So, time to say goodbye to my lovely readers, at least for a while. I hope you have enjoyed the recent entries of my blog. It has been great fun to write, if nothing else! I hope to take another cruise soon, so watch this space… Of course, if the mooted idea of a book ever comes to fruition, I shall, of course, let you all know.

Of the exactly 4,200 photos I have taken to date on this cruise (not yet “pruned”, clearly!), several have been photos of interesting, quirky or funny signs that I have seen along the way. By way of a closing for this cruise, herewith a selection. Enjoy.

The night before last there was a punch up in the pub. I kid you not. Someone got a little inebriated and grabbed an officer, allegedly attempting to strangle him. Can’t imagine what you have to have said in order to provoke such a reaction, but there you go. Someone stepped in and held them apart and the passenger who was allegedly doing the aggressing wound up with either a broken nose, a broken jaw or a dislocated jaw. Take your pick.

Tonight at dinner, there was another Assessment Party call, this time for cabin D86. Someone has set fire to their cabin. Well done.

There has been one confirmed case of flu on the ship, for which Tamiflu was prescribed. This caused an adverse reaction in the person concerned and now everyone in the Medical Centre is now right on edge.

Tell you what. It’s all go on here, all of a sudden!

Edit: There are now LOTS of crew down with the flu. The Head of Security is Tamiflu’d to the eyeballs and the Captain is recovering but the Deputy Captain is now down as well. We’re getting more and more glad we’re getting off of here!

Welcome to the Azores, widely considered some of the most beautiful places on Earth. Good luck seeing it all in half a day though…

We got off at about half nine and hired a taxi for a tour of the west half of the island. We went along some of the windiest roads you’ve ever travelled, through thick sea mist/fog up about 2000 feet to the top of the volcano and then down into the craters. The roads are beautiful. Absolutely smooth, with no potholes whatsoever. Dad wonders if this is where all the EU money given to Portugal was spent! We went into the crater of the volcano that isn’t currently active, before you start raising your eyebrows. There are two lakes in the crater, separated by a small two-lane causeway. When the sun shines, one lake is bright blue, reflecting the sky and the other is dark green, reflecting the forest that surrounds it. It’s supposed to be an amazing sight. It doesn’t work in fog! Both were a murky dark green and, our driver, Richard, informed us, in his extremely broken English, deadly. They are so polluted by nitrates from the surrounding fields that if you swim in it, it will kill you. About nine or ten people have died trying to prove otherwise, which shows a degree of hope over experience that, frankly, beggars belief. Never heard of a test tube and some litmus paper?! Or just stopping people swimming in it after the first three or four fatalities?!

There is also another beautiful lake literally just down the road called Santiago, which is in another smaller crater of the same volcano, surrounded on all sides by forest. It is safe to swim in, although most people prefer to get a fishing licence instead. Sadly, they have allowed logging around the top, and the trees have been shaved off the hillside right in the middle of the photo you want to take, like a reverse Mohican. They have now banned logging here, but the damage has been done. It’ll take decades to recover. Nevertheless, the locals still come up here in December to pick a Christmas tree, as these conifers apparently smell particularly good (I think he called them Japanese Cedars).

Then through the pretty little village of Sete Cidades (Seven Cities – it barely had seven houses!) and then back to town. Almost all the buildings on Sao Miguel are made of basalt from the volcano. Because the basalt is black, they paint all the houses white or other bright colours, just leaving a basalt outline around the edges. They do this with all their buildings, including churches, ceremonial arches and shops. They also build their garden walls of the stuff, and paint white over the cement/ grouting, which gives a pretty, if slightly odd-looking, effect.

As an aside, our driver, Richard, told us about the foreclosures and problems that the Azores are having as a result of the worldwide recession. There was supposed to be a brand new five star hotel and shopping centre on the seafront. But the company went bust. So all there is a concrete shell that may never be completed.

He also told us that there is a major drug problem in the Azores. Not surprising, really, given its location. But even his son is addicted to drugs, at the age of 23. His daughter is only 17 and still at school, so he’s not worried about her yet. I also know that his mother died three years ago and his father died 45 years ago, when he was just 14, and that next December is his 25th wedding anniversary. It was a long drive to Sete Cidades. Oh, and 55% of the island’s energy comes from geothermal generation. Which is nice.

We then pootled what few shops we could find and then returned to the ship, just in time for the sun to come out. Typical. It is now five past bob and the sun is so scorching that, even sitting inside, with tinted glass to boot, I can feel my legs getting hot. Good old P&O. Now we leave and we’re heading towards rain showers. I hate this Captain. You just know he’ll make no effort to go around them at all, just plough straight through and to hell with the consequences. Can’t go out on deck anyway, as there is a very loud “British” sailaway party going on. Cheap Pimms and Union Jacks. Hideous.

They’ve just done a last call for the people whose cards have not been logged in at the gangway. One of them is called Heathcliff! There’s no answer to that, really…

Rumour 1: Arcadian Rhodes’ galley.
Rumour 2: A photocopier in the back office

Personally, judging by the smell, I think it was possibly a coffee machine.

Edit: Apparently, it was a printer. So now you know. Apparently, printers can burst into flames. And when they do, they give off quite a sweet smell, for some reason. Worth knowing…

It’s odd, but the quietest place on the ship is actually the place you would expect to be the noisiest. It’s the bar through which you have to walk to get from most places to most other places. But the Intermezzo bar has no music, no coffee machine, no cocktail blender and, for the most part, no people. Although they hold Spanish classes here in the mornings, after that, it’s just a thoroughfare. People may talk as they walk through or past, but for large chunks of time, there’s not a soul around. It also has, in my ever so humble opinion, the best wifi connection on the whole ship. So, ideal, really. In the past few minutes, only the chime of the lifts arriving around the corner have disturbed the silence. It’s lovely. [So silent, in fact, that I fell asleep for nearly an hour!]

