Our first sector on Queen Anne WORLD CRUISE

As we stagger, windburned and slightly shell-shocked, into the final stretch of our first transatlantic leg aboard the Queen Anne, I feel compelled to share a few musings on the inaugural 26 days of this grand “world” cruise. Let us begin with the positives, for they are—how shall I put this?—delightfully sparse.  

The ship herself is a marvel of modern maritime design—if the brochure is to be believed, she’s practically the love child of a Fabergé egg and a spaceship.

 But here’s the rub: many of these innovations seem to be operated by skeleton staff who may or may not have been introduced to the concept of “customer service” during their training—assuming they received any training at all.  

Now, let us address the Atlantic. Winter in the North Atlantic, it turns out, is not this vessel’s finest hour. The ship groans and shudders like a middle-aged novelist facing a deadline, while passengers cling to handrails with the grim determination of Arctic explorers. One begins to suspect that the Queen Anne’s architects designed her for tranquil summer laps around Lake Como, not for wrestling Poseidon in his angriest month. The creaks and moans of the superstructure are so pronounced, you half-expect a team of engineers to burst into your cabin shouting, “Don’t touch the walls! We’re holding her together with duct tape and prayers!”  

Dining, that hallowed ritual of cruise life, has been an adventure of its own. The first two nights in the Britannia restaurant were less “fine dining” and more “dinner theater”—if the play were titled “Waiting for Godot”, but with Cold Soup.  After 35 minutes of menu-less limbo, we were treated to a culinary odyssey that spanned 2 1/2 hours, culminating in lukewarm entrees served by assistant waiters who seemed to believe “service” meant “vaguely gesturing at plates while fleeing the table.” The station head waiter, meanwhile, ricocheted between diners like a panicked ping-pong ball.  

But lo! A miracle occurred. After a discreet word with Thomas, the Maitre D’—a man whose calm demeanor suggests he’s seen things no mortal should witness—we were ushered to a table where service was so swift and attentive, you’d think the waitstaff had been replaced by Olympic relay racers. Hot food! Warm bread! A roaming supervisor who actually roamed! It was as if we’d slipped into an alternate dimension where Cunard remembered it was Cunard.  

Alas, such moments are fleeting. Most days, we now approach the restaurant like meteorologists scanning a weather map: “Hmm, does this menu justify risking a three-hour squall of mediocrity?” More often, we seek refuge in the ship’s other eateries. The Pavilion Wellness Café is a stroke of genius—assuming you enjoy queuing next to discarded croissant crumbs while watching a crew member wrestle with a tablet as if it’s in a foreign language (which, for all we know, it might be). 

Then there’s the curious case of the World Club Lounge. Picture, if you will, a sanctuary promised exclusively to world cruisers—a place of quiet, coffee, and camaraderie. Now imagine it overrun by day-trippers elbowing past for the last almond croissant. It’s less “exclusive retreat” and more “Black Friday at Tesco.”  

As for feeling “cosseted”—well, let’s just say if this is pampering, I’d hate to see austerity. One half-expects to find a turnip and a lump of coal waiting in the cabin each evening. The chocolates vanished early (“supply issues,” naturally), milk sachets come and go like migratory songbirds, and the promised leather passport holder remains as mythical as Atlantis. At breakfast, requesting tomato juice has become a running gag: “Sorry, none today!” (Translation: “We’ve hidden it. Find the juice, win a prize.”)  

But let us end on a high note: Cartagena. After a day of exploring, we returned to a queue so long and sun-baked, it could’ve been auditioning for a remake of *Lawrence of Arabia*. No shade. No water. Just 500 guests slowly transforming into human jerky. Across the dock, a Norwegian ship’s passengers sipped frosty drinks under canopies, gazing at us with the pity one reserves for a wilted houseplant. The Queen Anne’s response? A shrug and a sunburn, plus the odd Cunard umbrella.

In summation: the ship is beautiful, the potential enormous, the execution… well, let’s call it “aspirational.” Whether this reflects a corporate shift toward courting guests who think “five-star” means “they gave us five plastic sporks,” I cannot say. But if Cunard wishes to keep its loyalists from defecting to, say, a cross-channel ferry (where even the sandwiches dare not curl up and die), a touch less “innovative” and a dash more “competent” might be in order.  

Yours in mild bewilderment,  

A Former Devotee (Pending Review)