Greenland Passage

To most the city of Newport, Rhode Island, is associated with the Gilded Age mansions lining Ocean Avenue and the Cliff Walk. For me it's the Awful Awful. The Awful Awful is a thick milkshake, but instead of being made from ice cream, milk and syrup, most of its dairy content comes from ice milk. It originated at Bond's, a northern New Jersey ice cream chain with an outpost in my home town, Elizabeth. It got it's name because it's "Awful Big, Awful Good". Drink three and get your name inscribed on the wall, plus a fourth for free. Two ice cream chains in New England took notice of the thick shake and bought rights to market it under the Awful Awful name anywhere but in Bond's home territory of the Garden State. But when one of them starting expanding, not being able to enter the New Jersey market was a major impediment, so they changed the name to Fribble. That's what the chain -- Friendly's -- continues to call its shake, though it&#

Forget the witches or the House of the Seven Gables when visiting Salem, Massachusetts. Instead, see a great set of knockers, and a whole lot of whimsical metalwork, at Herb Mackey's Metal Sculpture Yard, the last house on  Blaney Street aside the parking lot for the Salem-Boston Ferry. It's free, and I'm told the whimsical welder who created the metal creatures will come out to chat when he's home. On Saturday, after spending a delightful time over a lingering lunch with my cousins Susan and Rita, who took the train to Salem from their Cambridge homes, I took a slow stroll through downtown Salem, maneuvering among the witches, warlocks and hanger-ons who descend upon this historic maritime hub to commemorate a nasty period in American colonial history, the Salem witch trials.  The hordes made the Halloween crowds who descend on my neighborhood for Eastern State Penitentiary's annual scare show seem puny. Salem's most notable cultural attraction is

The Fram's observation deck at night. The 'H' is for Hurtigruten A day of rain, with enough wind to make it biting, greeted us as we anchored in Rockland, Maine Thursday. Too nasty for me, even though I planned to revisit the Farnsworth Museum and its extensive collection of Wyeths, along with Chlde Hassam, Maurice Prendergast, Thomas Eakins and Louise Nevelson, among other American artists and sculptors. It's only a slight detour from my regular route to Bar Harbor each summer, so I'll return on another occasion. After taking on a pilot in mid-afternoon we sailed Penobscot Bay to its namesake river, passing under the Penobscot Narrows bridge (pictured above), a cable-stayed span which replaced a 1931 suspension bridge I crossed many times en route to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park. We anchored in the Penobscot River early in the evening a short tender ride from Bucksport, where we spent the morning and early afternoon Friday without rain or much w

When you're away from home for so long and have little in the way of scheduled commitments, knowing the day or date largely becomes irrelevant. Even holidays seem unimportant. I should have paid more attention. Egg Rock Lighthouse at sunrise At our shipboard briefing  before landing in Bar Harbor Tuesday we were told that, in addition to the optional excursion, we could hop on the Island Explorer bus system emanating from the Village Green, which I use during my regular summer visits, to reach all points on Mount Desert Island. My plan was to bus to one of my favorite spots for watching the tide come and go. But the buses stop running immediately after the Columbus Day weekend, the "official" end of the season in Bar Harbor. If only I had remembered that the Columbus Day weekend was last weekend, not next. My plan to visit my favorite rock and tide pool fizzled when I walked up from the waterfront to the Village Green and saw none of the propane-fueled buses wi

Once ashore in Halifax Monday I sought in vain to replenish my cigar supply, and pick up a Cuban or two to enjoy at sea. But it was Canadian Thanksgiving, and all stores selling decent stogies shut. Still, I wanted to enjoy a relaxing cigar after walking up and down the Spring Garden Road shopping district. I found as bench in the sun in front of the Halifax Memorial Library and lit up. Then I turned around to find Winston Churchill gazing upon me, undoubtedly as upset as when Yousef Karsh took away the PM's  cigar to make his iconic photograph. I did my best to imitate the Churchillian scowl. A traveling companion from Glasgow thinks I nailed it. Smithsonian Magazine has an interesting account of the story behind the photo. The downtown shopping district of this city of about 400,000 was filled with people -- most of them tourists off the four cruise ships tied up a 15-minute walk away in the harbor, though some locals were taking advantage of the warm if overcast weath

