It’s a sign

There’s no, er, pussyfooting around with this newly-erected sign I walked past this morning. The one on the other side of the house where this cat lover lives is less graphic (literally) but equally emphatic. It’s on a route I’ve often followed and where, oddly, I’ve never seen hide nor hair of a feline. I’d hate to think these signs are retrospective…

But this one did remind me of another walk I did, in Québec in 2014, on a Silversea cruise from Boston to Montreal [pause for deep sigh]. I did about 8km wandering the streets of Sept-Îles one quiet, cold but sunny Sunday, which was pleasant. The most memorable thing for me, apart from learning that KFC is PFK in French, was coming across this road sign. Suggests that maybe the Canadians aren’t quite as polite and well-behaved as their national image would have us believe, n’est-ce pas?

 

Ship of nightmares

So, five very rich men have now joined the 1500 mostly very far from rich people who died when the Titanic sank 111 years ago. The extensive - and expensive - search for their submersible has generated a mass of headlines and lots of screen time and, while it’s been moderately interesting to follow, it’s hard not to miss the sharp contrast with that other recent sinking, in the Mediterranean. Viz this very pointed cartoon in The Times yesterday. 

Recap: last week a fishing boat hideously crammed with migrants from Libya trying to escape to Italy sank off Greece. Some men on the top deck were rescued, while around 500 mostly women and children trapped down below drowned, their bodies so far unrecovered. It was initially in the news, but soon dropped out of sight, especially once the Titan submersible got into trouble. 

Amongst all the dreary conclusions to be drawn here (as well, of course, as acknowledging that any life accidentally lost, even of self-indulgent billionaires, is tough), the one I'm focusing on is our apparently never-ending fascination with the Titanic. It's inescapable, in our culture. I mean, like me, you've seen the movie, right? At least once, I bet, and quite possibly several times - you're certainly super-familiar with the quotes and iconic scenes. And, if you've gone overseas much, you'll have come across Titanic displays in various museums and possibly even one of the travelling exhibitions. The big one that's in New York right now I saw in Copenhagen - in 2011. It's still going!

I've certainly seen my share of Titanic stuff, from Jack Dawson's grave in Halifax to a note in a bottle thrown overboard by a passenger in Cobh, Ireland. And of course it's impossible to visit Belfast without going to their striking Titanic museum near the shipyard where it was built. That it was opened a century after the sinking tells you all you need to know about people's morbid fascination with mass deaths. See also my last post (er, also the Last Post) - but especially if there's something glamorous about it. 

Not that the bulk of Titanic's drowned passengers were, nor those on the fishing boat: just poor people trying to start new and hopefully more successful lives than those they were escaping. Nothing glamorous there, at all.

And for today’s tenuous connection, I’m currently sorting out a trip to Wairarapa, which is where James Cameron lives on his huge farm. 

In the eye of this beholder

I'm not complaining about my usual view, but there's no denying that it's taken to another level when something like this turns up as the focal point. It's Adix, a 65m schooner owned by a Spanish billionaire who is currently appealing his conviction as an art smuggler. He was given 3 years for trying to take his Picasso out of Spain to sell at auction - not allowed under Spanish law, which has decreed the painting a 'national treasure'. Painted in 1906, it's Head of a Young Woman.

National treasure? Hm, I'm not much of a fan. Look at her thick neck! I can't imagine she was flattered by the result, though she probably was to be asked to sit for it. And at least her eyes are in the right place... I've been to numerous galleries, and on cruise ships, with Picasso paintings hanging on the walls, but it says it all that I can't find any evidence of that on my phone. There were some I saw only in February at the glorious Sculptureum up near Makakana, but I ignored them in favour of the beautiful blown glass, clever 3D constructions and lovely sculptures. One of my favourites, and given the honour of its own room, was this Dale Chihuly piece:

I'm so glad I got to go to the Museum of Glass in Tacoma, WA (er, that's Washington state, not Western Australia) and wander through the galleries of his spectacular, delicate and gorgeous glass creations - even though it still rankles that the guard on duty wouldn't let me take any photos, despite sneakily taking some himself, the shameless hypocrite. Most marvellous of all, though - both for its beauty and intricate construction, and the astonishing trust its location showed in the maturity of the town's citizens - was his fabulous piece Sun on display outside the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. Now that's what I call a national treasure.

