THE CONCORDE - "Thoughts while Flying Alone at Mach 2"

It had been an unusual week, to say the least, starting from the Sunday morning remnants of a bachelor-pad party-complete with unclad stewardesses in the hot tub, so I am told-of which I retained few direct recollections other than a dull head which resulted from a 1967 Croizet-Bages (over the hill as expected), a surprisingly good 1968 BV cab, and a vast oversupply of decent Scotch and indecent domestic wines. Tony and I moved slowly that morning, but we did make our way, finally, to a very good breakfast at the quiet and comfortable Union Bay Cafe. Somber enough to turn down the by now almost mandatory Sunday morning Champagne, we could think or talk of little else than Mary's death a few weeks earlier and of Janice's just sixteen months before that. It still seems improbable that two men, friends for more than thirty years, would lose their wives, each in her early fifties, to cancer in such a short span; Jan's mother also mentioned this unlikely occurrence during our brief visit with her later that day. The courses of their disease differed markedly, however, Janice valiantly struggling to make the most of her restricted life for over ten years, while Mary, equally strong and positive, never achieving remission and surviving not quite a year after diagnosis. After Tony boarded his flight I drove back to the house where I lived during most of my two-month summer stay in Seattle. It was my first day back after spending nearly a week traveling around the Puget Sound area, and I was really delighted to greet my host and find him relaxed and looking fit after a mild heart attack ten days before. The family dinner the night before his illness, attended by the parents, the two oldest and the youngest of nine children, a daughter-in-law, four grandchildren, and me, featured leg of lamb and a 1967 Marquis d'Alesme, both superb, the reading of "The Cremation of Sam McGee" for the grandchildren (a complete story in itself) during the interval between salad and entree, and perusing the works of another very clever but now forgotten poet before and after dessert: a fresh blackberry cobbler with rich cream, accompanied by espresso. The next morning, Dow, a young man who essentially adopted me as an older brother during Jan's final months and has remained so since, and I made the two-hour drive to Ellensburg, where I then lived and taught. The trip had a dual purpose: first, to let me complete preparations for a trip abroad; and second, on the eve of my wedding anniversary, to enact the rituals I had known for months I must carry out that night and the next day. After completing some necessary business and errands downtown, we returned to my home-the friend staying there in my absence happened to be away this week-to begin the serious, almost religious, drinking of two champagnes: first, the ceremonial, for us, but and still sound after nearly two years off the yeast, 1961 Philipponat Clos du Goisses; and then a 1976 Krug Brut, the second sensational bottle tasted in recent months. We drank our glasses slowly and contemplatively and separated them with nibbles of croissants, French bread, paté, cheese, and some gravlaks I had made from a section of sockeye Tony's brother had given me. To celebrate the one night of sleep I would have in my own bed in nearly four months, we ended the day with a sample of the next day's ceremonial beverage, Remy Martin XO. Our destination that following morning, Wednesday, was the lovely Crystal Lakes area, just inside the eastern boundary of Mt. Rainier National Park. After an unusually fast approach to Chinook Pass, we were held up there for a few minutes by road construction, but still made it across in good time and found our trail, which neither of us had hiked before, at a reasonably early hour. Totally unforgiving, it ascended steeply and steadily, so the inviting downhill start to a side trail we encountered couldn't be resisted despite the climb suggested by the accompanying sign: Crystal Peak, 2.5 miles. This trail later became even more demanding, but along it we gained marvelous views of the Mountain; passed through fields of luscious blueberries, big and sweet at first, then smaller and tarter as we climbed higher; scared up a small, black bear, which quickly ran down the steep slope; and finally reached our goal, a little peak atop the ridge. From Crystal Peak we looked over the two Crystal Lakes to another ridge where, just one year before, a few close friends, including Dow and his wife Marlene, had shared my final gesture of public grief, the scattering of Jan's ashes. Only a few days before this hike I had stood beside Tony as he sprinkled Mary's ashes on her