Over the years of cruising, we’ve learned many lessons, some the hard way, and recently, one of those lessons resurfaced with an uncomfortable thud. When we booked this cruise, we chose what’s called a guaranteed cabin, a term that sounds promising, almost luxurious in a vague sort of way, as if it means you’re assured something special. In theory, that’s the appeal: you’re guaranteed a cabin within the category you booked, or possibly even an upgrade if availability allows.
What they don’t explain quite so clearly, at least not in a way that resonates until you live it, is that while you’re guaranteed a cabin, you’re not guaranteed to like where it is. We knew this possibility existed, but figured that saving over US $1000 was worth any potential challenges. Little did we know, I’d fall and injure my knee. Up to that point, walking on the ship had worked out well for me, and I wasn’t experiencing any issues.
A guaranteed cabin means you allow the cruise line to assign your stateroom at their discretion. They select the cabin for you, sometimes not until shortly before sailing or even after boarding. For those willing to roll the dice in exchange for a lower fare or a shot at a surprise upgrade, it’s an enticing prospect. For travelers with no mobility issues or who don’t mind being at the far end of a long corridor, it might be a non-issue. But for us, especially right now, it’s proving to be a complication we wish we’d avoided.
As many of you know, my knee is still painful almost three weeks after the fall. Walking long distances feels like dragging a cement block through molasses, slow, painful, and exhausting; however, it’s improved considerably over the past week. The cabin we’ve been staying in has been reasonably close to the elevators, a blessing I’ve appreciated each time I’ve hobbled down the hallway. But because we’re consecutive passengers, continuing on for the next segment that begins tomorrow in Singapore, our guaranteed cabin status now means we must move. And not just move a few doors down, but move to another location entirely, much farther from the elevators.
We went to guest services a few days ago, hoping to plead our case. Surely, we thought, they could make a note, or make a swap, or at the very least commit to finding us something closer. After all, we aren’t asking for an upgrade, only a location that doesn’t require an Olympic-level trek. The young crew member behind the desk was pleasant but immovable. She explained that they simply couldn’t promise anything until the new batch of passengers boards tomorrow in Singapore, and they’ve seen which cabins open up after no-shows and cancellations. Only then, they said, might a more accessible cabin become available, but there’s no certainty.
This means that tonight, between 7:00 pm and 11:00 pm, we must pack everything, every shoe, every cable, every miscellaneous item that has slowly migrated across the small surfaces of this cabin, and place our luggage outside our door to be taken away. They will move our bags to whatever stateroom we’ve been assigned overnight. We won’t know which cabin that is until sometime tomorrow, when guest services calls or leaves a message on the stateroom phone. And until we know where we are assigned, we won’t have our luggage or access to the room.
Adding to the absurdity, none of us, including those who are continuing on the next voyage, are allowed access to our new cabins until 1:00 or 2:00 pm tomorrow afternoon, after they’ve completed the cleaning and preparation for the next round of guests. So we will spend tomorrow morning and early afternoon wandering the ship with whatever we keep in our carry-on bags. I suppose we’ll stake out a quiet corner somewhere with our laptops and wait for the news.
Tonight, when we pack, we’ll have to think carefully about what needs to stay with us for the night: my prescriptions, pajamas, a change of clothes, and minimal toiletries, including our laptops and chargers. Anything else will disappear into the abyss of luggage carts until sometime tomorrow. It feels strangely vulnerable, this temporary state of limbo, reliant on forces entirely beyond our control.
For now, I’m frustrated and, admittedly, a little embarrassed that we didn’t foresee this inconvenience. In hindsight, we should have booked a specific cabin assignment to ensure a location that worked for my current limitations. That extra certainty would have been well worth whatever price difference existed.
Lesson learned, once again: a guaranteed cabin doesn’t guarantee convenience, comfort, or location. It guarantees only a place to sleep…somewhere.
We’ll breathe easier once tomorrow is behind us, when we’ve unpacked yet again and settled into whatever cabin fate and the cruise line assign us. Until then, we brace ourselves, we pack, we hope, and we wait.
Be well.
Photo from ten years ago today, November 30, 2015:
