Cruise
Notes From Last Day to First
Island
Princess
September
26 - October 21, 2022
England,
Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Belgium, Netherlands
Noel
Laflin
October 21, 2022
We've seen the last show, had our
last sit down dinner, raised wine glasses to new friendships made, wished
others safe travels, tipped a favorite waiter and room steward, set out rain
gear for the trek to Heathrow, and prepare for bed and an early wake up call
tomorrow.
Back to reality soon.
Back to pissed off hummingbirds,
too, no doubt. Guess I'll have some explaining to do.
Gonna have to sugarcoat it, no
doubt.
"Our bags are packed
We're ready to go (sadly)
The gangplank's waiting
Outside the door ..."
Mange takk!
A Night at
Sea
The old
woman sitting across from me in the Wheelhouse Bar the other night knew every
word to every Irish ballad being sung – and was happy to share every off-key
word aloud.
She was
Irish, obviously, and a little giddy from the wine, apparently. When said wine
forced her to dash off to the WC, the duet on stage playing the Irish gigs
launched into “Danny Boy”, which the woman missed entirely. Upon her return,
her husband (drinking Guinness), sadly informed his wife of what she missed.
She was
clearly beside herself for the oversight, and had some more wine in order to
calm down. Her husband patted her knee
and cooed, “Now, now, dearie, there’ll be something else to compensate, I’m
certain of it!”
And much to
their collective relieve, the duet on stage announced that there would be one
more song before leaving the stage; it would be “Bog Down in the Valley,” which
consists of 72 verses …
The woman
sitting across from me looked like she had just died and gone to Irish heaven,
took a celebratory gulp of wine and proceeded to sing along to every word in
every verse.
Well, I
think it was to every verse, as I soon departed, only having gotten to the part
about the nest on the limb, and the limb on the tree, and the tree in the bog.
Notes:
There's a lot of heads with gray
hair here on board. There are heads with no hair too, but surprisingly they
seem to be attached to younger bodies.
There aren't many youngsters among
the 1751 passengers this trip - I have counted a dozen at best - I noticed the
youngest one today, an infant in her mother's arms as mom balanced both baby
and a glass of orange juice. There's a pair of brothers, probably ages ten and
twelve - nice kids - one was asked to be a part of a fellow's trick bike act on
stage last week and he proved to be both a good sport and a hit with the
audience. There's a young girl in the audience who's dressed as Elsa from
Disney's Frozen every night. There's a young boy, maybe four years old, who has
some minor disabilities, but is greeted with great joy by the crew member who
hands us plates and silverware each morning. The young crew member wears a
bright red clown nose, which delights the little boy to no end. And there are
high fives between the two upon every meeting.
Doesn't appear to be many
honeymooners on this leg of our trip, unlike other destinations to warmer
climes like Mexico or the Caribbean. I guess marriage vows don't include a trip
to Norway in autumn.
There's a fellow on board who could
be a dead ringer for David's brother-in-law, and a woman who reminds me of my
mother.
Two fellas might just be Santa ...
I often take note of things like
this, and it makes me happy, at present, to be part of this whole damn human
race. And for all I know, someone may be taking note of the old guy taking
notes right now. Hope they are kind notes ...
Second to the last Day at Sea -
Somewhere in the North Atlantic:
I just ran into two cute dancers at
the buffet - a lovely lad and lass. Their looks, youth, and svelte bodies can nearly
bring a body to tears.
Anyway, they'll be performing,
along with the rest of the youthful cast, in tonight's show entitled 'On The
Bayou,' a fun romp that takes place in New Orleans.
My last year at Camp Ahwahnee saw
me sleeping in a cabin we called the Bayou.
Our Bayou didn't have cute dancers
(a most unfortunate oversight), or set designs mimicking the French Quarter or
spooky cemeteries laying beneath Spanish moss-laden oaks.
But I did outfit the interior of
our Bayou with fake pine paneling, funky lighting, a swap meet purchased
tapestry featuring deer in a mountain meadow, a cool stereo, and a tacky rain
lamp. It was the height of kitsch. But other staff members did like to hang out
there at night. Did I mention that my footlocker also had some fine bottles of
spirits hidden away at the bottom? Had to keep a padlock on that trunk with all
those visitors.
I told the two cute kids in the
buffet today that I was looking forward to seeing them in the show again, as we
had enjoyed the same performance on the cruise before this one.