Morality, eh

You forget about Canada's dark side, eh? Their national image is so friendly and polite and sensible... so it was a proper shock to learn about all this ghastly stuff back in 2013 when we had an unscheduled day in Kamloops because of a freight derailment interrupting the Rocky Mountaineer schedule. Flown in to the town for a hastily-arranged famil, we were shown around by Tara, who took us first to the Wildlife Park, where I was delighted to get up close to lots of their iconic wildlife.

Afterwards, she drove us through the Badlands to show us something even badder, and totally unexpected: the Secwepemc Museum and Heritage Park. We heard the bleak story of how so many thousands of young native people - "Indians" - were uplifted to be "civilised, Christianised and assimilated" and, inevitably, exploited and abused. It's a horrific story, but what makes it so much worse is that it's so familiar. 

I'm relieved to report that nothing along quite those lines happened to Maori here (apart from, er, the Land Wars, the near extinction of their language, the horror of Parihaka, and the fact that even today Maori dominate poverty, poor health and imprisonment statistics), but we only have to cross the Tasman to hear pretty much identical stories about the Aboriginal people. In so many of the countries I've been to, through the Pacific, Indonesia, Africa, the US, indigenous people have been subjugated by colonisers with boundless, and entirely misplaced, confidence in their own superiority. It's hideous.

Though, of course without wishing at all to diminish the awful treatment received by those so-called inferior peoples around the world, I'm wondering now if my pleasure in getting so close to all those poor, incarcerated wild animals was equally wrong.

Blatantly, and - ideally - chillingly, entitled

I like to think that my stories are pretty easy reading, and I feel particularly comfortable about being able to write an opening that sucks the reader in, but - titles? Mine just suck, full stop. I find it really hard to write something apt and catchy, frequently succumbing to the nudge, nudge, wink, wink of alliteration, and they rarely make it past the subbing process. Usually the editor, much more practised at such things than I am, comes up with something heaps catchier. But not today, for my Viking Sun story in the Sunday Star-Times.

Sun - eclipse: yes, I see that of course.  But even though It's obvious and pedestrian and absolutely the sort of thing that I might eventually have come up with myself, all inspiration sapped by producing the story itself (my only possible excuse), I would never have written it - because it's just not true. One full day on a mid-level ship sailing between Auckland and Wellington? Yes, it was nice, and they did everything properly, and I didn't write anything I wouldn't stand by, but... "hard to eclipse"? Yeah, nah.

Sorry, Viking, but I've sailed with Silversea, to Alaska, to Montreal, to North Cape,  to Antarctica! All those destinations are what I call properly hard to eclipse - so hard, in the case of Antarctica, that it has actually kind of sapped my enthusiasm for any subsequent cruising. You can keep your Mediterranean, your Pacific Islands, even your Caribbean. The only thing that would really er, float my boat these days is deep Arctic - Svalbard, Iceland, Greenland, northern Canada. And I would want to do it on a smaller ship even than Viking Sun's 980 passengers. Half that is the maximum, thanks, preferably even less. Not fussed about fancy restaurants, big shows, pillow menus, all that - just a bit higher standard of living than I have at home will do nicely, plus cold and spectacular scenery, please. 

And *cough* for free, natch. Because I've just sold my SEVENTH Silversea Antarctica story to a fifth publication/website, bringing the total readership/coverage up to around 2.5 million. I think that's a decent return, don't you, Silversea/Seabourn/Windstar/National Geographic?

Waitangi tangi

My typically Kiwi response to today's Google Doodle, which celebrates Waitangi Day, is to be simultaneously ridiculously chuffed to see New Zealand's (somewhat contentious) national day featured in that space, and disbelieving that it's actually a global webpage feature. I've even asked my spies in the UK and US if they can see it too.* But anyway, silver fern, yellow kowhai, red pohutukawa - good to see, on this beautiful, and very hot, summer's day which began (evidently) with a Dawn Service at Waitangi followed by a barbecue at which the PM was a cook. All as it should be.

However, further down the country, near Nelson, Waitangi Day 2019 is going to be remembered for all the wrong reasons: a huge forest fire blazing since yesterday afternoon, causing evacuations of 170 houses so far, one of which has been burnt down. There are two separate fires on Rabbit Island, where I cycled just a few months ago. It's awful news - and all the worse for being so familiar. I mean, fires, floods, blizzards and droughts: it's standard news report fare these days, isn't it?

Currently it's Townsville in Queensland suffering from hugely destructive floods; while Chicago is beginning to thaw from the Polar Vortex. (Did anyone else notice - yet again - the deafening silence on the subject from Canada?) The rest of Australia is only now emerging from the red/purple spectrum on the temperature map, where it was for most of January, causing horrendous wildlife suffering and deaths, and not much fun for the people either.

Every day the newspaper and TV news report another environmental disaster discovery, which I'm not going to list because you know them as well as I do. Depressing, isn't it? Even people who are only familiar with the locations through nature documentaries narrated by the (increasingly frustrated) Sir David will be saddened to hear about it. I tell you, it's even worse when you've been to so many of these places and seen their glories in real life.

I can't decide if all this is good reason not to travel, so you don't take it so personally - or, on the other hand, impetus to get out there fast to see it for yourself. Before it's all gone.

* UPDATE: As I suspected, it's just us. Pft.
UPDATE 2: After a week of unrelenting effort by the fire-fighters, it's still not out, and 3,000 people (and their animals) have been evacuated. 

Ovation (f)or UnCruise: a review

Ovation of the Seas made its first visit to Auckland yesterday, causing a bit of a stir and having to moor out in the harbour because we haven't got a wharf long enough. It's only the fourth-biggest in the world, but it still has almost 6,500 people on board, including 1500 staff, and it's 20m longer than the Sky Tower is high. Sounds like hell to me, and I wasn't one of those rushing to see it up close: this distant (but still imposing) view of it departing that afternoon was quite sufficient.

I don't do big ships. The largest I've sailed on, by far - if you discount the SS Orcades and the RMS Mataroa that I did a round trip to England on, back when I was three - is Silversea's Silver Spirit, which takes just 540 guests. To contemplate something so big that it offers sky-diving, surfing and a 90-metre hydraulic arm with an observation pod on the end for me is to recoil in horror. Someone writing about it said, "It feels more like a floating city than a ship." So, what's the point, then?

No, give me the smaller ships, where you know you're at sea, where you can get to know - or at least recognise - your fellow passengers, and which can take you places (like, ahem, Queen's Wharf in Auckland) that the monsters can't fit into. Silversea has taken me right into the centre of Shanghai, into the shallows of a St Lawrence tributary to visit the extraordinary Saguenay, up close to the Hubbard Glacier in Alaska, amongst other treats. That's my sort of cruising.

And that's part of the reason I so much enjoyed my recent UnCruise Adventures outing recently, around four of Hawaii's islands. The ship is very small, just 44 metres long, taking 36 guests (in fact, only 24 on my cruise) - but still has 16 eager crew members to look after us all. So the service is personal, friendly, enthusiastic but very professional, and unfailingly patient and helpful. They call the Safari Explorer a boutique yacht on the website, but it's an expedition ship really - not luxurious, but comfortable, all needs met with as much elegance as they can manage.