It is also almost completely odour-free, which is more than can be said for the rest of the ship. Many parts of the ship pong to high heaven, with smells that vary in intensity, but all of which seem to centre around one of three smells –sewers or varnish, or, occasionally, cigarettes. Them’s your options. Trust me, finding an odour-free corner is an achievement in itself. In fact, dad has said on more than one occasion that you know when you’ve stepped back on board because you’re hit by the smells, even while you’re still out on deck. And his sense of smell is rubbish. Arcadia is, without a shadow of a doubt, the smelliest ship we’ve ever been on.

I’m sitting here, just watching the world go by (read: watching people pouring out of the dining room after lunch) doing some Sudoku and pondering life in general. I went up on deck with mum and dad in shorts and sandals but, although it was about 19 degrees, it was raining and a bit windy, so I went back to the cabin and changed and decided to stay indoors today. As far as I know, they’re still sitting out there with their feet in puddles. The weather forecast for Ponta Delgada tomorrow is 22 degrees but overcast. Jeans, I think, rather than shorts…

A quick note about currency. This is quite an important fyi for anyone who intends to travel on P&O. On board P&O ships, they will change your currency into local currency quite willingly and not at a particularly bad rate of exchange, either. And yet, when it comes to Euros, they will only deal in 5s, 10s and 20s. They will not deal in anything above a 20 Euro note. So if your bank gives you 50s, 100s or, heaven forbid, a 200 Euro note, you’re stuffed. They won’t break it for you on board. You’ll find yourself stuck trying to pay a taxi driver with, essentially, a 200 pound note. And they won’t appreciate it.

We have had plenty of people sharing our table during this cruise. Let’s see if I can remember them all: Sheila and David, Hayley, John and Ted, Monica, Betty and John, Carolyn and Bill, and now Sally and Bert.

Of those, no less than two of the men (note that it’s always the MEN that do this) have made it clear that they won’t eat “foreign muck”, that is to say, anything other than ‘British’ food. And, yes, they both used this actual expression. Foreign muck. Which is also rather rude. Now, you know as well as I do that the national dish of Great Britain is chicken tikka masala and that, only this week, pasta was voted the world’s favourite food (not rice!). So if you’re the type of person who refuses to eat anything remotely not roast and veg or fish and chips, are you missing out? Is there a point at which you have to say, ‘well, I’ll give it a try – it clearly doesn’t kill people’. Does none of it sound or look appealing in any way whatsoever? Doesn’t Chinese food at least SMELL inviting?

I can’t remember the last time we went to an ‘English’ restaurant. We got to mostly Italian, Chinese, Thai, French, Greek or Turkish. And I’m considered unadventurous among my friends. Is there even such a thing as an English restaurant? I suppose you could call the Imperial, down the road, English – they do roasts and stuff – but when we go there, we have salt beef sandwiches! That’s not English! Salt beef comes from Eastern Europe/ Scandinavia! Is an omelette English? It doesn’t sound English.

Or is it quasi-political? Is the not eating simply because it’s “forin” and to hell with whether it actually tastes good or not? I find the whole thing very confusing, and even more so when I try to work out what on Earth is left to eat if you take out all the “foreign muck” from the equation. So, let’s see. Pasta is out, curry is out – in fact, anything with rice or noodles is out. Even risotto is Italian. No nuts of any kind, no coconut. Cous cous is out, pizza is out. (You can tell I’m mentally going through my cupboards, can’t you?) No meat in breadcrumbs (veal, turkey or chicken) – that’s a schnitzel and so from Austria and therefore definitely out. Hang on, what about turkey? The entire species of bird is not native to England – they were brought over from India. Where do they fit?

Is steak and chips English or foreign? If I want a good steak, I go to a French restaurant. Does the hamburger count as foreign? Does American food generally count as foreign, for that matter? Or is anything “Anglo-Saxon” acceptable? Where does seafood fit in? Does fish have to be caught in British waters or have a British-sounding name? John Dory comes from the Pacific doesn’t it? Can’t get much more British-sounding than a fish called John, surely? Salmon may come from Scotland, but it is also very common in Alaska – it’s what the bears live on, for a start! So is it “British”? In the Azores, they cook a meat and veg dish called Cozido das Furnas. This is only meat and veg in another tongue. Is that okay or is that forin? They do cook it in a geothermal vent, though (using the steam escaping from a volcano), which you can’t do in Britain…

You can have ordinary bread, I suppose, but not bagels or challah or baguette or naan. What about granary bread? I’m sure they contain things like sesame seeds and poppy seeds, which are definitely not native to Britain. No paninis, that’s for sure, whatever bread you use. No matzah, although there are other “water biscuits” that might be British enough. I’m guessing Ryvita would be a no? Not sure where muffins fit, although I think teacakes, scones and crumpets would be okay. What about a ham and cheese toastie? That’s a Croque Monsieur!

And no ice cream or sorbets of any kind. Ever.

What about chocolate? The cacao plant is native to Costa Rica, I’ve seen one growing! What about fruit? Apples, pears and plums may be okay, along with strawberries, raspberries, blackberries and bilberries but oranges, satsumas, nectarines, peaches, bananas, watermelon, all the other types of melon, kiwi fruit, pineapple… nope, none of them.

What about wine? There is one very good English wine on this ship, but the rest is definitely from overseas somewhere. What about other forms of alcohol? Bacardi comes from Jamaica, cognac and champagne come from France, Malibu comes from the Caribbean, tequila comes from Mexico, vodka comes from Russia/ Poland, Curaçao comes from… Curaçao in the Dutch Antilles, Campari and Cinzano are Italian. I think even gin is made in France! I’ve seen one of these men drinking Scotch (does Irish whiskey count as forin?), but also “brandy”. Is it Courvoisier – in which case, that’s French. I’m not even sure there’s such a thing as English brandy, is there? What about tea and coffee, for that matter? Neither grow in Britain. So where’s the line there? ‘I won’t eat foreign muck, but I’ll drink it’? Should we just put the spaghetti in the blender?!