mother's grave. I found it surprisingly easy to choke back the tears, even when I asked Dow to scatter my ashes on this peak, imagining perhaps, that in some mysterious way, her life and mine would again combine, millennia from now, in the glacial waters of the White River, running toward the Pacific, far below. Later that afternoon, after descending to the main trail and then reascending to the Lakes, I hiked alone to the foot of her ridge and slowly began climbing toward it. After a few steps, however, I realized that I neither wanted nor needed to go farther. Perhaps peace had come. Thursday, back in Seattle, was farewell day for me on the UW campus, and I was particularly struck by the note, in calligraphy and neatly folded in on itself to become its own envelope, left by one colleague, and the warmth and charm of the personal "so long" from another; a third, on vacation this week, had sent a lovely note the previous Friday-all are young women who had assisted me in my amateur study of antique maps that summer. Also that day and the next, two young women in my class gave me notes and personal comments that still move me; as I had realized earlier, my work in teaching physics was the least of my efforts that summer. After a frantic afternoon of last-minute grading, I collected another colleague, a young woman who not only shared my grief but also helped Dow teach me to drink prestige cuveé champagne, which is now the principal sacrament of my religion. Appropriately, we stopped for a glass of Pol Roger Brut and a shared serving of paté before going to a local wine shop for a vertical tasting of Salon; preceded by a 1971 Roederer Brut in magnum, they were served in order of increasing age: 1976, 1971, 1969, and 1959. My favorites were the '71, which was simply perfect then-soft, smooth and lovely-and the '59, which was absolutely stunning, given its age. The '76, to my taste, showed great promise for future development. After drinking all we could of the remaining '71 and '59 bottles, we returned to Dow and Marlene's home to share his gift to me on my anniversary, a bottle of 1953 Mouton Baron Philippe. He opened it with anticipation and a little fear, but it proved to be surprisingly young, vigorous, and fruity, showing the charm and finesse of that magnificent vintage; it went well with a young St. André and some Brie. It was a marvelous gift, and one that took me completely by surprise when presented the night before. Surely life has nothing finer to offer than to share its special attributes with special friends. But the rush continued. There was time for only three hours of sleep before rising to finish grading and to start packing. The first hour, 3-4 a.m., was frantic, but by then success was assured, and preparations went peacefully for the rest of the morning. My midafternoon departure from Sea-Tac was routine. Later that day, however, Continental Airlines and the terminals at Stapleton and La Guardia, reminded me that air travel is not easy, especially alone. This flight crew seemed particularly unorganized and inexperienced, which is perhaps excusable, but the food served was abominable, which is not-better to carry a sandwich or a tin of tuna. The terminals are simply old and overcrowded. Standing alone at 1:20 a.m. Saturday morning, after three calls to my hotel had been answered, "We'll be there in a minute," didn't particularly encourage my hopes for this trip, but the cabbie who ultimately drove me there was calm and reassuring. The hotel blamed its delay on a woman who practically gave birth in the lobby, but I was frustrated enough to negotiate a one-third reduction in my bill, reasonable enough since I would sleep there fewer than four hours. Fortunately, it was a sound sleep. Later that morning the excitement really began to mount. I experienced a good, by New York standards, taxi ride to Kennedy, no problems at check-in, assignment of the perfect seat-northside window just in front of the wing-and early arrival at the comfortable Concorde lounge. It offered coffee, orange juice, croissants, the New York Times, its own duty-free shop, and at least two sets of washrooms: baskets of small towels, first folded and then rolled, were provided, with instructions to deposit the used ones in the "dust bin." Not surprisingly all staff members were Brits, the women dressed in those summer uniforms so familiar from photos of the recent tragedy involving a British Airways 737, and the men in blue jackets and dark pants. Eventually I even found an ice bucket containing opened bottles of Moet et Chandon White Star. I took a chair by the window and looked out nose to nose at the Concorde. It is sleek, surprisingly small, and graceful; that gawky