There are several grades of cabin: mine was Commander, which meant slightly bigger; but they all had a window and glass door, room for a king or twin beds, an ensuite, a basin in the room, and a wardrobe. It was nice enough. My toilet had a bit of a niff, and the shower was very snug - but the water pressure was excellent. There was nowhere to stow the suitcases, which was a nuisance, but the beds were comfortable, which is really all that matters - on a cruise like this, you're only there to sleep anyway. All the rest of the time you're in the lounge, on deck, or away on an adventure.

The lounge/bar/dining room was welcoming and comfortable with nice touches like a piano, games, books and maps - and mugshots of everyone on board, named for (in my case) constant reference. Thoughtful. All drinks are included, by the way - and barman Donnie (from N'Orleans, y'all) was happy to whip up any cocktail you fancied. The food was excellent and varied, beautifully cooked and presented, and almost too much - there was really no need for an irresistible dessert at lunch as well as at dinner. The chef, Kerri, was though perfectly happy with serving up variations and half-portions - or, alternatively, double-portions if you couldn't deprive yourself of one of the options. Pastry-chef Dawn was also a magician - from bread to Chelsea bun, it was all glorious.

Amanda was in charge of Wellness, which boiled down to pre-breakfast yoga sessions on the top deck - no mumbo-jumbo, just good stretches and pauses to appreciate the dawn - and one included half-hour massage, which I enjoyed. The captain, Rod, was relaxed and approachable, the bridge being open most of the time (and an excellent place to whale-watch from). Our main points of contact, though, and the real stars, were expedition leaders Dai Mar and Mitch, who both had extensive knowledge of the area, history, culture and wildlife, and were likeable, cheerful, funny and professional.

Apart from the small size, UnCruise's other proud point of difference is to take you places other ships can't, getting you into local contact, and its programme of activities (though that's not obligatory, and more sedentary other halves are catered for too). So we were the only ship welcomed on Molokai, where we spent a day with locals who generously shared their culture; and we did some spectacular snorkelling, as well as kayaking, with several opportunities to swim off the boat as well, when we were encouraged to jump in from the second deck.

There was plenty of wild (sea) life, and a relaxed attitude to the itinerary that allowed for detours and delays when there were, for example, whales to watch. I especially liked that the crew were as keen on all this as we were, and joined in where possible (Marqus the steward actually somersaulted from the top deck).

Though at the end he let slip that the real reason he wished we were on board for two weeks instead of one was so that he wouldn't have to learn a whole new lot of names, I did feel that the crew genuinely enjoyed our company as much as we did theirs. We were a good bunch, I think - mostly active, positive people, interested and interesting, from all sorts of backgrounds but with a common attitude that transcended age (from 55 to 73). That's probably UnCruise's best feature: that it attracts this kind of guest. Not the sort to spend all their time in thrall to a robot bar-tender on the Ovation, then.

Laced apart

Things have been a little quiet here, blog-wise, but only because there's some good stuff coming up pretty soon, so don't go away. It all take a bit of organising - especially when there are quite a lot of loose ends to tie up from other travels. So that's had me revisiting Scotland, Gettysburg, Washington DC, Canada, England and our very own Deep South (that's a clue, son). 

I have no complaints, tasting again in memory whisky-smoked lobster and rose lemonade, clopping along on docile Robbie past Gettysburg's zigzag split-rail fences and innumerable battlefield monuments and statues (actually, 1400, near enough), puzzling out the excitement caused by nothing happening when the Washington Nationals played the Miami Marlins... It's all good stuff, with the added, literally, interest of looking up the background stuff that I always mean to research beforehand, and never do. 

But, work aside, the idea behind this blog is that everywhere you've gone becomes a part of you, and you'll be reminded of it randomly forever after (see above, right). So the main reason for this post is that I was thinking - again, but coincidentally - about Ecuador. Because the weather's turned cold, finally, and I found myself for the first time for ages tying shoelaces.

