A European River Cruise - Oohs, Ahhs, Vanity Tourism, And Idle Chatter About Notre Dame

Samantha Smith had just lost her husband, and while in the midst of cleaning up his affairs, came across a a brochure for a Lindblad cruise down the rivers of Europe.  They both had paid little attention to it, although they had to admit it had a certain appeal - Yale PhD docents, an exclusive, handpicked clientele, and only enough passengers to make the trip congenial.

This time around Samantha was interested.  What was she going to do with her life now that she was a widow, a single woman for the first time in decades alone but still vital, energetic and curious? 

'Oh, you absolutely must', said Adele Adams, also recently widowed. 'It's the most marvelous experience', and went on to describe the docent, a young man who had studied European classic architecture at Yale, went on to Harvard for his doctorate in Medieval Studies (The Gothic Cathedral - Stone Book of the Middle Ages was the title of his dissertation), and was now an Adjunct Professor at Princeton, not the tenure track position he had hoped for, but in a down market, a godsend.  

'He's a dream', Adele went on.  Samantha was surprised by her elderly friend's sexual interest.  Women like them were way past their pull-by date, both in terms of desire and allure, so what had stirred such curiosity in her friend?

'It's never too late, dear', Adele said, giving her friend a conspiratorial wink. 'Why don't you try it?'

Of course Samantha, a product of the Seven Sisters, a student at Vassar those many years ago, thought her friend silly.  Women of their age, mature, experienced, and long married, should be focused on righting the existential ship before deep old age set in, contemplating what's what, and preparing for the next, final stage of life.  However, the cruise would fill a number of academic gaps she always regretted never having filled, the interior whys and wherefores of monumental architecture, the rise of kingdoms, and the truth behind class. 

Her husband, Arthur, had been a lifelong progressive who had stubbornly insisted on looking at European culture only through the lens of colonialism, oppression of the masses, imperialism, and greed and his death - God forbid the thought - was a breath of fresh air.  She could view Europe through her own eyes, see it as it was - a magnificent expression of human ambition, intelligence, creativity, and will.  When Arthur looked at Chartres, he only saw legions of slave-driven peasants hauling stones, falling from high scaffolds, and paid in gruel and coarse grain, while she saw magnificence. 

To be honest in this age of virtual reality, artificial intelligence, and the vast reaches of the Internet, Samantha could more than accommodate her rather simple curiosity; but the idea of being in situ was appealing.  Just to be in the presence of these marvelous churches, palaces, and monuments would be worth the trip. 

And let's not forget the community of like-minded travelers, for that would give her the first opportunity to share and be shared - an intellectual collegiality she had missed in her life.  Yes, there was the book club and the continuing education courses at the university, but two weeks with equally smart, educated men and women would fulfill a longstanding desire. 

To be honest, for all Samantha's high-toned interests, she had been an indifferent student, ran to Daphne du Maurier and not Conrad, was addicted to Turkish soap operas, and whose cultural expeditions never extended beyond charitable fundraisers.  She never understood, let alone paid much attention to her husband's postmodern screeds - the man, despite his boringly predictable take on history, had at least read Das Kapital and  The Wealth of Nations - and she was bored to tears when dinner table conversations turned to anything more complex than playground rules and the insufferable Principal of Jansen Elementary School. 

 

So, despite her demurral and desultory interest in her friend's tales of the young docent, she was titillated; and the idea of a happy jamboree of culture-minded fellow passengers was satisfying.  She would do it!

The passengers on the cruise were indeed a likeminded crowd - all older and reasonably well-heeled, but all of whom had reached the threshold of their intelligence long ago, had never had either the ambition or mental acuity to go to original sources, parse relevant manuscripts, or even read comparative historical sources.  It was a group of neophytes, a boatload of American innocents, presumptuous about the depth of their curiosity, excited about Europe, but in it for the ride, the collegiality, the bonhomie, and the lobster bisque. 

The banter on the gangway was chipper and delighted.  All were in a good mood and in a good place.  Samantha smiled at her fellow cruisers, mentioned the weather, the accommodations, and the excitement to come, and looked forward to their first dinner on board. 

It was a surprisingly watered down affair - there were clearly some hidden economies in the fare - and the conversation was little different than her across-the-fence chats in her suburban neighborhood. Which in a way was comforting - there were no intellectual snobs on board who would make references to Derrida and Lacan, and look musingly over the railing.  No, these were her people who would share the reality of Chartres, not some obscurantist history. 

At dinner Samantha sat next to a woman from Chillicothe who had been a second grade teacher and who had taken up watercolors in her retirement. 'I am not ashamed of pretty', the woman said, and showed Samantha pictures of flower gardens, willow boughs, and bright, sparkling streams.  She too had lost her husband who had left her quite well off, and while she hesitated to draw down on her children's inheritance, why not enjoy the few years she had before her?  After all, she said, she deserved it. 

Given demographics and mortality statistics, there were far more women on the cruise than men, most of whom were there reluctantly, fulfilling some long ago promise to their wives to 'get out of the house', dullards all, and not an interesting one among them.

Perhaps because  so many of the women on the cruise were widows who had lived decades under the thumb of oppressive husbands, their chatter was incessant, a constant cheery cackle.  It was indeed like the hens had finally been let out of the henhouse. 

'Don't be catty', Samantha said to herself while vetting the crowd, looking for someone more attuned to her more refined interests; but each and every one of the women were there for no particular reason, just for something to do, something to write home about, something out of the ordinary. 

Of course there was nothing at all out of the ordinary about the cruise except for the historical showpieces of the tour ('Nothing like that in Chillicothe', said Samantha's tablemate); but that was fine with the passengers for whom any whiff of garlic or the African nastiness of the Gare du Nord would have been off-putting.  Better to see Europe on their terms. 

Babbitt? Yes, perhaps, but still, a bit harsh.  There was nothing of the Lewis' character's bald-faced ignorance and bourgeois sentiments about the cruise line guests.  They did share a bit of Babbitt's familiar American settledness and dreary righteousness, but, bourgeois and simple as they all were, they didn't lord that exceptionalism over anyone else. 

 

Why on earth would anyone go on one of those cruises? Cattle cars of women happy to be free of their husbands, free from prescription, duty, and bloody nonsense, and just bubbling with enthusiasm. Lindblad and a hundred other cruise lines which knew a good thing when they saw it, were making millions off of them. 

'Here I am in front of Notre Dame', Samantha said as she projected her photos on the screen; and that was pretty much a good summary of the trip.  She was glad she went, although probably would not do it again, or at least  would choose someplace more exotic.  Her grandchildren, smiling as they were, thought only of their inheritance money down the drain, but of course never let on.  

In a few weeks the exuberance and the memories had faded, and after a month the trip had been totally forgotten; and so it is with these little bourgeois adventures, nothing really of note given wars, pestilence, civil strife, and scientific discovery.  They were just short of a complete waste of time and money, but it is what it is, and it filled Samantha's dance card.