Queen Mary 2 - Journey's End

Our last leg of the journey is the return to the United States.

From Italy, we fly to England to board the Queen Mary 2 which sails from Southampton to New York. I had great hopes that this would prove to be one of the highlights of the entire trip, but sadly it is not.It is notable only for its mediocrity. Nothing about it has created any inspiration for my writing. It is neither bad enough for a rant nor good enough for a rave. I would in fact ignore it, but so many people have asked for my comments on sailing on the Queen Mary that I have to write something.

It is huge (2600 passengers) which many people like, but I prefer smaller ships where you get to know the staff and your fellow passengers. There are, as far as I can see, no interesting characters and no photo ops.

The most noticeable thing about sailing on the Queen Mary is that it is immediately apparent that this ship, like no other we have been on, seems to have a very obvious class system in effect, which Cunard clearly encourages. The ship divides its passengers into two groups – those who are prepared to pay a premium for a stateroom on a higher deck, with an open balcony and access to an exclusive restaurant, and those who are not, who dine in a room open to all. Now I know you are all assuming that I am in the first group, but I have to tell you, dear readers, that much to my chagrin, I am not. Dear Gordon, or Ed as he is now affectionately known, has decided that a little economy is in order, and as much as I hate that word, I have agreed. Consequently I find myself in the second group. And this group also seems to be divided between those who have an outside stateroom (some with “sheltered” balconies), and those who have inside staterooms (of which there is a great number) which are windowless and amazingly affordable.

The other noticeable division is created by the enforced dress code. If you want to eat in one of the formal dining rooms you must abide by the dress code, which is formal for three nights (black tie/evening dress), and semi formal for the other nights (jacket and tie for men, cocktail dress for women). A large contingent of passengers (including us) adopt this way of life with gusto and enjoy parading through the ship in our finery. Others are much happier in their shorts and T shirts and windowless cabins, and appear quite content to eat in what looks like a giant food court lifted out of an American Mall. The food however is not inspiring in either the formal restaurants or the food hall and lags far behind Oceania in that regard, and doesn't even measure up to Celebrity.

The cabins however (or staterooms as the industry likes to call them) are the largest cabins we have experienced, and very comfortable if rather bland in their décor. The balconies are also larger than any we have seen. But in a throwback to years gone by that we cannot understand, this is the only ship that allows smoking in the cabins. Consequently the cabins smell of smoke and the corridors reek of it. It is at times almost unbearable for us non-smokers.

Whilst I readily admit to a preference for smaller ships, they cannot compete with the amazing scale and glamour of a ship of this size. There is definitely more than a touch of fabulosity in the huge sweeping staircases and luxuriously wide passageways filled with art deco sculptures, huge bas relief panels, crystal chandeliers and enormous paintings . But while the corridors, staircases and elevators have embraced scale with great elan, there is little pizzaz in the cafes, bars and restaurants which seem notable only for their seating capacity. The dining rooms fail to impress and do not appear as grand as the ones on Celebrity. Women and gay men love to slowly descend the obligatory sweeping staircase from the upper level of the restaurant to the main floor, hoping that all eyes are on them admiring their fabulous outfit specially selected for the evening. But here the staircase is distinctly cramped compared to Celebrity and does not allow for the same grand (or camp) entry.

Ships of this scale also have more money available for entertainment, and here the QM2 is unmatched by any ship I have been on. The entertainment definitely sets the fabulosity meter going. There are two theatres, a ballroom, two bands, a string quartet and a harpist onboard. The evening shows and daily lectures are wonderful as are the rather outrageous tea dances. We have the pleasure of listening to two lectures by P.D. James and two by the English actress Celia Imrie, as well as several others by perhaps less well known but equally interesting presenters. The evening shows in the the theatre are all excellent. They are usually followed by a formal dance in the ballroom - the largest found on any ship. These are amazingly well attended by the formally attired class of passenger most of whom seem to delight in the old fashioned world of a big band playing playing dance music from the 30's and 40's. This is also the last ship sailing to have “gentlemen hosts', who attend all the dances and have the unenviable duty of inviting all the single women to dance. They are not, we understand, allowed to sit out one dance and must never dance with the same lady two dances in a row. We hear stories of how many of them are pursued with great enthusiasm and astounding energy by some of the widows and spinsters who would like to be taken for a spin around a completely different floor. One look at the widows and spinsters would persuade you that this is not an added benefit to the job of being a “gentlemen host”. And indeed the “gentlemen hosts” are mostly over 60, if not over 70. It is hard to believe that having been on the dance floor all afternoon and evening, any of them would have the energy or enthusiasm for extra curricular activities.

While all of this is going on, I am not sure what the short and T shirt brigade do, but it is interesting to note that few of them seem interested in gatecrashing the ballroom.

And so on the 6^th day of an enjoyable but uninspiring cruise, we arrive in New York and our two month trip comes to an end.

We disembark to a large hall where we have to try and find our luggage. There is a very well put together gentleman, slowly unraveling because he is unable to find his suitcase. He confronts someone who appears to be in charge. She is a tall and rather imposing African American woman, who has clearly dealt with people of his ilk many times before. He is fast losing his temper, and a flush of red is rising through his cheeks. His bellowing voice, tinged with rage, echoes across the room as he demands that something be done about his missing luggage.

The woman merely observes this tirade with a cold and unaffected stare. Finally her right hand rises to shoulder level and falls with a rapid zig zag motion, her long painted fingernails cutting through the air. She refrains from snapping her fingers but says with a long and pronounced drawl on the first word

“Honneeeee, there are only two people in the entire world who care about your suitcase. You are one, and you are screaming at the other. Do you really think that is wise?”

