Saturday, August 17, continued

I held a lucky draw in the Crow’s Nest for my people and bid them a fond farewell.  Then I joined my old friends, Jack and Sylvia, for a last dinner together.  They chose The Lido Café, so there we ate, and then we went to the Ocean Bar, where they could dance, but the band wasn’t playing anything good, so we just chatted, comfortably, like the old shoes we are.  They left very early the next morning and are home safely, in Toronto, having paid too much for me, for their airport taxi in Amsterdam.  Since there’s only one of me, the ship’s transfer is an attractive option.  The taxi cost 70 euros.

On Sunday, a whole new cruise was starting, to Iceland and Greenland.  I had met with everyone I needed to, yesterday, so I was free early in the day.  I had mysteriously got a significant cabin upgrade to a Vista Suite, so the first order of business was moving.  Housekeeping brought a bell cart and all I had to do was put everything that wasn’t hanging into my suitcase.  I bagged it all by drawer or shelf and it was done in a jiffy.

I couldn’t do any more until everyone had boarded.  There are always a few “guarantees” and an upgrade or two. So, I went out in Amsterdam to see the Rembrandts I had missed on the way in.  There were a couple of helpful Dutchmen in the information booth and they looked up the location of the convention center, RAI, to find me transportation.  They determined it was a 35-euro taxi ride away, and I sure wasn’t paying 70 euros to see a bunch or reproductions.  The good news was that it was a straight shot on the Metro.  I could walk to Centraal Station and catch that.

That’s what I did.  It was a 10 to 15-minute walk, and starting to sprinkle, just as I got there.  I had met a lot of people on the way with Rotterdam Luggage tags.  Our Dutch passengers just take the train from home and wheel their luggage on board.  Once in Centraal station, I found the M52 line without much difficulty and took the escalator down.  Then I met the ticket booth.  It certainly could have been friendlier.  I touched English and still could not figure out what it wanted me to do next.  It was rejecting my credit card in both of its slots.  There was no one around but eventually a girl of 18-22 years of age came up and used the machine beside me, in Dutch, of course.  But all the Dutch speak English, so I started whimpering and asked for help.  She kept her head held high in the air and ignored me completely.  I called out “Thanks for your help” to her retreating back.  I’m glad I’ll be dead by the time that generation rules the world.

A couple of minutes later a little kid showed up.  He wasn’t more than six, but he spoke good English and knew how the machines worked.  Luckily, my credit card did, too, and I was soon in possession of a round trip for 9 euros.  Maybe there’s hope for his generation.

The subway was clean and efficient, and I was soon where I wanted to be.  The exhibition is wonderful.  Every known work of Rembrandt’s is there, reproduced in the size he originally painted, or etched, them.  There were about 320 paintings.  Only 41 of them are in Dutch collections.  The rest are spread over 18 countries, in museums and private collections.  Some have been stolen and damaged.  But they are all here, digitally remastered to the state they were in when they left the artist’s studio.  And they were beautiful.  I met my old friends from the Frick in New York.  Those I recognized from afar, as I must have visited them about ten times.  I love the Frick. I almost lost track of time and had to hurry through the last quarter of them.

But the ship’s drill is compulsory, even for passengers from the previous sailing, so I had to get back on board, and I did.  I did the drill in the company of six Montrealers, who happened to be behind me at our muster station.  Then I went to the front desk, got my manifest updated and a more complete shore excursion description from the EXCursions department.  I made my corrections and did my mail merge.  I was out delivering a little after six, and in line for dinner before seven.

I landed a wonderful table in open seating.  There were Rolf and Marion, from Amsterdam, Sharon and Brian from Seattle and 90-year old Dorothy from Austin, formerly Houston. We all clicked and had a fabulous time.  I’m hoping to dine with these people again.

Monday, August 19 was a sea day.  I got up and went straight to the Lido for breakfast.  The NY Times Daily wasn’t in the rack, so I took “Britain Today.”  When the next guy came up, I remarked “No American paper today.”  He said, “That’s alright.  They can’t read” in unaccented English.  And that, my friends, is what the rest of the world thinks of us.  How sad can it get?

I was back in my room by 9:00am, calling all of my people.  Then I went to the desk, where three couples came, which was good.  In the afternoon, I met with Presty, the Dining Room Manager, with whom I have more than 500 days of history.  We tee’d up a private Kitchen Tour and a group dinner for 10 in the Dining Room on August 21.  I met with Shore Excursions again and tweaked the cocktail party speech. By 4:00pm, I was up in the Crow’s Nest waiting.

Everybody came but one person, who wasn’t well.  More than that 14 people signed up for the Kitchen Tour and all 21 who came signed up for dinner at 6:30pm on the 21^st.  There are three people with the same last name on the manifest.  They are next door neighbors in Neptune suites, and they had never met before this party.  I introduced the single lady to the male half of the couple, as his mother.  They got talking and by the time our gal was done, she was his younger sister.  Too much fun.

Between the cocktail party and dinner, I drafted a newsletter with the Dinner and Kitchen Tour in it.  I wanted to run them by Presty at dinner.  The dining room was a zoo that night and I ended up meeting with him about four times, before, during and after dinner.  We worked it out, though, and I left with clarifications for the letter I would be delivering in the morning.

I was late for the show, but I did catch the tail end of it, and it was pretty good.  It was three male singers, who called themselves the Three Knights and sang songs written by, or from shows produced by, people who had been knighted for their efforts.  You know who they are.

On Tuesday, August 20, I got up early in Torshavn, Faroe, Islands.  I fixed the newsletter, mail-merged it and delivered it before breakfast.  I wanted to go out in this pretty town.  There was a mob in the stairways, so we waited an hour after docking and I stepped off with David and Debbie at 11:00am.

The taxis weren’t bargaining, not at all.  It was going to be at least $90 pp, to go anywhere for a couple of hours.  We might have caved, had there not been free buses all over town.  We decided to try one.  We ended up taking three of them.

They were fun.  They took us through many neighborhoods, to see how the people lived.  The air was clean and fresh.  There were sheep grazing in the suburbs and sea gulls to fight over a loaf of bread one of our fellow passengers had spirited off the ship.  Best of all, there were children using the bus to get home from school.  It’s safe here.  People still let their children ride public transportation all over the place and talk to strangers.  They spoke beautiful English, one of them had even lived in Georgia when she was younger. She was probably ten.  One of our bus drivers told us that a number of people who were born in the Faroe Islands, and went to a city to make money, decide to come back to raise their children.  The education is good, and it’s a kinder, gentler place.  I’ll bet the weather is nasty in the winter, though.  It was none too warm in August, and this was a beautiful sunny day.

I had dinner with four Aussies, Vicki, Jerry, Anne and Heather, plus Marion and Rolf again.  This was my second time eating with them.  The third will be on purpose.  I like them a lot.  They were born and live in Amsterdam, but they were in the States for a long time.  Rolf worked for IBM in Poughkeepsie, and Marion was an architect.  She had her own firm and built shopping centers all over the world, for people like IKEA.  We went to see the British comedian, Paul Adams, again, and had a few chuckles before bedtime.

