And what does the bremen mean to me personally?.

And what does the bremen mean to me personally?.

Today the day in a nutshell: One last look at the Danish countryside, visited a great museum (historical facilities circa 1900; stiff, cramped, gloomy). Wondered about the taste of the Danes though, first thing to see when entering the museum: a black wall with 16 black skulls on it, next to it the writing Zeit Mensch Museum. It was a gift from an artist, the management did not know what to do with it and put the installation in the entrance. Then hurried through a horrible museum (modern Danish art, sad imitators of Klee, even sadder of Kandinsky), after that I just wanted to get back to the ship. There I was immediately beckoned by one of my favorite passengers with the words: here comes our pious woman (what a reputation I have)!). But I prefer it to: our Mrs. Zora is not seaworthy (which offends me a bit, after all I didn't need the doctor at the North Sea Crossing and got through the whole thing without pills). The man shows me a brochure of the Saedden Kirke, designed in 1977, and I think for the first time: Crap, I missed something there. A magnificent interior, a sea of lights in modern brick architecture. My architect heart goes through with me, briefly the consideration to sit down in the cab and still go there. Don't have time, though, because the third and final lightning survey is still missing:

What does the Bremen mean to you personally?

– Controlled adventure (crew) – My family, I don't have one anymore (crew) – A piece of nostalgia (passenger) – She is the most beautiful and dearest ship ever (passenger) – Intimacy (passenger) – Better ask me about the old Bremen (passenger) – She is still a real ship (passenger) – Is my workplace (crew) – She functions like a family: there are close ones, in-laws, distant relatives and those you don't want to know (passenger) – Just a comfortable means of transport (passenger) – It was love at first sight (crew twice) – She takes you to places you wouldn't get to without her (crew) – It's like coming home again every time (several passengers) – Warmth. It is good that she has only 4 stars. More stars mean more cold (passenger) – She's the greatest ship in the world. Just like my wife at home in the Philippines is the most beautiful woman in the world. I am loyal (crew) – Travel to unusual places in a family atmosphere (several passengers) – Freedom, financial security, many dear friends (crew) – I am infected by Antarctica. With the Bremen I can go there (crew) – A floating living room (crew)

And what does the Bremen mean to me personally?

There are these single moments that remain unforgettable to me. Often they have nothing to do with shore excursions, but rather with the seafaring itself, it's certain moods on board that I love, mostly they take place in the dark.

For example, the other night in the English Channel, when the seagulls accompanied us, dozens, very close above and behind us, brightly lit by our stern lamp, snow-white bellies shone there, majestic animals, dancing with rhythmic wing beat in the air, up and down, beautiful.

Or last night the minutes on the bridge. I already like the bridge walkway on deck 6, the dim red light that illuminates these few meters, the walls full of harbor plaques; quietly opening the bridge door, it's dark, for a moment getting the eyes used to the dark, looking to see who's still standing there, first they're shadows, then they become familiar people. Otherwise just little colored lights, the ticking sound of the barograph, the radar screen the brightest thing in the room. Then the voice of the pilot, steer one zero five, the helmsman repeats, yes sir, one zero five, regulates the course, then one zero five now. Silence. The wind is whistling, Helgoland is slowly getting smaller, a grey rock in a grey sea, surrounded by clouds, the moon is shining through and some parts are dipped in silver.

Then the short scene on the panorama deck, also at night. A passenger stands next to the curtain, all alone, she never goes out to eat in the evening because she wants to have this time to herself. We are still chatting as we enter, see the woman and quietly retreat, not wanting to disturb her as she stands there looking at the water.

But my favorite time is this one hour, in the evening between half past seven and half past eight. I'm tempted to call it the blue hour, although it doesn't have to be. It does not take place everywhere, but only in one place on the ship, on an area of no more than 20 square meters, in the club, around the bar, port side. It is very quiet, the passengers are in the dining room, gradually two or three officers arrive, someone from the staff, the chef drops in, maybe the musicians, maybe a lecturer, sometimes there are more, sometimes less, there is no obligation, no one has to participate, there is no work meeting here, it is simply a moment of exchange or also of silence with one another, time to have a drink together, to take a breath. The light is already dimmed, the music plays, sometimes soft, sometimes louder, yesterday we heard South American sounds, someone showed pictures of the Amazon on his computer. Another time we sat there and talked about garden problems (which plants tolerate the long absence, who actually mows the lawn; I now know that eucalyptus trees have an enormous water consumption and are deadly for dry regions), they are conversations like they are everywhere, trivial, critical, funny, just normal talking. The club at eight is the quietly beating heart of the MS Bremen, a pulsating, flowing feeling of togetherness rises up. I give myself the illusion of belonging a little, of being a temporary part of this ever-changing circle.

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