Cunard Adventure, Part V

I have figured out how to dine very well on the QMII: pretend that it's 1950 and order accordingly. Last night at dinner I succumbed to traditional fare to very happy results. I ordered prime rib (which I have not eaten in years), which was absolutely superb. It was accompanied, of course, by the requisite baked potato and horseradish. Initially I refused dessert given previous disappointments, but the waiter talked me into peach flambe.

Now who on earth serves peach flambe or baked Alaska anymore? Well, they do on the QMII--and it's fantastic. The French server who prepared the dessert table side described the ingredients as she went along: fresh peaches, fresh raspberry puree, a bit of simple syrup, and peach liqueur, accompanied by a dollop of homemade vanilla ice cream. She pointed out that "no one in Paris makes these kinds of desserts any longer," adding dismissively (with a Gallic wave of the hand), "it's all that nouvelle nonsense now." It's clear that her culinary sympathies inclined toward Escoffier, not Michel Richard.

Last night was clearly a Mad Men moment: me in a navy sheath and pearls; Rod in a smart dark suit; and both of us eating prodigious quantities of red meat washed down with red wine (I did at least forgo the pre-dinner martini). Forget healthy eating; ignore post-1980s nouvelle cuisine. Basically, any dish you would have seen in a 1950s or 60s cookbook will be superbly done on the QMII. More contemporary dishes? Not so much.

After dinner we went to the ballroom and danced to a live orchestra, happily fox-trotting, waltzing, and cha-chaing until 1.00 a.m. We went to bed blissfully content, and I had some insight into why all those characters on Mad Men seem to be having so much fun. All I needed was a cigarette holder and undulating trails of smoke.

Cunard Adventure, Part IV

Blessedly calm seas have prevailed now for over 24 hours. We could use some sun, but I'll take the temperate weather. I realize now why the Atlantic has a reputation for being such a grey ocean. On overcast days, the horizon blurs into an indistinguishable mass as though a giant finger has smudged the line separating sky and sea.

This morning I saw the resident osteopath at the Canyon Ranch Spa, who was a revelation after the fellow I had visited a couple of times in Annapolis (and to whom I will not return). Using a combination of electrical stimulation, acupuncture, and good old-fashioned manipulation, he rotated my sticky sacroiliac joint back into functioning mode. I may very well return for a second visit just before we disembark. I only wish I could find someone half as good back in Annapolis.

We whiled away the rest of the afternoon on a leisurely lunch and walks around the deck. I am told that three laps = 1 mile. Keen joggers run in mad circles, determined to make their daily quota. Most folks simply stroll, an activity much more suited to the stately pace of life aboard the QMII. As I write, I am happily settled in the library, my favorite spot aboard the liner.

Food continues to be very good although not quite as excellent as I expected. The kitchen seems to excel at old-fashioned English favorites: puddings, cream soups, breaded fish, and scones. Indeed, the soups are just wonderful. Last night I had a mushroom soup for a starter that far surpassed the entree of sea bass. Gladly I would have made a meal out of the soup alone, with nice crusty bread on the side. Desserts at dinner have been a disappointment. Last night I tried an indifferent lime panna cotta; by contrast, Rod's rice pudding was very tasty. I think the trick is to order the occasional custard or pudding--or simply hold out for the superlative afternoon tea.

Fortunately, one can also dine healthily. Fresh fruit and salads abound, and the restaurants feature Canyon Ranch sanctioned items on every menu. One of the cafeterias is kept open 24/7 to accommodate insomniacs or the perpetually hungry; again, fresh fruit, cheese, and salads are offered alongside less healthy fare, even at 3.00 a.m. If one were so inclined, you could spend the entire voyage eating, with only an hour or two between meals. Lunch morphs into afternoon tea which then melts into dinner, followed by a late-snack snack (or two). Most people, though, seem pretty good about pacing themselves. From conversations I gather that many people eat a substantial lunch or dinner, preferring to graze lightly at other meals.

In a few minutes we're off to another dance lesson with our South African instructors. Then I will go to the gym for some stretching and a session in the hydro-therapy pool. Tonight we will dance again but not for too long. Poor Rod's neck makes it difficult for him to "hold a frame" for more than 45 minutes. And we'd like to get to bed before 2.00 a.m. for a change.