She's sort of fabulous!

It's good to be home.

(Ed:Amen!)

The Italian Lakes

Lake Garda has done to me what hasn't been done to me in a very long time. I am behaving like a giddy schoolgirl. I know I am a little old for such behaviour (understatement of the year), but I can't help it. I am in love. Head over heels in love. Lake Garda is FABULOUS. I know there are at least two other lakes that claim to be more fabulous, but I don't need to see them. I don't need more fabulous . …... (pause for thought) – well, of course I do, but this works just fine for me.

We have a drive of nearly 400 miles from Pula to Lake Garda, and we have two borders to cross. We have also just read that there are more deaths on Italian roads than in any other country, which makes us a little nervous. We don't want to rush. Thinking it would take at least 8 hours and maybe more, we set off at the ungodly hour of 7am. But we failed to take into account that we would be driving on the Italian Autostrada, and it soon becomes apparent why the death toll is so high. The Italians drive as if getting to their destination is a matter of life or death – their life and your death. The posted speed limit is not a limit at all – it is a figure that should be taken and doubled for a minimum suggested speed. If you drive any slower than 100 miles an hour you are a severe impediment to the rest of the traffic, and subject to flashing lights and blaring horns from the cars approaching your rear at an alarming speed. If you stick to 100 miles an hour, you need never leave the slow lane. The speedometer on our small Fiat shows a top speed of 260 kilometers an hour, which we had thought was a joke. It appears not be . I am instantly transformed into a wanna be Italian and drive like a maniac. We arrive at the lake in time for an early lunch. But before we can do anything, Gordon's fingers have to be prized off the door handle and seat belt.

And as the color slowly returns to Gordon's face, I take in the beauty of Lake Garda. It's love at first sight. It's irrational, I know.

The place is crammed with tourists, but this is a classier crowd with not a caravan to be seen. Plus, it is the Italian Lakes. I expect crowds.

The small family run guest house/hotel I have booked is certainly not fancy. But none of it matters. I am in love and love is blind. Besides, I spent weeks researching Hotels on the Internet and I know that this is one of the very few that sits right on the edge of the lake. There is nothing between it and the lake but a small garden and a smaller jetty from which you can swim. I already knew it was going to be fabulous, but what I didn't know was how fabulous!
The Marconi Hotel (make a note of it, you will want to stay here) sits in the middle of the old town of Sirmione. Sirmione is on a thin finger of land pointing out into the lake. It is over a mile long and the last half of it is the old town, with narrow cobbled streets, lined with old but carefully preserved houses, painted in Mediterranean colours with contrasting shutters and window boxes full of brightly coloured flowers . The old town is pedestrian only , unless you are staying at the Marconi Hotel, in which case you can get a special pass allowing you entry.

Are you beginning to see the attraction?

There are many Hotels in the old town, but this is just one of a very few that has its own parking. Staying at the other hotels involves parking outside the city and walking a half mile to the hotel.

There is a guard house with metal bollards across the street to prevent everyone but me from driving into the old town. The Hotel has arranged for my pass to be left with the guard and I must show it each time I enter the old town. The guard then presses a button and the metal bollards across the narrow street automatically descend into the tarmac, allowing me, and only me, to drive into the old city. How fabulous is that! Driving through the narrow streets is also an experience not to be missed, but of course, is missed by almost everyone. There is just enough room for my car to pass through as long as the other less than fabulous tourists who have to walk , flatten themselves against the wall. I try not to look too regal as I pass by, but it's hard. This would be a good time to have a chauffeur, I think to myself, then I could wave from the back seat.

Although the streets are crowded, once you pass through the Hotel to the private lakeside garden, all is calm. The only noise comes from the many ducks and ducklings who swim by. At breakfast and lunch they sidle up to the dock and quack loudly letting you know that it is their feeding time too. They are often accompanied by three beautiful white swans who look imperiously down there noses at everything and refuse to be tempted by any of the tidbits thrown out by the Hotel guests. Is it any wonder I am in love.

The small garden is full of tables and chairs , sofas and swing sets. None of the furniture has even a touch of fabulosity. But, love is blind and it doesn't matter. Nor does it matter that few pieces of furniture match, or that the swing sets long ago lost their canvas canopy. What matters is that they are private, quiet and comfortable, and sitting in them provides the most spectacular view of the lake.
The small dock manages to accommodate 10 chaises. It doesn't matter that they are the inexpensive type with blue and white rubber slats that sag in the middle. What matters is that this is only one of three Hotels in the entire area that has a private dock for sunbathing and swimming. And of those three, this is the only one with private parking.
The room itself is not large. But it doesn't matter. What matters is that has a small balcony overlooking the lake with a table and two chairs. Again it is the only Hotel on the lake with balconies that you can sit on.

It doesn't matter that the bathroom was last remodeled in the 1950's with lavender pink tiles and black fittings. Nor does it matter that some of the tiles are cracked. What matters is that it is spotlessly clean, with oversized fluffy white towels and a large bathtub. We haven't seen a bath tub for almost two months.



So, dear readers, you can see that this is not a Hotel that would normally impress the Fabulosity meter. But I love it and love truly is blind. The Hotel does not impress by its glamour, instead it impresses by its welcome. And that welcome comes from the family that runs it.
Mother, is a large matronly looking woman whose age it is impossible to guess,. She, like the Hotel, makes little attempt at glamour, wearing no make up or jewelery and dressing in nothing but shapeless black smocks, with her grey hair pulled back tightly behind her head . But she, like the Hotel, is comfortable and welcoming. It takes her a day to size me up, but after that I am greeted each morning with an endearing and all enveloping hug. She rattles off off her morning greetings in rapid fire Italian knowing full well that I understand nothing of what she says, but making sure that the sentiment is understood by clasping me to her ample bosom.

