Once I had a Basement

As the calendar sped toward my moving date in mid-August, I gathered together my favored tchotskes and smaller paintings (objects that were especially fragile or precious to me) and took them to my new home in The Fitzgerald. On each trip I loaded as much as possible into my car, drove to the parking garage in the Fitz and carried these things, often in several loads, to my apartment. The good news about the apartment’s location is that it’s in the front of the building, with nice views up and down Mount Royal Avenue and overlooking lots of green space that surrounds the old Mount Royal Station, now a building rented for a dollar a year to the Maryland Institute College of Art, better known in the neighborhood as MICA. The bad news about the apartment’s location is that it’s at the opposite end of the building from the parking garage, with 150 paces – yes, I counted them – in between. I’m not sure what part of a mile 150 paces is but it seems like a lot. Three trips a day from the house to the garage and often as many as three trips from the car to my apartment with 150 paces in each direction adds up to a lot of walking and carrying. During this phase in my move, I lost ten pounds, not a bad return on what could only be called dull and boring exercise.

On packing day, the truck arrived at my house early in the morning. The crew was seriously distressed to see that I wasn’t yet packed. They had come to move me, a slip-up in the role of dispatch at 1^st Class Movers that didn’t inspire confidence in its service. But thanks to cell phones, we soon straightened it out. The guys had to re-maneuver their truck out of my parking lot, breaking a number of limbs on my cryptimeria in the process. About an hour later, the actual packing crew arrived, with a different but equally large truck and broke even more limbs, which I happily realized was no longer my problem. I’ve moved only a couple of times before but I’m always amazed at the ability of packers to so quickly and efficiently pull my surroundings apart and reduce my personality to the contents of dull, nondescript brown boxes. At the end of the day, the walls of the house, once laden with art, were bare and the surroundings I’ve loved seemed to sigh with their emptiness and loss. The next day, the movers came and the process of loading and then unloading droned on. I stayed in my apartment, directing traffic and telling the movers to put the sofa here, the wing chair there and the dining room table over there, in the corner by the windows. Then came the boxes, often carried one at a time, on the back of each member of the moving crew like a mule in a caravan, which had to travel its own path back and forth those 150 paces, with a crammed elevator thrown in. By the time the crew finished, late in the day, the men were exhausted and I was too tired to rummage for linens for the bed, simply sleeping on the mattress under an afghan, the only covering I could find.

The process of unpacking piles of boxes seemed endless, with mounds of packing paper and broken-down cartons rising up everywhere around me, like suds in a bubble bath, until this, too, could be dragged down the hall and into the elevator for its ultimate destination in the recycling dumpster in the garage. And yes, another 300 paces and two elevator rides for each load. There was so much refuse the building engineer had to schedule a special dumpster pick-up just to get rid of this offal from my move. As the contents of the boxes grew, I fought to find space in a small apartment for the contents of a medium-sized house. Every nook and cranny became important and although I had prepared for this transition – I’d had a yard sale, given many cartons of leftovers to Goodwill and sold or given away at least a third of my art; I’d even added shelves to the closets in the apartment and converted one closet to a pantry – there was still hardly enough space to hold my life. And no basement to contain those “other” things we always think we may need someday. But, finally, it was all put away. Even though my personality demanded a certain logic to this process, one of putting like things together, I still can’t find the corkscrew or the measuring tape or the Borden’s glue. Fighting an impulse to believe the moving crew guilty of leaving some of the cartons behind, I gave up the hunt, telling myself that these little essentials of my life would ultimately turn up. And they have.

After I found the pliers and the hammer and the picture wire, the greatest challenge to the arranging of my new home was deciding where the art would hang. I’d planned wall spaces for the larger pieces and even designated my new office, a small room in the middle of the apartment, as a place where the walls would be filled with the detritus of my life – awards, family portraits, diplomas, framed sentiments from friends and colleagues – but there was a lot left over. Ultimately, I had to hang art high and low, covering the walls like those in the Cone sisters’ apartment, although not, like theirs, filled with Matisses and Picassos. Much as I love my art, it will never hang in a museum. When I described this process and the results to a friend, he asked which Cone sister I was. Even though I’ve lost ten pounds, I had to answer, “Claribel,” for I could surely lose anther 20.

Within a week, I had the apartment in order, everything put away, the art hung and the lighting focused where it’s most effective. Some adjustments will of course be necessary – that little painting on the wall there will have to move down a couple of inches – but I’m now “at home.” Still, strangely, I don’t yet feel at home. While I’m very happy with the way the apartment turned out and pleased that, by and large, I’ve created a new environment with things I already had, and am surrounded by familiar manifestations of my personality, I feel a little strange here, somewhat like I’m living in a grand hotel. I guess it will take a little time to call it “mine.”

Years ago, an acquaintance with a somewhat acid tongue, and who had been in my house a few times, bumped into me at an art opening where she said, “Oh, Phil. How nice to meet you here. It’s the first time I’ve seen you without your living room,” a comment that’s a testament to my essential association, at least to some, with my surroundings. While she couldn’t say that now, I’m sure there will soon come a time when that sentiment will again be accurate, when I’m finally “at home,” at home.

Stay tuned.

Patrick and Lisa

I met Patrick and Lisa on a Sunday afternoon more than a year ago. Well, I didn’t exactly meet them – I didn’t even learn their names – but I did say hello, at a house open for sale in the neighborhood. I was considering putting my own house on the market and I wanted to scope out the competition. It was a nice house, with obviously new granite countertops, an immediately attractive feature, in the bathrooms and kitchen. But the house had an equally obvious disadvantage: a spiral staircase, which is discouraging to potential buyers with vertigo or those with small children. Or people thinking of having small children. An attractive young couple, Patrick and Lisa were prowling the upstairs as I was surveying the garden where I decided that my house was more saleable even though it didn’t have new granite nor Japanese stones oh-so-carefully-raked just beyond my living room windows. We left the house at the same time and on a whim, I said hello and asked if they were interested in buying a house. They said yes but politely refused my offer to show them mine because they said they were meeting someone and were already late. They smiled and thanked me for my courtesy. I smiled and said, as we do, “perhaps another time,” and we each went our separate ways.

“Another time” came sooner than expected. I decided to list my house and the first people to look at it were Patrick and Lisa, properly introduced this time by my real estate agent. They loved my house, she later reported, but they needed to sell their condo and were only in the preliminary stages of their search. A few weeks later, Patrick and Lisa returned for another look. They’d put their condo on the market and were now more serious about buying. They still liked my house, especially its easy access to the outside where Patrick liked to grill their dinners. But they couldn’t commit. The market wasn’t good – “it’s not a good time,” my agent said – and after six months, I took my house off the market. I lost track of Patrick and Lisa.

A year later, just this last May, I reconsidered. My knees were worse and I could no longer work in my garden. I had some trouble going up and down stairs. And the responsibilities of maintaining a house 35 years old grew tiresome. But the clincher was my learning that an apartment like the one I had wanted at The Fitzgerald was about to become vacant. The Fitz would hold it for only two weeks beyond the current tenant’s move-out date, which meant that at the most, I had a 30-day window of opportunity. I consulted a new agent to whom I explained that I would list my house with her but if I lost the apartment, I’d have to take the house off the market. Was she willing to take the house under those circumstances? She was. We agreed on a price, substantially below my previous one, but then, it’s not a good time. I asked my new agent if she could contact those who’d looked at my house before. She could, but none of them was interested. Well, how about Patrick and Lisa? My agent said they’d sold their condo but had decided to rent for a year. She’d lost track of them.