These two are probably the age I
was back in my Bayou days. I wore khaki green back then. Their outfits will be
much more fun. And their dance steps will put my old hokey pokey moves to great
shame too, no doubt.
Our last stop in Norway today,
Ålesund. And the two Princess stowaways pictured here ...
There’s a ship in the harbor, in a
scene that looks like a model layout, that has been our floating home away from
home these last three weeks. A couple more days at sea, and then a there's a
final stop in Southampton, then a flight home.
It's been glorious.
Thanks for coming along!
Now, back to a good book and many
more yummy cocktails.…
We ported in the Norwegian city of
Alesund today.
Like so many cities around the
world, fire destroyed this once thriving fishing village - this particular
disaster happened back in 1904. Every structure, except one, was lost. As the
fire spread to the prison downtown, inmates were freed by the guards, but
politely asked to come back the next day - which they all did as there was
nowhere else to get a meal the next day, nor the days and weeks to follow since
the fire destroyed everything in its path.
Fortunately, the town, like other
towns around the globe leveled by fire, rebuilt and now thrives.
Our guide told us all this while
touring the city, as well as the time the bus had to stop because of a drunk
moose in the middle of the road. The moose had eaten too many overly ripe
summer berries apparently, which began to ferment in her belly causing her to
nap in the middle of said road. Passengers helped carry her off the road and
into the woods, and the tour continued.
This fun tidbit was followed by
another story regarding a mama bear and her two hungry cubs that broke into a
cabin nearby one spring and discovered not only kitchen food, but the vast
quantity of beer stored there. It seems everyone makes their own beer in
Norway.
Anyway, when the owners of the
cabin returned from their errand in town, they found the two cubs and mama bear
sleeping off the effects of the beer in two of their beds - kind of like
Goldilocks in reverse.
So here I sit on a lovely bench,
which overlooks yet another pretty fjord behind me, pondering tales of fire,
freed prisoners, a drunken moose, and a thirsty family of bears who enjoy comfy
beds.
It's the kind of stuff tales are
made of.
As they say here in Norway: Good planets are hard to find, so
go out and explore this one.
I just ordered and had delivered to
my table a Brandy Alexander, a drink I haven't tasted in nearly 50 years.
I remember the very first time I
had one, shortly after my 21st birthday. I was in a bar and trying out
everything the handsome young bartender suggested. I don't think I had to pay
for most of them as he seemed pretty keen on getting me drunk.
Anyway, a Brandy Alexander was
suggested at some point late into the evening and I happily obligated.
It was tasty, I'll admit.
And so is this one.
But, I'll never be 21 again.
However, it was a nice stroll down
memory lane.
And so is the memory of that
handsome young bartender who made sure I didn't drive home impaired, or
otherwise, that night.
As the Norwegians like to say:
There's no such thing as bad
weather - only bad clothing.
Somewhere Afloat in the Norwegian
Sea
I donned a comfortable old pair of
flannel pajama bottoms last night and thought of home.
When I unfolded the familiar cotton
plaid fabric and brought the well worn article of clothing to my face, both
feeling and then inhaling the soft fabric so long hidden away in the top drawer
of an old dresser in which they are normally stored, old familiar scents wafted
my way some five thousand miles away.
The old dresser is close to a
hundred years old and thus holds a lot of fragrances - and hidden forgotten
sensory bouquets, too, no doubt.
It, the dresser, has only belonged
to two households all these years, so I take comfort in having a connection to
scents of ghosts I have known and the living alike.
And so, as I catch the slight
fragrance of sanded cedar, ancient soap, Old Spice, Indian incense, Bounce, and
even faint campfire smoke, I picture the room containing the beautiful old
piece of furniture and even recall the kitten that loved to sleep in the drawer
of hidden aromas whenever given the chance.
Pulling on the old pajama bottoms,
I take all those humble fragrances and memories with me as I stretch across a
bed far away from home, open a book, but soon fall asleep and dream of kittens,
friend
Ahwahnee Campfire Tales
Monkey Business, 1968
There was a fellow who brought a
pet monkey to Scout camp one summer.
It was a mean little fucker, the
monkey that is, made so, no doubt, by having to spend most of his day in a
cage, watching kids engrave their names into belts, wristbands, and other leather
knickknacks of forgettable design.
