People Places

A Walk in the Clouds on the Isle of Skye

July 9, 2019

The Isle of Skye’s famous Kilt Rock

(It took me a few months and a return visit to Scotland to finally start getting caught up on my blog posts, and what better place to start than this enchanting jewel of Scotland.)

One of the most popular destinations in all of Scotland is the Isle of Skye. At least this is what I had gathered from other hostel-goers, who all seemed to be coming from there, or were getting ready to visit. Early on, Skye had been on my possibilities list, and the myriad endorsements from others sealed the deal for me.

Traveling to the Isle of Skye involved a train from one side of Scotland to the other, from Inverness to Kyle of Lochalsh (a name I never could pronounce with any confidence) where I enjoyed a healthy wait for the one afternoon bus to Portree, the main tourist destination on the island. I wanted to give myself a reasonable amount of time before I had to reverse the process, so I booked myself into the neon yellow hostel just off Portree’s town square for four nights. This funky abode was a far cry from the more modern, sterile hostels I’d stayed in earlier. Run by Pat, a marvelous man who knew all of his guests’ name, this colorful (literally and figuratively) place would serve as the perfect crash pad after long days of hiking in the mists that seemed to forever surround the area.

Skye didn’t appear to be aware we were in the height of summer. Everyone was dressed in long sleeves, boots and rain jackets befitting early Spring, and there was no waiting for a nice day in order to explore this vast, magnificent island.

So early on my first full day on the Isle of Skye, I went off to hike one of the trails just outside of Portree. From the moment I stepped onto the path, I felt as though I had slipped inside the images on the myriad postcards which populate the island’s souvenir shops. It was a heady mixture of emerald grasses, mountainside waterfalls, murmurs of low-tide waves embracing the rocky shoreline and a stroll through a tunnel of trees which led me to a clearing ringed by an ancient stone wall, which offered a view of the bluff I was to climb.

At its summit, a mist was beginning to roll in, and by the time I reached the base of the hill, it had blossomed into a thick grey cloud which rested contentedly on the slope, with no indication that it cared to move along anytime soon. It had a haunting, magical quality – quintessential Scottish Highlands – and I eagerly began my ascent into the mist.

There is something about walking in a cloud that is exhilarating. Everything becomes one color, and feels mysterious and unknown, and as if anything could happen at any moment. Given that the path beneath my feet was slippery, and I couldn’t actually see it, I made the climb at a glacial pace. In the distance below me, I could hear the voices of a party of hikers, exchanging banter and exclaims of wonder at the loveliness of their surroundings. I stopped and stayed silent, hoping they wouldn’t follow me up the hillside. Soon I heard them pass beneath my vantage point and continue along a lower path, completely unaware of my presence. It made me feel as powerful and elusive as those mischievous highland fairies I’d been warned about repeatedly. And just like that, as if those fairies knew I was stealing their thunder, hiding on that hillside, the fog surrounding me lifted, making me mortal again. With that, I continued to the summit where I stood in humble amazement at Skye’s majestic beauty.

On another day during my stay, I did something out of character, and joined a daylong sightseeing tour. Public transport is limited in the Isle of Skye, so this is the best way of hitting all the island’s highlights.  I had been told about the tour by my hostel roommate Danielle, a witty, energetic Canadian who had just completed hiking the West Highland Way. She and I joined a group of eight other tourists and our knowledgeable, humorous tour guide Bill from Real Scottish Journeys on a jaunt around Skye in a minibus which fearlessly conquered the steep and sometimes rocky terrain.

It was a great day out, with stops at the island’s most jaw-dropping vistas and wonders, including the Fairy Pools, the Fairy Glen (more of those pesky highland sprites) and a curious rock formation known as the Old Man of Storr. The weather was hit and miss throughout the day – sometimes we traveled in the clouds, at other times we moved in sunshine.

And what I discovered from this was that Scotland is resplendent when the sun is shining… and yet I actually prefer the overcast skies and fog.  To me, the highlands are at their most beautiful when they are shrouded in that timeless mist.

It was a cozy, mirth-filled day trekking around Skye in our cozy van, and by the end of it, Danielle and I had made a fun new group of friends. At the conclusion of the tour, she suggested to the group that we all go for drinks. Happily, most of our group joined us to try some of the famous area whiskys (that would be the Scottish spelling). With help from a few knowledgeable locals we mingled with at the bar, we sampled some of the interesting, “peaty” whiskys which are a specialty of the highlands. It was the perfect, most picturesque ending to our wondrous day.

Travel tip:  The charm of an ancient pub filled with the camaraderie of new friends gives a person a sense of warmth which can ward off even the dampest highland chill.

 

Photos below:

Top Row:  The vibrant hostel in Portree; mist rolling in on the highlands; with Danielle on a bracing peak.

Bottom Row:  The closest we got to seeing the Old Man of Storr on a foggy morning; finally, sunshine and a glimpse at a broch (the Iron-Age round stone structure — no one can agree what it was used for); amusing anecdotes and warm whisky with new friends.

Places

Two Miles and Two Hours to Thurso

July 9, 2019

At the tippy-top, most northern part of Scotland, the first ferry of the day from Stromness on Orkney Island arrives in Scrabster on the mainland at 8am.

I had taken this early morning service, which had given me the option of staying the night before in one of the cabins on the ferry (see my previous post, Savoring the Local Hero Vibe in Orkney), where I got the best sleep I’d had in months.

So I was full of vim and vigor as I strapped on my big backpack and stepped onto the dock at Scrabster. Adding to the spring in my step was the weather: it was a stunner of a day, with sunshine, an occasional wisp of a white cloud, and a hint of a coastal breeze to keep the temperature right at perfect.

My plans were to travel back to Inverness that day on the first available train service – a dainty two-car train departing around 1pm, a good five hours after my ferry docked. Which, in this remote area of Scotland, is ample for what the populace requires.

The train service itself runs not from Scrabster, but from the neighboring town of Thurso. Three days before, I had taken a bus – the one bus of the afternoon – over from Thurso to Scrabster on my outbound journey to Orkney. From this, I knew the distance between the train station and the ferry port was only two miles, making it possible to walk from one to the other.

It was a sublime day, I had five hours before my train arrived, and the first bus wasn’t due at the Scrabster dock for another hour and twenty minutes. “Why not make the walk?” I thought. Sure, there was a hill to climb, and the weight of my big backpack to consider, but with loads of time on my hands, I could take it as slowly as I needed to. The idea of the hike rather appealed to me, though I wasn’t overly keen on the route – from what I remembered of the bus ride, we had traveled along a main road which may or may not have had a sidewalk for the entire trek.