Cunard Adventure, Part III

Saturday was not a good night: winds picked up to gale force, clocking 60 knots over the deck while waves rose to 18 feet. The much vaunted stabilizers on the QMII could only do so much to allay the effect. Rod is seemingly impervious to sea sickness, no matter how rough the seas. I suppose his stint in the South African Royal Navy, navigating the rough waters off the Cape, steeled him for any future turbulence. We learned from our steward that last night was sufficiently rough to fell staff as well, who lined up to receive the magic injection. Fortunately for me, the tablets were enough.

Stomach settled and balance restored, I've decided this is a most civilized way to cross the Atlantic. One's body clock adjusts gradually to the changing time zones, as we move ahead one hour each day. Cunard delivers each evening a schedule of the following day's activities, which passengers are free to ignore or join as they wish. If one were so inclined, you could run around from 8.00 a.m. until midnight, participating in dance classes, wine tastings, bingo, table tennis, and watercolor seminars. Lectures abound. A very good music historian has done a series of talks on great American composers such as Irving Berlin and Cole Porter, while a maritime historian gave a splendid lecture on the great ocean liners of the pre-War era.

We've selected gingerly, preferring to pace ourselves. The rough conditions last night (and the resultant sleeplessness) made for a late morning. We had some breakfast, wandered a bit, and then attended a samba dance class conducted by a lovely young South African couple. Some 42 nationalities are represented among the Cunard staff, although South Africans and Russians seem to predominate, interestingly enough.

We indulged in afternoon tea, which is lovely. White gloved waiters circulate with silver trays laden with traditional tea fare: finger sandwiches, petit fours, little tarts, and absolutely the best scones I've ever eaten. Passengers nibble to the sounds of a very good string quartet. It is eminently enjoyable.

Tonight we dine at the private restaurant reserved for our passenger class; then we will dance to ballroom and Latin music until mid-evening, followed by a late evening drink in the "Chart Room," where we will listen to jazz before retiring for the evening. We are clearly falling into the pleasures of shipboard life.

Cunard Adventure, Part II

Today has been a mixture of delicious luxury and downright misery. We had a "couples massage" at the Canyon Ranch Spa aboard the QMII, which was unbelievably fabulous. Rod's masseur paid particular attention to his damaged neck; mine gently worked the lower lumbar region. Canyon Ranch is known for exquisite pampering, and it certainly lived up to its fame. The entire spa is luxurious, with hydro-therapy and relaxation areas. I could happily spend the rest of the cruise in the spa, albeit to ruinous financial results.

Our other bit of luxury involved in-suite dining, which the QMII offers as part of the general service. I take an almost childish delight in room service, so awakening to a tray laden with fresh fruit, good yoghurt, and rolls was pleasure in the extreme. I may very well order in breakfast for the remainder of the cruise.

Now the grim bit.

I awakened this morning feeling a bit queasy. Rod, by contrast, was hale and hearty. Breakfast did not settle my stomach, and by 9.00 a.m. I succumbed and took a Dramamine. Rarely, if ever, do I experience sea sickness, and by the afternoon I understood entirely its fearsome reputation. The seas worsened, the winds picked up, and the rolling increased, as did my misery. By late afternoon I was one of numerous passengers in queue at the medical center, begging for relief. The ship offers an injection that supposedly lasts five days, but the medical officer wanted to hold it back as a last resort. I was offered instead a tablet not available in the U.S. but one which worked like a bomb.

After two hours of sleep, I awakened feeling ship-shape again, even though the squall persisted. We thought about attending the black tie dinner tonight but decided to dine in (again!), giving ourselves a quiet, uncomplicated schedule. Room service, incidentally, is excellent, and we were pleased by the quality of the food, which arrived hot and freshly prepared. Mind you, this was no small accomplishment given that half the passengers on board decided on the same: evidently sea sickness had felled dozens as well as myself.

As I write, the waters are calming and the winds dying. Hopefully we will have smooth seas tomorrow.

