Off Skagen Odde, Denmark, at the Confluence of the North and Baltic Seas
June 16, 2023
This month we’re floating around what one writer called “a geographic prison.” For centuries, its antagonistic inmates have sought to control the asylum.
The penitentiary, as the author put it, is guarded on the west by Danes overseeing a restrictive Sound, on the north by staunch Swedes and hardy Finns, to the south by aggressive Germans, and to the east by Baltic Republics sitting nervously in the shadow of a cold, hungry bear.
The last couple weeks, we’ve explored a dozen places around this contested sea. But how did we get to, between, and among them?
We’ve always sailed Holland America Lines, but haven’t cruised in almost six years.
Our last two were on the Amsterdam, a relatively small ship (1,200 passengers) that’s been taken off the sea. That’s too bad. It was a nice size with a good layout.
I now write from the Rotterdam, the line’s newest vessel…and its largest. Carrying 2,600 passengers, it’s the biggest boat on which we’ve been.
Being new, the ship is nice. Cabins are clean, bright, and spacious, with roomy verandahs and good size bathrooms.
The public spaces are also pleasant. But they can’t always accommodate the crowds. That’s because while population doubled, capacity didn’t.
And the way it is allocated is inefficient. The Amsterdam scattered lounges, cafés, and entertainment venues around the ship…dispersing crowds and better accommodating varying tastes.
The Rotterdam seems to have been afflicted by an overzealous zoning ordinance. It’s as if similar places must be cordoned in the same location.
Many bars and coffee shops have been combined. Aside from the main dining room and specialty restaurants, most eating areas congregate on one deck or around the pools.
The main theater and three entertainment clubs (each catering almost entirely to live music) are piled together as a “Music Walk” on a lower deck. They consolidate crowds like Wall Street lobbyists press politicians into their pockets.
Unbeknownst to us till the first night, our cabins were directly above one of these cacophonous cabarets. The next day, I spoke with Guest Services, who moved us to quiet cabins with wonderful views off the aft of the ship.
A few days later, as a nice touch, we received a complimentary dinner at one of the specialty restaurants. We were appreciative, and happy to be as far as possible from the source of the noise.
One of those is the “World Stage”, which is larger and more technically advanced than on our previous ships. But it’s also less cozy.
Show venues on other vessels were more like intimate nightclubs, with dozens of small tables supporting cocktails and creating space…enabling easy access for another round.
This one is a large auditorium, from stage to ceiling. It’s spacious, and the acoustics are good. But it’s a theater…like being at the Fox, without the opulence.
If seated too far back, visibility is difficult. For one of the magic shows, we had to watch large video screens to follow the trick.
We’ve always enjoyed cruising. Many find the ships confining, and that itineraries limit time allotted in pleasant ports.
The first objection has never been a problem for me. Aside from the issues mentioned a moment ago, ships we’ve sailed offer sufficient variety of lounges, bars, venues, and deck space that I rarely feel cramped or squeezed. For the most part, I don’t on this ship either.
And while we might wish we had more time in certain ports (as we did several times this trip), we approach the voyage as if it were a wine tasting. We sip the sites to see if any samples warrant a return visit for the whole bottle.
Today, for the fourth and final time, we have a day at sea…and a few hours to think. After a couple weeks, I’ve found the places I prefer to do it.
As I am now, I start most days above the bow, in the Crows Nest. With such wonderful weather and as crowds build in here, I often move to the empty Observation Deck immediately above where I now sit.
It can be windy. But it’s quiet and (on this trip) always sunny. I’ll likely be there to finish this missive.
My mornings begin early, especially in these northern latitudes where there is no night. While the sun does briefly pull the horizon over its head, it leaves the light on when it goes to bed.
Without heavy curtains shielding our cabin, even a cup of coffee would get a better night’s sleep. Fortunately, on this ship, the curtains can close, and coffee is always awake.
Regardless how early I’ve gotten up, it’s been there…as is someone who’s required to pour it for me. Likewise, if we want a glass of water, a set of silverware, or a pack of sugar, a member of the crew has to get it. Like pumping gas in Oregon, self service is mostly prohibited.
This is new, probably a lingering reminder of how covid responses roiled this industry. From the company’s perspective, it makes some sense.
If passengers think nothing is “being done”, many will avoid cruising like the plague…particularly the more “vulnerable” cohorts who tend to take these trips.
The entire business model entails packing thousands of people into what can be easily become a buoyant petri dish.
Apparently, it already is. Over drinks our first night at sea, a couple women who were on the ship the previous week told us a “gastrointestinal virus” has been going around.
Apparently, the bug booked itself on an extended voyage, and is accompanying us around the Baltic. Occasionally on this sailing, the captain has made announcements reminding us a malicious molecule is on the loose, and that we must keep sanitary to ward it away.
Hands should be regularly washed and surfaces continually cleaned. At each entry to the “Lido Buffet”, sentries stand guard beside a couple sinks, assuring everyone cleanses their hands before they can enter the room.
In Helsinki, the entire ship shut down for a thorough scrubbing. All passengers were asked to go ashore so crews could decontaminate our pestilential cabins.
Throughout the cruise, there is constant cleaning. Vacuums rarely fall silent. Stair rails are relentlessly sterilized, counters incessantly washed, and decks perpetually polished.
The ship sparkles, and is a credit to the crew. Wherever we go, they work incessantly, and couldn’t be nicer.
Few work harder than cruise ship crews. On this ship, most dining staff and cabin stewards work eleven hours a day, seven days a week. There are few breaks, and a couple hours a week to dabble in a port.
