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My Atlantic Clipper Flight....by Gwladys Whitney

WE Arrived at the Port Washington terminal at 2:10 on the great day, and were checked rapidly in and out. Steaming news photographers the had their way with us, after which, to the strains of the Port Washington band, we were allowed on board our Clipper.

For the take-off, as many many passengers as possible sat in the centre compartment, and I think there were fourteen of us there at that time; others sat in  other compartments. At three in the afternoon, after trying each motor separately, Captain R. O. D. Sullivan gave her the gun. The ground crew slipped the cable at the stern, and the Clippers surged forward though the waters of Port Washington Bay.

To me, the most exciting part of airplane travel is the take-off. The motors roar, the propellers bite their intolerant way into the air, and the ship comes suddenly alive. Speeding heavily into the wind, she hesitates a fraction of a second, then rises lightly and proudly to her step. Now only the tail on the water restrains her; faster, and the off she gets, and we are one with the sky and gone away. Soon there is nothing to see but sky and ocean-with Nantucket faded far astern and the Azores not visible till to-morrow morning. 

The airplane is so very big. No more walking about with one's head resting on one's chest to avoid having one's top-knot removed by the ceiling. There is a space of at least two feet above the heads of the women, and the tallest man never once stoops. From the galley forward, the distance to the rear compartment is eighty-five feet. Divided into eight compartments, the Clipper can sleep six people in each of  four of these compartments. The stern compartment, known as the bridal suite, has an upper and lower bed, a wash-basin, concealed under a table top, and dressing-table. In the central compartment, smoking is permitted. There three table are set up for writing, for cards. Of the three other compartments, one is the galley, one the men's washroom, and the third is the ladies' room, with toilet, dressing-table, two mirrors, two stools, a wash-basin, and a tooth-brushing basin. There is no shower, but then any one who insists on a bath in an airplane must wait. (The ship's weight allowance would not permit carrying that much extra water.)

We were twenty-two passengers--sixteen men and six women, with twelve in the crew. We sat on chairs upholstered in fire-proof material, stuffed with a kind of rubberized hair. Our bed-curtains were a pleasant dark blue, the walls, pale green, with a green carpet. Some

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compartments were beige with brick-coloured carpets- everything fire-proof. Under each chair cushion and under each bed, when it is made up, there is a life-preserver. Everything is unbelievably comfortable and stable - except for the distant drone of the motors one might be at home.

At seven that night we had dinner, twelve of us at a time. The tables were laid with nice blue-and-white china stamped with the Pan American insignia. We had a five-course dinner, with fruit cocktail, hot consomme, chicken, ham, mushrooms, and potatoes, asparagus with Hollandaise, and finally strawberry shortcake. The food is good, and you take what you get. Heaven help the hypochondriac. It occurred to no one to dress for dinner. We turned in about ten o'clock because we were due in Horta, the Azores, at six in the morning, New York time. (Breakfast was not served in bed, and the reason that an egg is so loath to be boiled is simply that the water is heated by the heat from the engines, and the engines don't get super-hot until above ten thousand feet.) One of the two stewards-there are no stewardesses-explained it to me. 

When we arrived at Horta on the Island of Fayal, all but two of us stepped into open taxis to see as much as we could of a truly lovely island. Flowers everywhere-rambler roses, hydrangeas, fuchsia-,growing over the many walls built of lava-rock. The fields are all small and honeycombed with these walls. Donkeys with packs or people on their backs, ox-carts with solid wheels jam the narrow roads. The people are genial, the countryside charming, dotted with windmills, some grinding the grain in the wind, others with their sails carefully furled.

During the flight, most of the women had on silk dresses and seemed content and warm enough. (One woman wore a light suit.) Only for a while did it become cool enough for coats. We talked in normal voices, and the sound of the four engines was only a distant, soothing drone. When we rolled into our perfect beds, there was a minimum of vibration throughout the ship, with perhaps a bit more in the after-compartment than elsewhere. Because I loathe utilitarian wrappers, I wore what I'd wear at home.

We had a lovely time in Lisbone, later going north along the Portuguese coast, then the Spanish coast on Biscayne Bay, and over to France, paralleling the Pyrenees, and so to Marseilles. The Portuguese, I think, are composed of hospitality.

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First we, were swept off our feet by the thoughtfulness and the geniality of the Azorians; and then, again, in Lisbon we were made to feel so at home. We were taken to a hotel, called The Avis, which used to be a private palace. After hard times arrived, the owner had the wit to transform it into the superlative hotel that it is to-day. With only two floors of rooms, the rooms have been left as I imagine they used to be. The main suites have a balcony sitting-room, bedroom and enormous bathrooms, made of beautiful small tiles, lovely in colour and design. The tub itself is placed at the top of three steps. When at ease in it, you can contemplate life from a dais.
We were speechless with the splendor of the plumbing - at least I was. Later we went to a reception room, where we drank cocktails with the American minister, Mr. Herbert Pell, who then unveiled a parchment plaque commemorating this first Atlantic passenger flight.

It is so sad to leave these lovely countries with only a glimpse of them. It is a desolation to realize the possibility that one may not return and so will never know the feel and the smell of a place - two things so essential to memory. The world is so enormous, and travel, particularly by airplane, is so teasing that one can hardly ever get one's fill. I will try to go back to Portugal to stay for a bit - long enough to realize the pleasure of seeing a lovely country and knowing a gay and hospital people.

It has been a marvelous experience. And now this is the end of our adventure. I shall not be able to write of Marseilles as this must be posted there, and we ae being whisked off in an Air-France airplane in order to make Paris before dark.

[[image - photo of Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney captioned: Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt Whitney wrote, especially for Vogue, this log of the Clipper journey across the ocean]]