Room service on your balcony while sailing through the Norwegian fjords is possibly the most luxurious experience imaginable. Those towering cliffs and cascading waterfalls are actually more impressive when viewed in peaceful solitude, without someone’s iPad blocking your view or a fellow passenger loudly explaining howthese fjords are nothing compared to that lake back home.
For maximum cabin enjoyment, order breakfast the night before using the menu card that you hang outside your door. The Norwegian salmon eggs Benedict is sublime when enjoyed in your bathrobe. Don’t forget to request extra pillows for creating the perfect reading nest. And remember, the dinner menu is available for room service, too—just call and ask.
That said, there are a few experiences worth temporarily abandoning your sanctuary for. Don’t miss the moment the ship enters Geirangerfjord (the captain will announce it). The Norwegian cultural show is surprisingly not cheesy and genuinely beautiful. And sunset from the observation deck when the light turns the mountains pink is truly magical.
Feel free to skip the belly flop contest without guilt (no explanation needed), any activity withmandatory funvibes, and the soap opera stars’ “meet and greet” (unless you enjoy watching grown men fight over who had more resurrection storylines).
Remember, it’s your vacation. Some people collect port magnets, you’re collecting peaceful moments. Both are valid cruise souvenirs.
XOXO Trixie
P.S. If you need book recommendations, avoid Bess at all costs. Herlight beach readinglast cruise was a nine-hundred-page Russian novel about existential despair.
Day 6: At Sea / Scenic Fjord Cruising
The promenade deckof theEmerald Queenbustles with an energy usually reserved for game shows where the grand prize is something wildly impractical—like a lifetime supply of hot sauce or a porcelain unicorn collection.
A makeshift obstacle course stretches from one end to the other, with brightly colored cones, hula hoops, and what appears to be a kiddie pool filled with blue Jell-O.
The gloomy Norwegian sky hangs overhead like a damp wool blanket, but that hasn’t dampened anyone’s spirits. If anything, the dramatic fjord backdrop—sheer rock faces plunging into inky water—only adds to the spectacle.
The scent of grilled burgers and hot dogs wafts up from the outdoor grill, mingling with the crisp salt air. From somewhere above, a cover band’s rendition of “Eye of the Tiger” floats down, giving this whole absurd setup the theatrical vibe it demands.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Boomer Beaumont’s voice indeed booms through the PA system. “Welcome to what promises to be the most exciting event of our Norwegian journey—theBattle of the Sexes: Soap Opera Edition!”
The crowd erupts in cheers, particularly from a group of women wearing matching t-shirts withTeam Hot Daytime Villainemblazoned across the front in rhinestones. Bess and Nettie have somehow finagled front-row seats, complete with binoculars that I’m pretty sure are meant for whale watching.
“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” I mutter, huddled in the corner with Ransom, who looks surprisingly calm despite the circus atmosphere.
“You’re doing great,” he says, his voice warm and reassuring. “Besides, it’s giving us the perfect cover to keep an eye on all our suspects.”
“I love that you saidour.” I landa kiss on his lips because of it. “Leave it to you to find the silver lining in this soap opera tornado. Although I still don’t understand why anyone would think I belong in front of a camera.”
“Because you’re real,” Ransom says simply. “In a sea of plastic surgery and fake personas, you stand out. And you’re stunningly beautiful, but you always seem to overlook that.”
“Thank you,” I say, bumping my shoulder to his.
The compliment catches me off guard, sending a flush of warmth to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate I’m currently cradling.
“Well,” I manage, “we both know the killer is still out there somewhere in this crowd, watching all of this unfold.”
“Not for long,” Ransom replies with his gaze sweeping the area with the calm precision of a man who notices everything. “We’re getting closer, Trixie. I can feel it.”
“We’regetting closer?” I purr at him and his lips curve in the right direction.
He sighs down at me. “At the end of the day, we’re always a team.”
Boomer Beaumont barrels toward us with his headset askew and his clipboard flapping like a distressed bird. He skids to a stop and gives us a once-over that lands somewhere between apologetic and dismissive.
“Hey—quick change of plans,” he says, already half-turning away. “We’re gonna have you two sit out the first round.”
I blink. “We’re sitting it out?”
Boomer nods briskly. “Yeah. No offense, but you’re a little… low drama for the opener. We’re easing into things. Think bigger personalities. Bigger reactions. Louder hair.” His eyes flick meaningfully toward Team Trophy Wife, currently practicing synchronized squealing. “And,” he adds, lowering his voice a notch, “you both read as competent. It kills the suspense. Also, Ransom, let’s be honest. You’d tear up the track.”
With that, he’s gone—already shouting into his headset about Jell-O viscosity.
I stare after him. “Did we just get benched for being emotionally stable? And too young and fit on your behalf?”