Before I set off to take the hill with my big backpack, I thought it might be a good idea to check with the locals about the walk. Popping into the dockside café (where, very importantly, I’d had a divine ham and brie panini a few days earlier), I told one of the waitresses what I was thinking of doing, and she informed me that, yes, it’s possible to take that main route, but that it’s much nicer to do the cliff walk, which runs along the coastline. Pointing out the window in the general direction of Thurso, she gave me the name of a road to turn onto, and a description of the entrance to the path I would take from there.

This sounded far more picturesque – and quieter – than the main road, and with that settled, off I started up the hill. As I was nearing the top and beginning my lookout for the road I was to turn onto, a man came towards me from the other direction, walking his dog. I stopped and asked him if I was nearing the road for the coastal walk, and he pointed to a small street just up the hill. He then asked me where I was from, and all of the usual “tourist questions” while I petted his friendly mixed-breed pup. We chatted about the beautiful weather and the joys of living where he does, and pretty soon twenty minutes had passed. I thanked him for his help, and he said that he would be passing along this way later and if he saw me looking lost, he would stop and give me a ride to the station, which I thought was exceptionally kind.

Fortunately, I didn’t lose my way. The coastal path, once I located it, was very straightforward. Following the contour of the coastline, it runs along the top of the cliff above the rocks and beaches, and isn’t nearly as treacherous as it sounds. It is a beautiful walk, completely paved, and is traversed by the residents of both Scrabster and Thurso, who take the path to go to the market or into town for dinner at one of the quaint, tantalizing restaurants.

The waitress at the café had given me a gift, I soon realized, when she told me to go this way. With its stone walls, high grasses and spectacular views of neighboring islands, the cliffside path was utterly enchanting, to the point I completely forgot about the backpack on my back. I was aware of feeling only blessed and grateful to be in the sunshine and the beauty of it all, and I delighted in every step.

But it was the people along the path who put the whole experience over the top for me. Every fifty to a hundred yards or so, I would cross paths with one of the locals and we invariably would stop for a chat. Some were coming back from doing errands in town, others were walking their dogs (naturally, I had to stop and speak with every single one of these folks), while others were simply out to enjoy the gorgeous day.

Though I had been up in the highlands for a while, and was getting accustomed to their captivating, thick Scottish accent, I still caught myself thinking, as I was conversing with one of the locals, how strange it is for us to be speaking the same language, saying the same words, yet we sound so very different from each other. What is really remarkable is that we can actually understand each other’s pronunciations well enough, at least most of the time.

Even stranger than that, I realized I was starting to pick up some of these Scottish pronunciations, when I heard myself talking about biscuits. Naturally, when speaking of the British digestives and shortbreads, one uses their term, “biscuits” instead of the American word “cookies” (just as Oreos and Nutter Butters are always cookies and never biscuits). But saying “biscuits” here in northern Scotland, I was startled to hear it come out of my mouth with a proper Highland brogue, as “BESS-ketz.” When did this language gap start closing?

In the end, it took me over two hours to walk those two brilliant miles. Yet I still had hours left to kill before catching the train. I spent that time sitting in the picturesque little square opposite the church, where my backpack enjoyed resting on the benches, alternating between sunshine and shade, while I had some takeaway lunch and did some reading until it was time to catch the train.

It was such a small moment in my travels – a mere few hours between destinations – but that dazzling day has stayed with me, and promises to be one of my favorite memories of the entire journey.

 

Photos below:

Top row: The start of the cliffside trail: view to Hoy on a splendid summer day;

Bottom row: Visitors staying in the cliffside campgrounds enjoy a stroll along the path; relaxing in the village square.

Places

Savoring the Local Hero Vibe in Orkney

July 8, 2019

Ah, breathing room!

After a month of being in busy cities overrun with tourists, I was feeling ready for some open space and fewer folks. But more than that, I wanted to go remote in Scotland – something which for decades I’ve hoped to do – in large part because of a beautiful little movie called “Local Hero.”

The 1983 film is a comedy-drama starring Peter Riegert and Burt Lancaster, and tells the story of Mac, a young oil company executive from Houston who is sent to a secluded village in Scotland to buy up all of the property in order to establish a refinery. It’s not long before the gentle pace and eccentric charm of the town and its inhabitants work their magic on Mac, and he becomes conflicted about seeing the town he’s grown to love be wiped away and replaced by a behemoth oil operation.

The movie is captivating and quirky, and it’s what drew me to travel to Orkney, a large island just off the northern coast of the very top of Scotland.  Even though I was nowhere near any of the myriad locations where “Local Hero” was filmed, I soon discovered that art very much imitates life — at least when it comes to the beguiling town of Stromness, where I was staying for the weekend.

From the moment I arrived, I was transported into the movie. As I took my first steps onto the quaint, quiet main street, a lone motorcycle appeared as if out of nowhere and came whizzing past me as I attempted to cross the pavement. Just like it happens in “Local Hero,” where this is a running joke. I was enchanted.

After the motorcyle moment, I searched for any similarities I could find between the real Stromness and the fictional hamlet of Ferness. Like its movie counterpart, there are no chain establishments of any sort in Stromness, just locally-owned businesses run by individuals who decide what hours they choose to be open. And like Ferness, everything is tranquil here, with an off-beat rhythm of its own. The town even manages to deliver a strategically-situated, winsome red phone box (an integral detail in the movie).

Now all that was needed was the Northern Lights to complete the picture.

Unfortunately, those Northern Lights didn’t appear for me. but, in fairness, that would really have been asking too much, considering how close it still is to the summer solstice.

But no matter. Orkney was delivering what I needed most — the bliss of personal space and a respite from noise and chaos and marauding hordes of sightseers.

Besides, there were other delights to be found on the island, which were completely unrelated to the movie. One of my favorite days was my outing to the Skara Brae settlement. Older than the Great Pyramids and Stonehenge, this prehistoric village in Orkney dates back over 5,000 years. Not much is known about the people who lived here, but visiting the site on a cold, blustery day, all I could think was, “Bless their hearts.” No one knows what happened to the people who lived here – no burial grounds or human remains have ever been found. My guess – and it’s a rather grim one – is that the rough climate and hard living finally got to one of the inhabitants and they snapped, going on a killing spree and wiping out the entire village.

I followed up my tour of the settlement with a visit to the Birds of Prey Centre which is adjacent to Skara Brae. There I got to spend some time acting as a perch for Odin, a majestic Eurasian eagle-owl and a real prince of a fellow, with glorious, piercing orange eyes which just happened to match my current hair color almost exactly. I like to think it’s why we got on so well.

Orkney is almost completely devoid of trees or shrubs to buffer the forceful, bone-chilling winds which sweep across it. Those who call the island home have to be made of hearty stock. But the climate is a flaw they seem to accept with good humor in this place of wondrous, striking beauty.

As I had only a scant few days on the island, I wasn’t going to let the weather deter me, either. On a day which, at best, one might call “bracing,” I took a stroll along the coastal walkway. As promised, it was picturesque as all get out, with kilt-wearing locals walking their dogs, and mists enveloping the cliffs of neighboring Hoy Island. The chill was further forgotten and offset as I passed alongside a golf course, where some genial players from the Shetland Islands halted their round to come over and share their whiskey with me.

The smooth stuff left me well fortified against the elements and I cheerfully continued my soggy stroll. Just as I reached the breathtaking, rugged beauty of Warebeth Beach, the sound of bagpipes came rolling down the hillside, carried on the breeze from who knows where.

It was the first time since I had arrived in Scotland that I had heard the pipes played by someone who wasn’t busking for money from tourists. The penetrating, bewitching tones were being played for their own haunting loveliness, and almost as if they were acting as a soundtrack for the “money shot” of my own personal movie. Sometimes life is perfect.

In “Local Hero,” it was the people as much as the place that Mac fell in love with, and it’s easy to see how that could happen here in Stromness. Though the locals weren’t nearly as eccentric as the fictional inhabitants in the movie (or perhaps I just didn’t stay in town long enough to get to really know anyone), the residents of Stromness had the same effortless, affable warmth to them. It was touching to not just witness the intimacy between people who had known each other and lived as neighbors for many years, but to be welcomed in and treated as one of these old friends myself. From Mrs. Brown, in whose B&B I stayed, to the young women working in the café who shared intel on the best places in Orkney to have drinks, breakfast and ice cream, they were the perfect hosts for my weekend away.

And even on the day I was leaving, when I had hours to kill before I boarded the ferry back to the mainland, Thomas, the Northlink Ferries manager very cordially allowed to stay in the company’s travel office for most of the day, even when it was closed and the staff had gone home, so I could work on my laptop and use the internet. What’s more, Thomas occasionally came in and offered to make me coffee or tea, and would give me updates on the Women’s World Cup Final, making sure I knew when it happened that the USA had won. Now that’s hospitality.

Technically, I didn’t leave town that day, but I did leave terra firma and go aboard the ferry which would take me back to the mainland the next day. A marvelous thing about the service to Orkney is that they allow passengers traveling on the first ferry of the day (6:30am from Stromness to Scrabster) to board the boat the evening before and stay overnight in one of its cabins. They offer drinks and snacks in one of the lounges that night, and next morning, there is a complimentary breakfast as well. Sounded like a good deal all around.

The sun was just going down when I boarded the ferry at around 10pm that evening.

As I looked back at the view of Stromness, it was crystal-clear why this town is widely considered one of the loveliest ports in all of the UK, and I was very much wishing I could stay longer. As in weeks longer. Possibly months. Perhaps another time. I could only hope so.

And then sometimes life delivers you a most unexpected treat.

Of the twenty-something cabins on the ferry, I had booked for myself the cheapest, which meant I had an inside stateroom, devoid of any natural light. Inside the cabin was my own en-suite bathroom complete with shower. After more than a month of sharing a bedroom with up to eleven other people, and having to traipse down the hall to co-ed, community bathrooms, having all of this to myself felt as luxurious as a stay at the Ritz.

When it came time to turn in, those weeks of fitful nights in noisy hostel dorm rooms, with people coming and going at all hours, and sunlight coming in at 3:30am, breaking through whatever anemic little curtains were provided, were all about to be made up for. Inside my cabin, there wasn’t a sound to be heard – the ferry sat silent, unmoving in the calm waters – and with the lights off, my bedroom was pitch-dark and still as a tomb. I was out cold as soon as my head hit the pillow, and slept the sleep of the dead until the ship’s engines roared to life at 6:30. I awoke to find that my body felt as rested as my spirit.

I dressed quickly and hurried up on deck to say goodbye to Orkney. As the ferry pulled away from the dock, I felt the same wistfulness as Mac did when he’d had to leave Ferness. For him, the story ends with his return to Houston, broken-hearted and with no promise of ever returning to Scotland.

But I know he did return. Just as I will. Because “Local Hero” may an indie film, but I will always go with the Hollywood ending.

 

Photos below:

Top row: The ancient village of Skara Brae; with Odin the owl; coastal walk

Middle row: Warebeth Beach and the Isle of Hoy: Stromness harbor

Bottom row: The Queen Mary 2 it’s not, but my ride to and from the island does have one heckuva fiercesome Viking painted on its hull, so score one for Northlink Ferries.

People Places Things

The Magic of Mythical Inverness

July 5, 2019

The remains of Urquhart Castle overlooking Loch Ness.

After the weeks of exuberant fun in beautiful Edinburgh, I’ve come farther north in Scotland, my first stop being Inverness – another city, with another vibe. Smaller, a bit chillier, with the scenery of a river instead of a beach. Though it’s a city, Inverness has the spirit of the highlands and the enormous sky which surround it. There is a crisp, simple certainty to everything – the folks here are warm in spirit, and unflappable.

It’s far enough north now that Gaelic words have begun creeping into conversations, and road signs are printed in two languages, with Gaelic often taking precedence over English.

On the bus ride up from Edinburgh, I hit it off with an engaging, intelligent young woman from Germany named Sophie. She and I were staying in different hostels (for this, I had hostel envy of her, as the one she had chosen was directly across from the bus station, whereas mine was a fifteen minute walk away… up a hill… with my big backpack…). We connected through Instagram and made plans to meet up the next morning to go do some dolphin watching as the high tide came in. Sophie had given herself only one night in Inverness, so she was determined to do as much exploring as she could.

I, on the other hand, had arranged to stay for four nights. For me, at least, one or two nights isn’t long enough to get more than a glimpse at a place, and soon it all becomes a big blur. Of course, I have the luxury at present to take as much time as I like in a place. And I’m finding that I prefer to focus on just a few places over trying to pass through many.

There’s also the element of fatigue which factors into this. As much as I loathe to admit this, I just don’t have the stamina to put my backpack on my back every thirty-six hours and take off for somewhere new. Now, I’m not about to accept that this is due to my age, or that I’m “slowing down.” Rather, I blame it on the fact that both my backpack and I could stand to lose some weight.

Given the amount of daily exertion I’ve been getting, coupled with the slow whittling down of the toiletries and essentials I’m carrying around, I do believe we’re both starting to shed a few ounces.

Back to the other morning…

Sophie and I met with little success in spotting any dolphins, but we had a lovely time sitting on the shoreline talking about life, priorities and courage. We also decided that we caught a glimpse of Nessie (a.k.a. the Loch Ness Monster, though I believe that term has fallen out of favor, at least with the locals, who speak of their most famous resident with great affection).

Then again, it was probably just some seaweed floating in the water. But you never know…

After Sophie and I said our goodbyes and parted ways, I hopped on an afternoon boat tour of Loch Ness which traveled from Inverness to the ruins of Urquhart Castle. It was cloudy and cool, with not even a hint of sun, but there wasn’t any rain and the winds weren’t terribly strong or cold –  which, in the Highlands, you have to take as a win, weather-wise.

