Cruising the Main and the Rhine.
And the Lemon Drop That Followed Me Home.

Picture this: it's just after sunset on the top deck of the AmaPrima. A medieval castle is sliding past us on the right bank, lit up like a postcard. There's a live duo playing somewhere below us. The captain — the actual captain — is six feet away from me in shorts, mixing me my third lemon drop of the evening. And I am slowly arriving at the conclusion that this man is moonlighting as our bartender.

This is the story of my first ever river cruise — eight days from Nuremberg to Amsterdam on AmaWaterways' AmaPrima — and the cocktail that hijacked my life enough that I now own a mixology kit and have been chasing the recipe for two years.

What's coming: a train ride that broke 300 km/h, a fairytale Christmas store that nearly sank our luggage allowance, the medieval German tradition of taxing river traffic from a fortress (turns out the Germans invented the toll booth), one toasting rule that will save your marriage, and the smoked beer of Bamberg, on which I have a very strong opinion.

The Train Got There First (and It Was Going 300+)

Before we boarded the boat, we had a train ride to Nuremberg. About three hours of it. German ICE trains have a digital speedometer mounted on the carriage ceiling, which is a generous way of saying "this is a small game a husband is going to obsess over for the entire trip." For long stretches the readout was over 300 km/h. My ears popped accordingly. It's the fastest I've ever moved across the surface of the Earth.

I love the trains in Germany. I love the trains in Ukraine for completely different reasons. They're both, in their own way, fantastic ways to travel. But for raw speed and silence, the ICE is hard to beat. By the time we rolled into Nuremberg I was already in a good mood, which is the right way to start any cruise.

Walking the Plank. Backwards. Onto the Boat.

Not a building — a boat. River cruise embarkation looks nothing like ocean cruise embarkation. Trust the Uber driver.

If you've only ever boarded a giant ocean cruise ship, a river cruise embarkation is going to feel like a category mistake. You are not looking for a building. You are looking for a long, low boat tied up to a pier somewhere along a river that doesn't necessarily distinguish itself from the surrounding city. Our Uber driver figured it out before we did. He dropped us at a pier with several long boats lined up next to each other like toy ships in someone's bathtub.

We found ours. We walked the plank — backwards, technically, since we were getting on rather than off, but I'm taking the moment regardless — and we were greeted by smiling staff and the captain himself, who, importantly, was not Blackbeard. They grabbed our suitcases and pointed us at the front desk to check in.

Now, I don't consider myself old or young. Some people would say middle-aged. From a distance, looking around at the rest of the boarding group, it appeared Irena and I were the kids in this group. Not a bad thing. Just an observation that became a recurring theme.

The cabins were modest — two decks of them, no balconies on the ones we'd booked, on the theory that you spend roughly zero hours awake in your cabin on a cruise this active. (Initial assumption: holding up nicely, two years later. We'll come back to this.) We did the obligatory empty-room photo, walked the dining areas and bars and top deck, and clocked the rooftop pool. Late September, end of the trip, I told Irena. We'll definitely swim. Spoiler: we got in once. The captain was at the pool bar by then. Patience.

Cocktail Hour Is the Whole Plot

Every night at six, the lounge filled up for cocktail hour. Cruise ship 101: this is when the whole plot of the day unfolds. Drinks, faces, gossip, plans for tomorrow. They had a different signature cocktail every evening, plus the house standard — the lemon drop martini.

Friend, I tried one. Then a second one for confirmation. Then a third just to be scientifically responsible.

I was hooked. When I got home I bought a mixology kit and started working through online recipes one at a time, trying to land on something close enough. I'm still tinkering.

After dinner we slept. Well — we passed out. The motion of the boat is gentle, the river is quiet, and the only thing that ever wakes you up is the locks, of which there were more than thirty over the length of the cruise. The boat occasionally bumps a wall and bounces back. After night two you don't notice anymore.

A Quick Word About the Other Guests

Before we get to the stops: river cruises skew older than ocean cruises, and that's worth knowing going in. We'd assumed we'd be the youngest by a margin and on every "active" excursion option (low / mid / high), and we'd basically be on our own at the high one. Wrong on both counts. There was a man on board — I'd put him in his early eighties — who ran senior marathons, who was unquestionably in better shape than me, and who went on the active option every single day. He and his wife became cocktail-hour fixtures and turned into instant friends.

Trust me on this: the other guests make a river cruise. There's nowhere to hide on a 156-passenger boat. You see the same faces three times a day. By night four you have gossip. By night six you have allegiances. We'll get there.