profile seen during takeoffs and landings is not evident in this view. It was reassuring to watch the crew, quite numerous, boarding the aircraft from below; their bearing showed confidence and experience. The Captain, who arrived last, set his attaché case at the foot of the ramp stairway, and then walked slowly all around the plane, peering carefully both up and down. Once, when he was walking backwards circling a main landing gear, I was certain he would back into a small pool of standing water; when he deftly avoided it, I knew the success of this crossing was assured. The interior looks and smells like the inside of a new sports car. It's small but comfortable; I bumped my head against the storage bin while getting seated but was not at all crowded after that. Service was swift and thorough, beginning with the hanging of coats-the inside was warm and got warmer-passing out of hot towels, and the taking of drink orders. Then the Captain's voice filled the cabin, deep, rich, monotonic but not monotonous. Traveling in Britain or with the British elsewhere has always excited me, and today was no exception. The Captain explained that we would be pushed back from our parking place, would then taxi out to the runway, and exactly 71 seconds into the takeoff, over Jamaica Bay, he would cut back the engines and follow a complicated course for some time to minimize the effects of noise below, would fly at subsonic speeds to Nantucket Island, and would then turn on the "reheats" to bring us to Mach-Mack, he pronounced it-2. Our crossing would take three hours and 16 minutes, and we would reach an altitude of 58,000 feet and a speed of 1350 miles per hour. It happened much as he promised. The initial thrust was surprisingly large, but we still used most of the runway and didn't seem to gain altitude that quickly. A little later power was reduced substantially before we again resumed full thrust. Southern Long Island was in view as the first glass of Champagne arrived, appropriately enough a prestige cuveé from one of the grande marques: 1979 René Lalou by Mumm. Recollections of drinking that wine the previous year in Champagne at Mumm's brought tears to my eyes. Cape Cod passed by on the left, then Nantucket Island, and the captain announced he was about to turn on the reheats. That he did, in two steps, and the surge of thrust and resulting acceleration were marvelous to feel. How I wished my summer physics students could have experienced that; it was so much more effective than my explanations. The experience was exciting, and the tears could no longer be restrained; I did need my handkerchief then. By now the canapés had arrived, and they were delicious. As the next glass of Champagne arrived, the captain intoned our altitude as 40,000 feet, our speed as 1,000 miles per hour. The first was a medallion of lobster adorned with only a tiny twig of dill, which gave it a lovely flavor; then two thick slices of sturgeon, full flavored, topped with caviar, from which a small scallion stem protruded, and a swirl of deviled egg yolk; and finally a galantine of ham slices wrapped around liver paté with a touch of truffles at the center. The plate was garnished with a lemon wedge and a few twigs of Italian parsley. Champagne flowed freely, each sip being replaced almost immediately. It is a rich, lightly flavored cuveé, good as an aperitif. Suddenly Champagne pouring ceased, trays were cleared, and cloths were placed on each table. The captain announced that we were traveling 1.1 miles every three seconds, were at 51,300 feet, and that it was -57°C outside; in London, by contrast, it was 18°C. We were at the time near Sable Island, off Novia Scotia. Then a tray of food was placed before each of us. Items were never passed; waitstaff simply leaned over and set them down. The tray was covered with a napkin, of course, and on it were three plates: a melon dish, a roll, and a composed salad. Two additional wines appeared: a 1983 Chablis Fourchaume by Depas, and a 1976 Chateau Talbot. The captain again gave vital statistics, pointed out how warm our windows were because of the friction-the plane's skin actually stretched 10 inches-and then even he realized that we were now far too busy to appreciate additional flight data and so withdrew for a time. Far out over the Atlantic by now, my view was obscured by heavy clouds, but far above them, my ride was totally smooth. The melon dish was an artfully carved half of cantaloupe that contained four cantaloupe and two honeydew melon balls and was accompanied on the side by two segments each of orange and grapefruit and also a halved strawberry; all of the fruits were beautifully fresh and totally ripe. To replace the captain's