The first time I went to Quito, in 2012, I was diverted by seeing, in the main square beside the San Francisco church and monastery, an old lady selling shoelaces, all tied onto a pole that she carried around with her. I'd got used to seeing vendors of all sorts of, to me, quaint things - cellphones to rent for a call, loaves of bread on a tray balanced on someone's head - but to make a living from selling shoelaces seemed to me the most precarious of all; even more than shining shoes.

And then, when I was back there again last year, blow me down, there she was still! Possibly not still, one old lady looks much like another when you're flooded with new impressions and not paying detailed attention - but, anyway, there was someone similar presumably earning money by selling something as cheap and inconsequential as shoelaces. Except - and here is exactly the sort of small thing that delights me about travelling and finding out about other places and people - when I mentioned this to my guide, he was as astonished as I was. But what amazed him was learning that in my culture, people don't change their shoelaces every couple of weeks. When I said that I stick to the same pair for the life of the shoes, he was silent in disbelief. So there you go. Of course, this would be the perfect place for a photo of the old lady with her colourful bundle - but I didn't get one, so you'll just have to make do with the man and his tray of bread.

Risking 'Je suis Cheng'

I see that Queenstown, in amongst a number of other well-deserved awards, has just been voted the second most popular long-haul destination by CTRIP.com, China's largest online travel agency. I'm not sure that this is such a good thing.

It feels like a risky, non-PC and narrow-minded thing to say but, to be brutally honest, the Chinese are not my favourite tourists. Quite simply, they don't know how to behave. They're loud, pushy, ill-disciplined, have some very unfortunate personal habits, go around in large groups, and often seem to be taking small interest in the places that they're spoiling for everyone else. They remind me a bit of how the Japanese used to be when they first started travelling back in the '70s: in groups, pouring off buses to take photos of each other in front of various sights, climbing back on board again, and falling straight asleep. I still remember vividly being sent staggering off that flagstone in the middle of St Peter's Square in Vatican City from where all the columns around the outside line up. That group of excitably chattering Japanese tourists never even noticed that I was there first.

But since then they have become much more sophisticated, braver, more independent and perfectly considerate tourists. They have learned. Will the Chinese do the same? Perhaps, eventually - but there are so many more of them, newly affluent, to be making their first thrilling forays overseas that it will take a very long time for the message to spread about personal space, personal hygiene, queuing and so on. In the meantime, we'll have to put up with being crowded out and shouted down, and will have to watch where we put our feet. Such a shame, when you're in a place like Queenstown, which is all about gazing awestruck around you.

Chicago! So good I've come here twice!

So, au revoir à Montréal ce matin, thanks to Mike, a very chatty taxi driver who took us to the airport, playing blues on his harmonica (“but not when the police can see me”). Two hours later we were in Chicago where, the last time I was here – in April, that’s how I roll, people – the trees were bare. Well, some of them are again, but most still have their leaves and the colours are making a very decent show, especially when seen from the twelfth floor of the Hotel Lincoln with the lake behind.

Yes, Lincoln again: he’s become a bit of a recurrent theme this trip. We’re in the Lincoln Park neighbourhood for a couple of nights, which is meant to be a funky, villagey sort of place. That remains to be seen: this afternoon we got sidetracked by the actual Park across the road, with its barn and farm animals – excellent idea, in a big city – and its zoo. It’s all free, which means we can’t complain that the polar bear was MIA, as were most of the other large mammals including, especially hurtfully, the 3 eastern black rhino with their new calf, which were skulking inside their stable out of the cold wind.

It was a novelty, though, and fun, to watch a young red kangaroo chase a grey squirrel around in circles before it finally shot up a tree trunk to escape; and even though the aardvark insisted on napping, it was good to see him.

The last time I was here, I photographed a man fishing near the McCormick Place Convention Centre, who proudly showed off a fine big trout (that, it turned out, his friend had caught) and I was impressed. Today I was even more astonished that the several dozen fishermen ranged along the edge of the lagoon in the park were looking forward to catching salmon. In the middle of a big city, with cars roaring past continuously just metres from their backs!