Friday, August 16, 2019

I had a slightly earlier breakfast and was rewarded with getting to lock in my deal for self-guided taxi excursions with David and Debbie Schwartz.  We’ve now exchanged cabin numbers. I did my email, went to the gym and got off around noon in South Queensferry.  It was a tender port but the tenders were “shoreside tenders’, meaning they were sightseeing boats, a lot more comfortable than our lifeboats.  I got a bus to the middle of Edinburgh for 9 pounds.  It was a real bargain.  It left from each end every twenty minutes and could be used on any of the company’s buses for the whole day, except the HOHO.  It left us off at St. Andrews Square, facing Harvey Nichols, across the street.

I started with a little retail therapy, ‘though I didn’t buy a thing.  When you are at your max weight, there isn’t much that flatters you.  I liked the design of one dress, enough to pay the price for it, but it was in battleship green, a color that only makes me look fatter still.  With my wallet intact, I went back outside and headed towards the High Street.  It was just starting to sprinkle, but it didn’t take long to get a lot nastier, wind and rain in the face kind of nasty.  I whipped around, dove back into Harvey Nichols and up to the fourth floor for lunch.  The smoked salmon on a bagel was delicious, but the rocky road brownie thing was terrible, which saved me from eating it.  It had looked so good, too.

Back out on the street, at about three, the weather was gorgeous, and I completed my journey across the Waverley Bridge and up to the High Street.  There were people everywhere.  It was Fringe.  I think they boasted of more than 500 venues.  This is the ancestor of all Laugh Festivals, and there were comedy shows everywhere, with touts vying for my attention.  I really wanted to see the one with the turquoise flyer.  But no one offered me that. So I chose the one that was starting in fifteen minutes, just down the block.  The gal’s name was Njambi McGrath, with the “N” silent.  She was born in Kenya and met her husband at University in New York City.  A “Coconut”, I learned, is brown on the outside and white on the inside.  They must have learned this from the HK Chinese, who called the ABCs, BBCs and CBCs, “Bananas”

She was hysterical, and she made you think, and I couldn’t have chosen better, had I done it on purpose.  It was after five, when I got back out on the street, so I did a bit more of High Street, and noted I was very close to the Castle, and the venue of the famous Edinburgh Tattoo.  I was giving that a miss, as I feared I might just be spending a bunch of money to make my cough worse.  I watched the pipes and drums, Scottish fiddler and dancers from the comfort of the show lounge.

August 17 was our last day at sea, I went to my desk.  A couple did stop by and they told me about the Tattoo Experience.  It was excellent but it started to pour at 10:00 pm and everyone got very wet.  Taking back-to-back DVs is brilliant.  I got almost all my work for the next one done today.  I also got a nice free upgrade to a Vista Suite, so I am looking forward to that on the next leg, Iceland and Greenland.  Gotta see it before it melts.

Monday, August 12, 2019

It’s a sea day, on the way to Scotland.  I stayed around the desk until about one o’clock, but hardly anyone came.  This is a very self-sufficient group.  I meet them around the ship and they are all happy to see me, but they aren’t needy.  I went to the gym, and had a sauna, and got dressed for formal night.  Then I went to the Ocean Bar for a Virgin Mary, and on to dinner in the Dining Room.  I landed two Dutch couples again, Enrique and Anika and Richard and Carolyn.  They were lovely.  The show was good, too.  It was called “Humanity” and the six dancers were from Step One Dance Company.  It was the best show yet.

The next day, before I went out in Portree, Scotland, I did the usual, had a nice breakfast, went to the gym, and cleared my email.  One of my emails had a thing from AOL in it, wanting me to confirm that I recognized that they were now part of Oath, part of Verizon.  I had had this before and dismissed it as probable phishing, but it looked very real this time.  I googled AOL and Oath and the story, at least, is true.  So, I went back and clicked on it.  Microsoft logo branded stuff came up and it asked for my AOL username and password.  I put them in, still suspicious, and immediately went to AOL and changed the password.  That done, I had to deal with Outlook.  It would have been easier if Outlook’s help pages were up to date, but I eventually got through it, ‘though it robbed me of some time in a pretty port.

As it turned out, it robbed me of the rainy bits.  By the time I got out the sun was shining, and it was a lovely day.  Portree is on the Isle of Skye and it’s very pretty.  I took the stairway up into the town and walked all over it.  It wasn’t that big and it was very pleasant.  I bought an almond/jam square in the local bakery and an ice cream cone from the local ice creamery.  All very nice and oinky.  Then I met Ed James and we walked back to the ship together.  The kids are having a wonderful time with him and Madeleine, while his wife and her husband are happy to be home in BC.

Back on board, I had dinner in The Pinnacle, with the Parkers and it was just lovely.  Then we went to the show, which featured a Scottish comedian named Geoff Boyz, odd name spelling, but he was funny enough to keep us engaged for an hour.

It was a beautiful sunny day in Kirkwall. On the 14^th, and I was anxious to get out in it.  After the usual breakfast, email and gym time, I wrote my farewell letters, for delivery, along with the Comment Cards when I get back.  Then I took the shuttle into the little town and had a good long walk around.  Kirkland is on one of the Orkney Islands, and proud of it.  In the three years since I have been here, the souvenir business has been significantly refined.  Now “fairisle” is just a design used to enhance some of the better garments, not the old-fashioned sweaters they were selling last time.  I have more shawls and sweaters than I need, so all I bought was an ice cream cone, making sure it was local.

I did give five pounds away, though.  The Kirkwall Flower Arrangement Club was having its annual show in St. Magnus Church.  It wasn’t all that great, mind you, but I gave the money going in, you see. Back on board, I went out my lanai door when I heard the music and was treated to a highland dance exhibition.  I delivered my letters and took a nap, because the Indonesian Crew show was tonight at eleven, which is starting to be past my bed time.

I got up around six-forty-five and went to Canaletto, ready to eat around seven, before the late show, or eight, after the early one.  They took me right away and I had beef carpaccio, lasagna and tiramisu, all of fine quality.  Then I went to see David Kidd, who does credit to the songs of Tom Jones.  I just hung around the show lounge, from nine to ten, taking Spanish lessons, until it was time for the Indonesian Crew Show.

There was an interesting factoid in the introduction.  I suppose I should have already known it, but here it is, in case you didn’t either.  Indonesia is the fourth most populous country in the world, after China, India and the United States.  The fact that its land mass is spread over more than 70,000 islands, sort of explains why we haven’t all noticed, yet.  Indonesians make up well over 50% of all Holland America Crews, being most of the room stewards, housekeeping personnel, and dining room stewards.  Slam, my delightful room steward was one of the hand-dancers.  He had the best smile of the lot.  When I told him so, he said it was because he really liked people and especially liked to entertain them.  I can relate to that.

On Thursday, the 15^th, I woke up felling worse than usual.  Judy commented on my last blog that I didn’t seem to be enjoying myself as much as usual.  It probably has to do with the cold I have been dragging around for more than 10 days now.  I skipped breakfast and went to see the doctor instead.  All I got was more cough syrup, a few codeine pills, which I likely won’t take, and told to rest.  It might also have to do with the fact that I am lonesome out here alone.  I was thinking I was going to flirt, but there’s no one to flirt with.

Since I saw Inverness pretty thoroughly, three years ago, I decided to stay on board and just pound my keyboard and rest.  I went to the gym, too, but just to stretch.  There was a pipe and drum band on the pier to see us off, but we didn’t go, just yet. We had a medical debark, none of mine.