Bamberg, the Smoked Beer, and One Word: Disgusting

First stop: Bamberg, Germany. UNESCO old town, picturesque streets, beautiful buildings. The walking tour was excellent. We'd never have come to Bamberg on our own — never even heard of it — and that, right there, is the case for a river cruise in one sentence. They put you in places you didn't know to put yourself.

The thing Bamberg is most famous for is Rauchbier — smoked beer. The story goes that the malt is dried over open flames the way it would have been in medieval times, before electricity and gas came along and made the process safer. (And, I would argue, considerably tastier.) I tried it because I am a guest in someone else's country and I respect the local product.

One word: disgusting.

I have nothing more to say. I would go back to Bamberg in a heartbeat. I would not order another Rauchbier if you paid me in lemon drops. Some traditions deserve to stay in the medieval period.

That night at cocktail hour we hit dinner early, grabbed a window table, and watched the room fill up. Two ladies — both Southern, both widowed, sharp-funny in the way only Southern widows can be — asked if they could join us. We said yes. I pulled their chairs out. They told us they cruise two or three times a year now, that this had become their thing after their husbands passed, and within twenty minutes they were the best part of the table. Remember them. They have an arc.

The Christmas Store in Rothenburg That Tried to Bankrupt Us

Rothenburg ob der Tauber. Walt Disney drew this. Or someone close to it. My 1990s VHS childhood owes Bavaria an apology.

Second stop: Rothenburg ob der Tauber. A walled medieval town that looks like Walt Disney drew it. Which, by the way, is approximately what happened — Rothenburg is widely cited as a visual inspiration for the village in Disney's Pinocchio. I always thought that look was English. Turns out it was German all along, and my entire 1990s VHS childhood needs to issue an apology to Bavaria.

We were walking through the central square, admiring the storefronts, when Irena spotted the Christmas store. If you've met Irena, you know what happened next. I turned to point at something. She was gone. I followed her in.

Reader, this place is four stories. Up and down. It's the IKEA of Christmas ornaments — winding paths, themed rooms, thousands of pieces, the whole experience. We left with bags hanging off both arms. Behind My Shades doesn't usually do Christmas, but if you could see the three-metre tree we put up in our living room every December, you'd understand the weight of those bags.

Pretzels in Wertheim (and the Telenovela Begins)

Third stop: Wertheim, sitting at the cliffs where the Tauber meets the Main, vineyards everywhere you look. The active excursion was a long walking tour. The other option was a baking class with a local baker. We are in Germany. I love pretzels. The math was easy.

The baker walked us through the dough, the shape, the bath, the salt. We got our hands dirty. Doughy. Doughy, not dirty. We left smelling like fresh bread and feeling like we'd accomplished something for the day, which is a rare feeling on a cruise.

At dinner we joined some Canadians — one couple from Vancouver, one from Calgary. Dry humour, easy laughs, instantly travel-friends. They were younger than us, which made me feel younger by association.

And here's where things took a turn.

We chose to sit with the Canadians for dinner that night.

Irena will tell you, and I will swear to it under oath: I have never in my life felt a stare-down like the one we got from the two Southern ladies that evening. Eyes glaring across the dining room. A quiet glare. The kind of glare that doesn't need words. We had broken an unwritten alliance. Seat treason. Telenovela much.

Stay tuned. There's a redemption arc coming.

Thirty Castles and One Gondola in the Rhine Valley

One of thirty-plus castles on a single afternoon's sailing. They look romantic. They were medieval toll booths.

Fourth stop: Rüdesheim, gateway to the Upper Middle Rhine Valley. We took the gondola up to the Niederwalddenkmal, an enormous national monument that watches over the vineyards from a hill. The view is gorgeous. The crowds were the biggest of the entire cruise — this was the only stop where we genuinely felt outnumbered by other tourists. Worth it for the view, just go in expecting company.

Back on the boat, the next stretch of the Rhine is something the cruise director had been hyping for days: more than thirty castles and fortresses on a single afternoon's sailing. Thirty.

Pay up as your boat passes our stretch of river, or we damage your cargo. So century after century, turn after turn, you're sailing past the ruins of a get-rich-quick scheme that, frankly, worked beautifully. I find that hilarious. I also find it a little inspiring.

That evening, for the first time on our cruise, we made a stop after dark. The excursion was a guided visit to Burg Lahneck, a hilltop castle near where the Lahn joins the Rhine. They split us into a long walk and a short walk; we did the short one. The guide walked us through the oldness room by room in soft yellow light, and I'll admit the whole thing was atmospheric in a way it wouldn't have been at noon. I went back to the cabin tired and very happy. Tomorrow another day.

Cologne, the Eye Contact Rule, and How I Won the Ladies Back

The Kölner Dom. You walk in. You go quiet. That's the entire review.