Cruising the expanse of Loch Ness is a beguiling experience. The slopes are sparsely dotted with homesteads, with more cattle and sheep than humans residing along the shoreline. Occasionally there is a fine stately manor to be seen, dating anywhere from the 18th century to the 21st century. It’s all very quiet and serene, and feels as if it has remain unchanged for untold centuries, that the Vikings and the Highland clans who claimed this place as their own would recognize it today. The only thing missing on the day I visited was a nice, mystical fog rolling in to cover the hillsides.

Once again, no Nessie, but no matter. After all, it’s the possibility of her, of just maybe seeing her, which is what it’s all about, isn’t it?

Leaving the boat tour, I meandered over to an ancient cemetery residing at the base of a sizable hill. At the top of the hill, there were more gravestones and memorials, a few of which could be seen from the boat as we were docking. I was curious to climb up and investigate them, but the boat tour operator had cautioned me about wandering up through the wooded hillside.

“There are mischievous fairies which dwell up there, and if you encounter them, they will be very friendly and invite you to come sing and dance with them at a party in their cave.

“But don’t go,” he warned me. “At the end of the party, the fairies give you a bag of gold and a bag of silver, and you think it’s all been lovely. But when you leave the fairies’ cave, you discover a hundred years have passed, and you have only twelve hours before you turn to fairy dust.”

Armed with this intel, I made my way to the top of the hill without incident, where I had the captivating weathered headstones all to myself, save for two other visitors stationed on a bench at the far end of the cemetery. I grabbed a few pictures, took some time to enjoy the panoramic vistas of Inverness and the Highlands, and then was able to get back down the hill without encountering any fairies.

Walking through the lower cemetery, it occurred to me that I might have ancestors buried here. My family tree is rife with at least dozen folks whose surnames begin with “Mc” or “Mac”, not to mention a host of other Scottish names. I hadn’t done my research, though, so I couldn’t be sure who might be here. So I spoke as I walked through the lines of graves, saying who I was and when I was, and that if anyone there shared my DNA, they should know I was here, I was their American descendant — if they knew what that was — and that I wished to say hello to them.

Heading back into town, I decided to take the scenic route through the River Ness’s Five Islands. This is the prettiest walk, along connecting footpaths through a series of small dollops of land in the middle of the river, which are linked together by graceful iron bridges. The ground beneath the covering of trees has been cleared of the undergrowth, giving one the feeling that they have stumbled into a secret glade. The paths are lined with old-fashioned streetlamps, with long chains of string lights running between them. What an enchanting little world this must be in the evenings.

As I was strolling along one of the paths, I came across a man riding/walking bikes with his daughters. We talked about the islands, and they told me how there are events on the islands all year round, including a big Halloween shindig. The daughter explained that the best part was that they have a smoke machine to make the woods look foggy. Ah, a kindred spirit.

Something led me to mention my visit to Tomnahurich Cemetery and the hill, and the dad asked me if I’d run into the fairies, in a tone which implied I had accidentally wandered into a bad neighborhood which was beset with ne’er-do-wells. With this confirmation of the tour guide’s warning, I could only conclude that the fairies story is true.

And to think, at the beginning of this journey, I wondered if there would be any magic along the way.  I needn’t have worried.

 

Photos below:

Top row: Road signs in Gaelic and English; Sophie and I make a quick stop in the marina.

Middle row: Aldourie Castle, on the banks of Loch Ness (there is a terrible story associated with the current owners of this home, which I found too sad to include here); monuments at the top of Tomnahurich Hill.

Bottom row: Oh, no, Nessie?! No, just a petrified fallen tree; charming Inverness.

People Places

Dancing My Arse Off in Edinburgh

June 24, 2019

Edinburgh Castle

This isn’t the first time my trusty backpack and I have ventured into Scotland’s beautiful capital city. We were here a few decades ago, during my first time traveling in Europe. My study abroad group had come here for two weeks during the world-famous Edinburgh Fringe Festival, and I spent a good amount of time dashing between plays, stand-up comedy performances, and authors’ lectures. I spent even more time hanging out with a street band and learning to eat fire from street performers Gareth and Pepe.

Ah, misspent youth…

This time around, it’s a rather different experience, but equally magical, because this time around, I came here to dance.

The whole idea for my travels and the story I hope to get from them is that I go beyond simply being a tourist, and immerse myself in a place’s culture and community by learning its dances. Where better to begin than in Scotland, the home of myriad ancestors of mine? Banking on that highland DNA of mine to carry my through my first dancing attempts, I figured Scotland would be a natural starting point for my journey.

The closest I’d ever come to a highland reel was in elementary school, when we spent a few weeks learning square dancing as part of P.E. class. I remember finding this fun. To me, it was certainly better than playing basketball or kickball or – geez louise! – dodgeball, which we did on a frighteningly regular basis. Even our rudimentary attempts at the Virginia Reel offered the benefits which dancing brings, breaking down the awkward barriers which exist between school boys and girls, allowing us to pair up, hold hands and trust each other. Definitely better than dodgeball.

Upon my arrival in Edinburgh, I booked highland dance lessons at Dance Base, a handsome studio in the Grassmarket area of Old Town. So far, I’ve had two lessons, both of which have been good fun and a good workout. The skill level of the other class participants varies greatly from person to person, and that is absolutely fine by all. It seems everyone in the class is there mainly to enjoy themselves and each other’s company. I couldn’t have asked for a better, warmer welcome to Scotland.

Then again…

One of the best things about Latin dances like the salsa and bachata* is that they are done all over the world by scores of talented devotees (in some of the larger cities, aficionados take to the dance floors and streets on almost a nightly basis). Having touched on some salsa and bachata basics in Florida with Grigol Kranz, my superstar dance teacher and friend, and having taken what I’d learned for a spin around Havana, Cuba in January, I knew I wanted to do more of the same in my travels around the world.

So, concurrent with my search for some highland dancing, I went looking for some salsa and bachata in Edinburgh. Happily, I didn’t have to look far, for there is a thriving scene here, thanks to Ami Emirato, a rock star teacher whose charismatic, high-energy personality has brought together a strong community of dynamic, engaging, just utterly marevlous individuals, who have all become fantastic dancers under Ami’s tutelage.

From the moment I joined this merry band on the dance floor at Club Cuba, they have taken me in as one of their own, embracing me and my fledgling bachata skills, cheering me on and shoring me up with tips and tales of their own struggles with dance.

For three hours, four nights a week, my fellow students and I share countless good laughs as we take on the sultry, sometimes challenging bachata steps, and I find I’m actually starting to get the hang of it all. What’s more, with Ami’s and the gang’s support, I’ve mustered the courage to stick around after the lessons finish, and join in the social dancing.