Her husband, having presumably enjoyed many years of being clasped to that ample bosom, radiates contentment mixed with a rather weary outlook. Before they started the Hotel, hubby had a pastry shop for years. He has not lost his love of baking and works throughout the night preparing an amazing array of pastries and cakes for our breakfast every morning:


The son is front of house. A charming man with a ready laugh and carefully projected and controlled air of ease, whom I immediately suspect might be a little light in his loafers. His controlled manner and style of dress is supposed to mislead. He dresses like an accountant in brown slacks and a green striped long sleeve shirt. But, but those little touches that no gay man can resist, give him away. The belt provides the initial clue. On the first day it is a light coloured belt with little cartoon type drawings of childrens' noddy cars driving round it. The drawings are in green and somehow are the exact same shade of green as his shirt. To complete the image, he wears glasses, but these are way too stylish for the accountant look . The frames are cream with a green strip down the arm. And once again the green is a perfect match to the shirt. The glasses on their own could be insignificant as so many Italians wear stylish glasses. But, the next day, things become clearer. The shirt is exactly the same style as yesterdays, but with blue stripes, instead of green. The belt is white with multicoloured flags printed around it. The glasses too are the same style as yesterdays, but now have a blue stripe that matches the blue shirt. His hair is short and well groomed, but a shade of reddish brown that hints at a little help from a bottle. His eyebrows, as you might expect, exactly match his hair. It is a mannered look that whispers of a gentle difference.
He, like his mother, is warm and welcoming and by the end of my stay, embracing me in large hugs.
I love it here.

But of course it is always the intial visual attraction that causes one to fall in love. And the lake has this in spades. It is breathtakingly beautiful, and I spend 5 blissful days exploring it's shores. There are the tourist spots that are so popular because they drip with character and charm and have that Italian flair that appeals to almost everyone.

But it is also possible to find quiet spots, and tiny deserted beaches where a picnic of bread and fabulous cheeses washed down with a $2 bottle of prosecco (now that I REALLY love) can be enjoyed without interruption.

The west side of the lake is as beautiful as anywhere I have seen with huge dramatic mountains , hiding rustic villages, rushing streams, dramatic views, and tiny taverns serving fabulous pizza .

(Ed Note: Click on any picture to enlarge it)

Five days rush by, and it is already time to leave. As I am paying the bill, Mama comes rushing out and gives me one last hug, and then presents me with a beautiful wrapped package, that she says is “just for you”.
When I open it in the car I find a perfectly baked almond cake

I am so in love. It's fabulous

Istria

Dear Readers,
I seem to have fooled many of you into believing my travels, and therefore this never ending diary, have come to end. But as you all know it is not over until the fat lady sings, and I haven't as yet sung a single note.
We disembark the ship at Athens and go straight to the airport. We are due to spend 6 days in Istria to relax after all the hard work of cruising.

For those of you like me who have no idea where Istria is, it is part of Croatia. For those of you like me who can't quite locate Croatia on a map either, it stretches along the coast of what used to be Yugoslavia, which is now divided up into a plethora of tiny countries, all with forgettable names and most, amazingly, with their own language. Istria is right at the top of Croatia , a small fist punching out into the Adriatic, which has only recently come out of relative obscurity. It's stunning coastline and dramatic countryside have finally caught the attention of European tourists. To get there we fly to Trieste and pick up a rental car. We first have to drive through Slovenia, which sounds like a drag name waiting to be chosen by some aging, third rate, overweight drag queen with a hygiene problem, but is in fact incredibly beautiful (or the small bit we drive through is). How can anywhere with such an unappealing name be so gorgeous?

Istria, blessed with a slightly more appealing name, doesn't quite match up to Slovenia in the looks department, but comes in close second. The countryside is a visual feast with steep sided mountainettes (well they are too small to call mountains and too steep to call hills), adorned with small red roofed villages perched on top peeking through the surrounding woods.

Everywhere is impossibly green, thanks in part to the deep red fertile soil.
The coast too is visually stunning, lined as it is with the sparkling blue and dramatically clear waters of the Adriatic and dotted with little islands, some close enough to swim to, others just a short ferry ride away. And there are boats everywhere. It seems that even the smallest coastal village has a marina and the marina is often bigger than the village.
It has all the makings of paradise but sadly it does not set off the fabulosity meter. Firstly there are very few accessible beaches. Those that there are, are narrow strips of shingle. If you can't find a narrow strip of shingle, then there is no option but to sunbathe on, and swim from, the rocks. At least the rocks in many places have been dotted with small patches of concrete to give a place for people to sit, however uncomfortably. But being from England, I am used to uncomfortable beaches, where there isn't even the beautiful Mediterranean Sea to make the discomfort worthwhile.

The lack of beaches doesn't bother me, but what does are the tourists that sit on them. First of all the vast majority of them are Germans, and Germans on a beach means two things – very large men in very small Speedos and very large women in very small bikinis. It is not pretty and becomes even less so on the many nudist beaches. The only saving grace on the nudist beaches is that the rolls of fat often obscure the bits that I have absolutely no desire to see.