voice I put on my stereo headset and was rewarded by lovely music, conducted by André Previn. To cleanse my palate for the Chablis, I gulped down the roll. The wine was quite steely, but a bit too big and rich, as are all '83s tasted so far, for my ideal. Recognizing that much remained to come in this race across the Atlantic, I proceeded to the salad: hearts of palm, tomato, mild cucumber slices, Boston lettuce, and a red cabbage leaf, served with French vinaigrette; then another half glass of Chablis and on to the entreé. Selecting an entreé from the three offered was difficult, but the one that seemed most British and also particularly suited to the Talbot was my choice: les Trois Filets. Three beautifully tender and properly cooked filets of pork, lamb, and beef were bathed in natural juices and herbs and accompanied by a wedge of fennel topped with Italian tomatoes and also by little rounds of carrot, courgettes, and potatoes. The Talbot was magnificent, I thought; but of what could I be certain then? Rich, fruity, the right touch of wood; I drank what I could. From the cheese tray I selected Stilton, some oat biscuits, and butter; magically a little more red wine and a small glass of Port, Fonseca Bin 27, appeared on my tray. Then came dessert: a marvelously light fluffy white chocolate mousse decorated with strips of dark chocolate and a ball of chocolate at its center. Next came coffee and a box of three chocolates. While nibbling the candies and drinking more coffee, I was reminded by the captain's voce again that we really were still in an airplane. It was then 5:00 p.m. local time; we were at 54,500 feet and traveling 1380 miles per hour. This amounted to 23 miles each minute, he told us, but in exactly 26 minutes we would begin to slow down. Also, it was 63°F in London. My favorite of the three candies had a lovely, mild chocolate interior, and a white exterior that tasted of lemon. The captain informed us that our land crossing would be near Barnstaple, in Cornwall. I rinsed my mouth with coffee in preparation for a glass of Cognac, Remy Martin Centaur, and gratefully accepted a going away present of a Jamaica Macanudo cigar, in a sealed tube. I was on the wrong side to see Cornwall, but I did glimpse the coastline of Wales. Soon we were over London, and the captain told us the trip took three hours 18 minutes, which amounted to an average speed of 1100 miles per hour! We then made a near-perfect landing-9.5 I rated it-and the captain acknowledged it was done automatically; he wasn't that good. And then it was back to the real world, almost. But maybe not. The world might not have changed during my 198 minutes of Concorde flight, but I surely will never be the same again. What are my thoughts on reviewing these past seven days? Foremost, as has been true since her death, are the memories. This week was full of them, starting with Mary's death and Tony's visit, continuing with the observance of our wedding anniversary, and culminating certainly with this trip abroad, something that really would have excited her. But within those three broad areas lie past vignettes whose recollection brings happiness: the time she and I almost collided with a bear while bringing home our huckleberries along a Shenandoah Mts. trail after dark; the first time we looked down on the unique shape of Cape Cod from a homeward-bound trans-Atlantic flight; the first time she ever flew, on a DC-3, during my first interview trip toward the end of my graduate studies; the time we ate hearts of palm salad in a lovely D.C. restaurant, with this summer's heart-attack friend as our guest; and her strong opinion that expensive Champagnes, those I now consider sacred, were not worth the cost. And many more. Next, and this has also been true since her death, is the acute sense of being alone. It is not loneliness, for I am blessed with good friends, interesting work, and several stimulating outside interests. In small measure it is a lack of purpose, a disappointment at having no one dependent on me for anything. But to a much greater extent, and this is becoming more and more dominant, it is the frustration of not having a special friend to share the increasing joy in my life, as well as its problems of course. Finally, as time goes on, my ability to function normally is enhanced, and I continually grow less frantic about the future. Time, as many people have promised, is indeed the great healer. Still the question lingers: how long will be required? Perhaps I shouldn't ask, but I do. But, if ever again I should find another special friend, not only will we go to Champagne, as I promised myself a year ago, but we will go via Paris on the Concorde. W. Vance Johnson 24 Aug 85