This is something I’ve always been too shy and afraid to do in the past, so it’s a sizable accomplishment for me to find myself doing salsa and bachata into the wee hours. Sometimes I just stop and marvel at how I got here. I hardly recognize myself.

(A big thanks to everyone who encouraged me to stay on Saturday night – it was glorious fun. And a special shout out to Piers, who not only was willing to brave the dance floor with me numerous times, but insisted it was a pleasure doing so – a true gentleman.)

So even if it’s not exactly the way I originally envisaged  it, my experience in Edinburgh is still in line with what I intended my journey to be, and I find it all quite perfect.

Added to the phenomenal workout I’m getting on the dance floor, there’s lots of cardio and muscle-toning to be had on the stairways of Edinburgh. The old part of town is built on a hill known as The Mound, and is peppered with steep staircases which link together the thoroughfares – a small but significant detail I’d forgotten about this ancient walled city. A person can spend a lot of time huffing and puffing up thirty to sixty or more stairs just to get to the next street. A couple more weeks here, and my quads will be strong enough to crush tree trunks.

But even the steps have their charms. Many of these stairways are located in what are called “closes,” which are utterly beguiling little hidden lanes populated by shops, restaurants and residences. It always feels as if I have stumbled upon a delicious secret anytime I tuck into one of the closes. And I certainly find it immensely satisfying to traipse over for a morning walk on the Salisbury Crags via the Miss Jean Brodie Steps, which just happen to be next to the hostel where I’m staying. After all, what could be more of a treat than starting one’s day with a bit of Dame Maggie Smith when she was “in her prime?”

And speaking of the hostel…

When I first started planning these travels last summer, I wrote about how in my twenties, whenever I stayed in youth hostels, there was always this one weird old woman in there, who was backpacking around for a few months… and how I’d come to realize that, nowadays, I’m that weird old woman.

Happily, as it turns out, I’m not the only one, at least here at the hostel in Edinburgh. In fact, I’m not even sure anyone calls them youth hostels anymore. There seem to be people of all ages here, including many who are older than me. And to a person, those folks I’ve met amidst the bunk beds – both the young and those in their prime – are all pretty darn cool.

With all of this going on, I have been too preoccupied to spend any time reminiscing about my first, youthful visit to this city. Still, the other evening as I was walking home from Club Cuba in the wondrous daylight of 11pm, I caught a glimpse of my twenty-something self as I was crossing Princes Street. I hadn’t seen that girl since last summer when I ran into her in Oxford. This time I kept my distance and let her go on her way. I didn’t feel compelled to catch up with her and speak to her, like I had that day in Oxford. The girl here in Edinburgh didn’t need any reassuring about her experience or what lies ahead for her. She was doing just fine on her own.

Walking away from her, it suddenly dawned on me: Edinburgh doesn’t belong to that twenty-something me, the first time visitor. Edinburgh belongs to the present me and to the happy times of this moment. So when I come back here in the future – whether it’s in a couple months’ time, or a couple of decades – I will be returning to the memories I’m collecting right now.

I have one week left here before it’s time to strap on my backpack and take off for the highlands. I’m hoping to slip away just in time, before it becomes hard to say goodbye. But I’m not sure I will make it. In fact, I’m pretty certain it’s going to sting.

I can live with that. Edinburgh is worth it.

*Bachata is a social dance which began in the Dominican Republic, and could be considered a kissing cousin of salsa.

 

Photos below:

Top row: My favorite throwback photo, eating fire on the steps of The Royal Scottish Academy; the Miss Jean Brodie Steps

Bottom row: Within the centuries-old confines of Advocates Close; co-ed communal living in the hostel dorm room.

Places

The Welcome Quiet of Oxford

June 10, 2019

After an eventful week aboard the QM2 and the literal launch of my next book’s journey, I was glad of my choice to begin my time in Europe in my old stomping grounds of Oxford.

The weeks and months leading up to my travels had been focused on finishing my first book, finding the right publishing venue (an ongoing process) and clearing the last vestiges of my homestead out of storage in Marina del Rey, California and into a POD (not knowing where I will land when this journey is over, the only thing I know to do is make my belongings portable, with hopes that answer to the question of where I should put down roots will become clear in a year’s time).

All of this left me no real time to plan these next six months of travels and dancing until I was actually underway. I figured my week in Oxford would give me a chance to “find my feet,” and formulate at least a rough plan for what my European journey would look like.

It has been a good week, a productive one. Happily settled into a studio flat in North Oxford, I have savored the simple comforts of popping over to the Summertown shops or walking into town, stopping in for lunch at the covered market, then weaving through a few quiet, narrow lanes to the banks of the River Cherwell to enjoy the punters and sunshine. Just as I’ve done countless times before. I never tire of it.

Upon completing their exams, students jump in the river to wash off the cake and champagne they’ve been doused with.

It was an added bonus to my week that my writer friend Betty from Hawaii was over in the UK visiting her family. She, along with her daughter-in-law Galya and grandkids David and Katie, came up from Basingstoke for a day of exploring the city. It was a delight to show them a bit of the Oxford I know, as well as join them for a tour of the botanical gardens and a tasty pub lunch.

And I took the morning of June 6 to visit the war memorial at St. Giles, and say a prayer of gratitude and peace for the soldiers who took to the beaches of Normandy seventy-five years ago, including some amazing men I’m proud to call my friends.

The rest of my week has been spent mostly with people I’ve known for decades, whom I’ve written about before. These are folks with whom I share a sort of shorthand — so much is already known and understood between us. There is that easiness in being with them which is vouchsafed only to close friends and loved ones, and it’s always a comfort to come across it, especially when one is moving around the world.

Oh, I needed this week here. I needed to be quiet for a bit. And I needed the terra firma of Oxford before I continued into the uncharted territory and shifting sands of my travels.

But this afternoon, as I strolled along the Woodstock Road to the familiarity of my flat, I felt myself settling in. My senses were telling me I belonged here, that I was home.

The pull to stay is strong, which means it’s time to pack up and go, before I give into temptation. But, as my lovely friend and poet Miranda Warner writes,

“…I can return

And not return

Because I never really left.”

 

Below: 

Left: my hat at home in the flat.

Middle: a lettuce, guacamole, bacon and tomato sandwich, my new favorite — wish it was available all year round and not just for Pride.

Right: my first car — haven’t seen one of these in years, let alone a convertible, let alone in perfect condition, let alone with right-hand drive…

People

Crossing With the Boys

May 29, 2019

A gathering of heroes.

I write this aboard the Queen Mary 2, as she traverses the North Atlantic on her way from New York City to Southampton, England.  It’s always an exhilaration to watch the ship cut through the water as she travels in this direction.  Sailing east means the journey is just beginning.