It’s all very weird and sounds desperately unappealing to me, and yet also at the same time rather primitive. It’s starting to sound like a very Olde Englishe diet – similar to how they might have eaten, say, five hundred years ago – although they didn’t limit themselves to this extent, they imported stuff, same as we do, it just wasn’t as common or as cheap. But why would you limit your life in this way? It sounds like a miserable existence! What could you possibly hope to achieve? Where’s the benefit? There must be one, somewhere, otherwise they wouldn’t bother, but I’m sure I can’t find it. I know for a fact* that you cannot die of spaghetti poisoning, so it’s not a safety issue. I daren’t ask at the table. So I’m asking you, my miniscule but loyal readership. Any ideas?

*Prove me wrong, I dare you.

This is a summary of musings from four sea days. I could do individual entries, but they wouldn’t amount to much! So if it seems a bit random or bitty, sorry.

I got a letter today (Thursday 16 June) telling me my onboard account has been frozen, as my credit card has been rejected. I’ve been online and, guess what? P&O received payment of my most recent account IN FULL on 14 June 2011. So tomorrow, I have to go to Reception and bang heads together. Again. Seriously, what is the matter with these people?! On the plus side, Dad had to buy my drink at dinner!

I printed off some photos of Salem and took them to the Restaurant Manager. One of the ‘witches’ hanged during the Salem Witch Trials was called John Willard and the Restaurant Manager’s name is… John Willard. He was delighted by the whole thing. He knew nothing about the Salem Witch Trials, but I think he will be googling it at some point in the near future! We offered to check his neck for rope burns, but he declined…

The rumours about what happened at LA rumble on. Here’s today’s: Two people (not British) refused to be immigrated at all until they were escorted through at gunpoint.

Just to think, most of the anger about what happened at LA could have been avoided if P&O had just put out some chairs. We’re British, we’ll queue as long as it takes, but you didn’t have to make us STAND for two hours. Dad pointed out that if they had treated lifestock the way we were treated – no food, no water, no sanitation, nowhere to rest or sit down, for nine and a half hours– they would have been prosecuted. Interesting point!

There was no air conditioning at dinner. No idea why. I had to fan myself the whole time – an hour and a half less actual knife and fork time. But at least I can now buy drinks – my account has been unfrozen – although I’m not sure why, I haven’t been to Reception to yell at anyone yet!

Princess Cruises staff have been spotted in several Alaskan ports, offering food and services to no one in particular, as their cruises have not yet started for the season. The theory is that there are Princess customers on this ship. Curiouser and curiouser.

At Boston, even with the quasi-organised raffle ticket business, there was chaos. Apparently, after we’d gone into town on the first wave of buses, they just kept calling more numbers, even though all ten shuttles had departed for town and there were no buses left to get onto til they came back. The queue backed all the way back to the ship and they still kept calling them. Twits. And then, there was further pushing and shoving and someone actually threw a punch! To be fair, she had just been called a silly old trout, but then again, she had pushed in quite egregiously…

The days are getting shorter. By this, I don’t mean that the nights are drawing in. We get home before Midsummer’s Eve. Just. On the contrary, the evenings are getting lighter and lighter, because for four days in a row, now, we have lost an hour at lunchtime. If this sounds like an easy way of crossing time zones, it isn’t. In fact, almost everyone on the ship – every passenger, that is, the crew seem just fine (that is, no dimmer or less helpful than before…) – is wandering around in a semi-zombie-like daze, unable to accomplish even the most basic of tasks. The amount of conversation has increased dramatically. People are happy to stop and talk because that’s all they can muster up the energy to do. In the restaurant, no one eats. Who has the energy to chew?! I’m just filling a plate with rice and moving it about. If you’ve ever experienced the true, body-stopping, mind-freezing horror that is proper jetlag, imagine if it lasted for four days. Fun, it ain’t.

Still, during the bits where I can focus, I’ve finished another book. “Life in Year One” by Scott Korb, sub-titled, ’What the World was Like in First-Century Palestine’. I’m pretty sure that hyphen is gratuitous, but that’s what it says. And by Palestine, he means Galilee with the occasional reference to Jerusalem. Although I bought this in San Francisco, Dad actually read it first, and it annoyed him considerably, because the author must say over twenty times in 208 pages, “We don ‘t know”. Of course, we don’t KNOW. It was two thousand years ago and they didn’t have blogs and cameras and flash drives to record their day-to-day (or in this particular instance, early hours of the morning) musings. What we are looking for from you is an educated, well-read GUESS. Well, no luck there then either. The bibliography is less than seven and a half pages. So you find he quotes the same people and the same books over and over and over and over and over and over…

But my main problem with this book is none of the above, and it’s one that I find personally worrying, as it directly affects the suggestion that these blogs be converted into a book of some kind. He writes as he talks. And it’s exhausting. Finding a footnote that reads, and I quote, “The pope doesn’t get it”, is a startling, not to mention disorientating, experience. And this leads me to a conundrum. I write as I talk. This is a blog. That’s sort of what you’d expect, isn’t it? But, if this book is anything to go by, that does not translate well into readable print. Still, I suppose it worked for Candace Bushnell. Your thoughts, as ever, would be appreciated.