As you know, my house soon sold and only a week after a young woman looked at it, I had a contract. I rushed to The Fitzgerald and got the apartment I wanted. I went back to all my old plans for the apartment and started gathering together the things I’d need to convert a colorless environment – albeit one with granite counter tops – into one where I will hope to be comfortable and content. Among the changes was a plan for a wall of Ikea bookshelves in my bedroom. I bought the shelves and had them delivered to the apartment. As the men were leaving the building’s garage and consulting a map of the city, I asked if they needed directions to wherever they were going next. “Oh, no,” they said. They could find it easily enough. I went back to my apartment, admired the many boxes that were to become my bookshelves (all the while wondering if I’d bought the right finish) and drove back toward home. Coming down Lanvale Street, on my usual route, I could see the Ikea truck parked on Mason, at the edge of my townhouse community, obviously unloading another order. On a whim, I stopped to say hello to the men and to compliment them on their handling of my own delivery, thinking it quite a coincidence that they had just come from a place where I was going, to a place that I was leaving. Even stranger was seeing Patrick come out the front door behind one of the men. We said hello and I asked if he and Lisa and had bought the house. “Yes,” he said. Ever since seeing my house, they’d wanted to live in the complex and they’d been lucky to get this house at a price they could afford. Patrick explained that they were putting in an Ikea kitchen. “Where are you moving from?” I asked. And he answered that they’d been living in The Fitzgerald and he started to explain where the building was. We laughed at the coincidence that they were moving to where I’d been living and I was moving to where they lived. “You’ll love the building,” Patrick said. “We’ve been very happy there.” And I went home, to my house on Linden Green, marveling at the strangeness of the world.

My installer came to my apartment in The Fitz to put up the bookshelves and when he got to the last cabinet in the row, I realized it wouldn’t fit. I had measured the wall improperly, quite unusual for me, but due to a projection at one end that wasn’t on the floor plan (a poor excuse; I should have measured more carefully). So I went back to Ikea to buy a like cabinet but in a smaller size. While I was at the delivery-arranging service desk, I saw Patrick through a window into the return area. The paperwork necessary to my delivery and return was vexing the earnest young man from Ikea so while he was trying to figure it out, I went over to Patrick to say hello. He was as surprised as I was. “Didn’t you like your kitchen?” I asked him. That wasn’t it, he said; Ikea had delivered the wrong color. But how nice it was to see me, and how strange that of all the people at Ikea on a Saturday afternoon, we should run into each other. “And I understand you’re moving to The Fitzgerald,” he said. “Into what apartment?”

“432,” I said. He seemed shocked. “We live in 431.” And then he added, laughing, “This is really getting weird.” And I agreed.

Stay tuned

Be Careful What You Wish For

At times when I’ve had no plans for the weekend and am feeling just a little abandoned by not having been invited to some one of my friends’ dinner party, I plan a unique dinner party of my own. Unique in that it’s just for me. I buy something special at Eddie’s – maybe lamb chops or a crab cake – and plan a meal around that, with accompaniments like broccoli, roasted new potatoes with rosemary, a green salad, apple pie with ice cream. Before dinner, I have a very dry martini (shaken, not stirred) with olives, and turn on some music, maybe Bass Norton at the piano in the Savoy in London. On these occasions, I build a fire in the fireplace and take my martini and maybe some expensive cheese, like a French epoise, into the living room where, mellowed by gin and enveloped in Cole Porter, I sit in different places in the room, checking to be sure the order of things in the space is always pleasing, no matter where a guest might sit. Sometimes I make a small change by straightening a painting or moving some item to a different location. But usually, I find the room very satisfactory so I bathe in the ambiance and listen to the music until my martini is gone. Then I serve myself in the dining room, with the lights just so, candles on the table and a real linen napkin. I selfishly luxuriate in my house.

So I suppose it’s not surprising that as the house begins to come apart in preparation for my move to The Fitzgerald, I’m experiencing some melancholy wistfulness, a kind of what-have-you-done-Phil-feeling. I know I’ll miss the fireplace into which I’ve stared so many times in winter, wondering about my life, my past, my future. What’s it all about, Alfie? I’ll surely miss the two-track lighting system in the dining room, which has allowed me to produce just the right mood for so many dinner parties. And even though I can no longer get down on my knees for proper work in the garden, I’ll miss the daffodils and tulips in the spring, the chrysanthemums in fall and the rhododendrons that always wilt in the heat of August, telling me when the garden needs an extra jolt of water. I’ll be leaving all that behind. I tell myself this doesn’t matter and I’m sure, in time, it won’t. I’m moving on to a whole new way of living, maybe even a new life, surely a beginning, not an ending, and certainly not just a going-on. I tell myself that this is good, and I pack another box.

I’ve always thought the two most stressful times in life (at least for me) have been starting a new job and moving to a new location. I guess I’m now beyond a new career, or even a splinter of one, and this will probably be my last move. So I labor on, approaching the move as just one more project in a long line of projects I’ve undertaken in my professional life. Plan the bookshelves for the bedroom and buy them from Ikea. Arrange to have them delivered. Find an installer. Plan the lighting and see how much of my current track can be used in the new location. Find an electrician. Plan the shelving in my new pantry and ask my handy man if he will put that up. Plan where the furniture I’m taking will go in the new apartment; measure all the walls. Plan the distribution of my art: what to take and what to ship to auction. Find an auctioneer. Evaluate quotations from several movers and decide on one. Throw away what I can. Have a yard sale. Give what’s left to Goodwill or The Salvation Army. Notify so many people of my new address. Change my insurance. The lists grow longer. And at this age, I carry around bits of paper and a pen to make note of things to do that I will surely forget if I don’t write them down.

When I first thought of putting my house on the market, my real estate agent looked around my environment and said to me, “Be careful what you wish for. It might come true.” Okay, I got my wish. The house has sold. Now I’ll make a new wish, that I’ll be as happy at 1201 Mount Royal Avenue – although I’m sure in an entirely different way – as I have been here on Linden Green. Onward!

Stay tuned.

On the Road Again, Again

In early May, I stopped at The Fitzgerald, the apartment building where I had wanted to live, just to visit with the personnel in the office and maybe tug at my desire strings one more time. Or maybe my visit was just fate. But to my surprise, the office told me the apartment under the apartment I had wanted – it’s exactly the same size and layout but just one floor below - would become available at the end of May. But, they said, it was the last un-rented apartment in the building and even with a deposit, they could only hold it for two weeks beyond the exit of the current tenant. I gave them a deposit and decided to put my house on the market yet again.

I consulted a new agent, very highly regarded for success here on Bolton Hill, telling her I’d be happy to list with her but if I lost the apartment in The Fitzgerald again, I’d have to take the house off the market. Was she willing to accept such a challenge? We arrived at an agreement about payment for the new photographs to accompany the listing and at a listing amount that while more then ten percent lower than the price at which I had previously listed my house, we thought an acceptable compromise between her recommendation and my check book. Objections to the house before had been the dark colors I had painted the rooms to show off my art so she suggested I make an allowance for painting part of the contract. I consulted a painter or two and Jessica and I agreed on an allowance we’d build into the selling price.

Traffic was slow. It’s not a good time. Everyone says that. Not only is the economy really discouraging to the sale of real estate, but by the time the listing went on line, we had passed the prime selling season for houses here on Bolton Hill. Still, Jessica was optimistic and I went back on “show time,” primping my house for every potential showing and putting those toilet articles back in a box – this time a carton for unsalted butter - on the counter so I could quickly hide it underneath when potential buyers came through. It’s not easy living on a stage set. But there was no option.

By the middle of June, two weeks after the tenant at The Fitzgerald had moved out, the leasing office told me they couldn’t hold the apartment any longer. I pleaded with them but while they were sympathetic, they had their own pressures and in the end there was nothing they could do. I’m sure they were eager to reach 100% occupancy and “my” apartment was the only one standing in their way. I told them of all my efforts to move the house and crossed my fingers, hoping no one would show up at the apartment building interested in #432. Jessica went on double-time.