Cologne is, in my honest opinion, the highlight of the cruise. The Cathedral alone is worth the stop. The history, the architecture, the food, the beer — all of it deserves a tour with a guide.

A few things I will not forget:

• Stick your hand in the pocket of Tünnes und Schäl for good luck. They're two folk-hero figures cast in bronze. Locals do it. Tourists do it. We did it.
• The carvings of architects mooning the archbishops who tried to overreach into city affairs. It's like Where's Waldo, except with butts. I will not elaborate. Just look up.
• Where was perfume invented? Cologne. Specifically, Farina, in 1709. Hence: eau de Cologne. That's not a coincidence — that's a copyright.
• The Cathedral itself. Obviously. The Dom is one of those buildings you walk into and immediately go quiet.

Now. The Kölsch beer. There is a system, and it is very serious.

Now for the eye contact rule. Pay attention.

In Germany, when you toast with someone, you must look directly into their eyes. Directly. Glasses clink, eyes lock. Why? Failure to make eye contact during a toast brings you seven years of bad sex. Yes. Seven. Years.

I do not have time in my life for a seven-year clerical error in the bedroom. Irena and I now toast like we're trying to read each other's souls. Anywhere. Everywhere. Every time.

This is also where we made up with the two Southern ladies. We told them about the rule. We toasted them — eye contact, full commitment — and apologized for the seat treason. The Kölsch helped. The rule helped more. By the end of the night we were teaching the Canadians too, also with eye contact, also with a great deal of wine. I cannot scientifically prove this, but I do think the more wine you drink while strictly maintaining eye contact, the more securely the seven-year insurance policy is in place. Science is hard.

The Hot Tub, the Texans, and the Captain Doubling Down

We got back to the boat that afternoon emboldened by Kölsch and decided to test the rooftop hot tub. Late September water on the Rhine is, in technical terms, frigid. Liquid courage gave us the right idea, and a small group of fellow adventurous Americans climbed in with us.

And there he was again — our captain — bartending the pool bar.

I genuinely don't know if he drove the boat with one hand and shook a cocktail with the other. All I know is that on the day a man captains a 135-metre vessel down the Rhine and mixes me a lemon drop while I'm waist-deep in cold water on his roof, I tip well and I ask no questions. Eventually they made us get out — we were about to set sail — and we watched the cast-off from our American friends' balcony, which is when I confirmed my initial suspicion that yes, the balcony cabins are nicer, and no, I still wouldn't have traded "out and about" for "up there."

That night's dinner was politics with the Texans. You can fill in the conversation yourself. We disagreed agreeably. We toasted, with eye contact. The wine flowed. The boat moved on toward Holland.

Amsterdam, and Goodbye to Friends We'd Known Six Days

Last morning was Amsterdam. A short canal boat tour, a quick history of the city, and then the part of any cruise I've never gotten used to: saying goodbye to people who six days ago were complete strangers and who somehow now feel like cousins. Promises to visit each other in our home countries. Hugs on the gangway. Lemon drop withdrawal already setting in.

The Honest Take

Here's the verdict from someone who's done a few ocean cruises and exactly one river one:

A river cruise is calmer, more curated, more intimate. You're never not looking at land — castles, vineyards, towns, locks. The boat is small, the staff learn your name by day two, the food is excellent, the excursions are baked into the price, and you don't have to plan a thing.

The flip side: there is less to do on the boat itself. No big shows, no waterslides, no casino, no four-restaurant choice every night. The dining room is the dining room. If you're someone who treats the ship as the destination, an ocean cruise will probably suit you better. I'm one of those people. But I would happily do another river cruise tomorrow — especially through wine country, with a different cocktail of the day, and ideally with the same captain still pulling double duty at the pool bar.

Highlights

• The lemon drop martinis. I came home and bought a mixology kit. The hobby has outlasted the trip.
• The captain who was also the bartender. A one-person staff department.
• Rothenburg's Christmas store — four stories of glass ornaments and our luggage allowance.
• Burg Lahneck after dark — the right castle at the right hour.
• The thirty toll-booth fortresses on the Rhine — medieval Germans invented the highway toll.
• Cologne's Kölsch system — put the coaster on top, or you will be there until next Tuesday.
• Two Southern widows, two Canadians, an octogenarian marathoner, a couple of Texans, and one captain. The cast made the cruise.

Coming up next: Behind The Shades — Bamberg, Rothenburg, and Cologne Without the Boat. For when you don't have eight days but you do have a rental car and a long weekend.

And one last thing. If you take only one piece of advice from this whole post, take this one: when you toast someone, look them in the eyes. Trust me. Or — more precisely — trust me for the next seven years. 🥂