MONDAY, JAN. 12: Our bus pulls up to the ship terminal in Southampton, England, at 2:30 p.m. after a soggy drive from London. The bright red smokestack of the Queen Mary 2, the world's newest and largest ocean liner, stares down at us, roughly 23 stories high. Painted in the Cunard signature blue-black, the hull stretches nearly a quarter mile.
Our group includes my husband, my parents, brother, cousin and her husband and four couples who are among my parents' closest friends. My father, who loves ocean liners, has persuaded us to help him and my mother celebrate their 35th anniversary with this trip. (He timed his marriage proposal so their honeymoon would coincide with the last sailing of the Queen Elizabeth.)
In the terminal, bellhops cheerily pipe, "Welcome to the Queen Mary 2!" We are photographed and issued ship identification cards and politely funneled through security, on to the gangway. The deep baritone of the ship's whistle blasts. A white jacketed butler whisks us to our room, through the bustling red-carpeted grand lobby, past luxury shops and up the elevator.
For an hour my brother, my husband and I run like giddy children between Decks 9 and 10 comparing our rooms and waving to the tiny dots of spectators packed on viewing boats.
The cabin grades are differentiated by price but more politely referred to by restaurant affiliation. My father has booked the least expensive cabins associated with the Queens Grill, the most exclusive, $14,999 a person, double occupancy. Rates for this voyage range from $2,869 to $37,499 a person, double. Our room is, in my husband's term, "plush." A wide entryway opens into a spacious room with two sets of floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto a private balcony. Even with a king bed, desk and sitting area that includes a sofa, chair and coffee table, there's plenty of room to walk.
Complete with Jacuzzi, the bathroom is easily double the size of our bathroom in New York. A walk-in closet and dressing area provide enough space for our clothes. The room is decorated in tones of tan and taupe and has a flat-panel TV screen through which we can order room service and movies and use other amenities, including e-mail. The balcony is outfitted with two teak deck chairs and a matching table. I can hardly believe it when the doorbell rings and Nora, our steward, offers to help unpack.
After the safety drill, we stand atop the ship bundled in the chilly evening breeze, looking out over Southampton. Although we are meant to sail at 5:30, the smooth voice of the staff captain announces an hour's delay: baggage loading problems.
What else to do but turn Deck 13 into a cocktail party? The line at the open-air bar is long, so we gather the Champagne and glasses from our room. People mill about in hats and scarves toasting the smokestack.
An hour later the staff captain announces that all lines have been cast off. The horn blasts long and low. My father's eyes gleam as he looks up at the smoke from the stack. I squeeze his hand as a speaker bursts out "Rule Britannia" and fireworks erupt.
The dress for dinner is casual since most guests have not had time to organize their belongings. Joan, our waitress, is cheerful and businesslike. My entree, pasta with prawns and scallops in a green curry sauce, is tasty but a bit gluey and probably too spicy for our first evening out; my stomach hasn't settled into its shipboard routine.
We're headed for rough weather, and the boat begins to roll and sway as we eat. I'm disappointed that there's no chocolate for dessert and settle for mango sorbet, far too healthy for our celebratory first night.
Later, my husband, my brother, my cousin's husband and I descend to Deck 2, at sea level, to test out a blackjack table in the casino and watch the waves. By the time we return to our cabin at 1:30 a.m. we can't walk a straight line. It's not the Champagne: We're sailing into a storm.
TUESDAY, JAN. 13: Our first night aboard is virtually sleepless as the storm rages. A steel door clangs incessantly below our balcony. Most of our party remains in bed today as the wind howls and the boat groans and pitches. Our off-the-menu request for chicken broth at lunch is denied; it is on tonight's dinner menu, but somehow can't be heated up early. The steward apologizes profusely and makes it available for lunch tomorrow, by which time we hope it won't be necessary. We settle for tuna club sandwiches. Later, as my father, ever a Curious George, tries to go out on his balcony to observe an oncoming wave, the ceiling of my parents' cabin falls in because of a wind-tunnel effect. They spend the afternoon with us while the maintenance crew works on it. Amid more profuse apologies, the chief purser admits that the ship and its crew have not experienced such weather.