On Saturday, June 18, I was backing out of my parking lot when I saw a couple of young girls (maybe in their late 20’s or early 30’s, which, believe me, is young to me!) wandering around the lot looking lost. In my Good Samaritan mode, I reversed my progress and wound down my window asking if I could help them find something. One of the girls waved a piece of paper in her hand and said, “Oh, thank you. We’re looking for this house.” She pointed to the paper, which she stuck in the window of my car so I could read the address. And it was my house. I smiled and said, “Well, it’s my house. It’s for sale.” The one with the paper said, “Yes, I know. I’d like to see it.” I told her she could see the front and back but if she wanted to see the inside, she’d have to call my agent. And I gave her Jessica’s name and phone number. I didn’t take this chance meeting as anything serious. I returned to my list of chores: the grocery store, the laundry, the hardware store.

But you should never pre-judge a buyer. On Monday, Jessica called to say a client wanted to see the house. Could she bring the client by that evening? Of course. Any opportunity to sell is worth the shoving of the butter carton under the bathroom counter. When the doorbell rang, there was Jessica, with the two girls from the parking lot. “You’ve met Rachel and her friend before,” Jessica said. I was very surprised. We all smiled and I left the house, as is customary, to have a drink with my neighbor. Two hours later, when I went back to the house, Jessica was still there with Rachel. “Rachel likes your house,” Jessica said, with a big smile. They left and I went on to my usual Monday night TV routine. I’d had several such encounters before, both during this listing and the previous one, so I still didn’t take the “like” as meaning very much.

On Tuesday, Jessica called to say Rachel would make an offer. She didn’t know how much. I called The Fitzgerald to tell them of the development. No; #432 had not rented yet, they said, but they couldn’t hold it, even with a now very real prospect of selling the house. I waited for the offer. It came on Wednesday and was way below my asking price. Jessica said Rachel really liked the house and I should make a counter proposal, which I did. Rachel accepted it so by Thursday, we had a deal. A verbal deal. But nevertheless, a deal. I let The Fitzgerald know. They would prepare the lease and I could sign it over the weekend. But I still had no formal contract. Still, The Fitzgerald said, they couldn’t hold the apartment and if I wanted it, I would have to sign a lease over the weekend.

Surprisingly, particularly in this market, Rachel would pay cash for the house. So no appraisal by a reluctant bank would create a delay. At Jessica’s suggestion, I made a slight concession to the buyer for this. And, Jessica said, the deal could be quickly finished. She only had to get a contract written and signed by Rachel and me before the weekend. I’m not sure, but I suspect Jessica worked both night and day to make this deal happen. By Thursday night, we had a contract. But it was still conditional on a satisfactory inspection Jessica had scheduled for Saturday. And then on Friday, Jessica called to say that Rachel had consulted some of her friends, as all of us do, and had come to the conclusion that despite paying cash – or maybe because of it – she wanted an appraisal. Jessica would try to get an appraiser there before the weekend but she wasn’t optimistic. I informed The Fitzgerald and they told me, again, that I could sign the lease over the weekend. While I tried to sound encouraging, there seemed no way we could conclude this deal by then.

By some miracle, Jessica got the inspector and the appraiser to my house early Saturday. The inspector said the only thing wrong with the house was the systems, particularly the air conditioning, which was reaching the end of its life. The buyer wanted me to provide a two-year insurance policy against any failures. It would cost about $1000.00. Jessica agreed to pay half. We both wanted this deal. The house passed appraisal and on Saturday night, we had a signed contract, pending only a termite inspection. On Sunday, I signed the contract at The Fitzgerald. I couldn’t help thinking as I was signing the papers how strange it was that I had been the very first person to look at the apartments in The Fitzgerald when the rental trailer first opened a year ago – I had to wear a hard hat to visit the building and wires were still hanging from the ceilings in the corridors – and now I was the last tenant to sign a lease. I suppose life has a certain rhythm, even it we aren’t aware of it. So now, I’m really on the road again, yet again.

Stay tuned.

At Home Again: A Wrap-up

The destination that attracted me to this particular cruise was the transit of the Panama Canal but I found the actual experience anti-climactic, perhaps expecting too much or having read too much about the Canal from "The Path Between the Seas." The process of raising and lowering the ship through the locks was certainly interesting but I had been through locks before and there's nothing very mysterious about those mechanics. I was impressed,of course, by how tight the clearance is and by the electric locomotives that steady the ship as she passes through on what I was surprised to learn was her own steam. But more exciting was passing through the cut in the Continental Divide, the string of mountains that extends from Alaska to the south of Chile and realizing that men, using fairly primitive machines, cut through that immense mountain, moving all that dirt and rock aside, shovel-full by shovel-full (even if some of it was by steam shovel). Now that was really impressive!

I've traveled with Silver Sea before so the routine of daily life on the ship, and the luxuries that involves, was no surprise, but I was impressed even more than usual by the intimacy of the staff who grew to know us, and know our names, and seem to like us, very quickly. I learned at almost the end of the trip that Silver Sea takes a photograph of each guest and posts these in crew quarters so the crew can quickly identify us - depending on their memory (and whether we were memorable or not, and I like to believe that we were) - and the ship presents an award at the end of the cruise to the crew member who can remember the most names. Still, their friendliness and courtesy was outstanding.

As the cruise progressed, I was surprised to realize that I had chosen a cruise that I knew would go to so many hot places in the world when I also knew that I don't like it that hot (even though some do). But the ports were all interesting and we had a day at sea between almost every stop, which made it possible to recover from the burden of heat. I was sorry to have burned my legs so badly that I couldn't enjoy the sun, or the pool, but shade is not a bad thing at my age. And my legs are now slowly recovering.

I found the guests on this cruise friendly enough - almost anyone would speak to me if I spoke to them first - but as always happens when strangers are thrown together, they are much more likely to be open at the beginning than they are when the relationships begin to set and one becomes more reluctant to ask a stranger's name (or has forgotten it). Despite this, there wasn't anyone on the cruise interesting enough to me (nor, I'm sure, I to them) that I would want to pursue as a relationship. Oh, I have a few e-mail addresses and will send a few photographs to people who've requested them but by Christmas time, I'm sure I'll wonder who they are.

Now that I'm home, friends ask me the usual question: "What did you like best about the trip?" I always consider this a kind of shorthand for, "tell me something about the trip but not too much, please," and after all, they're interested, but only up to a point. It would be awfully easy to become boring. Usually my answer concerns some place I found fascinating or memorable. But this time, my most honest answer to what I found best about the trip was traveling with Ted and Bill, both lovely men who included me in their intimacy, left me alone with my solitude, and helped me up from the chaise on deck when I needed it. I loved sharing the experience with both of them.

I'll continue this blog when inspiration hits. I hope you haven't been bored by

Staying tuned.

Monday, April 25: Fort Lauderdale to Baltimore

As usual, I got up early, to take photographs of the sunrise. I wasn't about to let the end of my trip interrupt my routine. As it turned out, the sunrise was spectacular, rising up on the starboard side as the coast of Florida, marked by many twinkling lights, appeared on the port side. As the light blossomed, other ships and the outlines of buildings on the coast emerged from the dark. It was all very pretty and an almost spiritual experience, lifting my mood from the day before from the gloom of ending into the dawn of new beginning.

I met the boys for our last breakfast, where we got the royal treatment from Fritz and Harlan and Henry and Joselitto. They seemed genuinely sad to see us go. Or maybe that's only the professional in them. I'm sure they'll be just as happy with the new guests as they were with the old.

Getting off the ship seemed endless but was handled, as usual, with great efficiency, guides pointing us in all the right directions - "orange bags over here!" - and sheparding us into buses and on to the airport. Ted ran into Chanel (Muriel) and just to add to her mystery, when he hugged her, her blouse ran up and he could see tattoos around her waist. Our flights were on time and although crowded, they were routine. David met my plane and we went immediately to dinner at the City Cafe. Despite all the gourmet, Relais & Chateaux experience on the cruise, the Baltimore crab cake was delicious.

A wrap up follows.