Cunard Adventure: Part I

Through our ten-year marriage (celebrated yesterday, by the way), Rod and I have sniffed dismissively at the prospect of a cruise. None of it appealed: the fixed itinerary, the canned entertainment, the excessive quantities of food, and, worst of all, the thought of being mewed up with all those people. So it was with some shock that I learned Rod had booked us on an Atlantic crossing on the Queen Mary II, the flagship of the Cunard line.

I have now been on board for roughly eighteen hours, not enough time to form definitive opinions but certainly a sufficient span from which to jot down initial impressions.

The QMII earns its reputation for luxury. Our "Princess" suite features a comfortable queen-sized bed, walk-in closet, sofa and sitting chair, and various other amenities such as a little fridge and stemware. We have a nicely apportioned balcony with two deck chairs. Weather permitting, we can sit outside and gaze at the Atlantic.

Public areas are also quite grand, with sweeping staircases and plush carpeting. Everything is immaculate and staff materialize out of thin air with the quiet, helpful advice one expects from Cunard's famed "white glove" service. My favorite area, perhaps predictably, is the handsome, wood paneled library, which houses over 8,000 volumes and contains lovely desks and seating areas. Afternoons will me find comfortably settled in one of the overstuffed chairs, working on my book or blogging about the QMII.

Many of the other public spaces, while grand, are not to my taste. I suppose I expected something out of Noel Coward--the sort of art deco or high modernist furnishings that The Shakespeare Theatre Company recreated so lovingly in their current production of Design for Living. Instead Cunard has gone for a style I can only describe as "Vegas with taste," which means that it isn't very tasteful at all. Beiges, pale woods, and muted golds predominate, but the carpeting is faux leopard while trim is gilt. Never in my life have I seen such a surfeit of bad art. I'm not sure what the designers were thinking.

Food so far is good but not superlative. We dined last night at the Princess Grill, and I had a very respectable haddock, preceded by a chilled asparagus soup. Both were fine. Rod started with an excellent pumpkin soup, followed by a very good crab cake. Dessert, however, was a disappointment. The grill made us a special little cake for our anniversary, which we shared with other guests at our table. A sponge cake with whip cream and strawberries, it was not to my liking.

As we went to bed, winds increased and the seas roughened, not a good foreboding for tomorrow.

The Horrors of Horse Hunting, Part I

For good reason, horse themed magazines are filled with articles regaling readers with hilarious tales of horse hunting. The phrase "horse trader" well earns its pejorative connotation. In the right mood (and fueled by a couple of beers), I too can sit around with horsey pals and swap stories about crazy sellers and loco horses. My friend Susan has some of the best anecdotes I've ever heard, including one about an old guy who tried to demonstrate a horse's jumping ability but kept falling off at every cross rail. She thought he would die before he ever had a chance to sell the horse.

So it was with trepidation as well as anticipation that I embarked on the grand search. Most people have been surprisingly professional, fessing up to vices, such as cribbing, or problems with hooves and old injuries. I have run into the occasional unrealistic seller like the woman who claimed her horse was perfect except for his habit of cantering up to a jump on a cross-country course, spinning, and then running off in the opposite direction. This is not, to put it mildly, what I want in a horse.

So far, I've looked at a Belgian Cross at a local farm that seemed nice enough but too green. The connection just wasn't there. I tried a thoroughbred with a meltingly lovely face and luminous big eyes, but his trot tossed me up and down in the saddle, not a great movement for my aching lower back. I saw an adorable Haflinger pony that I would have bought in a heartbeat--he and I truly did "connect"--but he's been ridden the last three years by an adolescent boy who's taught him to run at everything. He goes from a walk to a gallop with little in between, and I didn't feel like retraining him to be a sensible mount. The pony needs another young rider who also wants to chase deer on horseback, a fitting pastime for a fifteen-year-old but not a middle-aged woman all too aware of her increasingly brittle bones.