I went to dinner around seven and finally got two American couples as dinner partners, Marla and Frank from Charleston, North Carolina and Marge and John from Michigan.  Marge and John have their 5-year old great grand daughter aboard.  They are raising her now, because the state offered her to them when both parents were declared unfit.  You have to admire a couple who take on a young child when they are already in their seventies.  Apparently, the child is brilliant and a handful, and they have her enrolled in a special K-12 for gifted children.  Good for the three of them.  There is an upside to this being alone, after all.  You meet inspiring people.

David and Debbie Schwartz sat in front of me for the show and I found out they are staying on for the next cruise.  They like to hire a taxi and just go around themselves.  Perfect, just what I was looking for, partners for that kind of activity.  Since David is about 6’4” it solves my concern about being abducted by the taxi driver.  I’ll be doing more fun things next leg.  Stay tuned. The show, by the way, was the Step One Dancers in “Stages” and it was even better than their first one.

Sunday, August 11, 2019

This is the highlight.  This is Dublin, our DV shore excursion port and home to Mary and Sean, whom I will see right after.  I was up early, checking that everything was in order and grabbing a bit of breakfast.  I was at our meeting place about twenty minutes early and for once, no one had beat me.  They started arriving shortly thereafter, pretty much in reverse cabin number order, a phenomenon I have noted before.  It’s the people in the suites and balconies who have their acts best together.  It makes sense and it always amuses me.

We did have everyone pretty much on time and down we went to the gangway and our waiting bus and guide.  Rhona was lovely, organized, knew her stuff and loved her city.  She and Brian our driver were a dream team.  She confided later that it’s Sunday morning that’s the charm in Dublin, as the traffic is light until the pubs open at noon, and the football games get going in the afternoon.

On the way to Trinity College, Rhona pointed out The Customs House and it’s numerous architectural details.  It was built in 10 years, starting in 1781, mostly destroyed by the IRA during the war of Independence in 1921, and rebuilt.  There’s a replica of the tall ship, Jeannie Johnston, in the water near there.  The original was built in Quebec in 1847 as a cargo ship and ended up carrying famine victims back to Montreal, starting in 1848.  Her claim to fame was that most of her passengers made it to Canada alive.  There’s a new museum nearby called the EPIC, which tells the whole famine story.  Must see it one of these trips.

On to The Book of Kells.  I had seen it almost fifty years ago, when we first came to Ireland with Mary and Sean.  It’s much different now, and much better. Trinity College has used the tourist money well, for preservation and better exhibition.  It’s quite wonderful.  You don’t see many literary items from the 8^th century that look this good.  If it’s more than three years since you last saw it, you’d enjoy going back.  The gift shop is good, too.  I bought an Aran toque for Rekjavik.  It’s really nice, but I later noticed it is only 30% wool and though the tags say “Ireland” in about five places, I never saw “made in” anywhere.  I’ll let you know how warm it is in Rekjavik.

We passed the Four Courts on the way to tea and scones.  It, too, had a fire during the war of Independence and you won’t find your Irish family’s records there.  The Hatch, Match and Dispatch sections all burned down.  You’ll have to find the relevant churches in the countryside, which can be pretty daunting if your grandparents didn’t keep good records of their own.  I was put in possession of whatever my family had about 25 years ago, and I ditched it all, when I made my last move.  There’s no one behind me to care.

Tea and scones at the Arlington Hotel were delicious and the room we were in was gorgeous.  Marty Frank made a new friend outside.

Back in the bus, we drove around some more, with Rhona adding interesting details, about the Guinness family, for instance, as we saw their mansion, and front yard, which is now the famous Steven’s Green, an oasis in the heart of the city. The Guinnesses gave both the house and green to the city, along with a lot of public housing.  They have an interesting concept here.  People pay for public housing according to their means and needs.  It’s called “differential”.  If you are doing well, you pay the fair rent.  If not, you pay what you can, and the state pays the difference.  I’m not sure I’d like to be administering the system, but somebody does.  We saw St. Patrick’s Cathedral, 1190, restored by Guinness, and Christ Church Cathedral, the protestant one.  It dates back to the 9^th century and was restored by whisky money.  Who says drink is a bad thing?

All too soon it was over.  About half of the bus elected to stay in town and take taxis back.  I rode back with it but never boarded the ship.  Mary was picking me up and I had to get back to the port entrance.  Luckily, there was a shuttle for that, and I was there by the appointed hour.  Mary wasn’t so lucky.  There was a semi-final football game coming on in the afternoon, and a lot of the roads she wanted were closed to her.  Then the signage in the port was silly or non-existent, so she had to make a couple of doubtless expensive phone calls to my US phone, so I could get the security guards to guide her in.

We met the football deviation problems on the way out to her house, too, but, no bother, we had plenty to talk about.  We had a nice chat with Sean, around the kitchen table with some cheese and crackers to fortify us for the pub crawl to come.  We girls were going out alone.  Sean was watching the semi-final.  We took the bus, so Mary could drink without worrying about having to drive.  When Mary went to pay for me, she learned there was no need.  Her Senior pass allowed her a companion, free.  Some companion I am.  I am a year older than she is and have nowhere near the walking capacity.  Never mind, I rode for the 2 Euros that had already gone into the box, before the bus driver stopped her.  The ride cost was 3.20 euro.

We got off in Stoneybatter, a residential area not far from downtown, but one that no tourist would likely find.  Mary knows it because her eldest daughter lives there.  The pub was The Glimmer Man.  It was quite large, but made up of about ten small rooms, two or three of which were outdoors at the back.  The pub food came from a food truck parked out back, called Vietnom.  The menu was very eclectic, with dishes that borrowed from Indian, Mexican and Japanese, as well as Vietnamese, and were served on baguettes.  All this for 9 euros.  It was tempting but too early and we wanted more than a sandwich.  I am on my dry month, much to Mary’s disappointment, so I had a Heiniken 00.  At least I can look like I am drinking beer.  The décor in this place is amazing.  I wouldn’t like to have to clean it and I don’t suppose anybody does, beyond the floors, counters and tables.  This was one room.  Those are vinyl records on the ceiling, not to mention the bikes and occupied bed, hanging from it.  The walls are covered with various contributions from patrons over the years and there’s quite a substantial shrine to a female patron, who was the life of the party, until she got cancer and died young.

We finished our beers, one real and one fake, and moved on.  Our next pub was The Cobblestone, a music pub, like Carolyn and I were looking for last year and never found.  You have to be in a neighborhood, but now you know, and you can google it, next time you’re in Dublin.  It helps to have a target.  We got there around 5:00pm, and it was already too late to get a seat within earshot of the music, because it was acoustic.  Like the once a week music pub we found in Tipperary last year, people just dropped in with their instruments and played together.

We thought there were no seats at all, until a lovely young Swiss-German couple waved us over.  It was around the corner and at the back, so there was no music, but they were delightful.  She was here to live with a family for a month and learn English.  Her English was already pretty good, it just needed some improvement to follow classes for the advanced degree she was going for, after eight years in the work force back home.  Tamara and Enrique were fun to talk to and we learned things, like Swiss-German has no written language.  They write in German. Period.

