The friendliness of Pago Pago remained with me – or should I say enchanted me – throughout the day. There was a level of personal interaction and affection attained there that was well beyond anything I had experienced before, including beloved Pittsburgh, arguably one of the friendliest cities in the USA. Don't get me wrong, the straw vendors of Nassau are very glad to see you when you get off the boat, but they are a lot less friendly if you fail to purchase yet one more straw hat for your straw hat collection.

Here the feeling was truly one of 'welcome to our world' and considering how Pago Pago isn't exactly on anyone's beaten path, this yearning for human contact is understandable. Absence does make the heart grow fonder and given the remote mid-Pacific location of American Samoa we visitors were the recipients of palpable fondness. Even the disappointment of the Samoan farewell flower petal drop couldn't in any way dampen the terrific memories being taken away from this true island paradise.

There was, though, one nagging and inexplicable reality about life in American Samoa that remained disturbing: namely, the omnipresence of trash and litter. I have always hated litter to the point of people not wanting to go for walks with me because I invariably stop to pick up trash, especially recyclables. I have tried to understand the oppression of poverty, forlornness, and other negative comportments contributing to the ubiquity of litter, but trust me when I say American Samoa was astoundingly beautiful save for the trash. We are talking about everything from mounds of commercial garbage astride roadways, to private dumps beside family dwellings, to bobbing plastic bottles, and aluminum cans littering the seashore. I thought that if only the good old days of returning bottles for a nickel or dime deposit were reinstituted then Samoa would become remarkably cleaner overnight. Heck, I'd even come back and help them and pocket a whole lot of change in the process.

Back onboard the Queen Mary 2, the routine of excess quickly reestablished itself. The mad dash for the King's Court All-You-Can-Eat buffet continued unabated throughout the day and, sadly, I was one of those in line. A hiatus in piggery occurred however when I went off my latest appointment at the Canyon Ranch Spa.

Today was also Valentine's Day and the ship did it up big for this holiday. The evening dinner was by now your standard formal, but touches of red were required. So, I wore a red tie to go with my tuxedo while Jan was done out in a striking red dress. Flowers were in abundance all over the ship, a visual echo of the tropical paradise we had just departed, though the available candy and dessert quotient seemed about normal – unfortunately! The weather was immaculate and the cool ocean breeze made lounging on the deck chairs a morning requirement.

This was also the day I had scheduled a 'sole rejuvenation' in the Canyon Ranch Spa. You'll note from the spelling that what I was seeking here was some darling young lady to massage my poor aching feet. Little did I realize this physical encounter would definitely warrant the description of "soul" rejuvenation, because that is precisely what transpired.

Situated behind one-way glass, a passenger could sit in comfortable chairs of the Canyon Ranch Spa waiting room, reading or relaxing, while observing hardy passengers race around the promenade deck for exercise. This did, unfortunately, make me realize that others had been lazily watching me chug around the deck from the comfort of their own Canyon Ranch seclusion. I hoped I hadn't been doing anything too provocative or disgusting during these daily walkabouts.

Just as I was beginning to melt into the chaise lounge, I was met by Mandy. This tall dark brunette had a Lauren Bacall voice, was clad completely in black (presumed to be soothing I imagine), dark-rimmed glasses, and a firm handshake. I checked quickly to make sure she wasn't wearing a wig and then went off with her to the mysterious corridors of mahogany doors. She led me into another one of those Tibetan surgical rooms, adrift with fragrances, mood lighting, and an air of peace.

Mandy then told me ever so gently to takeoff my clothes. Now, I am usually not opposed to such requests, but I had thought I was getting a foot massage. When I hesitated, she sat me down on the edge of the plush gurney and informed me even though this was a sole rejuvenation appointment it concerned actually the entire body. She then informed me that my foot actually began at my knee.

Having done all I could do to skip courses like biology in high school I was most surprised to learn of this. She muttered something about joints and ligaments, but I was caught up in pondering what had become of my calf. I knew my calf wasn't part of my foot, but if my foot began at my knee didn't that by default make my calf part of my foot? Still, I complied with my masseuses' request to disrobe. I took off my shorts and laid down on the gurney as per her instructions. The fact these masseuses go out of the room while you disrobe cast a childlike pale on the entire procedure. I wanted to make sure I was 'in bed' and under the covers before Mommy – oops, I mean Mandy – re-entered.

Upon reentering the room, stealth-like Mandy proceeded to come over and place a hot towel over my face. This hot towel was scented with enough eucalyptus to make a koala jump for joy. It was also hot, not quite scalding nor hot enough for me to utter a complaint, and, god forbid, have Mandy question my manhood.

Mandy had clearly earned her muscles. She took one leg, then the other, and subjected both to pressure points, relaxation areas, rubbing, soothing, and stimulations I know those poor old stumps had ever experienced. Things were going swimmingly until the hot towels on my extremities were replaced with hot fragranced oils. Now I like perfume as much as the next guy, but this was like being thrust into a Sephora store in San Francisco after the great quake. If it hadn't been for that towel over my eyes and nose I don't believe I would have survived.