Some of the nicer beaches (by that, I mean those with smaller pebbles) have hotels directly behind them. The hotels line these beaches with chaises, and here the presence of Germans is significant for another reason. It means there are never any chaises available, as they have all been reserved by Germans who placed their towels on the chaises at 7.30 am, but have yet to appear on the beach, as there is still food left on the buffet table.
Regardless of whether the tourists are German or not, they do all seem to be from a class of which my mother would not approve, and one that I strive unsuccessfully to accept. For one thing, they like to camp, something I am extremely reluctant to do, which is rather an understatement. And if they are not camping, they are traveling in a car with a caravan (trailer to you Americans) behind it, which they might consider a step up from camping, but I most certainly do not. Caravans are something that up till now I have paid no attention to, as they never have, and hopefully never will, play any sort of role in my life. But all of a sudden they are constantly in my field of vision, interrupting what would otherwise be a beautiful day's drive. Given the chance to study them up close, I am discovering that there is even a class system within the caravan owners. There are the glamorous, modern and well cared for caravans which are few and far between on the roads of Istria. The rest come from caravan rental lots that litter the countryside, where you can (well you can, but I wouldn't) go in and inspect the caravans and find a suitable one to drag behind your car for the next two weeks. These cosmetically challenged caravans, like the tourists inspecting them, are a sorry looking bunch that has clearly seen better days. But even in their heyday they could never have reached a status above economy class.

The thought of actually sleeping in one of these tiny homes on wheels that has been lived in by so many different families over the past God knows how many years has no appeal whatsoever to one striving for a little fabulosity. But clearly, in Istria anyway, I am in the minority. The roads and campsites are full of people who find them a perfectly acceptable way to travel.

I could be truly fabulous and just ignore these other tourists with whom I find myself sharing the delights of Istria, if only I could find one of those idyllic secluded beaches that I have read so much about. But every time we find a promising looking lane, turning off in the direction of the sea, we follow it with great anticipation, only to find it ending at a fence with a gate. The fence surrounds a huge campsite, presumably to keep people from getting out because lord knows no one would want to get in. The gate has a gate house, from which an officious looking person emerges, looking as if he would be far more comfortable with an Uzi strapped to his chest and wanting me to pay for the privilege of reaching this secluded cove which I can then share with hundreds of economy tourists, their overexcited children and brightly coloured airbeds.

It's not going to happen. I would hate it and Patsy would never forgive me

The alternative is to spend a large part of our days visiting the several beautiful cities in this area. There is Rovinj, a medieval walled city,




Porec, the largest resort town and Pula which is where we are staying.

These cities all have old sections full of narrow streets down which cars (and caravans thankfully) are not allowed to drive. They are fascinating areas to explore, full of cafes and restaurants with inviting tables lining the passageways and squares. But the tables are the only thing inviting about them.

The food, without exception, is terrible. It is the land of meat and potatoes. The meat is usually advertised as being served with two vegetables. This we quickly discover means potatoes cooked in two different ways – boiled and fried - and placed on the plate either side of a completely unrecognisable piece of meat that has been cooked until dead. The boiled potatoes are the hardest part of the meal to eat. They are charmingly described on the menu as “salty potatoes”, which prevents any lawsuits that may arise from diners who find their blood pressure has risen to alarming new heights after eating them. They appear to be cooked in boiling water with a lot of oil and huge amounts of salt . After eating, my mouth is lined with oil and I am awake all night drinking endless glasses of water.

We search high and low for a decent restaurant but they do not exist. We go on line and look for recommendations, but the only positive note in all the reviews of the many restaurants is that you will not go hungry. Other comments are “the worst pizza I have ever eaten” and “if you must eat here, fill up on the bread first”

There is only one restaurant that earns rave reviews and that is the one housed in the small hotel we are staying in. Of course it is! In fact the restaurant has been voted best restaurant in Croatia every year for the past 11 years, and it was for this reason that we booked our accommodation . However, nowhere was it mentioned that it is also the most pretentious restaurant we have ever come across and the fixed price for their menu is $100+. Having spent the last three weeks eating wonderful food on the Nautica we have no need of this place. All we want is some simple grilled fish straight from the Adriatic, served with a perfect salad. But this proves impossible to find.

The hotel itself is situated in a charming small village a couple of miles outside Pula. There are just 10 rooms and we have one facing the sea. There is a large balcony with a delightful outlook, and it is just steps from the rocks from where we can swim unencumbered by campers and caravaners.

The room is huge and very red

The designer, a rather flattering term for whoever put the room together, has tried to go for an eclectic look. There are some nice pieces of turn of the last century furniture together with an old wind up gramophone, all mixed in with a large amount of instantly recognizable furniture from the turn of a completely different century. Someone is a big fan of Ikea, and it isn't me. Actually that isn't true. Ikea is great when carefully chosen and placed in the right setting, but a 4 star hotel room is not the right setting. And an Ikea bed and mattress only belong in a child's room, or guest room, and this is neither of those. Perhaps Ikea is not found in Croatia and the designer is hoping that the guests will merely see slick furniture and not cheap slick furniture. But if that is the case, they shouldn't accept gay men as their customers.

Like so many things in Istria, it looks striking from a distance, but up close its cheap and tacky.

Next stop is Italy, which is certainly not cheap and could never be called tacky.

Sochi Russia &Yalta The Ukraine

(Ed.The last of the cruise ..... but not the blog!)

