It’s critical on my behalf to preface this essay by saying that the subject in focus, Voss Water, is one in which that I’m referring — specifically to — the superior glass vessel. I lack the qualifications and interest to write on the plastic Voss water bottles. On that note, please recycle.
Voss Water. More often than not, it’s an object that one brushes by in life that reminds one of financial privilege, in a weird way. That’s unless it’s your exclusive water of choice. If that’s the case, good for you. And I don’t say that sarcastically. As in, if you drink and prefer to only drink Voss Water™️, then you’re probably doing something right. And again, I don’t mean that passive-aggressively. Although, I’m aware: Making an effort to sound genuine while, in the same breath, blatantly mentioning terms like sarcasm and passive-aggressiveness, doesn’t make a case for genuineness. It’s the same concept as someone forwarding a comment with, “I’m not trying to be mean, but…”
Call me a traditionalist, but I don’t think water should remind anyone of financial privilege. Maybe I’m alone and old-school in this thinking, but perhaps not (i.e. why I wrote this). Looking at water in a bottle shouldn’t induce condescension or inferiority. But in the case of Voss, it’s different. Voss has attitude, like a smug feline. It’s got a demeanor to it that argues that if any grocery store item were to pull an Anna Wintour or Jack Nicholson and wear sunglasses indoors, it would definitely be Voss Water. This disposition gives some reason as to why one may feel inexplicably, absurdly insecure before a glass water bottle.
Usually the water sits in a fridge at the grocery store check-out aisle because it’s purportedly too good to sit on a non-refrigerated shelf. Matter of fact, I’ve (excluding the times I’ve seen it with someone), only on a single account, seen Voss out of the fridge once. And even then, it was only out of refrigeration for advertisement’s sake.
If one didn’t know any better, Voss simply sounds like a sexy word to whisper to your lover on the couch in front of the glowing, warm fireplace. On the note of sound, phonetics come to mind. Is it VAH-z or VOH-s? I’m simply asking. It’s not like there’s a huge difference, or like I’ve got money riding on it.
The images that come to mind when I think Voss Water are man leggings, Peloton bikes, avocado toast, and lobster tails. The common denominator with these things is their sense of occasion — their luxury. Speaking of which, it’s also worth noting that Voss comes in sparkling and infusions like Lime Mint and Tangerine Lemongrass. Who’da thunk.
The weight of a full glass Voss is just light enough to brandish and just heavy enough to make you feel powerful. It’s a fine balance in weight that I find difficult to compare to anything else. (It also doesn’t hurt that the glass containers look like something that came from Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.)
If you haven’t held this specific bottle of water, it’s the same feeling you get when clad in a tastefully tailored suit. It’s the same feeling of getting passed the aux cord in the car. It’s the same sensation one may feel, perhaps, when directing traffic. And an empty glass bottle of Voss is the physical representation of first-world, middle-class accomplishment. I think the only other tangible object that represents hard work and comfort (besides benjies) within socioeconomic America is/are mandals (man sandals). That’s a whole other subject for a whole other day.
Voss is Norwegian based and headquartered in NYC. It’s name stems from a Western-Norwegian municipality, that some will argue has nothing to do with Voss. This is because back in 2010, Norwegian’s TV2 produced a documentary (A Drop of Luxury (aptly named)) that revealed that Voss’ water source isn’t a “pristine” aquifer — as it the company advertises. Via Amazon: “Bottled at an artesian source in pristine Southern Norway from an underground aquifer deep beneath the surface, producing a naturally pure water.” The issue with this claim from the marketing team at Voss was revealed by a group of hydrogeologists in the TV2 doc. They announced that Voss’ source simply could not be artesian. They continued by saying that Voss water is no different than the tap water in the municipality. Regardless, there’s something funny in knowing that you can purchase a 12 pack of Voss water with one-day shipping.
Glass Voss water retails at an average between $3.00–$4.00. To me, this is astronomically expensive for the very life source of our being. I’ll save the fuss and money through filtered water at the tap, thank-u-vry-much. I don’t think water should be that pricey. Yet, I’m not a water sommelier. Maybe if I exercised enough focus and free time into water appreciation + water tasting, I’d put value and more attention on the pricing spectrum of water. Until then, I’m still a Texan. Water is either clean, dirty, drinkable, toxic, or salted. That’s not to say that I don’t have a preference of bottled water, however.
Despite this information and my sentiments, I recently purchased a glass bottle of Voss water. I forgot my personal water bottle at home, had a little extra cash on hand, and wanted to refresh my palate and memory. The experience sent me down a trail of thoughts that went like this:
I’ve had this before, but I can’t remember if it’s that good. Is it worth four bucks? I shouldn’t be doing this. I can’t afford this. But it’s fine because everybody deserves to treat themselves every once in a while. Is a four dollar bottle of water really a treat, though? Girl Scout cookies would’ve been a better investment.
While drinking the water:
How fast should I drink this? How can I ensure that I’m intelligently stretching my dollar. Four bucks. Maybe if I drink a quarter every 15 minutes. That’ll square me up at an hour. Four dollars for an hour of an experience is kinda worth it, if it’s good. And is this even an experience?
By the time I finished the bottle, my thirst was quenched. I wasn’t really convinced that the steep price was worth the purchase, however; I found no significant difference in taste and ~flavour~. In my opinion, there wasn’t any panache beyond the slender and bold design of the bottle.
To make certain that I’d get all the bang for my buck, I decided to keep the glass bottle. I’m a semi-resourceful guy and I’ll be damned if I don’t get anything more out of this glass Voss bottle. Initially, I thought the bottle could make a decent vase. (Vase: “VAH-z or VOH-s?”) My second thought was better. I had some loose pocket-change at home that needed a place to live in. I got home and began to put change into the glass bottle. The task came to halt when I needed to put quarters in. Glass Voss water containers do not allow quarters to fit in the the part you drink from, because of course. So now I have a Voss bottle in my bedroom that’s tepidly surfaced with change (no quarters) and a few paper cigar bands. There’s no telling how long it will stay on the dresser next to my sweaters.
Please know that I’m not coming from a bad place. This writing should not serve as a scathing review against a water corporation, nor should it be a point of reference. This isn’t a food & drink review. This piece wasn’t intended to be a legato gripe; I’m not complaining about. If anything, I’m inadvertently advertising Voss products because “all press is good press.” I’ll probably drink Voss water again. Next paycheck.
Hugo is an actor and freelance writer in Washington, D.C. He’s funny sometimes. Follow him on twitter (@hugosaysgo) for other opinions and on Instagram (@hugosnaps) for photography. Happy reading!