It’s frustrating, because the book is, actually, when you get past the colloquialisms and the Americanisms and the endless repetition, very interesting. Leprosy doesn’t mean leprosy, it means psoriasis (and Joseph Merrick didn’t have elephantiasis, while we’re at it), Rome was very tolerant of Judaism (Emperor Agrippa II “…I would have everyone worship God according to the laws of their own country”) and Herod died of worms, but only after he’d gone mad (mind you, don’t blame him – if worms were eating my genitals, I’d probably go mad too). Like I said, quite fascinating, when you get down to the actual content. However, there is no chronology or timeline and he bounces back and forth quite considerably, so don’t try and keep it straight in your head historically. If you do, you’ll just wake up in the early hours of the morning thinking “WHICH Herod?”

What he has done is introduce me to a new writer, who appears in one of his footnotes. I’ve heard of her, but I’ve never read her, but I’m definitely going to. He quotes Susan Sontag as follows, “Patients who are instructed that they have, unwittingly, caused their disease are also being made to feel that they have deserved it”. This is page 56 of Illness as a Metaphor, which I shall be Amazoning as soon as I can afford it (which may not be for a while, granted…). As an M.E. sufferer, I want to know what she has to say about people who are repeatedly told that their illness is completely psychosomatic (imagined/ in their heads/ not with any medical foundation whatsoever). Although why anyone would choose to have nystagmus (spasms of the muscles that control the eye – one of the symptoms of M.E. that affects depth perception and balance), has yet to be explained…

Anyway, back to the book. Korb should have stopped when he had the chance. The last chapter is a complete letdown. It’s a pseudo-political opinion/travel piece about his own, personal visit to Bethlehem and has absolutely no relevance whatsoever to the rest of the book, except to say that whatever confusion existed in “Palestine” 2000 years ago, still exists. Edifying stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. Because no one could have worked that bit out for themselves…

I’ve packed. It took me an hour and a half on Friday morning (followed by a nap to recover) and then another hour or so at lunchtime to finish. All that’s left now is underwear and the few clothes and bottles I still need. Dad is flabbergasted, but I wanted to knock it on the head so that I don’t have it hanging over me all the time. It also meant that any damage I did could be addressed by my last massage, which was lovely, although I think Alex was a little shocked at just how much hurt I seemed to have created!

Why do drunk people have to laugh so loud? Even the slightest thing becomes uproariously funny to these people. We’re just sitting here, trying to get a last dose of sun before we get back to the Channel, many are reading, most are dozing. But by the bar there are half a dozen or so people, who clearly went to the Round the World lunch (free food and drink for those going all the way round) and are continuing to drink up here on deck. Fine. But SHUT! UP! Nothing, I repeat, nothing, is THAT funny that you have to roar and holler at every joke so loud that you wake everyone on deck. It’s not just inconsiderate, which we expect from you – you’re the drunk bunch and we see you propping up every bar we pass, we expect you to act inconsiderately – it’s the disproportion that angers me. I haven’t made a noise like that when told the best jokes I’ve heard in my life. There is nothing to justify that level of noise. You’re just doing it to show off and draw attention to yourselves, and apart from the fact that you look ridiculous on deck in a suit – you were so desperate for another drink that you couldn’t even stop at your cabin to change? – you aren’t that interesting to look at and you and your wives are FAR from good-looking, no matter how proud you may be of your Chesterfield sofa-coloured tans. So stop drawing attention to yourselves and shut the hell up.

The passengers are falling apart. There are falls, slings, wheelchairs, crutches and sticks everywhere you look. On Friday alone, I know of one woman who fell down the stairs and broke her shoulder and various other bits and another man damaged his knee. It’s a madhouse. Rumours has it that some people do it deliberately (although I think we can leave the lady who fell down the stairs out of it) so that they get special treatment to get home, instead of being harried ashore like a herd of cattle whose cowherd is late for market.

Assessment Party call. Level 1 Zone 3. This is a reason to leave the cabin SHARPISH. Not least because I’m on level 1. Assessment Party is the “don’t alarm the passengers” way of saying FIRE. And the greatest fear on a ship is not water, it’s fire. Think about it. Where do you run to? When I get to the midships lifts, I can’t go any further. The fire doors are shut. This is a Good Thing because, even with them shut, I can smell the smoke. I walk up to level 2, which is where I was aiming for, although I was aiming to be on ‘tother side of said fire doors, right down the other end of the ship in the Spinnaker Bar with my mates. However, stuck where I was, I was able to see three crew don full fireman’s outfits (yellow), complete with helmets (yellow) (although not breathing gear)before heading through the fire doors. I chatted to a couple of other passengers until a new friend of mine turned up and we went for a natter in the art gallery bar while we waited for the excitement to die down. It didn’t take long. Certainly not enough time for us to finish our drinks or our gossip, when Michael came to tell us the doors were back open and we could head off to our intended destinations. Bit warm round the ship at the mo. I suppose flames will do that… Looks like the fire was in the galley (kitchen) of Arcadian Rhodes, the posh dining option for which you pay extra. I assume flambé wasn’t intended to be on the menu tonight…

Container port. Surprise, surprise. To be fair, this is where Boston usually put us – this is their cruise terminal, but still, it is a container port, nonetheless. At the end of the runway of Logan airport (named after a local war hero, Edward Logan, who never set foot in it because he hated to fly), so the planes take off over our heads. I may have mentioned this a while back, but it’s still neck-damagingly entertaining to watch (have you ever tried looking up and ducking at the same time?!).