Sochi is a beautiful resort town that will host the 2014 Winter Olympics, and Russia is clearly going all out to impress in 4 years time. We can see it is already the playground of the Russian Oligarchy, and the Russian Oligarchy that play here are obviously very wealthy indeed. The towering luxury apartment buildings rival those in any major world city . They are tall, sleek, glass buildings with stunning views, large balconies and striking architectural details.
We dock in the middle of the waterfront. To one side is a Marina full of huge sleek yachts staffed by equally sleek young men and women. The owners pay the exorbitant marina dues and let their fully staffed yachts sit there most of the year until the mood takes them to venture out on the Black Sea for a few days.
On the other side of our ship is the long promenade. The beaches are shingle but already packed with sunbathers at 8am when we arrive. The Russians see very little sun during the year, and so when they do see it, they make the most of it.
Behind the beaches is an enormous fairground that stretches along the waters edge, with water slides and ferris wheels, all busy with Russian revelers. And behind all of this is the sleek modern Russian City. There is no old town, no tourist sights, nothing to do except stroll the streets. It lacks the soul of the of the Ukranian Cities we have visited. It is beautiful to look at with it's background of lush green mountains, but there is “no there, there”

The next Morning we arrive at Yalta, which is maybe how Sochi would like to be. But Yalta is not just beautiful to look at, it is absolutely stunning. Behind the waterfront there is a narrow strip of land on which the old town sits, and immediately behind that are breathtaking mountains, the tops of which are thousands of feet high and shrouded in mist. The walls of the mountains are almost sheer rock in most places, dropping from the mountain top to the pine covered slopes below. It is a rock climbers dream, which is why, of course, Sergey lives here.
Sergey, our guide for Sevastopol is to be our guide here too. He meets us at the port in exactly the same clothes as he met us in 5 days ago. We are not sure whether they have been washed since, but his car has definitely not been. In fact an axe and a saw have now rather alarmingly joined the debris that litters the floor behind the front seats. We try not to think about the reason for them being there.
There is a lot to do and see in Yalta and its surrounds, and Sergey sets off up a winding mountainous road at an alarming pace. Finally we stop at the side of the road and Sergey informs us it is a short walk to the Massandra Palace, which we have come to see.
Sergey's idea of a short walk is not mine, nor is his idea of a comfortable walking pace. We walk for at least a mile up a steep and narrow winding road at a pace that could induce a heart attack in a man of my age who has been on board a luxury cruise ship for almost 4 weeks. But Sergey is totally unaware of my discomfort as we approach the Palace at a fast trot, my clothes soaked in sweat and my breath coming in short gasps. Once there the first thing I see is a handful of cars in the car park. A light finally goes off in my mind. Sergey is cheap. Hence the old dirty car, the old dirty clothes, and the long walks. Sergey is avoiding paying any parking fees, despite the large amount of money we have paid to have him chauffeur us around.
But we do cover a lot of ground, seeing three Palaces, two churches and Chekov's house, as well as having lunch overlooking the world famous Swallows Nest Castle.

Sergey meanwhile fill us in with a lot of history, interspersed with anecdotes of his rock climbing and para-gliding escapades in the beautiful mountains all around us. He is clearly happier talking about his adventure sports, but doesn't stint on the history, even if it is seen from a completely different angle from the one we have learned.
Yalta of course is home of the Yalta conference and we visit the Lividia Palace where the famous World War Two Treaty was signed. What we had never learned in our English schooling however,was that Russia in fact won World War Two which is why Stalin could dictate terms of the Treaty.
Nor had we heard the story that while Churchill stayed in the beautiful Alupka Palace, he secretly made holes in many of the walls, and then tried to cover them up by moving pictures over them. Sergey's story has it that Churchill was distantly related to the family who owned this Castle and so knew that many walls had been built with gaps between them. As the Revolution took a decidedly Red turn, the wealthy owner of the Palace hid a lot of gold in these gaps and this is what Churchill was looking for. Churchill was, according to Russian history, attending the Conference by day and hunting for gold at night which explains the mysterious nocturnal knockings which the staff would hear. Although no gold was ever found on Churchill's person, it was believed that he arrived with several empty suitcases, which were full and extremely heavy when he left.
I enjoyed one other story that he told us, for no other reason than for its sheer fabulosity content. Czar Nicholas 2nd was extremely popular with the Russian People prior to World War 1 (it all changed after that, which is of course another story.) But when Czar Nicholas appeared in public, people would pay to stand in line to watch him go by . A premium price was paid to stand in the front row on the sunny side of the street, because Czar Nicholas would cast a shadow that way and the people in the front row would kneel and kiss his shadow.
Now that is sort of Fabulous.

And talking of Fabulous, you will perhaps remember the lady with the white hat who graced an earlier blog. We have since got to know her a little. Her name is Lynne and she owns an Antique Clothing Store on the Upper West Side in New York. She has become the star of the ship at least in her own mind, appearing each day in a succession of outfits, each one more glamorous than the next. She finally out did herself at dinner tonight, appearing in the outfit below which she had purchased in the Bazaar at Odessa.


She arrived at dinner with her sister in law who was more carefully dressed in a similar outfit but designed not to overshadow her sister's. Lynne stood at the entry to the Dining Room for some time so that her admiring public could photograph her, and have photographs taken with her. Finally, as the crowds abated, she was seated and removed the veil to eat dinner. But periodically, to keep her fans happy, she would rise from the table, replace the veil, parade round the dining room and stop at each table, greeting everyone, whether they wanted to be greeted or not.
Absolutely Fabulous!

And I thought you might like a glimpse of the man who would dare to travel with her,



Mmmmmm! Not so Fabulous

(Ed note: For those out there begging for more, and in the interests of equal exploitation , a few more Ukrainians)

Turkey Once More

We cross the Black Sea to the southern shores and visit two Turkish cities, Sinop and Trabzon.

