I don’t talk much. Those who know me can testify to this. Even in social situations I am prone to sit back, listen, and observe. Why then am I on a boat with 400 people who seem to want to talk to me constantly? I can only say, it’s because of the river.

We piddled away yesterday morning reading in the lobby once we had to check out of our rooms. Friendly but cautious fellow travelers asked about our origins, our destination, and our travels getting to St. Louis. Lydia, who is far more social than I, handled their inquiries and exchanged pleasantries. I focused on my reading unless compelled to friendliness. It was too hot and humid to escape outdoors.

We boarded our bus to the boat (not ship if you please). We were obviously among the youngest of our cadre. (It is so strange to be 68 and be the “kid” of the group.) We arrived at the dock where Lyd and I were led along a maintenance aisle, due to my difficulty in navigating stairs, to an elevator where we ascended tour cabin. It’s like a smallish motel room, compact, but very nice. Almost immediately was the sinking boat drill. We had to don our life vests and stand in the hall while a crew member checked each of us. The hallway was narrow and not airconditioned. We waited, or in some cases, shared our entire medical history with anyone within hearing distance. At last we were herded like a band of orange sheep to the bow of the boat, where the late afternoon sun added 10 more degrees to our condition. The captain played with the horn for a while, then released us to enjoy the rest of our vacations. He seemed to have a bent sense of what constitutes enjoyment.

The boat itself is spectacular. I heard one co-traveler refer to it as a floating Victorian mansion. The Mark Twain gallery is all dark woods and Tiffany lamps, enhanced by free cookies and an espresso machine tucked discreetly in a corner. Turn of the century rules apply on board, so there is a women’s lounge and a men’s cardroom.

We spent the evening at the front of the boat as it was eased through the locks below Alton. It was a fascinating process of starts and stops as the lock was filled (by the flow of the river only, there was no “gate” behind us to make an enclosure to fill) and subsequently drained. We left for the late seating of supper, then returned, with cups of coffee, to watch the river flow until we were forced inside by a rain storm.

With the river, like a faint heart beat throbbing beneath us, we slept well.

 

Blessings.

The Road