It’s odd, though. This trip has been a real eye-opener as regards national differences in attitudes towards holidaymakers. The United States see cruise terminals as very utilitarian places. Customs, passports, x-rays, out, a bit like when you arrive at an airport. That’s it. No shops, no cafes, you get a vending machine and some toilets if you’re lucky. That’s your lot. In the Caribbean, a cruise terminal is a cluster of shops, stalls, cafes, restaurants and information desks, not to mention crowds of taxi drivers vying for custom. It makes for a quite a stark difference in the tone of your arrival. In America, they just corral you onto to buses and off, out and on your way. Whereas, elsewhere, you stroll, you browse, you chat, you smile, you meet people. I think I know which I prefer…

Due to the speed restrictions last night, we didn’t arrive til 10am, so it was all a bit rushed. We were asked to collect a raffle ticket, in an attempt to make the disembarkation less chaotic (they would call us in groups of numbers to prevent everyone charging to the exits at once). This, however, was thwarted at the very outset by the fact that no one turned up to hand out said raffle tickets. I had to go down to Reception and make a scene. I spoke to a young man I’d never seen before, and told them that the queue was now over 125 people long. The young man said that the newspaper said the tickets would be handed out at 10 and they would be handed out at 10, not earlier. When I pointed out that we had docked early, he just said the same thing again. Then he said, ‘You’re not allowed off until 10 anyway’, to which I responded that I wasn’t asking to be allowed off, I was asking for the raffle tickets to be handed out – the idea was to reduce the scrum when we WERE allowed off. I noticed that, behind him, the supervisor, Kylie, was speaking to a blonde girl I didn’t know, but I did notice that, in her hand, said blonde was holding a book of raffle tickets. By the time I got back to dad in the queue, two decks up, the blonde had arrived to start handing out the raffle tickets. It’s as if thought is an alien concept to these people. Seriously, if one of them had a spark of initiative or independent thought, they’d explode. Did it really not occur to anybody that the raffle tickets needed to be handed out BEFORE the Captain allowed us to disembark?!

Shuttle bus to Quincy Market, which is an old market building that has been made into a sort of Covent Garden, only smaller. Inside, it has only a single aisle down the middle, and is entirely filled with food stalls. There is nowhere to sit to eat said food, except for a few benches in the centre rotunda. That’s it. All the ‘proper’ bars and restaurants are outside, in the cobbled streets that run down either side, along with some lovely shops that vary from the quirky to the REALLY expensive! I split up with the parents and browsed the shops at my own pace, including the obligatory visit to the Cheers memorabilia shop. After fighting my way between the mysteriously high number of schoolchildren in matching t-shirt parties being herded through the market, and shopping myself (or at least my credit card) out, I walked down to the waterfront and took a look at the marina, park and carousel, before heading back to the shuttle stop.

Once back at the ship, I dumped my bags in my cabin and picked up my hat (the sun came out after I’d left this morning), before grabbing a snack and heading back ashore. I was booked on a 1pm excursion to Salem.

The bus trip took us the long way round (the quick way is by ferry), through several towns, including Lynn, home to Lilian Pinkum (Lily the Pink). You probably know the Scaffold song about her (‘Drink a drink, a drink, to Lily the Pink, the Pink, the Pink, the saviour of the human race, She invented a medicinal compound, most efficacious in every case’). If not, try Youtube, but I warn you, once you hear it, you’ll have it in your head forEVER. Lilian invented a sort of herbal remedy that consisted of, mainly, let’s not beat around the bush here, 18% alcohol. It was so popular, particularly with women (for whom conventional medicine, particularly as regards women’s problems, was, at that time, virtually useless)(18% is quite an effective painkiller for a start…), and Lilian became a millionaire many times over. Despite selling it at only a dollar a bottle, she was able to support her husband, which was rather unusual at the time. The city of Lynn used to have a rather dodgy reputation generally – Lynn, Lynn, City of Sin, You won’t go out the same you went in. Very naughty. Ironically, on the way from Lynn to Salem we saw a church – for sale… still fairly Godless here then!

When we arrived in Salem, I was surprised it was so modern. The houses are virtually all old and made of wood, and are mostly very well maintained. Quite a lot are three stories high, which only happens in New England, as they built an extra floor to deal with a sudden influx of Irish immigrants. But in between them is a modern town. They have made no attempt whatsoever to blend in with the old stuff. They have just plonked down the new stuff in between the old bits. The only commonality is that some of the old public buildings are made of brick and the new buildings are likewise brick. Even when we went to the Memorial to the Salem Witch-hunt victims, it was bang opposite a brand new, modern museum, all bricks and glass. Very odd.

The Memorial is a small park with twenty stone benches around a rectangular lawn. Each bench has the name and date of death of one ‘witch’ on one end, so that you can sit down without damaging the carving. At the entrance, their respective last words are carved into the path. They have built over the words, so that they end in mid-sentence or even mid-word, to symbolise their sudden and untimely ends. “Oh Lord, help me”, “I am wholly innocent of such wickedness” and “I can deny it to my dying…” are just a few of them. What I didn’t realise, is that seven of the twenty who died were MEN. (What happened in East Anglia, with Matthew Hopkins, was much more misogynistic.) Nineteen were hanged, but Giles Corey refused to enter a plea of guilty or not guilty and so he was pressed to death by having boulders placed on top of him. It took him three days to die, Heaven help us. The Salem witch trials are where the phrase “She will make devils of us all” comes from, and it’s not hard to see why. All caused by the hysteria of a group of schoolgirls. Having just finished reading “Connected”, I would have liked to hear more about the hysteria at the heart of the problem, as this is the aspect I find most fascinating. The deaths of twenty innocent people are chilling under any circumstances, but simply based on the madness or folly of some teenage girls somehow makes it even more horrible.

We then went to the Salem Witch Museum, which is located inside an old church (no irony there then). First, there was a very dramatic diorama presentation, where different scenes from the events of the Salem witch trials were portrayed by waxworks, lit in turn. The commentary and background music were very spooky, but the really chilling bit was when they used the real words from the court transcripts. Made me shiver. Not everyone accused was killed. Over 150 people were accused – some ended up in jail, some just went free. All the victims who died received posthumous pardons in the Eighties. Then we had a presentation from a live human being, who explained the origins and development of the various stereotypes about witches, including Hansel and Gretel, the two in the Wizard of Oz and the first advent of the idea of a green face, and talked about modern Wicca as a genuine and bona fide religion (recognised in the US in 1986). Then there was the shop.