Neither offers much in the way of excitement and the Fabulosity Meter would have been retired once more, if it weren't for a completely unexpected and totally fabulous lunch, followed by an equally unexpected and fabulous dinner.

We are walking along the unprepossessing waterfront of Trabzon, which is a little grimy and pays no attention to the few tourists that venture that way. It is full of small local shops with small locals sitting outside on even smaller stools drinking tea from tiny glasses, smoking and pleasantly passing their day. No one pays us any attention.

We pass a shabby restaurant, full of elderly, poorly dressed locals sitting at long communal tables. Normally we would pay scant attention to the place and walk on by, but as we are doing just that we notice a huge bowl of sardines sitting on a rickety table outside on the sidewalk. They had obviously just been caught and were still glistening with water. We turn to the restaurant door and are greeted by the very elderly Patron who it appears is chef, waiter and dishwasher. We ask if he is serving the sardines and he nods, offers a friendly smile that shows a lot of gum and very few teeth, and gestures for us to sit down at one of the long tables. He then takes a large handful of the sardines, shows them to us for our approval, sprinkles them liberally with Turkish spices and drops them into a very hot frying pan. Meanwhile he chops a totally fresh salad of cabbage, tomato, peppers and cucumber onto a large old discolored plate and offers it to us along with a huge tupperware container of sliced baguette.

Presentation is not his strong point.

Then he goes outside and alarmingly fills our glasses with water from a spring that was bubbling up through a spigot in the middle of the sidewalk. So far we are doing fine with this little culinary adventure, but the water seemed to be taking it a little far, to say the least. But he is such a lovely old man that we don't want to seem rude. Plus everyone else seems to be drinking it, so we recklessly risk life and limb (or stomach) and join them. Two minutes later the most delicious plate of sardines is put in front of us. It is one of the best lunches we have had on our journey.

However, half way through it we remember the lesson we learned in Istanbul where the waiters and restaurants mercilessly overcharge tourists. We realise that this restaurant has no menu, there are no prices posted anywhere, and when other diners pay their bill the old Patron just tells them how much it is and they pay him. When it comes time to ask for the bill we are prepared for a shock. The old man just looks at us, raises all 5 fingers on one hand and one finger on the other hand and grins another toothy smile. He is asking for 6 Turkish Lira, less than 4 US dollars. How fabulous is that.

Fabulous on a totally different scale awaits us that evening. We have booked a table in one of the ships specialty restaurants. Polo is the ship's Grill, decorated like a club house, with dark paneled walls, oversized leather arm chairs, framed photos of old movie stars and huge windows offering panoramic views out to sea. We have become friendly with the Maitre D. His name is Georgiou and his home is Corfu where he and his family own a restaurant that caters only to Greeks, and not tourists. Due to the Greek economy the family has decided not to open the restaurant this year and he has taken the job of Maitre D on board ship. He is what could politely be called a character. But I am rarely polite, and would in fact call him totally whacko.

He does a totally unconscious but spot on imitation of Basil Fawlty from Fawlty Towers. He is tall like Basil, with a slightly weird walk, taking huge strides to reach your table He approaches with hands wringing and grovelling for a little appreciation. He hovers alarmingly, cutting your steak to see if it is cooked the way you wanted it, unwrapping pats of butter, basically doing everything but chew the food for you. And all the while he is offering a commentary, and making inane jokes which he follows with a slightly manic laugh. He is truly eccentric and many people on board are unnerved by him, but our English upbringing allows us to embrace him, and he genuinely seems to appreciate us.

That evening he tells us that they have some wonderfully fresh fish bought dockside that very day. We tell him about our lunch at the local restaurant and he asks if we like all types of seafood. When we say that we love seafood, he suggests that we do not look at the menu and allow him to put together a few things that are not on the menu. We readily agree to this and wait to see what happens. Our waiters and table neighbours are fascinated. Our waiter says this has never happened before and she is at a loss to know what cutlery to put out for us.

Georgiou returns a little later and takes away the magnificent Versace dinner plates and replaces them with simple oval white ones. And then the food starts arriving. It arrives on platter after platter which he places in the middle of the table for us to share. There is a lobster soup and a fish soup. There are oysters, giant shrimp, lobsters, crab and different pieces of fresh fish, all displayed beautifully. Giant prawns lean on a piece of beautifully cooked salmon trout, crab meat sits on top of grilled sea bream, and so it goes on. When one is finished another arrives. Georgious even produces a plate of foie gras in case we want meat. It is an unbelievable feast, and we love it. What we love even more, is that the other diners are all slowly catching on to what is happening at our table and cannot understand why we are getting this special treatment. We can't either.

Unless of course, it is just because we are fabulous.

O M G

Ed Note: The editor has been so busy falling around laughing (or checking facts) that he has forgotten to publish 2 blogs ...... so for those of you who breathed a sigh of relief - tough! It ain't over until you've returned with us to Trabzon and Yalta.

Set your clocks back to FMT ... Fabulosity Mean (sometimes really mean) Time ......... and stay tuned for more travels, more tittle tattle and more fabulosity!)