Stay tuned

Sunday, April 24: At Sea

There's something about the last day at sea that's a little sad and poignant. You realize that the artificial world you've been enjoying and largely taken for granted for the period of the cruise is coming to an end. The places you've been, the friends you've made and especially in this case, the luxury you've enjoyed, will soon be behind you and you'll be going back to who you were, where you were, when you were. I find all that a little depressing. It's somewhat like the end of a day at the beach in summer, when the heat begins to fade and the sand grows cooler beneath your feet. Anticipation melts away. Reality returns. I find this especially true when I have to drag out the bags and pack up - although I must admit that I like packing at the end of a trip better than at the beginning; there are no decisions to make about what to include and I can just throw the shirts in any old way, not oh-so-carefully wrapped in plastic grocery bags a la Martha Stewart. The few souvenirs I bought on the trip fit easily into my carry-on bag and that bottle of Ketel One, given to me by Princess and Romeo when I came aboard and which remained unopened, fit very nicely, wrapped in old underwear, into that pocket in my bag between the two metal supports to the rollers on the bottom. I packed early in the day - to get it out of the way - and spent the rest of the day on deck, taking head shots of people I wanted to remember. It was Easter Sunday and we had a very special buffet lunch in the dining room, complete with anything you could possibly want to eat, arranged around a giant chocolate bunny rabbit. Romeo gave me a certificate for passing through the Panama Canal and Myra gave us all a diploma for graduating from her bar. I cashed in our collected points - we had enough for two Silver Sea hats, an alarm clock and a book mark (all with the Silver Sea logo). We said our goodbyes to our new friends - mostly the staff - and went to bed, our color-coded luggage whisked away by the porters, to reappear in the terminal the next day.

I was sorry to wake up in the night feeling pebbles in my bed. Closer examination revealed that the objects weren't pebbles at all but beads from a bracelet I bought (along with many others like it) in Turkey some years ago and distributed to the residents at my mother's then nursing home. When Mom died, I found the bracelet in a drawer and on impulse, put it on. I've worn it ever since. The elastic-like plastic thread that held it all together had finally given up and broken; I'm surprised it lasted this long. Still, I was sorry to see it go, like my mom, and my trip, into the past. I collected all the beads and when I got home (which I am now) restrung them on a wire I can keep with other mementoes - oh sentimental me - of my mother.

Stay tuned.

Saturday, April 23: At Sea

I promised myself before I left home, particularly since this may be my last Silver Sea cruise, that I would have no "shoulds" on this trip. I would do (and eat and drink) anything I wanted. And so it isn't surprising that my belt, after struggling so hard to stay in the same hole that the hole, dogeared and torn, has enlarged and given up holding me in, and moved to a new hole (which is three holes from where it was when I bought the belt in Africa some years ago). No surprise: margaritas, wine carbonara, roast beef, chocolate, ice cream. And all for lunch! What did I expect? There are far too many mirrors on this ship to remind me that a really strict diet - going back to many "shoulds" and "should nots" - will be necessary once I get home.

Since the rawness of my legs prevents me from sitting in the sun (or even wearing shorts or going in the pool) I have to amuse myself on deck by taking head shots of the many guests I will remember for their characteristic look or mannerisms: the manic horse lady with the flamingo clips; the walker-man who pauses every few steps: Elizabeth, the Alzheimer's sufferer in her sadly sagging pink bathing suit; the woman with enormouos breasts and badhair; Chanel of the face lift and balloon-y lips; Jorge, always smiling; Judi, cruising around in her colorful suits and impossible-to-be-natural hair; Sir Francis, always with a smile and always ready to bring me a bloody mary. I like to take these pictures secretly, for people are far more natural when they don't know they're on camera, but I've been caught a few times and one woman I didn't know from Switzerland asked me what "on earth" I was doing. "Just getting local color," I said, as I slunk guiltily away.

We won enough points at Bingo to enlarge our total so we can earn two baseball caps with the Silver Sea logo. And big surprise: I won the Silver Sea quiz again. It was all about science, not usually my strongest suit. "What is the science of diseases of the brain? Of plants? Of animals?" The one I missed was the science of the history and development of language. The answer is 'philology. ' You'd think I'd remember that!

On our last formal night we were invited, by fancy printed invitation no less, to join the hotel manager for dinner but at the last minute he was "unavailble." In his place were the guest chef, who was far more interesting (even if he did spill the chou all over his demonstration table) and the beautician in the spa. Maike, from a farm in Namibia, an odd place in the world where I have actually been. She was shy and hard to engage. Sauteed fois gras with fig jam, pumpkin ravioli with walnut oil, Beef Wellington and of course, a chocolate/chocolate dessert. And back in our suites we each had an Easter basket filled with goodies and a towel bunny. What a finale!

Our last day aboard and my summary of the cruise will be sent from my computer at home, where it doesn't cost me 45 cents a minute.

Stay tuned.

Friday, April 22: Cartegena, Colombia

After mostly calm seas, I woke up this morning with the ship tossing and turning, its motion exaggerated by the position of my suite, which is far forward in the bow of the ship. I fought my way into the bathroom and took my morning pills in preparation to go topside, as usual, to photograh the sunrise, good, but not unusual.

At breakfast, I learned from Bill and Ted who knocked lightly on my suite door before going to the midnight show that it consisted solely of two drag queens, doing their number for the crew. Matthew looked more like a woman, they said, but the other guy, a wait staff manageer on deck, was a better performer. I guess I didn't miss much.

Cartegena, founded in 1533 and now a city of a little over one million, was once the major accummulation point for gold and silver and emeralds from all over the Americas destined for shipment to Spain. This made the city a natural target for pirates, hence the construction of its trademark walls and fortresses. In 1741 the city endured a large scale attack by a combined force of British and American troops led by Admiral Edward Vernon, who arrived with a massive fleet of 186 ships and 23,600 men against only six Spanish ships and 6,000 men. The seige was only broken at the start of the rainy season, after weeks of intense fighting. Heavy British casuaties were compounded by diseases such as yellow fever. The victory prolonged Spain's control of Caribbean waters which helped secure its large Empire until the 19th Century. Admiral Vernon was accomanied by Lawrence Washington, George's brother, who was so impressed by the admiral that he named his estate, Mount Vernon, in honor of the admiral.

I chose a land tour called "Panorama Cargegena," which I visualized as one catering to photographers. We went first to La Popa monastery located on the tallest hill - more a small mountain - where there were spectacular views of both the old and new cities. We also visited the fortress of San Felipe, named for King Philip of Spain. And we saw the San Pedro Claver church, its altar spectacular in gold leaf which, if you've traveled at all in Latin America, you know only the Spanish can accomplish.

The day was clear and the sites very photogenic but the day was very hot and I was relieved to finally escape back to the air conditioning on board. After lunch, I finally got to play a few hands of Bridge, with strangers from a variety of places in the world. The deck of cards they used, with artificially large numbers and little difference between the black and red suits confused me so that I bid hearts when I meant spades. My career with the Bridge playing group was not successful. We went down four, not a good beginning. I met Bill and Ted for Bingo where we added to our cache of points. We'd like to win three hats but at 90 points each - 270 points in all - that seems unlikely (we now have 167).

I won the Silver Quiz again today, naming the one word that can proceed three seemingly unrelated other words: "corn, peas, and tooth," for instance. The answer is "sweet." The hardest one was "heat, lie, and paper." I'll let you struggle with that one. (The answer is "white.")

At the bar, Ted had his usual - can you believe he's drinking? - not a cosmo at all but a Myra, which is made from 2 oz. of mandarin vodka, 1/2 oz. of Chambord, 2 oz. of fresh lemon juice and 1/2 oz of Mr. and Mrs. T's sweet and sour mix - named for its creator, Myra, from the Philippines. Oh. And shaken, not stirred.