But come the end of day, the monkey
was set loose and given free reign of the handicraft lodge, an eight by ten
plywood shack loaded with hammers, mallets, chissels, and many other assorted
sharp tools.
Total bedlam would soon ensue as
the fustrated furry fellow would fly from wall to wall, bench to stool,
grabbing whatever was handy and flinging blunt, sharp instruments willy nilly.
The fellow who owned the monkey
would give a daily heads-up to his trusty aide and allow the poor boy to make
his way out the door before the monkey's cage was opened.
I made the mistake of passing by
the handicraft lodge late one afternoon and opening the door to see what all
the noise was about.
They should have added a thirteen
point to the Scour Law that day as I proved that a Scout is Fast, when I ducked
out of the way of a flying screwdriver flung my way, embedding itself into the
cabin door.
Did I mention that a fourteen point
of the Law might also allow a Scout to wet himself under adverse conditions?
The handicraft direcor was invited
back to camp the following summer, but, happily, the monkey was not.
We have had wonderful tour guides
in nearly every port of call on this voyage. Interestingly enough, the last
three stops in Northern Norway have provided us with guides originally from
France, Germany, and today, Poland. They have all embraced the warmth and charm
of this lovely land and now call Norway home.
Our guide today, Jacob, is from
Poland, has lived here for eight years, and is just a great fellow. He is a
guide, a professional photographer, a former viking ship captain, an
outdoorsman, a naturalist ... just an all around lovely, interesting human
being!
We have been extremely fortunate
with folks leading us through some magnificent countryside and today was no
exception - quite the opposite, in fact.
What an amazing place, here in
Lofoten, Norway!
As I keep telling David Huang
each time we land in beautiful new locations around the world, "I could
live here!" And here, I truly could. Beaches, mountains, meadows, the Gulf
Stream current to keep seas ice free, killer whales off shore, etc. It is
lovely!
A mask mandate for crew members
aboard our vessel was lifted by Princess management yesterday and we can
suddenly see many new smiles.
It's up to individual crew members
as to whether they, like passengers, wish to participate. As passengers, we
have had that option since we boarded a couple of weeks back.
But it's so nice to see the playful
grin of Roberto from Mexico, the beautiful blazing smile of Bernardino, hailing
from the Philippines, the joy in the smile of Andy, from England, etc.
The captain of the ship just
announced his daily update on how many miles to go before our next port (200),
weather forecast (nice), sea swells (flat), wind (slight), and to let everyone
know about the dispensing of masks by crew members, should they so desire.
Another nod toward normalcy, he says, with what I can only imagine to be a
happy smile on the nice Scotsman's face.
And more, hitherto hidden smiles,
are greeting us at every turn of a corner, stairwell, performance or meal.
It's infectious in the very best
sense.
Some are wondering where we are
currently.
Well, we are here, deep within a
pretty fjord which ends at the town of Alta.
Pretty darn close to the top of the
world, or so it seems.
Reindeer outnumber humans by a
ratio of five to one
Have you ever had a name of someone
or something that you just can't remember?
Happens to me all the time. But
like most of you, or so I imagine, the name eventually comes to mind, usually
within an hour, a day, a week, maybe six months later - usually when the mind
is at rest, not trying so hard to remember that which had been forgotten.
The name of a place I once knew
very well back in my youth had been eluding me for nearly half a century. It
drove me crazy, not remembering it. So, I wrote a story about it yesterday,
picturing it so clearly, but left it unnamed as I still could not recall it.
Hours later, and half a world away
from home, I am in the bathroom and the name came to me ... Hidden Valley.
Jesus, that was the name! I very nearly caused bodily harm with my pants zipper
upon the sleepy mind's sudden and most unexpected recollection of that which
had eluded me for fifty years!
Ten minutes later, an announcement
echoes down our deck's corridor from the officer of the watch, that the
Northern Lights were visible off the port side of the vessel.
And even though it was one-thirty
in the morning, we dressed in down jackets and headed above to see them. Joined
by scores of other enthsiasts, we watched them dance across the artic skies for
the next forty-five minutes before finally calling it a night.
A heretofore hidden name of a
lovely hidden valley, along with elusive lights in the land of distant
ancestors converged most conviently in the very early hours of today, or so it
would seem.
It goes to show that good things do
come to those who wait.
Just wish it hadn't taken so very
long ...