Kusadasi and Ephesus

It's the last day of our cruise (finally, the crowd yells) and it is spent at Kusadasi. The few of you who have been paying attention will know that we were here two weeks ago with plans of visiting Ephesus, but our car and guide never showed up. The rest of you can pretend that you know what I am writing about

The tour company, you will remember, met us in Istanbul and were full of apologies. They also agreed to meet us again in Kusadasi. And this time they are waiting for us at the port gates, as arranged.. However we are not sure what to expect as we have had a less than inspiring review of Ephesus. The report came from none other than Louise Brooks who, when she heard that we hadn't made it to Ephesus last time, consoled us by saying
“Don't worry. It is highly overrated. It's just a pile of rubble. I don't understand why people get so excited by it”
Her sentences were always very short and uncomplicated, just like her opinions. But it must be remembered that this is the woman who didn't know the difference between the Mediterranean and the Black Sea. So it comes as no surprise to find that her harsh critique of Ephesus is totally undeserved.

The place sets the fabulosity meter ringing. It is awe inspiring, mainly because of the unbelievable construction involved in building this city over two thousand years ago, but also because of its setting. It is situated at the head of a valley, and runs down the valley for about a mile flanked on each side by hillsides covered in olive trees. The heart of the city, with all the government buildings and housing for the elite is situated at the head of the valley on the hill slopes, while the housing for the common people runs down the valley to the sea.
The scale of the city is incredible and it has been estimated that 250,000 men lived there. Notice the word “men”. That figure does not include slaves or women, who were second and third rate citizens (in that order!) and do not appear in any population estimates. So the population could easily have been over half a million. That was a lot of people two thousand years ago.

The infrastructure for a city of that size was amazing. The streets all run down hill to the sea and there was a system to release water at the top of the streets, which would run down through the city cleaning everything in its path. There were also drains from the toilets and baths. The drainpipes were made of twice baked clay, and the manufacturing process was so good that there are still piles of drain pipes in perfect condition stored at the edge of the City, looking like an overstocked section of Home Depot.

The pipes themselves were buried inside walls and under the streets and they too ran down the hill to the sea.

But even the best made plans can have a flaw – and in this case it was the silt washing down the nearby Meander river. I think actually it was all that sewage and street dirt! After a few centuries the bay filled in and the harbour which had been at the foot of the town bringing trade and prosperity was left high and dry. The marshy bay land attracted the mosquitoes, which in turn lead to a prolonged outbreak of malaria. Soon there was no alternative but to abandon the City and leave it to crumble.

Today there are two entrances to the Site – one at the head of the Valley and one at the bottom of the valley. Our guide like many others, drives us to the top of the valley and we walk down through the magnificent ruins to the bottom where our driver waits for us.
Our guide is in a rush. He is full of information which is fascinating, but we want to linger and explore the different areas. But every time we stop, he urges us on.

We have managed to get there before all the tour buses arrive from the five cruise ships docked at Kusadasi. But the large groups of tourists can now be seen behind us led by their assorted flag waving guides. If we keep ahead of them, we can enjoy all the highlights in relative peace, undisturbed by the waves of tourists pouring down behind us. We feel a little like the inhabitants of old trying to keep ahead of the effluent being washed down the streets.


The city is built of bricks all faced with white marble. The streets are all paved with white marble. The temperature is almost 100 degrees, but all the white marble makes it feel much hotter. The many bathhouses that are scattered through the city must have been most welcome. But once again it was all about the men (I am trying so hard not to raise a fist and shout “Yes!”). For the men used the baths first. When they were finished, the slaves could use them. And finally, after everyone else had used the water, the women were allowed in. It is hard to believe that being a slave in those days was better than being a woman.

The city is incredible and a few photographs will say more about it than I ever could:

There is the Library



The terraced houses, which are being painstakingly reconstructed right now,



with their painted walls,













mosaic floors
















and perfectly plumbed bathrooms




And everywhere there are magnificent statues,



and engravings




In short, it may be a pile of rubble, but it is a magnificent pile of rubble.

From here we go for a scenic drive up to the mountains to visit a beautiful old town called Sirence.


The guide leaves us to wander around and tells us he will have a cup of coffee in the local cafe, while he waits for us. But when we return we catch him hurriedly trying to hide incriminating bottles of beer.

But after a long hot day that seems like the perfect answer.

Sevastopol and Balaclava

Our next stop is Sevastopol, which is pronounced with the emphasis on the last two syllables, making it sound like a Russian Jew closely related to the Fiddler on the Roof. Finding a rental car on the Internet had been impossible, and so we had booked a guide to drive us to the places we wanted to see. I found Sergey on the Internet and he was friendly, helpful in his emails and inexpensive in his price. He meets us as planned beneath an imposing statue in the town square. He however is not imposing and is in stark contrast to the guide we had in Istanbul. Sergey is 30 years old and, as he had described himself in an email, “not tall”. We would say he is positively short. He is dressed as if for hiking, with a large and very grubby rucksack on his back, which looks as if it contains enough supplies for a week's camping. I am a little concerned as hiking and camping are not anything I care to do and certainly do not register on my Fabulosity Meter. His hair is cut in a sort of mullet and I am sure he is about to address me as “Dude”

He walks us over to his car, and while it was made in the same country as the sleek black Mercedes of the Istanbul guide, it is the only similarity. This is an Opel of indeterminate age and color. The outside is not particularly clean but does little to prepare us for the inside, which is truly grimy. The seats are dirty, the floor is littered with trash and all the door pockets are full of wrappers and empty water bottles. The only thing that persuades us to get into this vehicle is Sergey himself, who has an open friendly face and is full of easy charm. You can't tell a guide by his car, we optimistically think.