The lathering continued until I became convinced I had been transformed into a human cough drop. Finally, Mandy removed the towel from my eyes and said we were done. I couldn't have agreed more. I sat up best I could, albeit fearful of some delayed Carlos Castaneda reaction from all these aromas. Mandy too looked like she was either about to faint or had already done so once or twice during the rejuvenation procedure.

I was most relieved to hear her say, "The fumes in her can become overpowering. Do you mind if we open the door?"

Mind? Honey, either you were going to open that door right now or I was going to create a new porthole in the QM2.

Mandy opened the door in a fanning manner, subtlety conveying to me that perhaps she had used a trifle too much fragranced oils on my legs and her nose. It is a procedure honed by people who pass way too much gas in confined spaces. [No names please.]

When one elects to have a procedure in the Canyon Ranch Spa on board the Queen Mary 2, a side benefit is use of all the spa facilities for the entire day. Jan had been coaxing me to take a dip in the magical hot tub and whirlpool ever since she took advantage of that opportunity during a previous spa treatment. I have never been much for public bathing or beaches, but ever since I heard on one of those delightful cable channels with forgettable names that woman essentially loathe hairy-chested men, I have made sure not to put myself in compromising situations. I am *not* simply hairy, but sport enough fur to easily be confused with Sasquatch or a walking throw rug.

Rustling up the courage to bear my chest in public, I put on a bathing suit and headed off for the giant whirlpool. Suffice to say, it was great. Granted, all the Aussie men in the tub didn't have a hair on their bodies and any woman who might have wretched at the sight of Cro-Magnon man climbing into the pool with them was polite enough to do so in the privacy of the women's changing room.

Afterwards, I sampled the Swedish sauna where you sit on wooden benches, and the herbal sauna, where you sit in what look like giant tiled latrines inhaling many of the same aromas still emanating from my pulsating calves…ah, I guess I mean my "feet."

Since I have reached the age where the only thing I want to be anymore when I grow up is "wrong," I was ecstatic to inform Jan that her suggestion about lounging about in the spa all day was truly smart and astute. I felt a palpable feeling of rejuvenation (as promised in the advertisements), though I did wonder what tomorrow morning would bring to these previously atrophied appendages of mine.

That afternoon the actors from the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts were performing Noel Coward's Private Lives. Few things can be anticipated more than the prospect of watching Noel Coward done well on board a British ocean liner. And, happily, we weren't disappointed. Private Lives had been written in the 1930s originally by Coward as a star vehicle for his great friend and co-star Gertrude Lawrence and himself. It is a terrific display of classic British wit and humor and the RADA cast did it supreme justice.

This delightful and entertaining production, however, was not the performance triumph of the day. That accolade belonged to the evening's entertainment in the Royal Court Theatre, an original musical piece titled Rock @ the Opera. We had been told by our table mates at dinner that Rock @ the Opera was not to be missed, so we made sure to arrive early enough to get a good seat. Seated happily with glasses of wine we were amazed by the spectacle that proceed to unfold on the stage.

Queen Mary 2 assuredly has the most complex theatre of any ocean liner or cruise ship afloat. The Royal Court Theatre amazed us with immaculate and complex set changes, a full-stage turntable, lighting as complex as you'd find in any American regional theatre, and a terrific sound system. The QM2 dancers and singers took the audience on a rocking compendium of opera's greatest hits, many jazzed up, but retaining their essential musical integrity. The highpoint of Rock @ the Opera however was the ensemble's rendition of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody. When this tour de force is performed live (rarely indeed) the middle operatic part is usually - and wisely - defaulted to the original Queen recording, actors remaining silent or the stage going to black. But not tonight! To my amazement, the QM2 cast decided to perform Bohemian Rhapsody in its entirety, including the middle part.

When this masterpiece sadly came to its conclusion, the entire Royal Court Theatre catapulted into a well-deserved standing ovation. I try my darnedest *not* to contribute to the overdose of standing ovations infecting the USA and demeaning – unintentionally – the quality of life performance, but this was by far the best show I had ever seen on an ocean liner or cruise ship, and leap to my feet I did.

Jan and I proceeded to the Valentine's Day Ball being held in the Queen's Room from 9:45 pm until 12:15 am, though we by no means lasted that long (after all we are old). The main reason we skedaddled before too long however is simple: we have never been dancers. If ever two people were meant *not* to dance it is the two of us. We look absolutely ridiculous moving our bodies in any kind of uniform though joyful pattern or manner.

In fact, we scheduled our wedding for early morning precisely so there wouldn't even be an expectation of dancing. [The wedding reception was held on the grass lawn of Chatham College just to make sure we covered all the bases!] There was, however, tremendous joy in watching so many couples, many of elderly age, coming together on the dance floor, moving, swaying, gliding, some even jittery-bugging to the Big Band sounds of their youth, played so wonderfully by the QM2 orchestra.

This was the kind of glorious day-at-sea that could only conclude with star-gazing from the semi-deserted decks of the ship. It is amazing how quiet and solitary the deck of a vessel carrying upwards of 3,000 people can be at night. It's just you, the ocean, and the stars above. It is also amazing how this kind of retreat from society's pace can generate not fear and loathing (a la Kierkegaard), but a deep seated feeling of contentment and unity with elements so vast, unknowable, and mysterious.