Ahwahnee Campfire Tales
Foggy Night
Creeping fog snuck into camp late
one evening, oh so long ago, much like a fabled thief in the night. And just
like the sneaky thief it was, it had stolen the lad's way to a late night
rendezvous with trusted friends, the warmth of a small campfire well away from
adult supervision, a forest refuge, a secluded secret place to unwind, swap
tall tales, have a smoke, and maybe pass a bottle back and forth between summer
brothers. Yeah, there would definitely be a bottle or two of something sweet,
something sharp, something forbidden, something potent.
The sudden uninvited foggy guest
which enveloped his secluded neck of the woods, where his cabin lay, brought
forth memories of a brown-bearded, robe-clad, long-haired sweet looking savior
gently tapping at an old door; a remembrance of a cheap knockoff replica of a
painting tacked to a drab and dingy Sunday school classroom wall, long
forgotten to memory - until now
"Actually, I could use a
little Jesus right about now," the boy said to no one in particular.
"Jesus with a flashlight in hand would be nice, too," he amended his
fantasy, as he suddenly tripped on a hidden bump off his unintended path and
only caught himself from falling by grabbing hold of a small pine sapling
growing from the base of the intruding rotten stump that had obviously jumped
out, grabbed his foot and nearly caused him to tumble. He knew it was a pine as
the faint scent of turpentine lingered on the hand that had fortunately grabbed
ahold preventing a faceplant on the forest floor.
He stopped for a bit trying to
orient himself, knowing he was close to the old log crossing the dry creek bed.
It was just a small matter of locating it. The boy carefully dropped to hands
and knees, brushing aside dew-dripping ferns and sharp coulter pine cones and
felt about for any sign of the rotten log, masquerading as a bridge, that in
daytime hours one crossed with ease.
The outline of the ancient, poor
excuse for a bridge was there after all, wet and slippery and simply inviting a
fool to fall should one be stupid enough to tackle it on such a damp, dark
night - so he slid down the embankment instead and crossed the dry creek bed
from below, keeping one hand above him, sliding fingertips along its smooth
underbelly, letting it guide him to the other side of the sandy stretch, like a
blind man following a lifeline.
And then, as he scrambled up the
opposite embankment, the fog suddenly ended as abruptly as it had descended.
The lad looked about, scratched his
head in wonderment at the stars blinking through the canopy of branches above
and sighed a breath of relief.
The sneaky dark and misty thief had
left, and the boy (picturing himself to nearly be a man) most certainly knew
where he was now. And with that, he danced down a familiar pathway toward
friends, the warmth of a small fire, a bottle of something sweet, sharp and
potent, and if he felt so inclined, tell his own tale of things that go bump in
the night. And there might even be a bit of embellishment as well, if the bottle
passed his way often enough, and fogged his murky memory.
Wet and wild in Tromso, Norway
today with our very lovely tour guide, Julie, who is actually French, fluent in
three languages, and a student of environmental law at the university here,
which is also quite pretty.
Despite the weather, the
countryside was beautiful and we even had to stop the bus to let reindeer cross
the road - magnificent creatures up close!
Browsing the ship's library I came
across a copy of Oliver Twist. My first thought was, how is it that it wasn't
taken already? This is a treasure.
I let it be as I have the book in
my Kindle library already - it's free by the way - and I reread it just four
years ago when in Taiwan at Christmas time.
But seeing the nice copy of the
classic today reminded of the first time I read it, back in the summer of 1969.
I was sixteen. It was after seeing the musical Oliver that led me to the book.
It took all summer to read, but was
worth the effort in the end.
I read it by lantern light in a
cabin in the woods, a far cry from the slums of 19th century London and the
likes of Fagin, Bill Sykes, The Artful Dodger, and poor Oliver himself.
I would tell of my progress each
day to another fellow I worked with that summer at camp. He was a little older,
wiser, and very handsome. I had a crush on the guy, but hid it as best I could.
However, our love of classics (he was tackling Pearl Buck's The Good Earth that
summer) gave me the excuse to engage.
And so, on the last day of camp I
told my friend that Oliver had found a home, as I had completed the last
chapter the night before. And now we'd all be heading home as well. He smiled
and said The Good Earth was also history.
We said our goodbyes after camp was
closed and tidied up.
When I got home, I headed for the
library downtown and checked out a book about China, a peasant who became
wealthy, love, loss, and about the good earth itself.
Now I knew where my friend and I
could begin our dis
I was telling David during dinner
tonight about a new book (The Sweetness of Water) I had just started and how
incredibly superb the writing is, especially being a first novel by young
author Nathan Harris (age 29). I mentioned that Oprah had chosen it last year
as a top read and that the dozens of glowing reviews were not overstated in the
least. I was excited to share my new find, as is my nature when it comes to
great novels.
A woman at the table next to us
suddenly asked for the title again, which I provided, and this led to a great
sharing of favorite titles and authors. Great dinner time discussion in my
book, if you will excuse the pun.
A kindred spirit, this new friend,
a fellow bookworm - how cool!
By the end of dinner, but before
moving on to a show that was soon to start, the woman's husband asked if I was
in a teacher perhaps?
No, i smiled, just the child of an
English teacher, as well as the son of a father who also loved to read. Our
home was filled with reading material, I added, and none of it went unread.
That explains it, he said.
Yup, pretty much, I concluded.
On the way to the show, I kept
thinking, you know, my folks both would have loved this book too.
Children really do Learn What They
Live ... another fine read, by the way, even some sixty plus years since it
also went to the top of the best seller list.
But meanwhile, back to the
sweetness of some really great writing, and a powerful, page turning story.
It's Canadian Thanksgiving Day, so
appropriately enough, we shared a meal with Andre, who just happens to be
Canadian, and a new friend we made this trip. Turkey wasn't on the menu, so we
had fantastic shrimp instead.
He said it worked for him, so we
followed his lead.
We have made some really nice
friendships over the last two weeks, something to give thanks for indeed,
whether it's a national holiday or not.
There's a memory of a friend and I
catching fireflies at summer camp one year. This was really long ago and I was
pretty green in so many ways.
The thing is, I don't think there
were any fireflies in our region. At least, from all the latter years spent
there, I never again saw a single one, and according to Google, fireflies
aren't known to inhabit our local mountains.
Looking back on my first night in
this dark and lonely place, when I was suddenly quite homesick and wanting to
creep up to the payphone to call my folks to come quick and rescue me, it was
my friend who convinced me that there were fireflies ... "Couldn't I see
them!" he exclaimed, jumping about with his cap and claiming to catch one
every time he brought the cap to his face, peering in and smiling triumphantly.
Caught up in his excitement and
convinced he was right, I, too, began to jump about waving my cap.
He was a smart kid, that friend,
distracting me in my moment of weakness, taking my mind off of that phonebooth
and a potentially embarrassing call home.
And who knows, maybe he did conjure
up a magical firefly or two that night.
But I suppose the real magic was in
the good deed he did.
We
have an unexpected extra sea day today as the captain is outrunning two massive
colliding low fronts standing in our way. It appears that whatever tactics were
employed were successful as the sea is relatively calm right now, unlike last
night when things were rocking due to our being on the outskirts of the nasty
weather front.
Consequently,
we are not in the pretty fjord we thought we would be in at present. In fact, I
do not now where we'll end up, but I am guessing it will be in some other
pretty fjord, as the country is full of them - 1200 or so, according to
statistics.
The
free time allowed us to sleep in so breakfast was closer to lunch time. This
proved fortunate as I found myself seated close to two of the stars from last
night's stage performance of 'Encore!" There were two performances and I
caught both, as I had last week, as well - I was that taken with the singing,
set design, and overall execution of this particular show.
I've
run into performers before on various cruises and always extend the courtesy of
acknowledgement of a job well done.
I
held off doing so today as I was respecting their privacy, as well as
discreetly taking pleasure in listening to their lovely English accents.
It
wasn't till their bacon and eggs were history and they were about to get on to
rehearsal that I finally said, "I loved last night's show! Both times,
actually."
They
were charming and gracious, especially when I mentioned that I had seen all
four of the performances during the past week. Then they really smiled.
It's
not a fjord, but it's still nice.
So,
lead on, oh captain, my captain, and surprise us with whatever new safe harbor
and land show lay ahead.
If
anyone asked me if I had a favorite year to look back upon with a longing of
youthful innocence, it would be 1967.
I
was 14, had neither girlfriend nor boyfriend to distract me from my
self-imposed dedication to perfection, hadn't smoked a single cigarette nor
gotten drunk yet, got straight A's for the one and only time in my life,
learned how to type, acted in a school play, and spent one last summer drama
session with a favorite teacher, basking in the juvenile delight of acting on
stage one more time.
