sashimi with similar-sized bite of seaweed salad for me, broccoli and stilton soup for him) he was on his second drink and deigned to speak with me. New Yorkers, now living in Florida most of the year. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.

This morning, I found myself irritated with crowds at the drink stations, standing there blocking the way while they stir their coffee or wait for their tea to steep. When I asked an attendant for Splenda, I was told they were out. Unwilling to go for saccharin, I consoled myself with a packet of Belgian hot cocoa, already sweetened with sugar, but I thought, what the hell?

“Who forgot to order the Splenda?” I grumbled to Lucy.

On the promenade, I suddenly realized that people were not just being annoying by scuttling off to the left as I went to pass on the left, but simply doing what they do on the roads in England: driving on the left, passing on the right. We were experiencing a culture clash. But you never could tell who you were approaching, an Englishman or an American. It was impossible.

The weather continued fair and the deck chairs were full of loungers. As I strolled by, I was oddly struck by how ugly people’s feet are, swollen and purple, with dirty-looking age spots and twisted toes with garish polish. Then I realized I had once again forgotten to queue up for planetarium tickets before 9am when they hand them out. Could they not come up with a better system?

The ocean did its best to soothe me, showing me its most placid face and dressing up with a touch of jade over its former indigo, dollops of whipped cream foam thrown out by our bow wave as we sliced along at a cool twenty knots. On the sunny side, the sea looked like well-used tin foil, reflecting the gentle northern sun in a wide swath of tiny sparkles.

On our TV screen, the chart showing the long view of our current position no longer shows any trace of North America. We’ve left Greenland behind in the upper left corner. The nearest land, an island off the coast of Ireland, is less than four hundred miles away. We’re almost there and I think I’m about ready to see Southampton and get on to Cardiff. Oh and we’re taking afternoon tea, that fixes everything, doesn’t it? Nothing like a hot cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich to soothe the soul. In two more days we’ll be in Southampton.

The next part of this story is here.

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