Only two more days aboard, we are beginning to think about re-entry into the real world where we have to make our own beds, mix our own drinks and cook our own pasta carbonara. But one of the nicest things about vacations is returning to our real world, somewhat like putting on a worn but comfortable pair of shoes.

We've been invited at last by Gianni, the hotel manager, to our last formal dinner. John has promised his wife, Avi, to me for at least one last dance. She bought a very large rough emerald yesterday and is eager to wear it to a rumba, just to make the Latin environment complete. (And as a reminder of that other life I led on a Regent cruise in Caribbean waters just a couple of years ago.)

Since I am running out of time, bought at elaborate expense on this computer, I probably won't post again until I get home. Still, I hope you'll

stay tuned.

Thursday, April 21: Anchored for the San Blas Islands, Panama

This archipelego of more than 365 islands (one for each day of the year!) - most of them uninhabited - lies just off the Pnamanian coast in the Caribbean. The islands are governed by an internal group of Kuna Indians who have lived here since well before the Spanish Conquest, preserving their culture and language. We anchored among the islands and took a tender to a slab on concrete protruding into the water from a mass of densely packed thatched huts. We were immediately surrounded by little indian kids each holding up a watercolor drawing, obviously made by the kid, who offered them to us for "one dollah," the lingua franca of the Kuna where you can take a photograph of anyone but only for that one dollah price. While many of the men work on the mainland, the women line the narrow dirt paths wearing costumes with intricate designs called molas, fabrics with intricate stitching and appliques based on local themes, geometric patterns and stylized fora and fauna. Addtional molas, for sale, are hung on the fences everywhere in dizzying array and can cost from $5.00 to over $100.00 depending on the size and quality. Often a woman was accompanied by a very young child, many with a small green parrot on his/her head - or a small puppy or kitten or even a rabbit, anything to entice you to take their picture (for one dollah). I got a great shot of an old woman, dressed in her intricate designs, bead bracelets around her arms and legs, a tattoo (or at least a painted line) down her nose and smoking a pipe. One dollah, which disappeared immediately into the intricacy of her outfit. The sellers didn't seem very interested in serious negotiation even when Ted offered to buy 30 molas at $4.00 each instead of the asked-for price of $5.00 for one. After walking down most of the streets - it took maybe an hour - I grew extremely hot and weary and took the tender back o the ship where there were many indians, mostly children, in hollowed out canoes bobbing around near the ship, apparently waiting for a can of soft drink to be thrown down to them. (We've been warned not to do this. It could lead to serious injury to the kid.) Shortly after I returned to the ship, the Rotterdam, a Holland America ship, joined us at anchor. Imagining all those many more people in the small village made me happy I had gone ashore earlier.

After Ted and Bill returned we had carbonara outside at La Terrazza, in our favorite spot, with Harland and Fritz and Henry all vying to carry our plates. What a grand way to live!

The sun was blistering hot and since my legs are still raw and swollen, I tried, at the Bridge instructor's daily urging, to join a Bridge game. However this crowd has gotten to be a clique-ish lot, not welcoming to newcomers. Oh well, I guess it's more fun to play with those you already know.

We weighed anchor at 4 PM and sailed immediately for Cartegena where we will be tomorrow - leaving the Rotterdam, on a world tour, and the Kuna and their molas behind.

I had enjoyed the lecture on Puccini so much that I went to another opera lecture, this time on Mozart. Although I don't normally associate Mozart with opera, our lecturer considers "The Magic Flute" one of Mozart's greatest works, which like the composer himself contains elements from the bawdy to the sublime.

After great anticipation and the best of intentions (paving the road, as usual), in the end I missed the crew's show. After dinner, I needed a short nap and Bill and Ted agreed to knock on my door at 11:30 for the midnight show. I didn't wake up from that nap until 2:00 AM. I guess I needed the rest.

Tomorrow: Cartegena.

Stay tuned.

Wednesday, April 20: Panama Canal Transit

By the time I got up to deck 9 (topside) at about 5:30 AM, the rail positions at the bow of the ship were already claimed by those more eager to see the Panama Canal than they have been to see the sunrise. I elbowed into a comfortable spot where I counted more than two dozen ships in the morning twilight - can there be twilight in the morning?- seeming to wait, all pointed in the same direction, toward what we all presumed was an opening on the horizon to the Panama Canal. Panama City, just coming to life, twinkled off to the right, like some ghost city rising up out of the sea. By 6:30 the sun was up, the pilot boat had transferred our pilot for the canal and we progressed immediately behind a huge container ship toward the Miraflores Locks at the Pacific end of the canal. From running commentary on deck, I learned that rates for travel thorugh the canal are determined by gross tonnage and the value of the cargo. Our charge was about $150,000. I guess human cargo is more valuable that TV sets or refrigerators. As we passed through the first locks we were photographed by a web cam on the administration building. Bill called his office in Baltimore and told his staff how to find us, live, on the internet. I waved my white baseball cap madly so they could identify us. Isn't technology grand? (According to Stephen King, a worm inserted into a cellular telephone transmission program will turn all those who answer their phone into slaves. Sometimes I think we already are.)

The process of raising our ship 80 feet up to the level of the lake that forms most of the Panama Canal transit was very interesting. Moving into a narrow bin, locks closing us in and water rising to lift the ship, procedures in reverse when, later in the day, we were gently lowered into the Caribbean. The cargo ship, called a Pan-Max, for it is the widest a ship can be to squeeze into the locks, with literally only inches of clearance, preceeded us alongside, and our friendly sister cruise ship, The Europa, followed behind. I later leared that many of the ships that seemed to be waiting were really anchored here in Panama, waiting for cargo (for there is a huge cargo port at each end of the canal and a railroad that runs between them.)

We settled on Deck 8 by the pool in a spot I've found to be the coolest on deck, a funnel-like space where the wind blows across the pool andinto the shuffleboard court. Bill introduced himself to last night's entertainer, Aaron Shaw, to ask him if he knew Rachael, Bill's niece, a professional in opera. And he did, saying, "So you're Rachel Gilmore's uncle!" Bill realizes to his chagrin that now, with Rachael's success, he may be forever known as "Rachael Gilmore's uncle."

It's now even hotter than it has been and by early afternoon, I had to escape nside. Susan, of the Bridge instructor team, had urged me to join her accolytes for a hand or two but I preferred to lie down in my suite and cool off. I can't imagine actually living in this climate! I lost the Silver Quiz to Bonnie, the needlepoint guest - today was all cryptograms and Bill and Ted and I struggled for hours without getting the answer to No. 12, which was "circles beneath the eyes" - but I beat her at Bingo. Collectively, our little group of three now has 145 points but we're aiming for a total of 200 so each of us can have a Silver Sea baseball cap.

Before we met in the bar at our usual time (7:15) where Myra now automatically prepares a Grey Goose martini straight up, a Cosmo and a margarita, I went to the late afternoon opera lecture, this time on Puccini who wrote, the lecturer contends, the last of the popular, lyrical operas as entertainement, after which serious vocal music gave way to the hardness of Stravinsky and Benjamin Britton. Scottish, with a distinct burr in his delivery, the lecturer is both informative and very funny, punctuating his remarks with video clips of famous arias, one of which still unfortunatly continues to run in my head.

After wading our was through the heavy dinner - we've all gained weight, which at least I can ill-afford - we enjoyed the rather informal evening show where the singers, including Judie (who, yes, was on the QE2 when Dennis and I returned from Europe on the ship in 1983) belted out popular melodies from Cole Porter that now compete in my head with Puccini. At the beginning of the show, Judie, whom the ship troupe all call "Mum," announced a new engagement they were all celebrating, between Todd and and his partner, Matthew. As Todd, who calls our Bingo games would say, "How lovely. Well done!"

And yes; in response to a comment below, we did exit the Panama Canal, repeating the procedure followed at the beginning; a series of two locks, lowering us down gently to the Caribbean. More on this later.

As I said earlier, when I return home, I will edit all these entries for errors in spelling and grammar and add photographs in an effort to make this blog more complete and interesting. In the intermin, have patience with me and

Stay tuned

Tuesday, April 19: At Sea

No matter when I go to bed, I always somehow manage to wake up a half an hour or so before the sunrise. I love that time in the morning, when the crowd is still asleep and I share the decks only with the squeegee boys cleaning the decks of water and a very occasional early morning walker. Yesterday, the sea was so calm the only breeze was created by the forward motion of the ship, and the sea and sky, the same color of bluish grey, were separated by a band of low-lying black clourds just beginning to turn pink. As the sun climbs up out of the horizon, the clouds turn fiery fuschia. It's easy to see why so many civilizations worshipped the sun (as do the many passengers, later, collapsed in it, arms and legs spread out, faces tilted to the clearest tan, obvious evidence of their complete, and dangerous, devotion).

Although my shins have turned a raw and violent red, it's not from sun because they're never exposed, but instead from a circulatory issue I first experienced on a trip to Berlin some years ago. The blood pools in the extremities and bleeds into the soft tissues of the skin, resulting in dark black spots, its own ugly evidence. I will have to see my doctor once I get home. Bill, who has recently survived a minor stroke, now takes his blood pressure every day and, offering to take mine, found it very high (over 190). A day at sea between each port has provided rest for my legs, which I try to remember to keep elevated as much as possible.

My malady, whatever it is, is minor in comparison to those passengers trembling along on canes, or walkers of wheelchairs. One with a more subtle but still obvious affliction, is a 60-ish birdy-looking smallish woman, with eagle eyes and wild white hair, whom I first encountered at the beginning solo cocktail party where she was sitting at a table that held her drink, which she was punishing violently by jamming her cocktail stirrer up and down in it as though to make it foam. Some of it was spilling out onto the table, her blouse and the floor, but she seemed not to notice in her singlular concentration on my face. We see her often now, by the pool, in the dining room, usually inappropriately dressed and despite the heat, wrapped in a plaid blanket, and from her often angry, and even violent behaviour we've concluded that she's probably in the angry stage of Alzheimer's. I can't help but wonder what guardian - a son or daughter, or an attorney for her estate - sent her off on this cruise. The crew is very helpful and protective (she's rumored to be a continuing and long-time guest) but still....How sad.

We spent the day quietly - I finished Stephen King; enough of him for another ten years - Bingo and a canasta lesson, which Bill has decided he doesn't love. Formal dinner and a show by a young tenor, Aaron Shaw, with a big, opera-quality voice and pleasant patter about his burgeoning careet.

Tomorrow the Panama Canal.

Stay tuned.

Monday, April 18: Puntarenas, Costa Rica

We docked on one side of a very long pier with the Europa docked on the other. She's a much larger ship, from a German line and rumored to be six stars in rating. Her passengers and ours intermingled in the very long and very hot walk to shore where the usual freelance tour hawkers, the cab drivers and the souvenir sellers accosted us as we made our way, the three of us - Ted looking for crafts for his store, Billy following his nose for bargains and me, lagging along behind already tired but searching for photo ops - through the streets of what is realy just an ordinary, fishing-centric village, not pretty, not clean, the residents going about their Monday morning business and trying not to look at us (as we were trying not to look at them), strangers invading their town. We did find a candy store where boxed and packaged candy filled all the shelves, from floor to celing on both sides, and where there was a huge pile down the center of suckers that turned out to be very photogenic. We wandered through the market, which smelled of fish - no surprise - and caught a group of women, laughing and jabbering away as they cleaned shrimp. Ted, always garrulous,engaged them in tourist pidgeon Englo-Spanish; they laughed at us good-naturedly. Bill and Ted pressed on in their search for things to buy but I was very tired and went back to the ship, pleasantly thinned of passengers, most of whom were booked on some one of many shore excursions. Because I have been to Costa Rica before and once in the rain (or cloud) forest is enough for me, I lounged on deck with a Stephen King, a long way, indeed, from Marcel Proust.

In the afternoon, the boys went off to their zip line extraveganza while I took a nap and then had tea, oh so properly served - white gloves and all - in the Panorama Lounge. I was in shorts and a T-shirt and felt a little like Tommy Bahama meets Gosford Park. The tea was Earl Grey, steeped to timed perfection and served with little crustless tea sandwiches - cucumber and egg salad - and pound cake and banana bread. Sir Francis and "Honey," the chinese page boy/girl out of Doonesbury, kept me company. Francis is soon leaving the ship to return to his home in the Philippines where he will join his wife and son for the birth of his first daughter. Mario played classics from Rodges and Hammerstein and other bland piano accompaniments to the Earl Grey. "Once on a high and mighty hill, two lovers kissed in the morning mist..." You get the idea.

I met Ted and Bill in the bar where Myra (not Beckenridge) gave us our usual - a Grey Goose martini, very dry, straight up for Bill; a margarita, no salt, for me; and would you believe, a Cosmo for Ted. The drinks fortified us for a before-dinner show by Judie, ouor cruise director, who chronicled her long careet at sea among the gliteratti of the 1960's: Van Johnson, Merle Oberon, Omar Sharif, and comapany through her many years on the QE2. She ended the story of her life with a song, belted out from her very sequined 70-year-old chest. What a trouper!

Tomorrow is another day at sea as we grow always closer to the Panama Canal. Onward!

Stay tuned.

Sunday, April 17: At Sea

I attended today the first of two lectures on the Panama Canal called, "A Man, A Plan, A Canal, Panama," which true to the nature of the lecturer who tries, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be cute, spells the same backward as foward. Having read David McCullough's "Path Between the Seas," I didn't learn much in the lecture that was new to me except for a couple of intersting facts: R. H. Macy of deparment store fame got his start selling supplies to miners going west for the Gold Rush (just as Nordstrom began selling shoes to miners on their way to the Yukon); and we weigh less at the equator because the bulge effect caused by the earth's spin places us further from its core and thus gravity is somewhat reduced. Maybe I should move to Brazil? When the railroad that preceeded the path of the Canal was built in 1855, it was the most expensive railroad project in the world and commanded the highest priced stock on the market, paying a 44% dividend. The word "malaria" came from the French for "bad air," which before it was found that mosquitoes carried the germ for malaria, was thought to be its cause. The lecture continues on the day after tomorrow.

Ted and Bill and I spent most of the day on deck where I met Susan, a widow from LA who sat down in the chaise next to mine. (The Silver Cloud has unfortunately replaced the old mahogany steamer chiars in which, wrapped in a plaid blanket, I always imagined myself as a character in "An Affair to Remember" and now has grey mesh chaises with aluminum frames, probably much easier to move around but very difficult to get out of. My knees! My knees!) Susan is very bright, had been "in fashion" and worked as head of a verson of the School for the Arts where she still serves on its board. She has a round face wreathed with a Juliet cap of very curly greying tight curls and wears small, round, tortoise-rimmed glasses reminiscent of Philip Johnson. We had lots to talk about, including the care of aging parents.

In the afternoon, we played Canasta where the tactics are different when playing by yourself instead of with a partner. Ted, who's played before and was only a little rusty, jumped ahead. The competition continues. I won the Silver Quiz again by correctly identifying 23 homonyms (?), two word pairs where the words sound the same but are spelled differently and have different meanings. "If four couples went out for dinner, you could say that.......eight ate." This foolishness is right up my intellectual alley. And that of a few others; there were three other winners. We decided to celebrate Ted's 60th birthday so made a reservation for La Terrezza for eight o'clock. We had pre-dinner drinks in the bar - Myra shook and Sir Francis served - and had a lovely Italian meal crowned by a chocolate mousse cake presented by Aldrin and all the restaurant staff with a rousting "Happy Birthday," sung in many different keys. When Bill and Ted returned to their suite, they found all the towel animals gathered for a party with lighted candles and many balloons. I guess our butler, Romeo, and our maid, Princess, don't have enough to do. Or they're just be especially nice.

