From Port to Ham to Home
Well, folks and fellow travelers, I had a premonition that our cruise was going to be difficult, one surrounded by an aura of disappointment. I’m not Cassandra. And yet——!
As you may have noticed, especially those of you waiting with bated breath for my emails with their usual witticism about the trip, my reportage has been missing. Okay, no one was waiting with bated breath. I can accept that because I’m a humble person. I didn’t write because I would’ve had to search for something amusing to say.
Let’s start at the beginning of our trip when no-one at O’Hare knew what was happening with our flight(s). There had been thunderstorms earlier that morning but the sky was clear. We were assured that our plane was already there and waiting for us. So we checked our luggage and headed for the lounge. Ignorance was bliss for about half an hour.
Flight canceled, we were sent hither and yon, until we finally learned that we had been put on a flight not to Newark but to Dulles. We were assured that our luggage had also been transferred.
We got to Dulles late. Meaning after our flight to Lisbon was set to depart. Blessings on United. They held the flight to Lisbon. Our luggage, meanwhile, was taking a trip to Newark.
In other words, while our transition to the cruise ship in Lisbon was smooth, we had only our travel rags in which to make our grand appearance. Our bags finally caught up with us in Spain. Remind me to always pack a throw-away toothbrush.
Editor’s note: It actually arrived while we were still in Portugal, but gone from Lisbon. Also, we received toothbrushes on the flight.
Our cruise started with a morning of delight in Porto, Portugal. We went to a fado performance. Yes, in the a.m. This was my daughter’s choice. I don’t think she had ever heard fado. I wasn’t looking forward to it because I had. Expecting the usual long, dreary songs, I was pleasantly surprised when the musicians kept the music upbeat, although the themes of the songs were the usual, women betrayed by love.
Along with the fado came the tapas. Due to the cab driver who took us to the ship, we knew about green wine. Editor’s note: We learned about the green wine from the gentlemen helping us track down our luggage. Ask and you shall receive. The proprietor produced a bottle for our table. It was delicious, as was the port and all the tapas they served. Things were looking up.
Then imagine how delighted I was to learn that our main chef on the cruise was English. Finally, I could get what I hungered for, something the States can’t produce, a good sausage roll. And may I say, neither could this chef.
On Seabourn you can order special meals, so I ordered a sausage roll. Those of you who delight in this delicacy of English “cooking” will know that there’s the pastry and then a minimal layer of sausage. With this chef—a big chunk of sausage. Where the hell was the pastry!!!!! I couldn’t even force myself to indulge in more than a few bites. I didn’t cry, but it was a close thing.
Fortunately, when we got to Dover, there was a Greggs. Finally. My sausage roll. The feeling of relief and the releasing of endorphins was high with the first delicious bite.
One word about the food on Seabourn Ovation. It will remain a mystery about why it was so very bad. I don’t know what went wrong. Perhaps, if the English chef spent less time dancing on the deck and more time in the kitchen, he would have known that the food was coming out cold. Also, I had a bout of food poisoning from undercooked lobster.
Imagine getting the menus each night, as Seabourn does, and realizing there’s absolutely nothing you want to eat. Or dare to eat! Ergo, we resorted to the sushi restaurant. Now I don’t eat sushi, but when needs must— One is never too old to learn.
The weather was in sync with our down mood, enhanced by a bronchial infection that was assaulting so many passengers and crew. We endured cold and rain. But I have to say, despite the weather we had fun at every port we stopped in. I was very appreciative of my daughter in that she didn’t want to go to Mont-Saint-Michel because of the long bus ride. I had great fears that I would have to visit for the fourth time. Instead we strolled the streets of St. Malo.
She did however want to go to Gouda. It was her big wish ever since she reviewed the excursions. Because I’m the type of mother I am, I gave up my afternoon nap to join her on this walking tour of the town. The prediction was for perhaps a shower or two. Instead, there was a downpour of Biblical proportions. We even had to sit in the bus, waiting for it to abate somewhat.
Have you ever walked three hours in the rain through a town on a day when little was open, including the cheese market, due to a religious holiday. Let’s just say the mother/daughter bond was strained.
We only took three planned excursions. The rest we did for ourselves, navigated by Judy Christopher Columbus Haddad. We had a great deal of fun, but I did notice in Europe that disabilities aren’t taken into account. So there I was, hobbling along with my neon purple cane, climbing up, climbing down, while Judy took photos to send to a friend of mine. I’m not even going to mention that every city we went to seemed to have cobblestones. But I can now assure you that, unlike previous journeys, I didn’t trip and knock my daughter over as I fell.
My favorite stops: Antwerp. I was blown away by its beauty and relished the fashion museum, followed by crafts in the square. Oslo. Their opera house was a mountain to climb. The only down moment? We had to pay for toilets, thank you, Judy. $1.88 American (each). And someone rushed in on Judy’s dime. Judy fumed about it the rest of the day.
Copenhagen. We pedi-cabbed to the design museum. A real treat. Unfortunately, then Judy wanted to see the changing of the guards. Paint dries faster. By then we were dying for something to eat and drink. I spotted a cafe in an out-of-the-way museum. Up we went and Judy informed me that I was paying since it was her birthday. But wasn’t it more important to grab an available table. She was quite surprised when she looked behind her to find me missing. But she’s so much better at charging things than I am.
So we reached Hamburg and edged toward our return. Our disembarkation was exciting. As those of you who travel know, suitcases have to be out with tags on the night before. The next morning we arrive at 8:30 into the terminal to find that ours are the only bags in section 16. Were we late? Grabbing our bags, we headed toward the exit and were directed to a large bus. This is embarrassing, I thought. Everyone will be on board the bus waiting for us. Except—that bus, seating at least forty, was for us alone. Crazy?
Of course it was raining, a typical sendoff to that rainy, cold cruise. We got to the airport and discovered that, although we had the luxury of the bus all to ourselves, the bus couldn’t get us to the terminal.
Down we came off the bus in the rain. Fortunately, I had a 50 cent piece to get a cart. Our bags were piled onto the cart in the rain and then we had to hoof it to the terminal about five minutes away—in the rain. This was almost but not quite as bad as the disappointing sausage roll.
Three flights awaited us: Hamburg to Munich, Munich to Dulles, Dulles to Chicago. Judy was “selected” in Munich for special treatment. Ah, the Germans. And Lufthansa, your flights sucked.
We reached home in that vague area between 12 and 1 am to find a mystery. Why wasn’t my porch light on? The limo driver had a flashlight and he shone it on my combination lock. We enter to find a message from the fire department. My fire alarm had been going off and they had to break in to silence it. Broken glass, mud, depression. Welcome home.