We hopped onto the tram for one stop and ended up close enough to our chosen restaurant, “Chez Max”.  It’s a little French Restaurant and it’s wonderful.  We had soupe à l’oignon, moules frites, and mousse au chocolat.  Well, Mary had crème brulée, but that was the only difference.  We had a little booth we could talk in and it was great.  The French fries reminded us both of Montreal.  Yum.  By this time, we had got through family and friend updates and were on to philosophical discussion.  Pity I wasn’t drinking.

Chez Max wasn’t all that far from Temple Bar, which Mary dismissed as the ultimate tourist area, but we walked through it anyway, just to have a look at the characters.  We saw a lot of them, and they were all so young.

By about 8 o’clock, my feet were giving me some pretty serious pain.  I have to deal with finding more comfortable shoes.  Mary helped me find a taxi.  We had a little hug and were both glad of having had this day together.  My taxi driver was very nice.  He didn’t know the port any better than Mary did, but eventually, we spied some people walking back to the ship, who knew where its gate was.  The security guard let the taxi through, when I showed my ship pass, and he delivered me right to the gangway.  He wouldn’t even break a fifty so I could give him a bigger tip.

I was never so happy to take my shoes off and rub Tiger Balm into my feet.  What a great day!

Friday, August 9, 2019

We should have been in port at Ilfracombe, which I hear is a lovely little town, but it doesn’t have much of a protected harbor and there’s a storm coming.  Captain Bant announced it last night.  His plan is to evade the storm as best he can and pull into Liverpool around 8:00 pm tonight, so we can go out on the town, if we want to.

Since it was now a Sea Day, I went to my desk at 10:00 am and was kept busy this time.  Apart from my people who stopped by, it just pays to spend time at the desk.  A very nice couple stopped by, attracted by the DV catalog, and asked about the program.  I was happy to let them look and asked them if they knew if their TA was attached to Travel Leaders, as so many are.  They told me they didn’t have a Travel Agent, they just booked with Holland America, directly.  That gave me a chance to explain to them what they were missing out on, and I’ll just bet they’ll be googling “Travel Leaders Travel Agent” soon.

I did more DV work, and spent a couple of hours in my room, logging and blogging.  Around 5:30 pm, I noticed a gigantic windfarm at sea, just outside my cabin, and on the way in to Liverpool.  We may run out of food, but we won’t be running out of power anytime, soon.  I went out to dinner around 7:30 and a lot of people were leaving the ship, which had docked early.  The sun was still shining, and if I had had a partner, and NOT had a cold, I’d have been out there with them.

Dinner in the dining room was good, though.  I had a very nice table again.  These people were all Dutch, but all spoke good English and most of them had traveled the world extensively.  Tonkia, who was traveling with her mother Ted, short for Dorothy, was interesting because she spends her vacations nearer to home, but on a Dutch 30-metre training sailboat, as an instructor.  Dick and Marlene were a couple with relatives in the States, so they had gone back and forth, a lot, visiting a different part of North America, each time.  We went on until 9:30 pm, half way through the show, but I managed to miss the magician and see most of pianist Tim Abel’s performance, which was brilliant.

The next morning, I realized, I should have gone out last night.  It was a gentle day, but my smart phone informed me it wasn’t going to stay that way.  We could expect 50 mph winds and rain by 5:00 pm.  Well it’s 4:30pm, as I write this and the winds haven’t started but it’s been raining since a little after three.  Since I had slept in, because I am still fighting a cold, gone to the gym, and prepared my lists, nametags and tips for tomorrow’s excursion, I had decided to give Liverpool a miss, again.  I always expect to be coming back, and I usually do.  I’ll be hoping third time’s the charm.

I did step out of my Lanai Cabin and circle the deck four times, which is over a mile, and that was my walk.  Here’s what I saw of Liverpool, old and new.

There were seven of us, four from Hawaii,two from Michigan, and me.  We were eating in The Pinnacle Grill at seven and we sailed at six, which gave me a last-minute idea that we should be in the Crows nest as we sailed down the Mersey.  Bless these people.  I called them at 6:10 pm and we were all up there by 6:20 to enjoy it.  At the appointed hour, we proceeded to The Pinnacle to be spoiled.  This is a DV add on that I usually do on Holland America, taking advantage of my five-star status.

They had an appetizer that even I could not face.  Gary Loo said he had had it and it was excellent.  Susan Slaymaker was game.  I had a little piece of one of them, but there was still one left when she was done.  It’s not just bacon, it’s candied bacon.

The steaks were beautiful, the salmon left a bit to be desired, and the company was terrific.   It was a lovely evening.  I caught the end of the BBC Earth planet show.  It’s rare animal videos, set to classical music, with our Lincoln Centre Stage chamber orchestra performing.  I’d go to another of those shows.

Sunday, August 4, continued

But before I continue, let me reply to my curmudgeonly friend, Gil Mercier.  I actually like some modern art.  I recently bought a piece.  It doesn’t try to be anything but what it is, a clever representation of a cocktail party.  The picture doesn’t do it justice, because all the gold does shine and the colors pop.

And, yes, Gil, I must admit I am trying to keep it clean.  It’s on a more-or-less public web site now.  You would approve of the thing I bought at the parade, though.

Boarding was easy, that five-star status earned on all those world cruises, does help.  We skipped the lines and I was settled in and working by one-thirty.  I spoke to Lenty in Shore Excursions, who was on charge of our DV tour, Lisa the Bar Manager and Lizly, the Entertainment Coordinator.  I also stopped by the Pinnacle Grill to see how many half-price dinners my five stars would get me to offer the group.  There were a number of changes to the manifest, which I made.  Then I touched up my Welcome Letter and Amenities Notification, and gave them to Lisly for printing

I made it up to sailaway in time to catch one piece of fish, before they stopped serving hors d’oeuvres.  Then I went back down, picked up my printing, stuffed and delivered my folders.  I was in the dining room by 7:47pm, which is a record for me.  What really helped is that this is a small group. I took pot luck at dinner and ended up with two nice Canadian couples, Myrna and Wayne and Sharon and Ron, who introduced himself as ‘the back end of Sharon.”

I woke up in the middle of the night with a cold. It either came from the airplane of the Float Spa in Amsterdam.  I suspect the latter.  I won’t be doing that again.  I don’t mess with colds when I am working.  I started a Z-Pack, so I wouldn’t be passing it on.

August 5 was a Sea Day, which was great.  It was going to be a busy one. I did the necessary with the Front Desk to finalize my Manifest and between 9:00 and 10:00 am, I managed to call all the rooms and grab myself a bit of breakfast.  Then I went to the desk.

I found out that when you have just finished calling them all, nobody comes.  I checked availability for Kilmainham Goal in Dublin and the Edinburgh Tattoo.  The jail is a non-starter at this point and there’s limited availability for the Tattoo, but, at least I am informed.  I fussed around with business for another hour and went to the gym.  I wrote my cocktail party speech and had it printed, with the new manifest, and went to the “Singles and Solos” afternoon tea in the Dining Room at three.  I won’t be wasting time on that, again.

The cocktail party went very well but I ate alone, as there wasn’t enough time before the show to be social. The show itself wasn’t much.  They call it Post Modern Jukebox, so they can replace at least 5 people with special effects, and merge music from different eras.  I wasn’t too happy with it, but I do like to be entertained.