And that was it. Back on the bus and back to the ship and dinner and watching the Oracle boat keel over on the news, which I’m afraid I find very entertaining. World’s most technologically advanced sailing yacht tips over just as easily as any other. What’s not to find funny? I’m glad we left Boston before the hockey started. The Boston Bruins won. It’ll be mayhem in town now.

I have just finished reading “Why We Make Mistakes” by Joseph T. Hallinan. The chapters have titles such as We Look but Don’t Always See, We All Search for Meaning, We Connect the Dots, We Skim and We All Think We’re Above Average. It’s a fascinating read and I highly recommend it. Some of it feels like stating the obvious, but some of it is quite revelatory. 65% of people forget their new password within the first week. Each extra syllable in a price reduces the chance of remembering it by 20%. So seventy-seven fifty one (eight syllables) is harder to remember than sixty-two thirty (five syllables). Isn’t that odd? When you ask people to estimate distances, they will judge the distance TO a place to be less than the distance FROM the same place. Like I said, it’s a fascinating read.

So now we are on the home stretch. I don’t know how much more there will be to say, really. We might get to Ponta Delgada (the Azores). We never have before, mind you, and we’ve gone past it three or four times, but you never know. Maybe this time, we’ll get there. Now it’s all just laundry and packing and To Do lists and how on Earth am I going to get it all in and do I really need the Horizon newspaper from every day of the cruise?

Tender port. And, which is more, only a half day. We are leaving at 3 because we have to go slowly on the way to Boston as we pass through some Atlantic Right Whales and we’re not allowed to hit any. So to hell with Newport, apparently. We get only a few hours and then we’re off again. And remember, you have to allow extra time for tendering to and from shore.

So up at the crack of, fight for a place on a tender, 20 minutes to get to shore. Good start. It was also raining, although by the time we actually made it to land, it had stopped and the sun had come out, so that was okay.

I pootled around the shops while mum and dad went up the hill to the Touro Synagogue. Guess what? They wouldn’t let them in. You’re only allowed in on an organised tour, which you have to pay for, and they don’t start til 12. So sod you. What is it about old synagogues in foreign climes? We had this nonsense in Cochin. None of the courtesy and kindness we got in Singapore. Seriously, it seems the older the synagogue, the less likely they are to let you in! Well, they got what they deserved. Absolutely nothing. Everyone just turned around and walked away, so they didn’t get a single cent. Fools.

I wanted to go to the other end of town for a glass-blowing lesson, but there were no cabs and there wouldn’t have been time if I had walked it. So that’s that. No glass-blowing for me. Just can’t be done in half a day. Sorry, Thames Glass. Although, as an fyi, you might want to change your website to mention international shipping, as many cruise ship passengers visit Newport from countries other than the continental United States.

So we met up again and went back to The Mooring for lunch. We ate here the last time we were here. We won’t be eating here next time we’re in Newport, that’s for sure. It has really gone downhill. Instead of the casual, good food overlooking the marina we experienced last time, they have now lowered the deck so you’re just looking at the side of two boats, max., rather than over the top, and it is now a Bag of Words Seafood Restaurant that takes itself far too seriously. You will recall that a Bag of Words menu, is one where nothing is listed with less than two adjectives. The lemonade they served was nice, but it was a Nantucket Nectar, from a jar, not homemade, so no brownie points for that. Mum and dad had fish and chips and I had a hamburger. All perfectly adequate. It came to about twelve quid a head, which although not eyewatering, was definitely overpriced for what we got. If you’re into shellfish, by all means give it a go. Otherwise, don’t bother.

We were, of course, short of time, again, thanks to P&O, again, so we paid and tried to leave. They rang a cab (Rainbow Cabs). Fifteen minutes. Really? Surely you can drive from one end of town to the other in less time than that, and that’s including time for traffic lights? We waited. And we waited. And we waited. For nearly half an hour. At which point, we left and started to walk back. We couldn’t afford to wait any longer, because if forced to walk it, mum would have to stop for a rest on the way and we had to back by 2.30pm. We needed to allow enough time to get back to the tender embarkation point.

I appreciate that this is a seaside town, but there is no sense of haste whatsoever, even if you tell people you’re in a hurry. We’re not in the South, the Caribbean or on Island Time. We’re in New England. So ignoring our need for haste, after we have specifically requested it? That’s just rude. It demonstrates a lack of consideration that we have come to expect ON the ship, but not off it. Not impressed, Rainbow Cabs, not impressed at all.

We were, in fact, within sight of the queue for tenders when we finally spotted a taxi. It was the one on the way to The Mooring to pick us up! Mum and dad got in – no idea why – and got a tour of the one-way system for ten minutes. To be fair, the tender queue did move fairly quickly, as each tender holds 150 people, but I didn’t make it back to the ship until 2.35pm (for a 2.30 bob).

And that was Newport.

Got back to my cabin and went to bed. Slept for three hours straight and only just woke in time for dinner. Must have needed it.

No need for an early start today. We caught a cab (despite another Carnival ship pitching up alongside and spewing out another 3,000 passengers) to Macy’s. A very jolly driver, who was convinced that mum was stinking rich and offered to accompany us on the rest of our voyage in one of our suitcases (NOT the first to make that particular offer…). Macy’s New York is The Largest Store In The World. Brace yourself, it’s quite hard work. We basically started at the top and worked our way down, floor 7, then 5, then 4, stopping only to go back up to 7 for a brief Maccy D’s at the feet of Mayor McCheese.