Tomorrow is Puntarenas, Costa Rica.

Stay tuned.

Saturday, April 16: Puerto Quetzal, Guatemala

I compose these entries by taking notes during each day, which remind me, the next day, of those occurances I think might interest you. But a lot of this day (now yesterday, if all that makes sense) was spent on a bumpy bus and my handwriting is so bad that I can't deciper a lot of it. No matter; I'll do the best I can to remember today (now yesterday), without Proust's madelene to dip into my tea. More by process of elimination than by preference- several other choices included helicoptor rides, at very hefty prices, to Tikal or Copan, prominent Mayan acheological sites here in Guatemala - I chose to go on something called "an Auto Safari." And the trip was exactly that, an hour's bus ride to what was originally someone's private park but is now essentially a zoo, with tropical animals. I couldn't help thinking, as I was taking a close-up portrait of a gifaffe, that having seen these kinds of animals in their natural habitat, it was a shame to keep them far from home as slaves to tourist photography. I hope they are well-cared-for, but they looked sadly dog-eared and dusty. I had never before seen a jaguar, although I've always known that in Mezo-America they were sacred to the indians. And for those Guatemalans who will never get to Kenya, seeing a zebra in all its striped elegance must be a thrill. On the way to and from the park, I learned some facts about Guatemala I didn't already know: it's the world's fourth largest producer of sugar cane; mace and cashews (whose nut is on the outside, not the inside of the fruit) are grown here; Guatemala has over 3000 archeological sites; the classic period of the Maya was from 300 - 900 AD - they were gone by the time the Spaniards came, in 1524; the land has many volcanoes - 200-300 - and the volcanic ash has provided soil rich in nutrients. Aren't you pleased to know all that?

It's now every hot, so hot outside that one want to stay inside, in air-conditioning. or make frequent dips in the pool. Before the barbecue at the pool, a special feature of most cruises, Ted and Bill and I had a nice conversation with Gianni, the hotel manager (who keeps saying he wants us to join him for dinner but has so far not invited u s) about provisions for the cruise: 3300 bottle of wine, about 120 bottles for each dinner, 600 bottles of champange. Although he wouldn't disclose the costs per day to run this ship, our crude calculation of Silover Sea's income for a cruise like this is about a quarter of a million bucks, which translates into $160,000 a day. Not chicken feed! After the barbecue, we had a show on deck by the resident troupe - a male, and female singer, two lead dancers (one of which is our friend, Todd) and three female dancers. They stirred up the guests into a frenzy of disco - "YMCA"- late into the night. Tomorrow (now today, just to keep you confused) is another sea day so everyone can recover. Puetro Quetzel wasn't much, a container port with a few souvenir booths. Ted bought a fair amount of crafts for his store. It was very interesting to watch him negotiate, kind, friendly, laughingly serious, if you can imagine that.

Stay tuned.

Friday, April 15: At Sea (between Acapulco and Guatemala)

The humidity is now so high that my cameral lens fogs over first thing in the morning and the camera can't "see" to focus. I had to keep wiping the lens surface to get a (not so good) sunrise. The day was very lazy. I spent most of it on deck with Swann and Odete and their multi-troubled relationship. The read is not easy going but I persist and the effort is worth it. A dip in the pool, which felt so good in the heat, nonetheless exposed my face and head and shoulders to the now tropical sun and I was badly burned, looking like the rare tournedos I had for dinner perched on top of my tuxedo. Jorge put us at a table in the middle of the dining room (for a change) so we missed our usual waiters, Henry and Harlan. We were, however, not far from Chanel, chicly dressed in black and silver with one of her enormous rings on her index finger. Billy flirted with her so that she came to our table as she was leaving the dining room to tel us how handsome we all looked in our formal wear. We played Bingo again, winning a few games (my Silver Sea points are adding up). I went to a Venetian Society cocktail party where Tiffany crystal emblems were presented to those who have traveled an impressive number of nights - the big award went to an elderly lady from The Netherlands who has accummulated almost 500 nights. At an average rate of between $500 and $750 a night, that's a significan investment in pleasure. I guess she can afford it. She was dressed in Kelly green satin with a stole and wearing a hard to miss emerald and diamond necklace. The big news of the day came via email to Bill's I-phone. His niece, Rachael, who auditioned recently for the role of Amelia, the doll role (in which she is truly unbelievable) in The "Tales of Hoffman," won the part and will debut in it at La Scala in January.

Stay tuned.

Thursday, April 14: Acapulco

At breakfast this morning, I learned that Bill's new I-Phone for which he bought a temporary international plan, had been sending data - or at least trying to - for the last 22 hours. Bill shared the problem with our headeaiter, Aldrin who, apparently a computer whiz, helped Bill to get it stopped and back to normal. Then Bill discovered he had over 150 e-mails, which took him several hours to process, through breakfast and the first part of our land excursion, "Sights of Acapulco and the Cliff Divers."

Although the divers have regularly scheduled dive times in the afternoon and evening, the shore excursion company had arranged a series of special dives for us in the morning. It was a clear, hot day and the sea looked enticing but I wondered how it looked at 45 to 110 feet - depending on the skill level of the diver - to the divers themselves. We were all safely ensconced on the balconies and terraces of the Mirador Hotel while the divers climbed up the steep cliffs to a pinnacle where they prayed to Our Lady of Guadaloupe, crossed themselves and then plunged, in a beautiful swan dive, into a small inlet in the sea, only about 10 - 15 feet deep. Alejandro, our guide, said there had never been a fatality but the speed at which the diver hits the water had produced some broken bones. Divers used to work for tips but have now formed themselves in a club with about 40 members - the diver who dives from the higest spot is the leader - and now are paid from funds collected from shore excursions and prices at The Mirador Hotel. What a way to make a living!

The rest of the tour wasnot much: a long bus ride through heavy traffic down Acapulco's main drag, up into the hills past Las Brisas and to the Acapulco Princess Hotel on the Pacific Ocean, where we were greeted with margaritas. At 10 o'clock in the morning! I tried to identify places I have been - Batos Beach, a condo rented years ago on the beach, Ocho Cabellos - but without luck. Some things are probably better left as fond memories.

Bill and Ted left the bus on the way back to indulge in shopping for Ted's store. I was very hot and tired and had a quiet, solitary lunch and a long nap. Princess had made a monkey out of towels and hung it in the ceiling with a note welcoming me back.

I remember a time in my life when I rushed to the beach at 10 AM and stayed there all day, coming home from beach resorts tanned and healthy-looking and tryhing to preserve that glow as long as possible. Now I stay out of the sun - a loss of pigment in my skin, thanks to chemotherapy, simply leads to ugly burns and I find I have little tolerance for heat (was this the wrong cruise for me?). I also find my stamina waning. I have some trouble getting up from a seated position and my balance isn't perfect. But like others, some even on canes or in a wheelchair, I am led around, like part of the herd, from one bus stop to the next. Everyone moves at his own pace, mostly slowly, and I wouldn't want to be a tour leader.

At the bar before dinner, I had a nice conversaton with Tom, the older of the two dance hosts. He's been at this gig with Silver Sea for two years and this is his 10th cruise. He's perfectly made for his job - attractive (but not too attractive), sauve, a good converstionalist and always watching to see which lady seems alone and needs attention. Better him than me. Once, while fun in its own way, was enough.

Stay tuned

Wednesday, April 13: Zihuatenejo to Acapulco

In the original Nuatal language of the area, "Zihua" meant "woman" and "tenejo" meant "place." Hence "Place of Women," who, like the Amazons, ruled in this area to the extent that when the Spaniards came in the 1730's men had been sacrificed more than women and women outnumbered men by four to one. When Mexico decided in the 1970's to make Ixtapa, a few miiles farther doen the coast, into a major resort (like it created in Cancun) Zihua, as the town is familiarly known, was a sleepy fishing village of about 7000 people. Now Zihua and Ixtapa togethr have a combined population of about 110,000.