WEDNESDAY, JAN. 14: Thankfully, the weather has improved as we steam along the coast of Portugal. We wake up late (9:30 a.m.) and I realize I have already missed morning yoga, introduction to bridge and the flower-arranging demonstration. I resolve to order a wake-up call and do better tomorrow.
At lunch, Joan dexterously squeezes wedges of lemon over tempura using a fork and a spoon one-handed, muttering, "We were required to squeeze lemon over every piece of fish served on the Caronia."
I make up for my earlier sloth by attending an afternoon lecture with my mother on the British playwrights Alan Ayckbourn and Alan Bennett.
We end the afternoon lying blissfully at the spa in a massage room with peppermint hair tonic rubbed into our scalps and warm towels around our feet.
At dinner Joan repeats the lemon trick over caviar, and Vasant, our other server, brings me extra spinach because he remembers I am partial to it. I'm beginning to like it on the QM2.
THURSDAY, JAN. 15: The automated wake-up call rings at 7 a.m. As I resolutely make my way to the gym, people bustle about on the promenade deck watching the ship enter the port of Funchal on Madeira, a small volcanic island about 500 miles southwest of Portugal. Still shrouded in darkness, the steep slopes of the surrounding mountains rise from Funchal's harbor.
A guide takes us up the winding, narrow streets to the Jardim Orquidea where a fifth-generation orchid cultivator gives us a tour of the family business. Higher up the hill we visit the Botanical Garden, a tribute to the lush and varied flora of the island, followed by a buffet lunch at Reid's Hotel, atop steep cliffs. My brother and husband escape to sample local wine, and we women peruse woven baskets and lace napkins.
Back on board, my attempt to get a pedicure is thwarted by a burst hot water pipe on Deck 9 (also our cabin deck). The salon apologetically reschedules me for the same time tomorrow.
The sun sets as the whistle blows and we pull out of the harbor. Fishing and pleasure boats scurry alongside, honking and waving, racing to keep up with the ship.
After a dinner of duck and pinot noir (no spinach tonight; we have joined the younger crowd in the Princess Grill), my cousin and I catch the end of a juggling act in the Royal Court Theater. While it's not to my taste, the older British ladies in the audience chortle contentedly.
Walking back to my cabin I spot a large red bucket catching drops from the ceiling three doors down.
FRIDAY, JAN. 16: This morning we motor into the port of Santa Cruz on Tenerife, in the Canary Islands. At 8:25 a.m. a man calls to apologize that the breakfast we had ordered for 8 a.m. would not be delivered for another 30 minutes. Would we still like it? Declining, we race to the Kings Court, the cafeteria-style buffet, and wolf down cereal and coffee before meeting our group.
Frustration dissipates as we arrive at our first stop: the Piramides de Guimar, similar to Maya and Egyptian pyramids. Our guide, Dominique, takes us literally above the clouds to the Parque Nacional del Teide, an otherworldly volcanic landscape, and a view of the snowtopped Pico del Teide, the highest peak on Spanish territory at 12,195 feet.
Back on the boat my luxurious pedicure, complete with hot water, is administered by Palma, an enthusiastic young Australian woman who, like many in the crew, has signed on to the QM2 for eight months.
SATURDAY, JAN. 17: The people of Palma chant what I believe is "Dio Mio" as the QM2 pulls up alongside the pier. We get set to head straight for the Kings Court when my husband asks if I've seen his watch. His wedding band was on it -- he took them off before his weightlifting session at the gym last night. When we have sufficiently torn apart the room, I page Nora, who calmly asks if we have checked all our pockets. Yes, four times at least. She reports the loss and schedules a meeting with the head security officer for this evening.