At the start of my last book project, on my first voyage on the QM2, I crossed with the girls, Cornelia and Emily, and we traveled together throughout that summer. Even when I strayed from their path, it was always with the sense that the girls were there waiting to rejoin me and carry on with our adventure.

This past Friday evening, as we sailed out of New York harbor, I was quite cognizant of the fact that it’s different this time, that the girls aren’t here, that I’m going it completely alone.  This time around, there is no security blanket of Cornelia and Emily and their book to help me make my sojourn and my story.

I’m also aware that on this journey, I will be traveling exclusively in the present.  Two years ago, I traveled in a fusion of 2017 and 1922, often peppered with moments from the World War II years.  This I will miss as much as trekking around with Cornelia and Emily, because there was magic to that summer, when the boundaries of time and space would blur, and I would feel myself slipping into the past.

But this journey is all about the here and now.  Can there be magic in this?

I find I’m experiencing a disconnection even from my past voyages.  When I recall the friends I’ve made aboard the QM2 who aren’t on this crossing, I certainly miss them and picture them here.  But there is a surprising, lovely newness to this sailing, in spite of the fact that it is a familiar experience for me.

With this comes the same doubts I remember having when I started my first journey and my first book:  What if nothing happens and there is no story?  What if I can’t do this?  What if it’s all an astoundingly terrible idea?  What if…?

I’ve been taking great comfort in sailing with the boys, a.k.a. the veterans of World War II who are the featured speakers on this crossing, as they make their way to Europe for the 75th Anniversary of the D-Day invasion.  Once again, these men are the rock stars of the ship.  And I’m fortunate and blessed that they not only gave me a top-drawer ending to my first book, but a brilliant beginning of my second.

These WWII heroes are the same charismatic, strong, dynamic, witty, smart, extraordinary men I remember from when I sailed with them in August 2017.  This time around, most wonderfully, there are sixteen World War II veterans traveling with The Greatest Generations Foundation.  And like all proper rock stars do, the boys are traveling with an entourage – a posse of Vietnam veterans who look after their big brothers in arms.  The Vietnam soldiers are warm, engaging, generous and deliciously funny, and they bring a marvelous new dimension to this already profound experience.

The boys are also flanked by TGGF photographer John Riedy and Denver newsman Jeremy Hubbard — simply stellar men who have done an admirable job in attempting to keep up with the vets, and I thank them for some great laughs and high times during the week.

Just as I did two years ago, I spend my mornings grabbing time with the boys at breakfast, the days taking in their compelling, often heartwrenching stories from the war, and my evenings with them in the ballroom, dancing with ninety-nine-year-old Steven Melnikoff, a.k.a. The Foxtrot King, whenever I can manage to get a turn with him.

(In all the times I’ve made mention of Steven, I’ve never written about his service in WWII.  Technical Sergeant Melnikoff served with the 1st Battalion, 175th Regiment of the 29th Infantry Division.  A veteran of D-Day, he was wounded twice – first during the battle of St Lo on “Purple Heart” Hill 108, and in August 1944 he was wounded for a second time during the Breast Campaign.  He returned to duty in December of that year and continued fighting until his unit met the Russians on Elbe River.  Melnikoff’s unit was responsible for capturing over 10,000 Germans.)

What has been especially touching for me is how much throughout the voyage the vets have shown up for me.  They have shared memories of some of their favorite travels as they helped me formulate some ideas of what places I should visit in these next six months. They’ve given me sound advice on where to go looking when I begin researching war records for a future book I plan to write.  Navy veteran Donald Cobb, who, at the age of ninety-four, has just published his first book, The Lady With A Shamrock about his World War II experience aboard the USS Murphy, shared tips on the writing and formatting software he used and recommends. And this morning, Sergeant Greg Melikian, age ninety-four – the radio operator who was hand-picked by Dwight D. Eisenhower to broadcast the General’s message of Germany’s surrender – shored me up when I was feeling shaky about how my trip and my writing will go, assuring me I can do this.  This was soon followed by a second pep talk from Steven, who understood well and offered sympathy and advice on coping with the emotional fatigue which has hit me hard in the last day or so.

These men saved the world, and — just like two years ago — they’re still saving me now.

It means everything that the end of my first journey is repeating itself in the beginning of my second journey.  It makes for a jubilant, rock-solid starting point for my travels, and I’m so thankful for the gift of once again being with the vets.  They soften my fears, and I draw from their strength.  And Steven, as I hoped, provided me with the first dance in my twirl around the world.  He is the one who led me here, so this is nothing less than the perfect beginning to my adventure.

In less than forty-eight hours, we will dock in Southampton and I will have to say goodbye to the boys.  More goodbyes.  These will be especially hard.

Then it will be time to cut the ropes on the beautiful safety net I’ve enjoyed this week.  From the moment I step off the ship onto terra firma, to when I return to board the QM2 to New York in November, the journey will be mine alone to make.  Wish me Godspeed.

 

Photos below:

Top row: Starting the day with the boys at breakfast; ending the evening with the boys in the ballroom.

Bottom row: It’s an extra special pleasure to be sailing with these three once again — Stuart, Steven, and Gentleman Jim (and yes, that would be me sitting in Steven’s lap).

People Places

Where You Hang Your Hat

May 27, 2019

“Home is wherever you hang your hat.”

These are the words I used on the map which chronicled my journey two years ago, when I followed in the footsteps of my favorite book, Our Hearts Were Young and Gay.  You can read all about those travels under the Enchanted Summer heading.

And now here I am again, about to put to the test that adage I find so reassuring.  I’m getting ready to take off and see as much of the world as I can manage, now that the nomad spirit has a firm grip on my senses.  Two years of living on the road, out of suitcases, in various locales around the US and Europe, I’ve found that it has become my normal.  And the idea of settling down in one place is becoming a more remote and less appealing option.

In the past twenty-four months, I have lived in and put down roots in a number of places which now feel like home whenever I return to them.  It is a blessing, but it comes at a price:  the goodbyes.

When I first started my travels, I read articles and blogs by other nomads, and one word of warning stayed with me, which was that there would be a lot of goodbyes.  I’ve found it to be acutely so on a number of occasions, particularly these last few weeks.  In the past month, I’ve had to say goodbyes to friends and loved ones in Florida, California, Missouri and New York, all with a vague promise of seeing them again at some unknown point.  The partings have come hard and in rapid succession, and truth be told, I’m still reeling a bit from them as I take the first steps of my new journey.

But I know, waiting on the other side of the Atlantic are more friends and loved ones, with hellos and welcome homes.  Having that fills me with the greatest excitement and joy.

In a year’s time, I suspect I will start behaving like a grown-up, settle down somewhere and get a proper job.  I had been wrestling with this idea for a few months, struggling to decide where my heart will live.  But I’ve come to understand that there is no knowing this right now, because I have no idea what the next twelve months will bring into my life. And that’s absolutely, perfectly fine.