Finally,
it was the last summer that my best friend and I played endless hours of
over-the-line two-man baseball together (yelling both encouragement, as well
as, familiar curses at one another with pure abandonment), shot driveway hoops
until midnight, and sprawled out on warm backyard summer nights, side by side,
listening to the top forty songs of the summer - just as we had been doing
together since we had gotten our greedy little hands on someone's transistor
radio years before. I just didn't realize at the time that this would be the
last time my childhood friend and I would be innocently embracing, so very
closely, one last summer together.
Jesus,
I wish I knew at the time that this friend (and neighbor of three doors down
from our home on Flower Street) and I would never again spend so much time
connected at the proverbial hip. Eleven years of friendship up until then - we
should never have taken one another so much for granted. Little did we realize
that high school sports, extracurricular activities, new friends - girls for
him, and boy crushes for me - would cause us to slowly drift apart and see so
much less of one another, even though we were separated but by two houses.
Over-the-line and shooting hoops in the driveway were but a memory, as were childhood
fights and inevitable makeups. But despite, or perhaps because of twenty-twenty
hindsight of old age, it was still a most wonderful summer.
And
then, on this very autumn day in 1967, I had an Eagle award pinned to my chest.
It was just one more proud moment to cherish with friends and family capping
off a most memorable year. There would never be such another year again.
But
my best friend, a fellow Scout himself, was there in the audience that night. I
took that for granted, too, no doubt, but now, in innocent hindsight, I wish I
hadn't.
If someone was to ask me where the
gym is located on board our vessel, I could answer with complete confidence,
'Deck 6, aft.' I know this as it's where our muster station is located; we had
to check in there upon first arrival. If you don't check in, some nice crew
member will track you down and lead you there by the hand before the ship
departs its port of embarkation. It's a maritime law, and a good one, I
suppose, should we hit an iceberg or catch fire or get torpedoed by Red October
or what have you.
Otherwise, I would have no clue as
to where the gym might be located. You might as well ask me where the chapel
is. Wait, is there even a chapel on board? Probably not, and just as well as I
wouldn't be interested anyway.
On other cruises our muster station
has been located at a restaurant or bar, someplace much more appealing than a
place filled with dumbbells and whatnot. I mean, if you're going down to the
lifeboats, what good would a bulky treadmill do you? But to be able to grab a
sandwich or two, or a bottle of something to keep you warm, watching the
icebergs float by, seems to me to make much more sense.
Thoughts and prayers are also fine,
along with a fine cardio regime, but food and drink more suit my fancy in time
of need - which I hope is not needed for any reason in the foreseeable future,
but good to keep in mind, just in case ...
Sea Day
October 8, 2022
There's a martini demonstration
happening two decks below from where I'm seated right now, and from what I can
hear, there's no lack for folks willing to participate by sampling each unique
concoction. I am a fan of nearly every creation.
Meanwhile, I look out on sunny
skies kissing rolling whitecaps midway between Southampton and Stavanger,
Norway. The announcement from the bridge an hour ago tells us that we have
another three-hundred-plus nautical miles to go.
We are also informed that these are
very cold waters, remnants from the melting of the last ice age.
The seas are a little choppy,
causing occasional shaking and there's a cold front blowing in from Iceland. I
guess the North Atlantic is brewing it's own martini, far larger than anything
being shaken two decks below.
And no one has volunteered to
sample this one at present.
Need to close here as there's a
handsome young waiter heading my way with a familiar shaped glass bearing more
ice cold Absolut and olives. I'll just let the ship's movement take care of any
remaining shaking needed ...
No, it's perfect as is!
How does one properly talk about a
city that was founded in the ninth century and still stands so beautifully
intact today?
Well, I don't really know, but if I
had to describe just such a place, it would be in the most glowing of
adjectives when it comes to Brugge, Belgium.
We have toured eight magnificent
cities in just ten days, and all have had their charms, but Brugge, in my mind,
will forever remain the most memorable.
Conquered time and again by the
largest of armies (from Napoleon to Hitler and countless forgotten noblemen of
long ago), yet it still stands in all its magnificent splendor, drawing in
admirers from around the world on a daily basis.
