Letter from Espargal: 20 of 2011

Tuesday 24 May: as we start our descent into Brussels airport, the flight manager, carrying a long sheaf of paper, bends over our seats to inform us that our connections to Copenhagen have been cancelled – the volcano, he indicates! He doesn’t need to explain. Go to the airport Service Centre, he advises us helpfully before moving on to share this news with other passengers.

We ponder the options. Maybe we can we fly to Germany and take a train! Are we insured, Jones wonders. (We are – but whether against belching volcanoes I’ve no idea.) We discuss the alternatives.

At Brussels airport a fresh-faced airline representative awaits disconcerted passengers at the aircraft door. We crowd around him. Our flight’s on schedule, he assures us; it’s the next flight that’s been cancelled. Jones is dubious; she thinks him too young to trust. But it’s true. We emerge at gate 43, walk across the corridor to Gate 44 and board our flight to Copenhagen. Things are looking up.

At Copenhagen airport we join the queue for train tickets into town. The railway clerks speak fluent English. All Danes speak English. (“We start learning it in 4th grade, a coffee shop manager informs me. “Third grade,” his assistant corrects him. “In my time it was 4th grade,” he insists. Whatever the case, they all speak English.)

It’s a quick ride to Copenhagen’s central station, where we pause over a map on the pavement to get our bearings. It’s hard to see the street names. Our hotel is barely five minutes away, opposite the Lady Love sex club. It’s a lovely little hotel, if expensive - like everything else in this city. But the location is great, so are the free buffet breakfasts and suppers.

Wednesday 25: The tourist information office is just around the corner from the station, with the “Hop On - Hop Off” bus stop right outside. 90 minutes later we’ve seen the little mermaid and have a much better idea of the city layout. Next on foot to the Fine Art Museum where the new wing, cunningly melded to the old, is a work of art in itself.

Then via the Rosenborg palace gardens to the Ecco shop where, wincing at the price, I invest in new boots. They’re a perfect fit and my much- mended old pair is coming apart. I walk back to the hotel in them, dodging the cyclists in the pedestrianized shopping streets.

Copenhagen is flat; the bicycle rules supreme. Although cyclists have dedicated lanes, they and their bicycles are everywhere. They dodge in and out of people and cars, talking nonchalantly on their mobile phones as they pass by. Parked bicycles, many toppled over, clog the pavements. Helmeted children are ferried around on their parents’ cycles – up to 4 - either in a carrier up front or in a trailer behind.

Back to the hotel for a snooze and supper; we decline the waiter’s offer of a bottle of wine that costs as much as case back home; then to the Tivoli Gardens 5 minutes away. Not that the Tivoli Gardens are exactly gardens. They're not exactly anything. At one end crowds watch open air ballet.



At the other kids shriek themselves silly on a host of scare-yourself-to-death machines. (The most amazing of these is a ring of suspended chair-harnesses that, once their riders are secured, rise high into the sky to whirl dizzily around a tower.)

THOSE ARE PEOPLE FLYING

Inbetween are ponds, fountains, flower gardens, restaurants, shows and you name it. It’s Disneyworld, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Berlin Philharmonic and Sadlers Wells wrapped up together. The seagulls are well-trained. As our book says, indefinable but magic.

Thurs 26: To the national museum. The displays of tools, weapons and ornaments – plus the remains of an ancient Viking boat – are as good as anything I’ve seen, and that’s just one wing.

11.30 Fetch our luggage from the hotel and walk up to the No 26 bus stop, as advised by the tourist office. The bus driver is sympathetic to tourists with suitcases. A family of Mexicans scramble on board with their baggage and are grateful for our assistance. They’re coming on the same cruise, we learn.

At the quay we join the line for the boat, the Norwegian Sun. It’s a huge operation, methodically conducted by dozens of staff in a spacious hangar. Our suitcases, tagged with our cabin numbers, are taken to be x-rayed. We undergo airport style security ourselves – frisked, photographed, issued with passenger IDs, and finally boarded. No food or drink is allowed – especially no alcohol. That’s widely available on the ship - at cruise line prices. It’s going to be a sober voyage.

BJ ON OUR BALCONY AT WARNEMUNDE

14.00 Our cabins are ready. We trek 200 metres down the 8th floor starboard corridor to cabin 8270. We’re impressed. The queen sized bed is a delight; there’s a divan, a desk, SAT TV and wifi (at a price) and our own private balcony. We could hardly ask for more.

Dining is informal – freestyle – in any of a dozen restaurants and bars. Speciality restaurants charge a set price for entry. Otherwise, the food is included in the fare, as much as you can eat (and some people do). Most of the restaurants are on the 11th and 12th decks; Jones insists that we take the stairs; the shops, offices, gymnasiums are on the 5th and 6th decks.

The ship is huge, a floating city, nearly 80 thousand tons (although 150 thousand tonner is on the way). She is full – close to 2,000 passengers and 800 crew. We hear about cases of the dreaded novovirus on the previous voyage. Hand disinfectant dispensers are much in evidence; staff with disinfectant sprays wait outside bars and restaurants.

Friday 27: 0700: we slide gently into the German port of (Rostock) Warnemunde. Berthed beside us is an even bigger cruise liner, the Emerald Princess (113,000 tons). From her innards and from ours hundreds of passengers pour out, heading for coaches and trains bound for Berlin.

We have opted for a relaxed day in Warnemunde instead. It’s a pretty seaside resort. It would be even prettier if the day were sunnier and less windy. But the German holiday makers shrug off the showers and we do the same. The streets are lined with clothes shops and coffee shops. We find one serving mohnkuchen and order two slices. Sign language suffices. The Germans, unlike the Danes, do not all speak English.

Half a dozen pleasure boats vie to take visitors on harbour tours. I am lured on board. Jones prefers to go for a walk instead. Rostock harbour is huge and fascinating. A new ship is taking shape in a shipyard. The biggest metal pipes I’ve ever seen are being loaded on to a flat-decked boat.

That evening a swing band performs on the rear deck. It’s cold and windy.We have brought enough warm clothes but only just. The band members outnumber the audience, who prefer to remain snug inside. Entertainment is a big feature of life on board, although not much of it is to our taste. Mind you we did enjoy a performance by a group of German folk dancers.

At sunset the Emerald Princess eases away from the quay and performs a slow 180* turn in the channel. She looks like a floating tower block. We follow soon after. There is barely 30 metres between our stern and the bank as we swivel around. Beyond the harbour we watch the pilot boat speed alongside our leviathan and the pilot simply step aboard. Tried to take a picture but it was hopeless in the dark.