There was a red sunset with silhouetted skyscrapers, a drink at a rooftop bar, and then a short, though cold, walk to R J Grunt’s, a fine local eatery with a splendid mastery of chips and home-made crisps and a friendly, warm ambience. The burger was masterly; but the ribs were hopelessly OTT. I could have done with 2/3 fewer, and though they were tender and delicious, I left feeling sorry that the poor pig had died in vain. But thanks to the hotel’s front man Isaiah for the recommendation: good choice.

Au revoir à Canada

I would say that we skimmed over the surface of Montreal today, except that we also spent some time underground. Most of the day though passed as we sat upstairs on open double-decker buses, cruising the streets, detouring around the many road and building repairs, sneaking through stop-signs (possibly the most common illegal thing that Canadians do) and getting three different versions of the official commentary. These hop-on, hop-off tours (HoHo to those of us in the know) are a great way to get the lie of the land, but you are at the mercy of weather, traffic and the guide’s level of enthusiasm/boredom.

The wind was pretty vigorous today, and was ripping the leaves off the trees and swirling them about the streets; but there were still plenty enough left for more leaf-peeping ecstasy. It’s true what guide André said, that they show up better on a dull day than in the sunshine, contrary to what you’d think. They seem to glow.

They were eclipsed by the glass sculpture outside the Musée des Beaux-Arts, though: Dale Chihuly again, he does keep cropping up. This one is very big, called something like The Sun, and – here’s Canada for you in a nutshell – sitting outside on the steps with only a flimsy nylon guard rail around it. Fancy, delicate glass! Amazing.

Also amazing, in a less inspiring way, was the notice on the central, painted wood section of stairs on the hill up to the Oratory: reserved for pilgrims on their knees, it said. On their knees! It’s a beautiful, sparely-decorated building, but that’s irrelevant: they come in their droves hoping for miracles and occasionally apparently getting one, if the stacks of abandoned crutches in one of the chapels is proof. It’s the human brain that’s the real marvel here, I reckon.

After the trees, the buildings modern and classical, the shops above and underground, the crisply delicate mille-feuilles and the sticky réligieuse au café, there was finally an unpretentious dinner at Dunn’s Famous (no further noun evidently required). The specialty was Montreal’s smoked meat, which turned out to be a moist, tender and slightly spicy corned beef, served with excellent chips, coleslaw and a dill pickle. You get to decide how much fat it comes with – so, obviously not a diet option, and therefore pretty much guaranteed to be tasty. And so it was. Recommended, especially with a Rickard’s White, orange slice included: a fine way to finish our Canadian sector.

Final random note: It's a curious, but noticeably distinctive feature of French Canadians speaking English, that their accent sounds remarkably like the voice of Stephen Hawking. Yes? No? Just me, then?

Silver then gold

After ten days of our having been the sole focus of the Silversea staff, cossetted and pandered to, welcomed and pampered, this morning their attention shifted to clearing us off the ship and preparing it for this afternoon’s intake, another eager and excited consignment of passengers who are at this very moment luxuriating in our suite, listing their preferences to our butler Janice, making friends with our cruise director Moss. It was hurtful, make no mistake, and sitting in the lounge, evicted from our suites, waiting for the call to go ashore for the final time, was a melancholy experience.

But here we are now in Montreal on a warm, wet day. It is – on the strength of a single wander around this afternoon – a very different place from Quebec: messier, busier, edgier (insofar as Canada can be edgy), with more skyscrapers, more churches and cathedrals, more smokers, more beggars, more traffic. Doubly rejected, by both Silversea and by Fairmont, who weren’t ready for us, we were pleased to find, eventually, and after much trailing through the underground city, the Basilica of Notre Dame, which is a gloriously beautiful place. Painted, gilded, carved and decorated on every surface, it still manages to be elegant and dignified, rising above the rabble of tourists weaving through the pews, ineffectually flashing away with their cameras.

Tomorrow may bring a different take on the city. Let’s see.