Holland America provides a four month sabbatical each year. Carnival crews receive only one, when they are probably sent to lower decks to pull an oar.
But we must be careful criticizing how people are employed, especially the option they’ve actually chosen. They freely selected their career, which is doubtless better than alternatives they rejected.
Yet these days, because of larger ships and rising costs, smaller staffs support more passengers. And it shows.
Carnival Cruise Lines bought Holland America thirty years ago. But in the last ten, and particularly since our previous sailing five years ago, it’s seeping influence has picked up pace.
Holland America has always seemed a relatively upscale line. Not the St Regis or the Ritz, but at least a JW Marriott or Intercontinental.
While other ships installed race tracks and amusement parks, this one always retained a touch of the traditional. It was always more piano bars and brandy than rock bands and boilermakers.
Not that there’s anything wrong with either. But as in so many areas of life, elegance is slowly sliding from the cruise itinerary. We noticed it when we departed.
Among the pleasant surprises after being on board was not having to gather for a “lifeboat drill.” Perhaps this is a beneficial residue of the covid reaction.
Rather than have everyone don life jackets and pile together in a cramped space, we merely needed to check-in at our designated station to affirm we knew where to go (our room key wasn’t activated till we did).
That was it.
Pleased to be without one boarding pastime, we soon realized we’d been deprived of another.
Among the nice touches on past cruises was the complimentary champagne when the ship left its embarkation port. At least I seem to recall this civilized custom.
Like a nostalgic who always thinks life was better before he was born, I may have been imagining a world that never was. Whether it was or not, I was convinced it should be again.
After doing our lifeboat duty, we went to the top deck seeking dapper waiters hoisting silver trays. But there were none. The servers were stylish, but the trays were plastic. And Champagne was everywhere, yet only for sale.
It was our first feeling that things were a little “off”. Cost-cutting manifested in slight deteriorations all around the ship. Little things matter, and it’s those things being taken away.
We learned the ship has a single florist (one!) who personally prepares every arrangement across a dozen decks. As such, there are no longer center pieces on the dining room tables.
Seems minor, and it may be. I didn’t notice, but many people did. It was a small flourish repeat customers remember fondly, and they miss and mourn it when they notice it’s gone.
My wife felt that way about the ginger samples that had always been dispensed after dinner. After our first meal, she walked from the dining room ready to receive her little treat…that wasn’t there.
We didn’t purchase the inclusive drink package. But even if we had, we’d not have received complimentary water in the cabin.
We could’ve gone to a bar to bring some back. But if we opened a bottle our steward left in our room, it would’ve been added to our bill. In essence, they’re charging not for the water, but for the convenience.
As a pricing professional, I admire the creativity…and the chutzpah. But I cringe at the decline of class.
Like the underside of a couch cushion or the fine print on a phone bill, the nickel and diming is getting ridiculous. This once again seems like the Carnival influence creeping in…or busting down the door.
The main dining room now charges for steak, lobster, and other desirable selections that had always been included. Even the premium restaurants, which require payment to get a reservation, charge extra for some high-end entrées.
Like the small chocolates that no longer appear on our pillows, these deprivations can seem insignificant. But when they promiscuously mingle, poor impressions are conceived.
And as expectations decline, indignities intrude. Throughout society, there’s a reason coarseness has increased as formality has fallen.
Our first night on board, a man wore an undershirt into the dining room. A few years ago, he would’ve been kicked out for degrading others with his selfish display.
Of course, a few years ago, no one would’ve done what he did. The thought wouldn’t have crossed his mind. And if it had, it would’ve been repulsed by the civilizing shame we all instinctively felt.
Now shame slumbers, and few people think at all. And more and more act like they don’t, which makes life on board a little less pleasant.
But it’s still very nice. If given the choice, each of us would jump at the chance to continue (or repeat) this trip.
The food has been quite good, served by one of the best waiters we’ve ever had. Bardika is from Bali, and has worked thirty years for Holland America. He’s what an employee should be: professional, proficient, particular, and proud.
Each night, he took my wife’s order for the following evening, making certain it was perfectly prepared. If anything was amiss, he set it straight. And a sincere smile never left his face…or hers.
We’ve enjoyed the people we’ve met on this voyage, tho’ admittedly it hasn’t been many.
On extended journeys thru cool climates, ships can occasionally resemble floating rest homes. With its share of walkers and wheelchairs, this one can too.
But I don’t mind that a bit. It’s nice talking with people who’ve lived life and have stories to tell. I met one early this week, and saw him again this morning.
Each time, he was wearing a Georgia Tech Alumni Association shirt, which is what made me introduce myself. He attended Tech in the mid-60s, and lives in Florida now.
He was more cheerful the first time we talked. When I saw him this morning as we were both getting coffee, I again said hello.
“Good morning, Steve. How are you today?”
“I’m OK.”
He didn’t seem OK. But it was early, and he’d yet to have coffee.
“It’s nice having another Yellow Jacket on board”, I said as a way of making small talk.
“What do you mean?”, he asked, looking perplexed.
“I’m sorry”, I said. “We met the other day and discussed us both going to Georgia Tech. My wife did too. We’ve had a great trip. I hope you have too.”
“Sorry for not remembering you”, he said dejectedly. “I have Alzheimers. I was diagnosed a few months ago.”
Not sure what to say, I said the only thing I could.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. But am very glad I met you on this trip.”
“Me too. It’s my last chance to do something like this. I’ve enjoyed it. I’d ordinarily have a lot to remember”, he chuckled.
“But sometimes life is for the moments, not the memories.”
JD