We expect his driver to appear at any minute, but soon realise that Sergey is both guide and driver, which means the guide part of him goes into seclusion while the driver part negotiates rush hour traffic in Sevastopol. What we do learn from him however, is that he is an adventure guide in real life, taking people trekking, climbing, skiing, and mountaineering. Being a tour guide is something he does to fill in the spaces between between all the good stuff. We appreciate his honesty and it certainly explains a lot, but we would like to suggest that some of his “filling in the spaces” could have been spent cleaning the car. He goes on to say that he doesn't own a TV, and knows nothing of Pop Culture or movies . He is however well read and full of insights into the history of his country and its split with Russia. He is also a qualified tour guide and knows his stuff. The adventure sports side of his business also means that he is intimately familiar with all the back roads, and instead of using the main roads, he takes us everywhere on minor roads through some stunning scenery . We have a fascinating day with him, and end up being rather impressed with our choice of guide. We are also delighted by the Ukraine.
First the city of Odessa dazzles us and now we discover that the countryside is equally as impressive.

Part of our scenery trip includes the famed Charge of the Light Brigade valley. Once you see it you wonder what WERE they thinking?”
Sergey covers a lot of ground in a few hours, mainly because whenever we stop at a site, he force marches us at an incredible pace. At one point we stop to see a hillside monastery, and he parks at the bottom of a steep road and begins to march up it to the monastery. It is mid day and the sun is beating down on us, and I am winded. To my surprise, cars start passing us on the road and so I ask Sergey why we are walking up the hill. He just stares at me as if he is unable to comprehend the question. “Well its so much nicer than driving to the top” he explains. That is most definitely an opinion that I do not share.

There are two very different highlights to our day. The first is a tiny monastery carved out of the hillside in the 6th century.



I had read about a larger monastery, but Sergey thought this one was better, and he is right. The larger monastery is packed, but this one is completely off the tourist map, and we were the only people there. It has two chapels each with its own altar. The smaller chapel is very roughly hewn out of the rock. There is an elderly resident Nun there who explains that it is thought the rough hewn altar was built early in the first century and was actually visited by St Andrew. When I tell her that my name is Andrew, she is delighted, and presents me with a small picture of the Monastery. It is very moving

















The other highlight is equally as impressive, but in a totally different way. This is a top secret Russian nuclear submarine base and dry dock, tunneled deep in to a mountain side and unknown to the world until the 1980's:

(Ed note for English blog readers of a certain age. This pic is titled "Shut that door!)

A fascinating day, and we are already looking forward to seeing Sergey again. We return to the Ukraine in a few days, this time to Yalta, which is Sergey's home town, and he has agreed to show us round there too.

Our Fabulosity Meter, which has been humming along quite unexpectedly throughout our two days in the Ukraine, suddenly bursts into renewed life when we return to the ship. A small embossed envelope has been pushed under our door and inside is a beautifully engraved invitation to join the Destinations Manager and the Concierge for dinner in three nights time.
The Destinations Officer is a delightful Brazilian woman with whom we have had several amusing conversations. She is responsible for all the organised daily tours put on by the Cruise Line, and considering we haven't taken one of them during the last two cruises, we are surprised and pleased to receive her invitation. The Purser is a charming and dashingly handsome Spanish man who has just joined the ship, and is an old friend of the Destinations Officer. She has told him we are the most fun people on board (hardly surprising considering the lack of competition) and suggested we all have dinner. Ding Ding Ding went the Fabulosity Meter

The Ukraine

Just as our spirits were lagging and the Fabulosity Meter had been retired to the back of the closet, a star came to the rescue. Certainly not from the ship where the passengers continue to disappoint. This star came in the most unexpected and unlikely form of the Ukraine.

Next stop is Odessa and we dock immediately at the foot of the Steps of Odessa.. Now that causes the Fabulosity Meter to come out of the closet and start working again. All we need is a pair of broken spectacles and a pram bouncing down the steps to complete the picture.

(Ed. note: Still nonplussed? Google "Battleship Potemkin")

Once we climb the steps (there is a free funicular on one side for those who cannot, or will not climb the steps, and that includes 98% of our passengers) we find ourselves in a most dramatic and stunning city, one that rivals any major European Capital.

But this city is smaller than most major cities and the center is easily accessible and walkable, with magnificent beautifully restored buildings lining the wide boulevards. If it reminds me of anywhere, it is of St Petersburg. It may not have have the canals and waterways, the crowds or the grand scale, but it certainly has the looks and the attitude.

It also has the Black Sea on its doorstep. And it is literally a doorstep. The City Center stops right at the edge of the cliffs. Between the City and the cliff edge is a wide pedestrian boulevard lined with trees and gardens. On one side sits the Black Sea and on the other magnificent 19^th century classical buildings with baroque overtones, and at the end of the boulevard sits the city hall resplendent in its dramatically painted white and red facade. And the only way down to the sea from this expansive Promenade is by the Odessa Steps . It is a city built for royalty, and I feel quite at home.

But the city isn't the only impressive thing about the Ukraine. The other is the people themselves. This is a country famous for its beautiful people, both men and women. A country to which men from all over the world travel to find themselves a bride. A country that produces world famous models. We are to stop in three different cities in the Ukraine, and in each one we immediately notice the good looking men and women everywhere. And it is not just that they are good looking, but it is also how they present themselves. We never see a woman looking anything less than glamorous and she obviously never leaves home without spending a lot of time in front of a mirror. Most of the women are classy, but with a little bit of the tart added to their look, with their tight fitting clothes, short skirts and high heels. Others are just tarts striving, often unsuccessfully, to add a little bit of class to their looks. But whatever the look, they all look fabulous

Well, there's always one that doesn't check the rear view mirror