I bought a couple of pairs of trousers, and a couple of tops and three pairs of shoes. Mum also got a pair of shoes. Well, it’s not my fault, there was a sale on. Every time I tried to pay for something, the price went down!

We were shattered by about 2 so we took a cab to Central Park South and sat in the sun having drinks and hot dogs (halal, couldn’t find kosher – quite peppery!). Unfortunately, a bagpipe player, who had obviously been hounded from his home by his neighbours, decided that our bit of the park was the perfect place to practice, so we were forced to leave.

We caught a cab down to Ground Zero, but when we got there, we found that, having argued for ten years as to what to do with the site, they are only now building and most of it was hidden by hoardings. Mum was very upset to see they were building on it at all, and no amount of assurance that the actual footprints of the buildings would be left untouched helped, so we stayed in the cab and returned to the ship.

We have two new people on our table. Nice enough, Sally and Bert, but Scottish, and although Sally is perfectly intelligible, Bert is not so much. He has a very strong accent, a stutter AND he mumbles! Mum and dad don’t stand a chance! Even I struggle and I have perfect hearing! The other couple have yet to show up.

Today is not so much a travel blog. It’s a bit more personal, at least to start with.

Today we disembarked at ten and struggled to find a cab. This was not because it was hot or humid – it was slightly chilly, actually, but just because they are very badly organised, which is not what you expect from New York. They have a single line of cabs to collect everybody from two ships arriving at the same time, and they are mixed with private vehicles who have come to pick up relatives disembarking the Carnival Sensation which is parked next to us. 3,000 of them and all we want to do is go to Grand Central Station.

When we finally grabbed a cab – no queue, per se, just every man/woman/child for themselves, we found ourselves in stationary traffic. On a Sunday? Yes, because half the city had the roads closed for the Puerto Rican Day Parade. It took us so long to get to the station, we started to worry, and we’d allowed over an hour before the train!

I’d never been to Grand Central Station. It really is a beautiful building and a marvel of 1930s architecture. I particularly liked the paintings depicting various constellations on the ceiling of the main hall.

The nice lady at the ticket counter directed us to the wrong platform, but we found the right one anyway. It was downstairs in the 100s, and it was as hot as Hell itself down on the tracks. Thank heavens the trains are air conditioned! We were on the slow train, which stopped at 16 stops in 49 minutes. Some stations were so close together that the announcements for the last station were still playing when we arrived in the next one! Bronxville looks pretty. None of the others interested us greatly.

We arrived in White Plains and caught a cab to our cousin’s apartment. The cab driver tried to put another three people in our cab, to give them a lift at the same time, but we objected very strongly and we kept it to just the three of us. I’m not even sure you can fit six people in an ordinary saloon car taxi. Luckily, I had noticed a sign on the wall of the taxi rank which said that the customer has the right to exclusive use of the taxi, which I thought was odd when I read it. Good thing I did, because I was able to quote it to him when he tried to overfill ours! He said he would charge us an extra dollar for our refusal. Dad said that’s fine, there just won’t be a tip! Apparently, it’s common practice in White Plains, cos everyone is just so friendly (read: taxi drivers are so greedy). Balderdash.

When we arrived, our cousins, David and Ellen, greeted us. Cousin Mary was delighted to see us but wasn’t very “with it” – she kept forgetting how we were related to her. She knew who I was, though, which was odd, as she hasn’t seen me in 20 years! I found it particularly hard when, every now and then, she apologised for not being on par – she knew she wasn’t 100%. We had a delicious lunch of cold meats and salads and homemade blueberry cake (handmade by David), and left at 3, because Mary was getting tired. David drove us back to the ship and dropped us next door so that we could go around the aircraft carrier Intrepid, next to which we are moored. Mum wanted to go over Concorde, but they close that earlier than advertised, so we missed that. Added to which, it costs twice as much as the Intrepid alone, so we won’t be doing it any time soon.

FYI: They are hoping to get one of the Space Shuttles (the one currently in the Smithsonian in Washington who are getting one of the last to be ‘retired’ instead). Apparently they are expecting it to take four to five YEARS to get it to New York (first they have to raise the money to buy it, then transport it, then build a home for it). By all means, plan to visit it, but you have plenty of time to save up…

Back to the ship and then out to dinner. We went to the Redeye Grill, recommended by our cousin, Suz. Superb. We were seated a bit close to the fresh shellfish on ice, so they moved us to a different table, where it wasn’t so cold! We had a large steak on the bone and a filet mignon, both with fries and salad, and divided them between the three of us. There is a sharing charge of twelve dollars fifty, but our waiter didn’t charge us. We then had a sort of strawberry pavlova type dessert, with chocolate straws and chocolate sauce – one between the three of us. When the bill came, we found there were no drinks on it at all! We didn’t complain… A man at the table next to us had a birthday, and it sounded like one of the waiters has operatic training, because the singing of “Happy Birthday” over the sparkler in his dessert was rather impressive! Overall, it was a wonderful meal, thoroughly delicious. Not cheap, but not extortionate. Highly recommended. Get there early or book ahead. There are about six steps to climb to get to the restaurant.

We arrived early – about 40 minutes, although, as we had a medical emergency during the night, we were aiming to arrive much earlier. Welcome to Charleston. It is 9am and it is 31 degrees in the shade and is set to go up during the day. Yikes.

The walk into the terminal involved descending two storeys via a three-slope zigzag airbridge. This is tricky downwards – upwards will be nigh on possible, so we’ll have to get a chair to get mum back up it later.

So we went ashore and walked into the town centre, which was one block away. The heat from the sun was merciless. It pounded down on us and there was very little shade to be found. And the humidity was insane.

We browsed the old market, which is a covered market, thank goodness, which dates back to the earliest days of Charleston, and I bought a few bits and pieces. Then we went to find the restaurant that had been recommended in Tripadvisor. Big mistake. Huge.