Then there was the heartbreaker of the lot. My trainer Nina and I avoided him as long as possible for one very good reason: he was in Arkansas, and we're in Maryland. We loved the video, though, and we really liked the horse, so I did a truly crazy thing and bought us tickets to fly down to Arkansas to look at said horse. This gelding, a paint draft X, wasn't perfect, mind you. He turned out to be younger and greener than we expected, but Nina felt confident that with time and training he would make a great all-round horse. I worried about some weakness in his hind end, but we scheduled thorough vetting to disclose any potential problems.

This experience turned out to be my first truly strange horse encounter. I must admit to concern at the outset, when the seller played games with the price, dropping it by two-thirds. Who advertises a horse for three times what it is worth? One expects, especially in this economy, some wriggle room of 10-15% but not 65%. Then there was the demand for a deposit to look at him, 10% of which was non-refundable, a condition that stopped me dead in my tracks. It's like a home-owner asking for a down payment before you even see the house. I outright refused and more negotiations ensued. As soon as I bought our tickets, the seller called and claimed that she had other folks flying down. We had no way of knowing the truth of this statement, but I was sufficiently worried that I moved up our visit by three days.

The trainer in Arkansas was pleasant enough and very kind in letting me ride both days. And Arkansas proved far prettier than I expected, lush and green with lovely farms as far as the eye could see. I had a chance to hack out and see firsthand the horse's calm, sensible nature. By far, this gelding was the most comfortable horse I've ever ridden: his canter was a revelation after years os struggling with Beau's choppy, uneven gait. So I left Arkansas fully intending to buy the boy.

Then all hell broke loose. The trainer didn't seem especially interested in getting the horse to vetting in a timely fashion, and the delays concerned me, especially given the weak hind end. I've heard too many stories of drugging horses, and I know that many drugs wash out in seven days. Nonetheless I set up the vetting, and then the seller wanted a deposit--without anything in writing on her part. Two days of hassles ensued. As we got close to an agreement, I learned that she was still flying down other buyers while demanding a deposit from me. I asked that the horse be withdrawn from the market if I was going to put down part of the asking price. More hassles. The seller refused, claiming that folks were flying out that evening. When I inquired the following morning about the other buyers, she accused me ofsuspecting dark motives and professed ignorance about other prospective purchasers.

I thought about forwarding the long paper trail of e-mails to refresh my lady's memory but decided ultimately to bail. By this point, I was exhausted, fed up, and not a little worried that the seller was either wildly duplicitous or not entirely of sound mind. Either way, it didn't feel right. I called a couple of horsey friends I trust who advised me to get out--quickly--before I lost any more money.

The upshot is that I won't be hopping on planes anytime soon, swanning around the country like I'm Jackie O searching for the perfect hunt horse. But I still keep thinking about the horse that got away . . .

Horse Madness

Jane Smiley's fabulous novel, Horse Heaven, is built around the love affair between horses and humans. She chronicles its many strange incarnations, from the racetrack to the retirement farm, but constant throughout is the all-consuming passion some of us have for horses. This obsession oftentimes borders on madness that leads otherwise perfectly sane women to end up with several equines when they can barely afford the cost of one.

At the moment, I am questioning my sanity in thinking about a second horse. It isn't entire whimsy, though.

Mr. Beau just turned 16, not old for a horse these days, but his eyes are beginning to fail, and this last year has been an endless ordeal of vet bills, medicines, and care. The cataract in his left eye blurs his vision, and I began noticing back in January, especially on overcast winter days, that he often spooked at objects on that side. The right eye is still pretty good, but a bad attack of uveitis in early May resulted in another trip back up to New Bolton. Future attacks of uveitis, though, will compromise vision in the right eye. In short, his sight, while diminished, is still good enough for riding, and I might even be able to manage some jumping outdoors in bright sunshine. We don't know how long his eyes will hold out. They could stabilize and be fine for several years, or he could be blind by winter. It's a crap shoot.

So after weeks of looking at finances and figuring costs, I decided to take the plunge and look for a younger, healthier horse. If Mr. Beau's health straightens out, then I will have two horses to ride, an unbelievable luxury, especially given my mount's penchant for getting into periodic scrapes (and thus getting out of work for long stretches). If he continues to decline, I will at least have one rideable horse while caring for Mr. Beau as he transitions into retirement.