Boxers to the rescue

Two of our three dogs are mutts. Cassie, the eldest, is an Aussie Cattle Dog mix and Zack is a lab and who-knows-what else mix. Only Zeus is a purebred, a Siberian Husky.

I’ve never had a Boxer.

I’ve never even liked the underwear.

Until today.

The one part of cruising that is never enjoyable is the disembarkation – getting off the ship for you non-cruisers. You have to pack your bag the night before and leave it outside your cabin by 11pm. One time, years ago when I still drank, Ransom and I enjoyed too much wine at dinner, came back to the cabin and passed out before packing and putting our luggage outside. It wasn’t til morning we realized our mistake. The staff was NOT happy.

Last night we didn’t make that mistake; our three bags were out in the hallway by 11pm. All packed.

A bit too well packed it turned out.

At perhaps 11:15 I realized that the pants I was planning on wearing off the ship were not hanging in the closet. They were not laid out on the bed or hanging in the bathroom. They were instead in one of our suitcases – one of our suitcases that was already deep in the belly of the ship, waiting to be off-loaded in the early morning. I frantically looked outside to see if maybe one suitcase was still in the hall.

It wasn’t.

I’m a briefs kind of guy. I had a fresh pair, socks, shoes and shirt, but no pants to wear off the ship. Luckily Ransom is a boxers kind of guy and had a clean extra pair of plain grey ones. From a distance, with a cursory look, anyone would think they were shorts, right? I’d be fine, right? All I had to do was make it to my suitcase, grab a pair of real shorts and all would be well.

It didn’t quite turn out that way. Don’t get excited, this tale does not take an R-rated turn, but I did end up wearing those boxers over my briefs for far longer than anticipated. When I collected my suitcase we worried that the customs officials might not look kindly on my rooting through it, so we just kept going. Then we were all of a sudden in the queue for a cab, then in the cab, then in the hotel checking the bag because our room was not yet ready – and there was I -- still in Ransom’s boxers.

For the next six hours! Hanging around the pool, going across the street for some Church’s fried chicken, more hang time – it wasn’t til 3:45pm that we got into our room and I got out of Ransom’s underwear.

A sartorial experience I will not soon forget.

Here’s to you, Rick

Fifteen years ago I toured English cathedrals and abbeys on my own, training from town to town to see as many as I could. It was a glorious holiday. I stopped in Winchester, Norwich, Bath, Romsey, Cambridge, Tewkesbury, Wells, Durham, Ely, Peterborough, Lincoln, York and Durham. My favorite cathedral, and one of my favorite towns, was Salisbury; I even double-backed there to catch a performance of Haydn’s Creation.

On the train from Bath to Salisbury I noticed a good-looking man who, for whatever reason, I assumed was a Yank. I wanted to talk to him but my natural reticence prevented me. For an hour I kept rehearsing opening remarks, but tossed all of them. When we pulled into Salisbury, he got off the train just ahead of me.

What a fool I had been. We might have become great friends, or at least spent a lively hour over a pint.

Sometime later I was talking to my childhood friend Ricky (now Rick). He told me of traveling on a train heading north from London. He struck up a conversation with a solo traveler and they talked all the way to their destinations. That was decades ago. They became fast friends; their families have met and shared weddings and vacations. They are very close and have enjoyed many years of each other’s company – all because Rick took the chance and said hello to a stranger.

I’ve had the opportunity in the last few days to make up for my mistake on the Salisbury train. Stuart and Angie are traveling in the cabin next to ours; we met as the four of us were on our balconies when the Summit pulled away from New Jersey and headed under the Verrazano Bridge and out to sea. We chatted for a bit and then headed inside. They told us they were from York.

Tuesday afternoon I wrote them a note asking if they wanted to get together for drinks or dinner. We settled on dinner, but then ran into them in the Rendezvous lounge and so did both. And what a lovely time we had. They are both very attractive and very charming and of course have that lovely accent we Americans can’t get enough of. We spent maybe three hours together and the conversation was non-stop and varied. I hope we’ll see more of them in the three days left.

We may not become the oft-visiting friends that Rick and his pal became – though who knows? That doesn’t matter. What matters is the reward already paid for a simple hello.

Dishonoring my cynic’s colors, yes, but well worth it. Thanks, Rick, for the inspiration.