August 6, we were in Portland, the port for Weymouth, where many great novels have been set.  I had a very nice crepe breakfast in the Lido, wrote and delivered a quick newsletter, and worked out in the gym, before getting off the ship.  I took the shuttle into Weymouth and got going on my errands.  First, I needed a belt, as my new stretch jeans, tended to fall down as they stretched.  Not a great look.  A belt is easy in a port town.  There’s always a nearby ship shop.  I was delighted to find black halyard line and got myself the appropriate length of it for 3 pounds twenty.  The pounds I had saved from 2016 were no longer in circulation, so I put it on a card and added a bank to my list.  The next place I found was the T-Shop, right on the water, where a 12-year old served me this lovely cream tea:

It was scrumptious and cost 3 pound 50.  Then I crossed over the bridge and went strolling around the town.  I was delighted to find a half-dozen thrift shops, supporting everything from the Red Cross to Cat Rescue.  I went in to every one of them and came out with two tops, suitable for dining on a ship, for 8 pounds.  This is the British equivalent of my Asian disposable clothing theory.  At the end of the trip, I’ll bring home only what I can carry and leave the rest to the crew.  I had forgotten to take my Amsterdam purchase out of my backpack and had the whole cat rescue store in stitches, when I shared a peek at it.

The beautiful weather had brought the locals, and their dogs, out, which made it very nice.  I ended up in Bennett’s Fish and chips, just near the bridge, for a Fish ‘n Chips dinner.  Lisa, the Bar Manager, had told me it was the best in Weymouth and she wasn’t wrong.  When I got back, it was still nice enough to enjoy the deck chair outside my cabin, so I did that until it cooled down.

Then I went back in to do some paperwork, until I was summoned by a brass band, right outside my stateroom, on the pier.  I went out to listen, with a jacket on, added a scarf, and finally decided I shouldn’t risk making my cold worse, but it was terribly nice of them.  I worked for another half hour and went back out, where a ceremonial gun squad had been added to the brass band.  I got my jacket and scarf again and waited them out.  It took them a terrible long time to get on with it, and it probably did worsen my cold, but these things should be encouraged.  Finally, they fired the gun, numerous times and it reminded me of nothing so much as Michael and Cullen’s wedding.  I really should have put a line about that in my eulogy for Paul.

Next morning, I did a bit of work, had a lovely Eggs Benedict breakfast, hit the gym again, and got off in Guernsey.  The last time I was here, I had discovered Hauteville, Victor Hugo’s home, too late to tour the interior, which looked pretty special.  I told the greeter at the dock that was my plan, and she said I had better check with the Information Centre, as they might be closed Wednesdays.  I set off along the other side of the waterfront street to said place, which was on my way to the Royal Channel Islands Yacht Club, anyway.  Sure enough, Hauteville is closed on Wednesdays, but they had nice pictures of its restoration on their own walls.  I’ll just have to save that for the next time.

RCIYC is on the third floor of a building, above “The Catch” restaurant.  On the way up the stairs, I met a lady coming down with two milk shakes, one in each hand.  She told me not to go up there under any circumstances.  The Club Manager was there and she was very ill with something whose description sounded to me like noro virus.  I was only too happy to turn around and go back down with her.  On the way I told her where I was from and how I often visit yacht clubs when I travel, being a member of RHKYC and RStLYC, and all.  Next thing she offered me one of the milkshakes and a lift to the Guernsey Museum in Candie where there were ice paintings and a great view.  I was very glad of both of them, and of Diana’s company.  I’ll probably never see her again, but I won’t soon forget this great travel moment.  Many thanks to my fleeting best friend.

The temporary collection at the museum was all about Manga.  I didn’t even know what it was before and am now so much more enlightened.  The historic paintings and view were beautiful, and they had park benches where you could enjoy the scenery, until someone came for a smoke up wind.  It was a gorgeous sunny day in Guernsey, and I hated to leave, but a tender beckoned.

I had dinner with three Dutch people and an American couple, and we avoided politics.  The entertainer, Tim Abel, was very able on the piano, and I enjoyed the show.

On Thursday, August 8, we docked in Torquay, Torbay, Devon.  The sun was still shining, when I had had another nice crepe breakfast, and some time in the gym, so I decided to go out.  By the time I got to the tender platform, it had started to turn nasty but I was committed.  It was a bit of a rough ride, so I decided not to go too far afield.  I went searching for a Devon Cream Tea, first.  I passed a good number of little places advertising them, but I figured that what I wanted was a good hotel, where it would really be something special.

I stopped into Boots, the Chemist Shop, for a tube of toothpaste and to pick the cashier’s brain about local hotels.  She knew nothing.  I continued on and happened on The Torbay Hotel.  It had once been grand enough but it looked like it had seen better days.  The weather was worsening, so I took a comfortable velvet covered chair in its faded lobby and waited to be served.  When nothing happened, I got up and looked around.  There was a counter in the next room, so I went up and ordered at it.  Here’s the pathetic Devon Cream Tea I got for 5 pounds 50.  The scone was probably yesterday’s, from its consistency, and the clotted cream was packaged and not even from Devon.  The butter and jam were commercial packaging, not as nice as the ship’s.

If that wasn’t enough to make me sad, there were a few locals in the place, and I overheard one of them saying that he could get better quality and pricing on the Internet.  True, and guilty of supporting Amazon, and taking the charm out of a lot of places.  There a was a pretty old fashioned seaside pavilion, but it was boarded up.  The modern “wheel” was doing a reasonable business, though.  And I’ll have to admit, the weather was worsening.

I met the Parkers for dinner.  We had booked it in the Pinnacle that morning, but when we got there, it was Rudi’s Sel de Mer special, which we didn’t want, so we ate in the Dining Room and went to another Post Modern Jukebox Show.  That will be my last of those.

Saturday, August 2,

I woke up refreshed and went straight to work. I did the paperwork for the ship and caught up with my blog and 342 emails.  Luckily, I could delete ¾ of them.  The weather outside alternated between bright sunshine and raining katten und doggen.  Jack and Sylvia Parker finally arrived around two, just as I was finishing up.  Their plane had been delayed in Toronto, then getting to the gate in Amsterdam.  They were in a huge line at customs, too.  They were ready for a quick lunch and a nap.

I went to the Rijksmuseum.  I took a tram, which left me no option for the snack I wanted, but the museum café.  It was good enough, but service was slow, and I only had an hour to find and tour the special Rembrandt exhibition.  Too bad I had managed to misunderstand the “Hello Amsterdam” magazine in the hotel, which, I now see, clearly states that “The Ultimate Rembrandt Collection” is at RAI Amsterdam.  I took that to mean the Rijksmuseam, when it’s the Convention Center.   That’s where there are 350 high quality reproductions, in their original sizes and in chronological order.  The Rijksmuseum’s special Rembrandt exhibit is 350 works by contemporary artists, done especially for 2019, to commemorate his death in Amsterdam, 350 years ago.  At least I had enough time to see that, but it was disappointing.

I got back to the hotel in time for a nap before dinner with the Parkers at Bird, a Thai restaurant, smack in the Gay red-light area.  There was a creepy looking guy leaning out of the window across the street, with a raven sculpture on his windowsill, as we stood in line to get in.  There were also a gazillion dildos of all shapes and colors on sale, as we walked there.