These last few years have taught me that “I don’t know” are magical words, because they mean anything is possible.

So now it’s time to go see what’s out there, and probably put down a few more roots here and there along the way.  Because home is wherever you hang your hat.

People Places Things

One Last Pin in the Map

August 12, 2017

New York City at sunrise, from the deck of the Queen Mary 2

It was over.  All of it.  The starting trek across the US.  The weeks of research in New England, filled with Cornelia’s and Emily’s “rapturous plans and lyric anticipation”.  The quick visit to Canada for the “false start” part of the story.  Sailing to England on the Queen Mary 2.  The month in London, followed by the month in France.  And then the last hurrah on the QM2.  It was quickly becoming my past.  My three and a half months of traveling with the girls – my dear friends at this point –  was at an end.  Saturday, August 12, 2017 had arrived and my enchanted summer came to a close as the QM2 pulled dockside in Brooklyn.

On September 9th, less than a month after we arrived in New York, The Greatest Generations Foundation reported that Colonel Douglas Dillard had passed away at the age of 91.  He was very fortunate, really.  To have lived such a long life, and been well enough only weeks before to cross an ocean, speaking to crowds and enjoying a marvelous vacation, was a blessing, for sure.  But even understanding this didn’t stop me from being terribly saddened by the news.  RIP, Colonel.

After stopping in to see my QM2 friends Matt and Marianne in Chicago and New York City, respectively, I would spend the autumn following my enchanted summer in the idyllic New England town of Hudson, New York, living in a converted 1900 schoolhouse which sits between two cemeteries – and in the process, make a new friend in the artist-owner, Laurie.  There I would finish the first draft of my book at 1:28pm EST on November 9, 2017.

In early 2018, I would spend three months in Lake Worth, Florida with Cornelia and Emily – not the girls in the story of Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, but the two accomplished women who wrote it.  Doing my best to emulate their wit and style, and occasionally whispering a plea for their help or guidance, I edited and worked through various drafts of my book, trying to sort out what the journey had been about.  That is, I worked on the book in between making good on my promise to Steven the World War II veteran.

I needed to learn the foxtrot.  And so shortly after I arrived in Lake Worth, I signed up for dance lessons with Grigol Kranz, a brilliant pro dancer and teacher, as well as a witty, wonderful, and extremely patient soul, who managed to get me dancing passable versions of every dance I would need for the ballroom on the QM2 – the most important being, of course, the foxtrot.

From him, I even learned the tango, just as Cornelia and Emily had done in 1922, when it was still quite new – and quite scandalous.  They had been taught by a fellow hotel guest, Jacques Ventadour, in the parlor of their Paris pension.  This was symmetry I found extremely pleasing. 

(In addition to somehow teaching me to dance, Grigol worked overtime as therapist on some of my rougher writing days, and his bright spirit would lift mine when I was doubting my work or myself.  He also gave me a marvelous gift:  some of his other students.  They are a phenomenal group of intelligent, charismatic, talented, beautiful women – Jean, Anna, Andrea, Jill, Bimika, Carolyn, Susan and Hannah – who I’m thrilled to have as my friends.  Grigol and my dancer friends, along with pros David and Alexis at Palm Beach Ballroom Dance Studio, would end up turning those three months of work into lots of a brand new kind of fun.)

On March 14, 2018, Stephen Hawking passed away at the age of 76.  In the summer of 2018, his ashes were interred at Westminster Abbey, and one of the last things I did on my return visit to London was stop in and pay my respects.  I whispered to him how sorry I was that I would never get to ask him about the phenomenon of time and space blurring.

But maybe, just maybe, that me from thirty years ago can find a way to ask the him of thirty years ago about it, as we pass each other on the sidewalk in front of King’s College, Cambridge.  Because time is not linear, and everything is happening at once.

In May 2018, I would once again sail to England on the QM2, traveling with some familiar faces, and making new friends along the way, most especially Patrick, Anette and their darling daughter Flora, as well as Kate and Greg (my nomad role models) and their golden doodles Lucy and Gracie.

I would spend a couple of weeks in Oxford (see my post “Home Can Be More Than One Place”) before returning to London, to the same flat I’d lived in the summer before.

The plan had been to finish the book in London, but it seemed that there were too many people to see and too much fun to be had.  In addition, I would continue my dance lessons with the kind, talented group of teachers at the Karen Hardy Studios, as well as attend weekly forro dancing lessons at the Lighthouse Bar in Shoreditch, learning this Brazilian street dance from the brilliant, fun foursome of Chinedu, Graziela, Gala and Jonathan.

My longtime traveling buddy Daron and I would get a week to run around London, a couple of decades after our first “Cornelia and Emily” visit to the UK.  I’d also get an all-too-brief visit with my friend and fellow writer, Betty, who was over from Hawaii to visit with her son and his family.  And I got some – but not enough – hangout time with my ex-pat neighbor Sabrina and her beautiful poodle Tigger.  There were shows and dinners and drinks and, of course, afternoon tea…

As always, it wasn’t easy to leave England, to get back on the ship, when the time came to leave.  But it helped that I had Grigol and Marianne with me, and that I made some amazing new friends, including Matt, Nick, Ciaran, Margaret, Christelle and Andy.  Most happily on this voyage, I discovered I was sailing with some other friends from the past – Amy and her daughter, Hannah; Maite and her daughter, Hannah; and Vicki and Bill, my fellow spa-rats.

It was another magical summer.  Though it meant I would return to the States short of my goal – a completed book – my time had been extremely well-spent.  The stars had aligned, and I had found my next book idea.  All because of that promise I had made.

So here’s how it worked.

Thirty years ago… I dated a guy in Oxford, and through him and his family, I met Tom, who would give me the idea for my first book.  And it would be Tom who, over drinks one night this past June, would implant in my brain the notion that I needed to find an inventive angle for my next book, which was to be about my upcoming travels.

Meanwhile, a year ago…  I make a promise to learn to dance.  Ballroom dancing leads me to social dancing, which leads me to other dances – bachata, then forro – and making a lot of amazing new friends.

Meanwhile, this summer… In reading tributes to the late, great Anthony Bourdain (which he was), I am reminded of how he learned about the world through food, and it made me realize I had my own way to see a place, learn about the culture and meet the people… through their dance.

All those bits and pieces had fused together to become my next book project.  And on May 24, 2019, I shall begin A Twirl Around the World by dancing across the Atlantic on the QM2 with The Greatest Generations Foundation, as they sail to Europe for the 75th anniversary of the Normandy D-Day invasions.

But first I have to finish this first book, which I’m calling Enchanted Summer.  In a few weeks I will be stationing myself back in that schoolroom in Hudson, and only emerging when I have a completed manuscript.  If I appear to go missing, check there first.

