New Queen Mary 2 gets her sea legs

0 Comments | Deseret News (Salt Lake City), Mar 14, 2004 | by Daphne Schwab New York Times News Service

At lunch, Joan dexterously squeezes wedges of lemon over tempura using a fork and a spoon one-handed, muttering, "We were required to squeeze lemon over every piece of fish served on the Caronia."

I make up for my earlier sloth by attending an afternoon lecture with my mother on the British playwrights Alan Ayckbourn and Alan Bennett.

We end the afternoon lying blissfully at the spa in a massage room with peppermint hair tonic rubbed into our scalps and warm towels around our feet.

At dinner Joan repeats the lemon trick over caviar, and Vasant, our other server, brings me extra spinach because he remembers I am partial to it. I'm beginning to like it on the QM2.

THURSDAY, JAN. 15: The automated wake-up call rings at 7 a.m. As I resolutely make my way to the gym, people bustle about on the promenade deck watching the ship enter the port of Funchal on Madeira, a small volcanic island about 500 miles southwest of Portugal. Still shrouded in darkness, the steep slopes of the surrounding mountains rise from Funchal's harbor.

A guide takes us up the winding, narrow streets to the Jardim Orquidea where a fifth-generation orchid cultivator gives us a tour of the family business. Higher up the hill we visit the Botanical Garden, a tribute to the lush and varied flora of the island, followed by a buffet lunch at Reid's Hotel, atop steep cliffs. My brother and husband escape to sample local wine, and we women peruse woven baskets and lace napkins.

Back on board, my attempt to get a pedicure is thwarted by a burst hot water pipe on Deck 9 (also our cabin deck). The salon apologetically reschedules me for the same time tomorrow.

The sun sets as the whistle blows and we pull out of the harbor. Fishing and pleasure boats scurry alongside, honking and waving, racing to keep up with the ship.

After a dinner of duck and pinot noir (no spinach tonight; we have joined the younger crowd in the Princess Grill), my cousin and I catch the end of a juggling act in the Royal Court Theater. While it's not to my taste, the older British ladies in the audience chortle contentedly.

Walking back to my cabin I spot a large red bucket catching drops from the ceiling three doors down.

FRIDAY, JAN. 16: This morning we motor into the port of Santa Cruz on Tenerife, in the Canary Islands. At 8:25 a.m. a man calls to apologize that the breakfast we had ordered for 8 a.m. would not be delivered for another 30 minutes. Would we still like it? Declining, we race to the Kings Court, the cafeteria-style buffet, and wolf down cereal and coffee before meeting our group.

Frustration dissipates as we arrive at our first stop: the Piramides de Guimar, similar to Maya and Egyptian pyramids. Our guide, Dominique, takes us literally above the clouds to the Parque Nacional del Teide, an otherworldly volcanic landscape, and a view of the snowtopped Pico del Teide, the highest peak on Spanish territory at 12,195 feet.

Back on the boat my luxurious pedicure, complete with hot water, is administered by Palma, an enthusiastic young Australian woman who, like many in the crew, has signed on to the QM2 for eight months.