We were lucky to have walked the
old town on a beautiful warm fall day such as today and revel in it's glorious
past, ride down it's cool canals, meet some of it its cheerful citizens and
sample a bit of it's tasty food.
Now, that's a fine way to end a
first leg of a fine, long Northern European tour.
In Rotterdam today. Overcast but not cold and no rain. The
German Luftwaffe destroyed the heart of the city on one fateful May night in
1940. Was a warm night and the wind was blowing and being that most of the
buildings we made of wood, well, that was the end of old Rotterdam
unfortunately. But the Dutch did rebuild, and the city thrives today.
It's formal dining night on board
this evening, and many of the older folks are looking quite dapper in coats and
ties, and fancy dresses.
It's really just a ploy, in my
opinion, on the part of cruise lines to sell more formal, overpriced pictures
to folks who are already dressed up.
I guess I could place myself as one
of the older crowd nowadays, but my formal attire only consists of a stateroom
closet hung with Hawaiian shirts.
I was forced to wear a suit, tie,
and fancy uncomfortable shoes on a first cruise some thirty years ago, when
informed, in advance, that we were to be seated with the captain that night. I
don't remember the captain whatsoever, but I do remember the uncomfortable
clothes.
Times have changed over the years,
happily enough, and I am allowed to enter the dining room tonight dressed in
jeans and a favorite Hawaiian shirt, drawing looks of envy from the guys in
neck choking ties no doubt.
There's no captain at our table,
but the guy sitting across from me is also causally dressed, so all is well in
the world. And the servers, all in tuxedos, still bring us all the lobster we
can eat, underdressed as we are. But there will be no melted butter d
Day
at Sea
Somewhere
on the way to the Netherlands
10-4-22
Looking
out on grey, moisture laden skies and whitecaps lazily rolling by, my mind
starts to wonder about just how many shipwrecks lie beneath the ocean floor. Curious,
if not morbid, minds like mine sometimes ponder the question, especially while
cruising in relative modern day safety, enjoying a cocktail or two or three.
Okay, so blame the wandering, wondering
pondering
on alcohol. But, I do know where our muster station and life jackets are, just
in case ...
So,
accordimg to World Atlas, "estimates show that more than three million
shipwrecks lie on the ocean floor. The figure dates back to when humans began
traversing the ocean and lakes. The oldest wrecks include 10,000-year-old
canoes while the newest are 21st century shipwrecks. A small fraction of the
ships are known, and an even smaller portion have been explored. The Battle of
the Atlantic during the Second World War grounded about 3,500 merchant vessels,
783 submarines, and 175 warships."
U
Boats alone sank 5,000 Allied ships during the First World War.
"About
90-95% of the seafloor is yet to be explored," according to World Atlas,
"and researchers figure thousands if not millions of shipwrecks are still undiscovered."
And
for those wondering about ancient lost loot, it is estimated that treasures
worth $60 billion lie at the bottom of the sea waiting to be discovered. I
figure the loot is probably protected by a few million ghosts as well.
With
all that now off my mind, I think it's time for another drink, and hope the sun
also makes another appearance soon and all those ghosts lurking below stay put.
We
dined next to a lovely young lady and her mother late this evening. They are
originally from Trinidad but now call Vancouver their home.
We
got to talking about favorite foods and their preparation, so I let David take
over when it came to explaining his specialties. The young lady took copious
notes in her phone.
When
I asked about her favorite specialties, I paid special attention as her
traditional Trinidad dishes sound amazing, even on a full stomach. In Trinidad,
there's a fusion of Spanish, African, Asian, and Indian cuisine that made my
mouth water.
She
visits Santa Ana quite often as that is where her boyfriend lives. And she
loves cooking for her sweetheart.
And
Santa Ana is but fifteen minutes away from us.
I
can't wait till her next visit our way, because between David and her, I am
already picturing some mighty fine home cooked meals on the horizon.
Fun fact:
40 percent of Copenhagen's residents get around (to work or otherwise) by
bicycle. It's a lovely, inspiring, zero emissions way to live. I really like
this city in so many aspects!
October 1,
2022
I touched Scandinavian soil for the
first time in my life today. It only took nearly 70 years to finally do so.
Just don't tell my mother that it
was Sweden, and not Norway, however, as she was fiercely proud of her 100
percent Norwegian ancestry.