The food was excellent.  I had them make it extra spicy, after last night’s bland experience at Ashoka.  It came out just right, a little tingle on the back of the tongue to remember it by after you finished.

Just like last year in Dublin, I managed to be in Amsterdam for Pride week.  I don’t do this on purpose, but the universe knows I live at Fountaingrove Lodge and would like it very much.  Today it delivered the last day of Pride Week, on which the parade takes place on the canals.  The hotel told us to forget taking a canal tour, the boats had all been commandeered, either by the organizers or the gay tourists.  We should just go out there on foot and have fun.

First, we went out in the morning to do a couple of errands and hit an ATM up for Euros.  I have known the Parkers for over 50 years and Jack Parker is an amazing walker, with an incredible sense of direction.  He listens to the concierge and off he goes, unerringly reaching the destination, and at speed.  I was impressed.  I didn’t see much of Amsterdam but the back of his head, mind you, but we got the errands done.

On the way we did see a couple of interesting stalls, selling Amsterdam’s old main export and what will likely be its new one:

We nipped back into the hotel for a quick rest and a pit stop and went out to lunch.  We figured we’d catch the Pride parade a few blocks before it was to end at Centraal Station.  We stopped at a tapas place for lunch because it had all the diverse things we three wanted, sardines for Jack, soup for Sylvia and crepes for me.  They come with Nutella here, instead of the maple syrup I want, but what’s not to like about chocolate and hazelnut?

This parade gives an old meaning to the word “floats”:

And that picture gives you some idea of how many people were watching.  It made following Parker’s bald head a little more difficult, especially when I stopped to make a purchase.  Wait until you see it.  It’s only coming out on special occasions.  We were back in the hotel by a little after three for a rest.  I should have been writing this blog then, but I was actually resting.  Jack Parker has got to be about 85, and he’s wearing me out.  Sylvia is over 80, too, and she keeps up with him.  Must be because she’s had years of practice.  I’ll have to get this old body out walking more.

We had a half hour forced march to dinner in Rembrandt Square.  I was diligently following Parker but keeping Google Maps going, just to be sure.  I was also trying to have a bit of fun.  This was multitasking at speed.  I just had to stop to take this picture and got it complete with photo-bomber:

Of course, the photo bomber wanted to see the picture.  He was very nice, but I had to set out after Parker.  I soon noticed Google Maps had changed its mind and we were now 18 minutes from the destination, which had been 4 minutes away, just a minute ago.  I thought this was odd, but I didn’t have much time to think.  I had to catch Jack and turn him around. So, I put on a burst of speed and caught him two minutes later.  Back up the street we all went, Jack none too happy – and he was right.  About a minute and a half later, I woke up to the fact that I should re-check the destination in Google Maps.  Sure enough, somewhere in the middle of the picture taking and showing, I had inadvertently inserted some unknown destination into the mix.  I removed it, turned us back around to the way Jack was going, licked the egg off my face, and we were at Indrapura in 2 minutes.

We were there because “Hello Amsterdam” had interviewed a bunch of locals.  One of them said “if you only do one thing in Amsterdam, have a rijstoffel”.  That’s an Indonesian ricetable.  It made sense.  The Dutch were the first Europeans in Indonesia and brought the culture back.  The person in the magazine and the concierge at the hotel were right.  It was a great meal.  There was a main stage just across the street for Pride Day, but we’re too old to get mixed up in a young drinking and dancing crowd, so we were happy in our swanky, only half-full restaurant.

The crowd on the street had been buying beer and take-out from local restaurants and food stalls, and the streets were a hell of a mess on the way back to the hotel.  We wondered why the city didn’t put out a bunch of trash bins and concluded they just would have impeded the flow of traffic and may have been a temptation for revelers to overturn.  We waded through the mess, which was gone by 10:00am the next morning.  I wasn’t too happy about the garbage men invading the restaurant I was having breakfast in, mind you.  They took out at least six huge bags, right past my table.

I am on August 4, already and it’s boarding day.  So, it was pack, breakfast, check out and call a taxi.  While we were waiting, we met a grandfather, his daughter and two kids, all bound for the Rotterdam.  They were from Vancouver Island.  You know the Canadians by their luggage tags and the mother recognized the name Parker on one of ours.  One of her kids had it as a first name.

Our taxi arrived at least fifteen minutes late.  The post-Pride traffic, combined with a shipload of people bound for the port, was making things difficult.  When we saw the size of the van that came, we made a few calculations and invited the family to join us.  Good thing we did, because when I checked my manifest an hour later, I found they were in my DV group.

Sunday, July 28, continued,

I spent the afternoon at 63 Chesterfield, doing laundry and computer work in the back garden, which is lovely. It occurred to me that I haven’t ever sent you a picture of Adam and Judy’s wonderful, very conveniently located Westmount house, so here it is.  The front garden’s not too shabby, either.

The house was built in 1895 and still has its Victorian interior architectural features.  It has turned into a very nice little nest egg, over the years.  When they leave here, Adam and Judy will be able to live wherever they please on the proceeds.

I had a few minutes with their kids and grandkids, who show up every Sunday night for dinner, a family tradition that has never ceased over the years.  I could have walked to Sheila and Bob Martin’s house, but I took the car, so I could stay at Symanskys’ a little longer, before.  Sheila and Bob live on Melville, where I lived with Bob Weeks, somewhere around 1980.  English Montreal is a small world.  Sheila set out a Montreal summer dinner on the back balcony.  No one eats inside here in the summer, if they can at all help it.  When the good days are few, they are precious and treated with respect.  I’m afraid it was another occasion for too much wine, but I am planning to take August off, this year, so I let myself go.  That’s another thing the warm summer nights encourage, you just want them to last, so you have another glass of wine.  I was a bit smarter, when I got back to Judy’s, though.  We had fizzy water in her back garden.

Monday, July 29, Quelle journée!

When I took the 2020 SilverSea Montreal to Fort Lauderdale assignment, I answered the next email I got from Tourism Montreal and told them about it.  The next thing I know, I had been invited to spend a day with them, touring high-end hotels.  What’s not to like about that?  Here’s how it unfolded.

At 9:30 am, I met Genevieve Archambault, Manager – Media and Leisure Market, for Tourism Montreal, at the Mount Stephen Hotel.  It’s a new glitzy building, attached to the old Mount Stephen Club, which has been lovingly restored.  We had croissants in the old bar, with its huge fireplace and wonderful carved wood, walls, floors, ceiling and trim.

She handed me over to Maxim, the hotel Front Desk Manager, who showed me a few of the very lovely rooms, varying in price from $400 to $1600/night. Then he gave me a bottle of water and I was off to my next appointment.  I was meeting Magda Sabella, at the Ritz.

Montreal’s Ritz-Carlton, our Grande Dame on Sherbrooke Street, houses all the visiting dignitaries and celebrities, and was the scene of Elizabeth Taylor’s second marriage to Richard Burton.  It was closed for renovations and additions about five years ago, and is back, better than ever.  Magda showed me all around, including the fabulous new swimming pool, and the new condo building attached, where there’s an 8,000 square foot penthouse condo.  And, yes, it’s occupied. I didn’t get to see inside.