Toast is the number one rated restaurant in Charleston (out of 500) on Tripadvisor with glowing reviews. Well, here’s mine. Brace yourself, it is, indeed, glowing.

If you must go to Toast, book ahead. Otherwise you will be made to WAIT while those that have booked go past you. After far too long, 15 to 20 minutes, you will be offered a table only when you threaten to walk out, and then they will try to park you by the loos. Oh no you don’t!

The menu is varied and interesting, but don’t believe a word of it. Just because their specialist dish, the Rutledge Reuben, is stated to contain beef on rye with sauerkraut and 1000 island dressing, don’t assume a thing. Reubens often contain cheese, but this is their own version of it, so it’ll be a bit different and contain what it states, right? Wrong. What will arrive will be beef AND CHEESE on rye. Here’s the menu. Do you see any mention of cheese?

No, neither do I. So while I ate my chicken strips, mum and dad had to WAIT EVEN LONGER for fresh ones to be made with the contents as specified. By the time they got their food, I’d finished. In fact, I paid the bill and went to the loo to pass the time while they ate. The food was nice enough, by the way, but it nowhere near deserves its status as number one in Charleston. Not even close. My drink didn’t even include a refill!

And the loos are appalling. Although clean and properly provisioned (paper, soap, hand towels) there is only one and the lock doesn’t work. Mum walked in while I was on the loo! I had locked it, I swear I had, but if someone as feeble as my mum purports to be can force their way in, it’s not much of a lock.

I think the main problem I had with the place was the attitude. Sort of patronising but laid back and a bit too carefree for working in a busy restaurant. I get that this is the South, but we only have seven hours to see this entire town and wasting over an hour and a half of it waiting for you to get your act together is simply not on. We even told them we were in a hurry, we even told them why, but they couldn’t have cared less, and one of them is particularly good at dumb insolence crossed with patronising, purveyed in such a way that you can’t tell for sure whether she is taking the mick or not, so you can’t complain.

And then they swindled me on the t-shirt, which I shall be sending back.

One of the marginally more competent waitresses recommended the horse-drawn carriage tour, as the guides are professionally trained, so we walked back to where they were and booked onto one. Then we… go on guess. Yes, we WAITED. Over half an hour. Seriously, all you do in Charleston is WAIT.

Turned out our horse was overheated, despite the fact that every stall had a fan and every fan pointed at a horse, not the humans – they even hosed him down a couple of times, but to no avail – so they had to change them over. We ended up with the best behaved one, Earl, which was nice. This is Earl.

Our guide, Daryn (female), was very good and we were shown around some of the oldest houses in Charleston and she told us about the history of the place, including the civil war (obviously – the first shot was fired here), a massive earthquake, including liquification (where the earth ripples – sounds horrible) and the great fire that burned down over 500 buildings, one year into the civil war.

Talking of which, the tour guides all wear full Confederate uniforms, although without the jackets (well, it is over 90 in the shade…). In fact, Daryn told us that if the temperature rises above 96 degrees, the entire town shuts down, and if the horses’ individual body temperatures go above 103, they get the rest of the day off. All in all, a very interesting hour-long tour, although whether it was value for money at TWENTY-ONE dollars a head, I’m not sure. Although, bearing in mind that if you booked it through the ship, it cost exactly double that, we didn’t do too badly.

When we got back, I bought an apple-flavoured sorbet called a Charleston Ice (yummy!) and we caught two cycle cabs to Waterfront Park, where we sat and had a drink and listened to the children shriek as they ran through the fountain (which was, interestingly, chlorinated). Then we walked back to the ship. We thought we could hop on the free trolley bus, but it turns out the stop marked on the map doesn’t exist. Ahem.

So, in summary, Charleston is pleasant enough, but take a brolly and a fan – the heat and humidity are murder – and don’t go to Charleston if you’re in a hurry. Ever. For anything. You will queue for everything you see and do and they are in no hurry at all. Normally, I’m a big fan of the take it easy attitude, no hurry, whatever, I am on holiday, after all, but when I’m trying to see an entire town in one day, a modicum of haste would be appreciated, particularly once I’ve TOLD you I’m in a hurry. Eat Charleston Ice. Do NOT eat at Toast. That is all.

Herewith the restaurant review as it will be submitted to Tripadvisor. Enjoy.

PATRONISED, INSULTED, MISLED, WRONG ORDER, TERRIFIED AND THEN SWINDLED. IN THAT ORDER. DO NOT EAT HERE. EVER.
Worst decision of my entire life, to eat at Toast. There was one couple to be seated before us. We waited over 20 minutes while they seated everyone else who came in. They gave my mum a seat and then patronised her when she complained about the interminable wait. FINALLY they seated us. We ordered two of their “Rutledge Reubens” and some chicken. Then we WAITED. For AGES. When the Reubens came, they had cheese in. There was no mention of cheese on the menu. If you put cheese on your reubens, PUT CHEESE ON THE MENU. It is a SIN for Jewish people to eat cheese and meat together and my mother felt quite sick. So then we WAITED while they made fresh ones. Which took EVEN LONGER than the first ones. By which time, I had finished my food and drink, which was not refilled. I went to the toilet – there is only one – and either the lock doesn’t work or my mother is strong enough to break the door down, because she was able to walk in on me. For some reason, I decided I would by a t-shirt. When I got home, not only did it STINK, but it was NOT “the same as the ones the servers were wearing” but had some slogan and a really ugly picture on it which I would not be seen dead wearing and which will be returned in the mail as soon as I get home. Don’t eat at Toast. EVER. It was the worst service in the worst restaurant I have ever been in, and the food, when it finally arrived, was adequate at best. Shame on you, Tripadvisor contributors, you let us down, and shame on Toast for the worst meal of our lives. Never again.