God damn them all! I was told We'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears But I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier The last of Barrett's Privateers I, too, found myself on a Halifax pier, but not in the same manner as described in Stan Roger's now-classic sea shanty . We were even greeted by a piper. Approaching Halifax we slowed for the pilot to board the Fram and lead us into what is billed as the world's second largest natural harbor behind Sydney. But we were just one of three or four vessels waiting to be guided to the quay: Mein Schiff 6, with berths for more than 2,500 passengers; Holland-America's Rotterdam, just over 1,400; and Ocean's Insignia can carry more than 800. By comparison the MV Fram's maximum capacity is about 250, but only 84 passengers are aboard for this trip. We squeezed our way into the narrow channel between Pier 24 and the adjacent grain pier, seemingly inches away from the Insignia, and

The captain invited passengers to the bridge Sunday evening before dinner, the day before we arrived in Halifax. Here are a few photos, taken after we departed Louisbourg. There is a wheel on the bridge, but the joystick controller is preferred. Harbor pilots sometimes use the wheel, the captain explained. I skipped visiting the famous French fortress at Louisbourg near the northeast corner of Nova Scotia. After having well exceeded my usual walking quota on previous days, I decided to rest my tired feet. I also learned that the locals, of English stock, pronounce the town's name like the Pennsylvania community famed for its federal prison, Lewisburg. No French-Canadian accents in either Louisbourg or Lewisburg.

Lining part of the waterfront between the Fram's quay and St. Pierre's ferry terminal and town center are these colorful shacks, Les Salines, which once housed salt stores, salt fish and related everything else a fisherman would need. Today they are home to weekend sailors and their colorful fleet. Here are some more photos of Les Salines and its immediate environs. The photos of Les Salines from waterside were taken soon after the sun appeared, providing a glowing light. Returning in the afternoon along the road, behind the sheds, I found each adorned with a different banner reflecting the life and history of the community. I couldn't resist taking a photo of each one:

Fram  crew washes Panorama Lounge  windows This repositioning cruise of the Fram from Arctic to Antarctic comprises different segments, each of them bookable. My trip from Greenland to Halifax is the first of the repositioning segments, followed by New York; Miami; Puerto Limon, Costa Rica; then via the Panama Canal to Callao, Peru, and Valparaiso, Chile, before heading to Antartica. The problem for Hurtigruten, the operator of the MV Fram, is that these repositioning cruises do not draw full boats. Even on this first segment from Greenland, the 240-passenger vessel is barely half full. The two segments along the U.S. East Coast are even lighter. Only 84 souls are booked from Halifax to New York. Including me. I planned to end my journey in Halifax, but when I heard so few were traveling south to New York I asked the purser if he could make a deal. He said he'd get back to me in a couple hours "with an offer you can't refuse". He did. I didn't. So

The church and houses across the harbor are on L'Ile-aux-Marins. Permanent residents left after the electric cable was cut in 1963 and the government decided not to replace it. Summer homes remain. Today we arrived in France. The isles of St. Pierre et Miquelon, about 20 miles off the south coast of Newfoundland, are French territory, not a French-speaking part of Canada. The currency is the Euro. And the croissants and pastries are delicious.  This overseas territory, which sends is own senator and deputy to the National Assembly in Paris, is the last toehold of France on the North America landmass. Although the fishing industry remains present, it has been in steep decline, as in neighboring Newfoundland. Local officials hope tourism, fueled by a brand new airport, will boost the economy, though the dream of offshore hydrocarbons is there, too. The passengers abroad the Fram welcomed the visit for many reasons, but chief among them was docking at a St. Pierre

During our stay on Bonne Bay yesterday the Fram first stopped at Woody Point, a short ride on the Polar Cirkel tender boats as you can see from the photo above. The rain had stopped by the time we landed, with some travelers heading to an excursion into the park or a trail hike. I wandered the town. Both Woody Point and Norris Point across the bay (where the captain maneuvered the Fram for our afternoon landing, and more excursions and hikes for those so inclined) are fishing towns, although during the summer both communities can be overwhelmed by visitors to Gros Morne National Park, hence a number of music and literary fests and events during the season. But it was the fishing that hooked my interest. In Woody Point the center of the local fisheries is the 3T processing plant, owned by three brothers, Todd, Tom and Terry Young. At the retail store around the corner you can purchase their catch, usually in frozen form. The bargains hawked in the 3T store's window includes