 

Photos below:

Top Row:  Colonel Douglas Dillard, holding a picture of his WWII self which appeared in Life magazine (photo courtesy of John Riedy, The Greatest Generations Foundation), with Matthew at Chicago’s Union Station; my room in the old schoolhouse in Hudson – the perfect place to write a book.

Bottom Row:  With Daron at the artist Christo’s installation in Hyde Park; Stephen Hawking’s gravestone in Westminster Abbey; afternoon tea with Grigol at Fortnum and Mason.

People Places

A Momentous Occasion

August 10, 2017

The World War II veterans with QM2 Captain Stephen Howarth (standing, center) and “bellhops”.  Seated:  Stuart Hedley, Joseph Reilly and Michael Ganitch.  Standing:  Steven Melnikoff, Douglas Dillard, Bruce Heilman and James Blane.  – Photo courtesy of Jim Riedy, The Greatest Generations Foundation

“… we had on our best crepe marocain [dresses] and they always gave us a tendency to feel dangerously alluring.” – Cornelia Otis Skinner and Emily Kimbrough

Time to get back in the fancy clothes.  Go to afternoon tea.  Dress for dinner.  Evening gowns and opera gloves.  On Friday, August 4, 2017, the QM2 would sail from Southampton to New York, and I was to be aboard.

I had taken the boat-train (there I go, using that term again) down from London Waterloo that morning, forcing myself through check-in and onto the ship.  But saying goodbye to my summer with the girls, and to England, had made me sulky.  Standing on the top deck of the ship, looking back at Southampton, I thought to myself about how my story was over, and this voyage back to the States might as well have been a flight from Heathrow, for all that it mattered to the tale.

Even the tantalizing notion of getting to be prissy for nine straight days wasn’t enough to lift the cloud over my head.

At least the pressure was off, I told myself.  I wouldn’t have to “try”.  I could just lounge around and read and not talk to anyone.  That’s one of the beauties of travel:  No one knows who you are, so you get to choose who you want to be each time you are in a new place. 

This time, I would be the quiet, keep-to-myself, person.

That settled, I went to my stateroom to unpack.  There, on the dressing table, was a brochure introducing the seven World War II veterans who were newly-announced featured speakers on my voyage.  And that changed everything.

Suddenly this afterthought of a voyage had become a glittering grand finale, a last chapter that would really top off my enchanted summer.  “A momentous occasion,” as Cornelia and Emily would say.

It started the next morning, when I spotted and barged in on five of the veterans having breakfast.  They were never able to shake me after that.  I was like a stalker, but the men seemed to take it in their stride.  Every morning I made a point of getting some time with them at breakfast.  At noon I would attend their lectures.  And in the evenings, I would dance with them in the ballroom.

These men – Doug, Bruce, Joe, Jim, Mickey, Stuart and Steven – were all charming, charismatic and strong.  They weren’t old men.  They were men, and much more than that.  They were heroes, and they were larger-than-life.  I write extensively about them in the book – from Bruce’s continuing cross-country journeys on his motorcycle, to Colonel Doug quietly telling me about liberating Flossenburg concentration camp – and every moment I got with them meant the world to me.

It was especially poignant for me to meet Joe and Steven, both of whom had been there on June 6th, 1944 – D-Day – in Normandy.  I could only think back to that day in July, when I was at Omaha Beach, walking in the footsteps of the soldiers… I hadn’t known it at the time, but Joe had parachuted from those sunny skies I had enjoyed that day, and on the beach I had walked in Steven’s footsteps.

And it would be Steven – a.k.a. the Foxtrot King – who would inspire me to take up ballroom dancing, which would lead to… well, that’s a story for another post.  But I did take it up, because I made a promise to Steven that the next time we were together, I would be able to dance properly with him.  A year later, I’m pleased to report that I’ve kept that promise, and I’m ready to dance.

Without question, my World War II buddies were the stars of the ship, and the stars of my voyage, but there were other highlights during the crossing, involving amazing friends and wonderful memories I made along the way.

I go on quite a bit about these people in the book, but I cannot emphasize strongly enough how important it is to have rockin’ tablemates at dinner.  They are the ones who will elevate your journey.

One of my favorite memories of the crossing was going up on the top deck with my tablemate Matthew one sunny afternoon, to practice what we’d learned in our beginning waltz class.  There, next to the shuffleboard and paddle tennis courts, we whirled around the deck, working on our steps as a fellow passenger attempted to play something on his guitar that we could keep time to.  Sometimes life is perfect.

There were the many nights on the ballroom floor, when I attempted that waltz, along with the cha cha, foxtrot and rumba, with the encouragement of my tablemate Marianne, who got me over my embarrassment and anxiety about “not doing it right”.  And while I might not have made it all the way to feeling “dangerously alluring”, I certainly became comfortable on the dance floor.  Twirling around in those party dresses of mine, I was able to enjoy myself out there, in spite of the fact that I wasn’t any good.

Two days before we were to dock in New York City, we stopped for a day in the charming port town of Halifax, Nova Scotia.  With Matthew, Marianne and our fellow tablemate, Robert, I made the trek to the deliciously picturesque Peggy’s Cove.  There we climbed on the rocks and visited the lighthouse, which we then followed with seafood delights at The Bicycle Thief restaurant back in town.

(Stopping in Halifax was a bonus – most of the crossing are straight shots from New York to Southampton and back.  But this special Canadian stop gave us a most-welcome extra day on the ship, just to make the voyage all that much more marvelous.)

And there was that one unfortunate late-night incident in the disco involving Long Island Iced Tea, and a bit of a snog with one of the guest piano players.  But it’s okay, as memories go, only because…

“… that conscientious drinker from Princeton brought me a hooker of straight brandy… I also have the distinct recollection of going out on deck with that Pride of Princeton and letting him kiss me.  Girls didn’t kiss much in those days.  Those who did were considered ‘fast’”. – Cornelia Otis Skinner

Symmetry.  It took me until the end of the journey to match that tidbit in Our Hearts Were Young and Gay, but – for better or for worse – at least I could check it off the list.

The crossing back to the States had turned out to be a glorious end to my travels, thanks to the vets, and to some great new friends I’d made aboard the ship.  What an unexpected, happy surprise, just when I thought it was all over.  I was especially going to miss my breakfasts with the boys, and my evenings dancing with them.  It had become my habit, my daily routine.  How was I ever going to let go of all of that fun?

 

Photos below:

Top row:  A gorgeous day at sea; my single cabin, complete with dressing table and fainting couch; Matthew and I at the Captain’s cocktail party, before the complimentary champagne.

Bottom row:  Dancing with Steven the Foxtrot King; my favorite photo of my friends the vets, courtesy of John Riedy, The Greatest Generations Foundation; utterly charming Peggy’s Cove.