Setting Sail on the SS France

The guidelines for the trip home on the SS France advised wearing dress-up clothing for dinner at the Captain's table on the first night out. Frank had packed "Sunday Best". I had a "little black dress", made a beautiful, black lace jacket to wear over it, and packed heels and jewelry to "dress" for that much anticipated dinner. To protect the jacket during the more than a couple of months it would be confined to a suitcase, it had been packed with tissue in the sleeves, and in plastic--a pain when getting in and out of our bags--then carried, with any other would-wear-only-once clothing, all across Europe. The cardboard box we put in storage when we left Paris the first time contained that delicate jacket, two sweaters purchased on our return trip to Oslo, and the few trinkets we'd collected during our travels. We took one, last wild taxi ride in Paris to retrieve our brown, cardboard box and got to the train station just in the nick of time to make our connection.

It was a relaxing ride, as I remember. The passenger seated directly across from us was a wealthy businessman in the Arabian horse breeding and selling business, and a delightful conversationalist. Arriving at LeHarve, we checked in, excited about this final adventure of being on an ocean liner--SS France--for the next five or six days, and were standing in line waiting to board, when we got the bad news. NONE of our luggage had made it to the ship, for loading. Our bags were still sitting on a train or at a station somewhere along the way, between Austria and France.

This wasn't a time when we could say, "No problem. We'll wait for the bags and take the next boat." We had invested far too much money in our passage home to cancel. So...we boarded, looking like homeless waifs, climbing from street level to the ship's entrance, carrying the little, brown cardboard box tied up with raveling twine, wearing the clothes we'd slept in the night before, holes in our shoes, and more than two months growth of shaggy hair. Yup, walking right along with the ladies in furs and pearls--real ones--and other finery, the gents in fine Italian leather shoes, custom leisurewear, and silk shirts. 

Our cabin was tiny. First or tourist class, room size or location, it didn't really matter, at that point. Even in a room with bunk beds and toilet, leaving barely enough space to stand up and turn around in, all we really needed at that moment was room enough to have a good, cleansing CRY before dinner. Sure, I had that lovely lace jacket that had been all over Europe, and we could replace just about anything lost or taken from our luggage, should it ever make it through customs and arrive home again, but my "little black dress" to wear with the jacket was packed in the lost luggage! So was Frank's suit coat and tie.

The SS France, constructed in 1960, was to be a showcase of modern French art and design, the fastest transoceanic liner--six days, six nights, France to New York--and the longest ship in operation. It WAS the longest passenger ship ever built until 2004 when the Queen Mary 2 took on that title. Unusual attention had been given to the ship's kitchens, serving the best French Cuisine, staffed with 180 of the best cooks, sauce and pastry chefs, rotisserie cooks, waiters and stewards, that France had to offer. It earned the title of the "Finest" restaurant in the world.

There were officially just two classes--First and Tourist--instead of the more common three, but after a few voyages, rooms and areas originally designed to be restricted to a specific class were named, instead, and once the ship got underway, class barriers were withdrawn and all passengers could use all areas aboard, equally.  We were a little behind schedule leaving port so the first evening's dinner meal was to be a casual affair. Everyone on board would be served in one of the two dinning rooms. The special Captain's Table event was postponed until the next night.

Soon after boarding, the emergency horns, bells, and whistles sounded, without warning. We were instructed over a LOUD  speaker to locate, then don life jackets and quickly but orderly go to the main deck of the ship. There, we would receive further instruction. As we stood there in a sea of orange life jackets, an older couple came up the stairway. The Mrs. was just about to step on deck when she looked around, surveyed the crowd standing there, then turned to her husband saying, in her distinctive, highfalutin voice, "Good Lord, Harry, this is Tourist class!" and promptly went back down the stairs, refusing to join us. We and others who had heard her comment, laughed so hard! The thought was voiced aloud that when the ship was sinking and we were all making a scramble for the life boats, we would hear her say, "Good Lord, Harry, we can't get in this lifeboat! It's Tourist Class!" POOR Harry. 

The first night at sea, I was fine and enjoyed the wonder of this new environment. We wore our new, clean Norwegian sweaters, from our cardboard box, hoping to disguise our true condition a little and went to dinner. The food offerings were endless in variety and availability. There were shops--buy a tie? TOO expensive--and swimming pools, a library and theater, games and much more. Dinner conversation with others at our table, some foreigners, others Americans, like us, returning home, was fun, interesting, amazing. I don't remember when that all changed for me in the next few hours, but from then on, I spent a good deal of time and for the rest of the crossing, in the bathroom with my head hanging over the toilet bowl, even though the captain announced that the seas were calm, the crossing the smoothest he could remember in a long time.

Frank wanted to attend the dinner the next night in the worst way. I gave him my blessing. I could barely get out of my bunk. He put on the new sweater, again, and left the room but was back within a short time. He could not enter the dining room for this event without at least a suit coat and tie. Such DISAPPOINTMENT. Aside from that meal, he did get plenty to eat while we were at sea, at any time of the day or night and as much as he wanted of anything and everything. After all, he was eating for two, my food and his, all of it already paid for.

I was not a bit of fun but did manage to sit in the theater to watch every movie they had on board. It was the one place where I felt no movement at all and could sit there, somewhat in control of the extreme nausea I was battling. I don't remember seeing much of Frank during this time. I was glad he was doing as much as possible to enjoy this event. Even so, those five or six days grew to be very long, for both of us.

We caught sight of the Statue of Liberty through the mist and fog, early, on our last morning aboard ship. I was able to join Frank and so many others on deck. It was a very powerful and emotional moment, hard to put into words and something I'll never forget. We were home. But it was more than the usual feeling of homecoming. Many of us cried, without shying away from tears welling up in our eyes, and spilling over to run down cheeks, each for their own reasons. On deck, there was mostly silence among us. We were caught up in that moment, the noise and chatter associated with parking and making things ready for passengers to disembark, went unnoticed.

We had originally planned to see the sights of New York upon our return to the States and take a train to spend a day in Boston before going home to Utah. We made it as far as the top of the Empire State Building. Having stood in long lines each time we had to take the next elevator--there were three--and finally reaching the observation deck, we hadn't been there long until I started to spot heavily and unexpectedly. A bit frightened by that, Frank explained just enough of our problem to hopefully be allowed to take the service elevator all the way to the bottom, immediately. The attendant would hear none of that, saying,"Emergency? We hear that all the time from people who don't want to stand in line." So we got in line, hoping for a bit of a miracle that would get us back to the street quickly. Within hours of disembarking, we were on a plane, flying to Salt Lake City, Utah. Maybe there was something to the notion the Family Pasching had mentioned.

I've had fun remembering this adventure when I was just 22 years old. As I've re-read my writings, I'm reminded of a few things I've left out, like the ferry boat ride we took in the company of a tour group of youthful mandolin players. I thought I'd never forget the name of the song they played for hours, over and over, the only one they knew, without any break, but thankfully, I have forgotten. I wouldn't want that stuck in my head again! 

And our lost luggage? Anyone curious about it and where it ended up? 

I'll continue making notes. I may need to finish out a page in the book so the things I've forgotten to mention here may come in handy, there.

We learned some days or a couple of weeks after returning home that I was, indeed, pregnant. I've blogged about my entrance into motherhood, the first and second times but of course, once a person becomes a parent, has a traveling spouse, or gets into a few predicaments of her own, there are more stories to tell. So little time...so much to tell...It's all a part of who I was, just a sweet, young thing.