Maria Aimen, who works for Magda, joined us for lunch, and stayed with me, when Magda had to go to a meeting.  Their restaurant is now overseen by Daniel Boulud, the famous one.  I remember Danièle and Jean taking me to his New York Restaurant, the year it opened, and introducing us to Daniel, himself.  I think Jean knows every famous French chef in the world, personally, like I used to be able to claim I knew every chef in Napa.  Anyway, the food was fabulous as was the setting.  They changed a lot of things, but you can still have lunch in the garden, with the ducks.

It wasn’t just the ducks, either.  Brian Mulroney, who was Prime Minister of Canada in the eighties, was there, too.  When he passed our table, I greeted him and reminded him that the last time we had been together was for the opening of Repap’s paper mill in Miramichi.  Repap was George Petty’s company.  He flew about 50 of us to Miramichi, New Brunswick, for an incredible bash that day.  I scored a lot of points with my Tandem Branch Manager that day, when I brought him along.  Ours was the plant’s process control computer.  Mulroo asked to be remembered to Ginger, whom he does know well, and I duly passed that on.

Maria was delightful company and I was sorry to leave, but it was all too soon off to the next luxury hotel.  This one was the Sofitel, across the street and a few blocks east.  I passed a couple of “Square Mile” houses, each with its plaque.  The Sofitel is on the site where the Van Horne house used to be.  I remember the uproar at the time it was torn down and how sad we all were.  Thanks to Phyllis Lambert, and her Canadian Center for Architecture, that doesn’t happen any more in Montreal.  The developers have to incorporate the historic buildings in the new. Any time Ginger wants to sell the dining rom set that came out of the Van Horne mansion, she’ll probably have a willing buyer in the Sofitel.  In the meantime, I enjoy eating at it once a year in Ile Bizard.

Yolaine Masse, who does PR for Montreal’s Cruise Port, met me at the Sofitel and took me to the Old Port, where we parked her car and toured the port on foot.  We stopped for a drink at Les Marchés de l’Élusier, right beside BotaBota, a Spa on an old Barge in the water.  Then we joined Kim Letourneau at the W hotel, for a tour and a glass of bubbly.  The bar actually specializes in perfumed gin cocktails, but I don’t like gin.  It was pretty impressive, though, and Kim is a darling.  She just bubbles over, like I probably did at her age.  We walked to Le Saint-Sulpice in Old Montreal, for more room tours and dinner in the courtyard.  We kept it simple, tuna tartare and frites for me and a duck and cheese sandwich for Yolaine.  I so enjoyed meeting all these young businesswomen.  Those were the days.

It was 9:30 by the time I got back to Chesterfield, and I was pretty beat, but you couldn’t beat that day.  The only money I spent was a tip to the valet at the Mount Stephen when I picked up the car.

Tuesday, I did a bunch of work, before meeting Joan McGuigan again, and Roland Meunier, my old tax accountant.  We toured a couple more apartments in Les Cours Mont-Royal.  I wanted to see a fixer upper with a better view.  It was $200,000 less.  You can do a fair bit of fixing up, for that.

I got back to Chesterfield, just in time to meet Terri Azzaria, for our crew dinner at Linda and Bev’s.  We were supposed to muster Theresa at her assisted living place and bring her with us.  Theresa has memory issues now, and we figured she’d need help dressing.  Terri called her an hour before we were to be there, and Theresa had forgotten, but was fine with it.  She called again a half-hour before and Theresa begged off, saying she wouldn’t be good company.  The old Theresa was always very good company.

Terri and I and Linda and Bev enjoyed a glass of wine and hors d’oeuvres on their spacious (understatement) patio, and warm dead bird.  I can’t get enough of it when I am in Montreal.  It is the best rotisserie chicken in the world.  I swear it, and so does every other Montrealer.  It was a lovely special evening, but Linda is still working, so we left early enough.  The Symanskys are up late every night, so I had one more glass of wine there.

Wednesday was laundry day again, as I needed to leave for the airport at three.  It was an easy drive and I was all checked in in time to have a nice Montreal smoked meat sandwich before boarding.  The food at the airport is good, now that the plane food is so terrible.  For a while the stuff you paid for was a little better, but I didn’t find that on SFO-YUL, so I didn’t want to take a chance.  The smoked meat was scrumptious.

The flight was uneventful.  I was in premium economy with a free seat beside me.  That’s as good as it gets before the flatbed, which I wasn’t willing to pay for.

Thursday morning, we arrived in Amsterdam a little before eight and I was at the Hotel Avenue by 9:00 am.  I used one of my breakfast vouchers immediately, and that took me to 10:00 am.  The lobby was full of people waiting for rooms, and there wasn’t much hope of getting my room before three in the afternoon.  There was a TV there advertising a Float SPA, where you could get the equivalent of five hours sleep, by floating for an hour.  It was 20 euros away by taxi, but I was in no shape for public transportation, so I took one.  I had a ten-minute spa capsule treatment to soften me up, my hour in the warm Epsom salts bath, and a one-hour massage.  I got back to the hotel by four and checked in.

The hotel is funky, a number of flats and little apartment buildings, cobbled together.  My single room is a garret.  You literally cannot swing a cat in here, but it’s comfortable enough.  I did some minimal settling in and went out for dinner.  I took advice from the front desk, who walked me to the street to be able to point out directions.  There was an Indian restaurant across the street, and I asked if it was any good.  The gal didn’t know, but she knew there was a great one pretty close.  By the time she went back in for directions to that and relayed them to me, I only knew that its name began with an “A” and that it was straight up and to the left, not the first street, but the second.

Well that was wrong, and by the time I turned on Google Maps, I was so far away, it didn’t know where it was leading me, but it did give me the rest of its name, “Ashoka”, like the luxury hotel in Delhi, I once stayed in. Google walked me all over the place.  I was brain dead to start with and couldn’t match the street names worth a damn.  They all had about 25 letters and may or not be where you think they might be.  I walked almost all the way to Central Station, which I knew was wrong.  Found another little hotel and got a little more help.  This guy missed a street, too. He told me not to look at my smart phone.  A lot of people get lost around here with them.  The phone was of some use, though.  It usually got the distance in meters right, so I knew if I was getting warm or cold.  Finally, I found it and the food was excellent.  I ate outside, chatting with the nice man from San Diego at the next table.  I had poppadums, samosas, rice, butter chicken and garlic naan.  It was a bit bland, as is the Northern Europe taste.  I should have known and had them goose it up.

I got most of the way home, when I realized I had forgotten to pay.  That was when I also realized that there was a much faster way in.  With a couple of jogs, mind you, it was less than one average city block.  They were very happy to see me, I settled the bill, walked the two minutes home, and went to bed.

Friday, July 26, continued,

I went to Bonsecours Market, to see the city on the way and to get another sleep shirt.  Hatley makes the best and this is one of their best stores.  You can’t park on the street anymore, so I put the car in the lot right across.  It’s a valet lot and the attendant was complaining about the heat in two languages.  I left him the car and a $16 hostage on my debit card.  I got into the market, which has been re-done very nicely, and got my bearings.  Then I realized I lad left my cell phone in the car.  I went back across the street, fetched the car keys, and the phone.  Nice honest city, I was born in.

I went back inside and went looking for a Coke.  I use it for a hangover cure, in case you hadn’t guessed that was the problem.  They only had the diet version, which I consider poison, so I passed on it and went to find my nightie.  Got it on sale, so I bought two. Then I got back in the car and took the lowest possible road to Atwater Market.  Wow, they are building a ton of condominiums in Montreal’s old factory district, Griffintown, which used to be Montreal’s worst slum.