But, after my sister submitted a
sample of spiit to the Ancestry.com folks a few years ago it was determined that my
siblings and I are twenty percent Swedish, not the fifty percent Norwegian my
mom always assured us we were. That means that mom had an even greater amount
of Swedish blood running through her own DNA. Yes, the Norwegian percentage was
higher, but not by much.
Mom died long before all of this
made the light of day, however, so I guess it's okay to talk about it now.
So, armed with DNA from both
countries, I take comfort in knowing that I was not a complete foreigner as we
stepped into the ancient port city of Gothenburg today; the very port that sent
all of those Swedes (and maybe a few Norwegians), to America so long ago.
The Gothenburg folks wanted to
acknowledge their strong tie to the sea so, some ninety years ago, they
commissioned a fellow to make a 23-foot tall statue of King Poseidon in the
middle of town, as pictured here. He is impressive in statue, even if, as many
whisper, he may not be really anatomically portioned in some regards. But, if
you're perpetually immersed in cold water, well, that could explain some
shortcomings, I suppose. My mom would have made a big deal of that, I bet.
But, I digress, as usual.
We'll eventually make it to Norway
after a stop in Denmark first.
Mom never felt competitive toward
the likes of Hans Christian Andersen and countrymen, so the vist there should
be fine, as was the visit today. After all, mom was part Swedish ya know, even
if she didn't.
September 30, 2022
Somewhere in the North Atlantic
Sea Day - September 30
Looking up from the book in hand (a
fine story indeed) I spot another ship on the horizon heading in our same
direction.
Onward to Sweden!
Vidare till Sverige!
Making New Friends
Sea Day
Wednesday 9-28
We made new friends with two other
couples traveling together this trip. The friendship came about as we six
exited adjoining elevators at the same time and attempted to locate the buffet
yesterday. One of the ladies, Ginger, took charge leading us outside an
interior door to the deck outside and insisted she was on the right track, but
of course it was not. Backtracking and laughing all the way, we could feel a
kinship in the making as we eventually found the buffet a short time later. David
and I went straight for the food while our four new friends diverted for the
bar.
They joined us at our table quite
by accident a short time later, Pina coladas in hand, and again today (this
time with ice cream cones).
Boomers, like myself, we began to
get to know one another today and found we had much in common when it came to
politics, laughter, food, drink and fellowship.
Discussing plans for an upcoming
visit to Germany,, three of us also discovered that we all had fathers who
fought there during WWII.
Ginger told the story of her dad
having been shot down somewhere over the Danube while on a bombing run,
parachuting a plane in flames, taking flak wounds to both leg and hand and
eventually landing in the river before having to surrender and spending the
rest of the war in a German POW camp.
Years later, Ginger and her husband
traveled through Germany with her father. He wanted to see it all, having made
many friends there once he'd been released following the end of the war. She
said he wanted to see everything, with the exception of where he was once
interned.
While traveling by train through
lower Saxony, a sign outside the tracks proclaimed that they were entering the
town of Linne.
Ginger's father, having caught
sight of the words suddenly burst out, "I bombed this place!"
Young daughter and son-in-law
quickly shushed their father telling him that any others on the train that
understood English might not take to his sudden memory and exclamation of such
any too kindly.
It wasn't, Ginger gently reminded
her dad, perhaps the best way to make new friends even so many decades later.
When we six meet again at the
buffet, post visits by us to Hamburg, and Ginger and company to Berlin, I am
certain more tales will be in the telling among new friends indulging in food,
drink, fellowship, and ice cream, no doubt.
Innocent or Not
Sea Day
Wednesday 9-28
Call me old fashioned, but one of
my favorite places aboard any ship on a long cruise is the library.
There is good natural light coming
in through large windows looking out on wind blown fluffy clouds over the vast
North Atlantic sea, there are books galore hiding behind wood and glass, and
very comfortable leather chairs and ottomans to rest your legs. And there is
just the immediate sound of folks turning pages.
It's a fine place to read, enjoy a
favorite beverage, hide from crowds, listen to the the young lady playing the
violin on the deck below, think, or just nap if one is so inclined. It's a
great place to pull out a thin device, thinner than a slice of bread, type on a
tiny keyboard and share a thought or two; if only Twain had such technology at
his literal fingertips while being an Innocent Abroad ... Or, hardly being
innocent, maybe partake in all of these things, which I do.
For me, it's heaven, whether
innocent or not.
No comments:
Post a Comment