The great ship designed for transatlantic crossings is negotiating a heavy Atlantic sea with white caps appearing like melting snow flickering atop curling 20-foot waves. There is muscle in the wind as an enormous stream of strength converges on the ship twisting the light in tight Picasso-like curls.

The sounds of the city entering through the swinging door of the celebrated Ritz London late at night are strangely subdued, muffled under moisture-laden clouds hovering over a slumbering Piccadilly. This elaborate palace with its imposing pink-hued marble pillars standing tall, crystal chandeliers sparkling overhead, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors, is the perfect finale to a dream-filled London evening.