I always know where I am in Montreal, as the crow flies, but they keep changing the streets on me.  University is now Robert Bourassa, for #$%^&’s sake. Merde, alors.  Don’t get me started on the corner of Robert Bourassa and René Levesque.  It’s University and Dorchester, OK?   I finally made it to Atwater Market and found metered parking right by the SAQ (Liquor store) just across the street.  I parked, paid and walked into the market.

I was planning to go to the second floor and buy some chocolate, since Patisserie de Gascogne, Elvon’s obiscerie, is no more, and Andrées Chocolats has aged out of business.  Then I was planning to sit down somewhere and have that Coke.  That plan was only in my head.  When I went to pay for the chocolates, it dawned on me that I had left my credit card in the parking stand.  I couldn’t pay for those chocolates fast enough, with my debit card, and get back across the street.  The universe is taking care of me.  My Canadian VISA card was still in the machine.  This really IS an honest city.

I went into the SAQ, beside which I was parked, for a good wine for Saturday night.  I couldn’t get the 2015 Stags Leap cab.  It was in the computer but won’t be on the shelves for another two weeks.  The closest I could come was Grgich Hills, same year, $113.  After more searching online, with a nice helpful clerk, I gave up and bought it. 

I got caught in traffic, because of all the construction, again, checked back in at 63 Chesterfield and went out again, on foot.  That’s what I love about this neighborhood.  I went to the Royal Bank, hit up its ATM for cash and went in to see if I could find the banker who had viewed Elvon’s original death certificate and done the paperwork last year.  The account still isn’t closed.  I found Paul though, and he’s now the branch manager.  He’s going to push it through on Monday.  Would I please send him an electronic copy of the death certificate?  Stay tuned.  All of this is pretty frightening, when you realize these are the guys who keep your money.

I had a little trouble finding that Coke I was still looking for.  Way too many places have gone way too healthy.  I didn’t want a bunch of blended green stuff that grown in the ground.  I wanted a good old Classic Coke that wakes you up and shrinks the capillaries distended by too much wine.  By the time I got it, in the depanneur next to the bank, I hardly needed it anymore.  I proceed to Pharmaprix to return something bought in error and across the street to Jean Coutu to get some of my favorite cheaper chocolate.  The good stuff is eluding me here. 

I freshened up and went to meet Marilyn and Ted Salhany at La Sirène de la Mer, where the kubbeh nyah (raw meat) and fish and ships can’t be beat.  It was a light night, just one bottle of Baron de Rothschild’s Chardonnay.  All good, and always good to catch up with good, old friends.

Saturday, I had an appointment with Joan McGuigan to show me what there is in the way of condos to buy, here.  She surprised me by showing me a newly renovated one in Les Cours Mont-Royal, that I can actually afford.  Now to do some due diligence.  It’s very tempting.  It’s the old Mount Royal Hotel and connected to the underground city.  You could live there all year ‘round without ever having to go outside and have a lot of fun in the process.

I rejoined the Symanskys at 63, and we drove to TMR and the Morneaus, for pink bubbly in the back garden with the Brunets.  The weather has been gorgeous here, since I arrived.  Then we all went to Restaurant Christophe, on Van Horne, a high-end place, where you can bring your own wine.  They haven’t heard of corkage here, yet.  I had fois gras poelé and jarret d’agneau and it was delicious, as was the Grgich Hills.  But notez bien, the Stags Leap was just as good for $53 less. 

Sunday, I was up earlyish to make Dim Sum at Kam Fung on Tashereau, in Brossard, by 10:00 am.  It was a bit of a challenge as there were “15-Sud” signs pointing west and north, as well as south (sud).  When I ended up in the Glen, in a place where only ambulances and delivery vans for the hospital had any business, I turned to Google.  She led me back, past where I started and well north, so that I could go south.  Oo – oo – oo.  Finally, I crossed the NEW Champlain Bridge, which IS pretty swell, only my Tashereau exit was so close on the other side, that I overshot it, and still made it on time.

Roslyn and Real were just in front of me and had secured a table.  God, I love this meal!  We stuffed our faces with all my Hong Kong favorites.  They even have the char siu in flaky pastry now.  We did well to go early.  The place was packed and it just got worse by the time we left.  And, it’s absolutely huge.  Just like Hong Kong.

Wednesday, July 24, 2019

I can get to Montreal and back for $57, using what’s left of Elvon’s United MileagePlus, but it’s not easy.  After champagne with Brinks on the Jordan’s patio, I had a nice dinner with the Jordans and George, bid farewell to my Lodge friends, saw to last minute details, like my boarding pass, and went to bed around eleven.

The alarm rang at two-thirty.  I brushed my teeth and dragged myself into the shower to wake up.  I was ready when Eric arrived at 3:25 am, but I was grumpy as hell.  He marshalled me into the car and off we set for SFO.  At least you make good time in the middle of the night and we got there by 5:00 am.  Are you absorbing those ungodly numbers?  Shudder.  Our layover was in Vegas, and the airport is full of slot machines, but I didn’t have the energy to even buy the chips.  I just vegetated in the departure lounge for three-and-a-half-hours.

We landed in Montreal at 7:12pm, right on schedule.  My plans for driving to Cornwall that night had been kaiboshed by Rosemary’s needing a little medical procedure to relieve some nasty pain she had been enduring for a month.  Back to form, I picked up warm dead bird and arrived at the Symanskys with it at eight-something.  They had eaten but were more than willing to share a bottle of Bourgogne Aligoté with me, while we caught up.

Thursday, July 25

I slept like a log and woke up a little after nine, stiff as a board.  I got down on the floor and did an hour of yoga.  Then I had a quick breakfast with Adam and Judy and pointed the car in the direction of Cornwall and John Sidorchuk, my dentist cousin, Rosemary’s son.

I was in his chair from one-thirty in the afternoon, until five.  Nothing major, just the replacement of a couple of crowns and my last mercury amalgam filling.  I was stiff again, by the time all that was done.  Rosemary still wasn’t in a party mood, so we rescheduled that for when I come back in September for my permanent crowns.  I had a donut at Tim Horton’s, hit up the LCBO for some nice wine and got back on the 401.

The good news was that that saved me the Montreal rush hour traffic, and I was back at Symanskys in time to go for dinner at Touceh, one of their wonderful neighborhood restaurants.  It’s Persian/Italian, and so good.  It wasn’t there when it was my neighborhood.  I love it. I was in seventh heaven, to tell the truth.  They have liver and onions on the menu, and I had liver and onions, and ate every bite.  We washed it down with the Stags Leap cab I had found at the LCBO, and it was delicious.

It was one of those magic nights.  Judy and I went out to the back garden and had another bottle of wine.  By this time, it was midnight and still lovely and soft outdoors.  A good friend, a bottle of wine and a magic night add up to my perfect way to relax.  On my way down to my basement apartment in their house, still taking to Judy, I managed to smoosh a mosquito on the wall.  We left it there for decoration.  It was the only one of its tribe we saw all night. The season is over.

Friday, July 26, 2019

I woke up around nine, and all Duolingo wanted to talk about was wine.  How do my Spanish lessons know what I have been doing?