While Bill and Ted went snorkeling, I took a land tour known as "the terra cotta countryside." I had visions of great, colorful vistas of land and sea, perfect for my photography, but the countryside was disappointingly brown and grey, as though it hadn't been dusted since the end of the rainy season last October. I did learn quite a bit about coconut palms at a coconut palm plantation where we had a vivid demonstration - and some edible samples - of all the things coconuts are used for. New coconut trees sprout from coconuts - no surprise - have to be watered for the first five years and then, once established, their roots deep down into the earth, can live to be 110 years old. During harvest, about every three months, a crew of 20 - 30 men can harvest as many as 7000 coconuts a day. Aren't you glad you know that? On the same farm, owned by a doctor friend of our guide, we saw growing pistachios, cashews, papayas, red peppers, all in their so-called "natural" (read planted for tourists) environment. I did get some nice photographs of those.

Then on to an indian tile-making enterprise, four men, working outdoors, scraping wet clay into forms to make those half cylindrical roof tiles so endemic to hot climates. The head man, who can make 400 tiles a day, allowed us to try making one; it was much harder than it looks. If you're not precise, the cylinder loses its oomph and flattens into a pancake.

Next came a seaside cafe, in a small fishing village on the coast where the resident parrot, Lorenzo, resolutely refused to say hello. He was busy picking at the feathers in his green chest. There was a vast pavilion on the beach with a lot of kids, scrambling around in the dirty sand and their parents trying to control them. There were many picnic tables with benches and everyone was having a grand time. The ceiling of the pavilion was covered with very colorful paper streamers, crinkle cut like fancy french fries. These all blew madly in the breeze and I got some great photographs of this riotous confusion of color.

We, the elderly and infirmed set, limped back to the harbor and caught the last tender back to the ship, which sailed immediately for Acapulco.

The weather is markedly hotter - the temperature is 84 degrees and the humidity 77 percent. My ankle remains swollen even though I'm taking medication to reduce the edema. Ted and Bill are delightful traveling companions: caring, funny, easy.

Acapulco at night, from the ship now anchored in the Bay, is very romantic, thousands of lights, like fireflies, scattered over the hills, beckoning. Still, we've been warned not to go ashore, especially at night, unless we're in a large group. So we ate aboard and turned in early for an 8 AM departure tomorrow for the famous cliff divers.

Stay tuned.

Tuesday, April 12: At Sea

I love days at sea, free from a pre-planned schedule, a time of impulsive choice, or no choice at all. I chose the sunrise, as usual, but it was again rather ordinary, at least until the sun actually breached the sea in a blaze of red/orange, rising surprisingly quickly once it began and over within a minute or so. When I think about the world revolving, I always have the sensation that the sea is falling of its edge, like an infinity pool; it's easy to see how our ancient elders believed the world was flat and one could sail right off the edge.

The temperature, now in the 70's with a slight breeze, enticed me to breakfast outside on deck, which turned out to be a solityary one because Bill and Ted forgot to set their watches forward an hour. No matter. The poached eggs on toast were wonderful, perfectly cooked and served by Harlan and Joselitto who, like the waitresses at Jimmy's, now call me "Mr. Phil."

At another morning cooking demonstration - this one by the ship's Relais & Chateaux chef - Ted and I learned how to bone a rack of lamb and make a sauce from aromatic vegetables, lamb scraps (including the bones) and red wine. We also learned how to keep a lobster tail from curling, and how to saute it with baby aspargus. All this with a caviar croquette and champagne, and a couple, Jean and Dick, from Newport Beach who I discovered were on the first two legs of the Regent Voyager when I served as gentleman host on the last two legs. Small world.

Watching the mass of people jammed and scattered haphazardly around the pool is always fun. The middle-aged woman who fought with her floppy hat, trying to both see beyond its undulating rim and remain chicly hidden at the same time. She lost. The very elderly and wizened woman pushing her husband around the deck while he was seated on the Rolls Royce of walkers with regal, Aga Khan aplomb. the woman we named Chanel (after her huge quilted black bag with two C's) with the bad face lift and overblown lips. Bodies everywhere, basing in their oil in the bright sun, much like caramelizing the lamb bones for the morning's sauce. The three who always save their chaises with cute plastic clips shaped like flamingoes, holding their towels. The oriental couple with the day-glo bathing suits, a little too loud and very happy after their two Cosmos before 11 o'clock.

We won again at Bingo but failed mserably at Trivial Pursuit - who knows what sort of creature a jambalo is? - despite the lady from Palm Springs who hesitantly joined us, saying she wasn't competitive but then insisting that she knew the answers to everything. (Can you name the seven countries that border Turkey?) A nap, some of "Swan's Way," which I promised myself I'd wade through this trip, and this time, without bogging down. Dinner in the Italian restaurant with the very hot head waiter, Aldrin, from Bulgaria - his mother named him after Buzz Aldrin - and the night's show with our new friend Todd, the dancers and the singer. They were incredibly good. And I don't say that lightly. It wasn't just the margaritas talking.

I discovered that I've taken 20 pictures on my little camera without any memory card. I didn't know the camera could do that. So I'll have to get Aldrin to pose for me again. Forgive my errors in spelling and grammar. It's just too expensive to go back and correct them. On to Zihautenejo!

Stay tuned

Monday, April 10: Cabo San Lucas

Sunrise today was more interesting - great bands of fiery red above the horizon, with another ship on the sea between us and land, the ship lit up and sparkling in the distance. It turned out to be the Norwegian Star, with 2500 passengers, anchored in the great Bay of Cabo where we, too, anchored next to her like a little sister. We tendered into a busy port, with much confusion, people everywhere, boats, hawkers of souvenirs, where a group of us on a tour called "Cabo by Land and Sea" transferred to another boat for the short ride out to Las Arcos, a naturally formed rock arch close to the beach. Right at where the land ends, one can walk from the beach on the Sea of Cortez (Love Beach) to the beach on the Pacific called "Divorce Beach." I don't know why. The day was lovely, warm but not too warm, with a slight breeze. There were many people in boats and on the beach. Naturally, I took many pictures. Back at the dock, we transferred to a big blue bus for the land portion of the tour: a glass blower made a pitcher; we had a drink at an Italian restaurant with many terraces down to the sea overlooking the bay, quite a lovely place; and visited Cacti Mundi, a park filled with 40,000 species of cacti, the largest park of its kind in the Americas. Extremely tired after all of this, I staggered back to the deck bar for a much needed Margarita. Ted and Bill went kayaking, where Ted fell in the water - no harm, he thought it part of the fun.

At dinner, Jorge seated us with Todd, a young dancer with the show, and his boyfriend, Matthew, visiting from Sydney where he is a professional drag queen. They invited us to the Crew Party (a rare privilege) where Matthew will do his number with other members of the crew in a show that Todd calls a "Drag Off." There are two dance hosts on board, one with lots of beautiful grey hair and the other younger and so tall he towers a head above his partner. They're both good dancers, although I could see they had the same problems with their partners that I experienced on the Regent Voyager. Some partners only want to stand and move from one foot to the other, without any pattern. They're incredibly hard to steer. I'm so glad I'm not required to do that any more.

I met Frank and Catherine from the UK on their very first cruise to celebrate their 40th wedding anniversay; Myrna from Dade County (she wouldn't tell me just where), traveling alone; Avi and John from Atlanta - she's Israeli; and a couple from Australia by way of Mauri on a cruise holiday given to them by their son. Everyonoe is having fun, sunburned in the oddest places, where we forgot to put sun screen. Unbelievably tired. I didn't win the Silver Quiz, all about music: "From what opera comes a favorite aria about an overcoat?" Having this much fun is hard work. No pictures here now; they take too much valuable time to load. I'll add them when I get home.

Stay tuned...