 Two views of the incredible York Minster, in Stuart and Angie's home town

Fighting the demon

Guilt is a powerful thing. Catholic guilt is especially powerful, right up there with Jewish guilt. Tina and I were a couple in high school and beginning college; we used to fight about whose fault something was. “It’s my fault.” “No, it’s mine.” “No, it was me.” (“You mean 'I’?” Snark. Snark.) This could go on for twenty minutes. I was Catholic and she was a Jew. We both wanted to take the blame, to assuage our guilt.

I’ve worked years to limit guilt’s hold on me, but it’s a powerful monster and hard to tame.

Since Monday I've lost the fight. We’re on vacation, sailing on the Celebrity Summit to Puerto Rico, but I spend about three hours each day doing Yale work. I could have blown it off but the guilt I would have felt would have been worse than just doing the work.

I could protest that the work was time-sensitive and how, working in a one-man office, there’s really no one else who can easily do it -- but the truth is it’s my work and I would feel guilty not doing it.

Damn those Catholics! I’d rather just be enjoying my vacation!

In fact though, I am. Today is the third sea day in a row and it’s a delight to be back aboard Celebrity. The ocean’s been a bit choppy but today it’s smooth as Connecticut ice. The usual drill is in effect: Ransom stays in the cabin all day while I go out and take in an activity now and then (or do Yale work!) and we get together for three meals.

Last night after dinner he returned to the cabin and I went out for “The World’s Hardest 60’s Music Trivia.” It was a lot of fun -- and definitely hard. I came in second, stumped by questions like, “What famous product did the mother of one of the Monkees invent?” I also missed “Lulu’s real name” and “Who wrote Daydream Believer"?

I’d tell you more about the cruise, but I have to check my Yale email.

I will tell you: Michael Nesmith’s mother Bette invented White Out, Lulu’s real name was Marie McDonald McLaughlin Lawrie and John Stewart of the Kingston Trio wrote Daydream Believer – not Neil Diamond as I and many others said (Diamond wrote I’m a Believer. I knew that.)

Blu, our dining room aboard Summit

Ladies and gentlemen, the Beatles! (Sorta)

I went to several concerts this past summer; you may remember reading about some of them. Felix Cavaliere, leader of the (Young) Rascals, led a crack band doing most of their big hits at the Tarrytown Music Hall in June. A week later the Happy Together Tour also stopped in Tarrytown: an oldies show with the Buckinghams, the Association and the Turtles (among others). The Family Stone, sans Sly but in great form, played in Hamden, CT, as did the Tokens (excellent) and the Drifters (not so good).

I chose not to stay in West Haven, CT, on July 25 for “A Temptations Review” (sic), part of the Savin Rock Festival. That show was advertised as featuring former lead singer of the Temptations Barrington “Bo” Henderson.

Bo Who? Turns out that Henderson fronted the Temptations from 1998-2003. That’s 33 years after their best-known hit, My Girl, and 25 years after their last Top 10 hit, Masterpiece. To call last summer’s gig in West Haven a Temptations show is a bit of a stretch.

Last night I returned to the Tarrytown Music Hall for a show that made no pretense whatsoever at being original. In fact music director and lead guitarist Rob Phillips (pictured) announced at the top of the show that no effort was made to look like or act like the original artists but only to play one of their classic albums note for note, track by track.

That album? Abbey Road by the Beatles.

It was an excellent concert. The group didn’t always sound like the Beatles – though they were usually damn close – but the music was, as promised, note for note spot on. I never thought I would hear Come Together, Something and Here Comes the Sun live, almost as if the Beatles were doing it. It was, uh, fab!

The second half featured a fascinating mix of megahits and lesser knowns. I wasn’t ready for – and could’ve lived without – Why Don’t We Do It In the Road, but I loved hearing I Am the Walrus and Ob-la-di, Ob-la-da and was absolutely blown away by the last four songs of the night: While My Guitar Gently Weeps, A Day in the Life, She Loves You and Twist and Shout.

To hear this music the day after what should have been John Lennon’s 75th birthday was poignant and emotional and an excellent way to celebrate his legacy. Thank you, Lu and Harriet, for joining me on such a fun night. (Have you defrosted yet from our al fresco dinner?)