DENMARK III – The Kid

Written October 21, 2015

My uncle’s best friend and his wife were English teachers. One day I tagged along to their house so my Uncle could talk shop with his buddy about a new computer he had purchased. I spent the day hanging with his wife and family. I played some board games with them, read some books with the kids, and then joined her and her youngest child while they ran errands. The other three children, my uncle, and her husband stayed back at the house.

We took a circuitous route on her errands, so that I might get a good look at the surrounding countryside. We wound around back roads, past farm after farm, climbing small hills to afford us sweeping views of the sparkling sea, stopping at the occasional Viking burial ground to poke around inside history. She spoke fluent English, of course, and it was great to have a little tour and friendly guide for the day.

Frederikshavn, April 1995.

As we were out and about we stopped at a farm so she might speak with a friend of hers. I was free to wander the area, and was introduced to the farmer’s young daughter who had studied English in school. But she was nervous to use her English on me. So we strolled together down the dirt driveway, around the barn to the corral where she showed me her horses or maybe cows. I don’t believe a word was ever uttered between us.

On the way back into town we stopped by the elementary school where my tour guide worked. There we were in a genuine Danish elementary school. I admit, aside from the modern-ish architecture, it didn’t look much different from an American elementary school. You know, except for the fact that I had no idea what was being said most of the time. But I got a peek into the teacher’s lounge before she took me into a classroom of what I think were five- or six-year-olds.

As it is in probably every schoolroom around the world, the children delighted in having a visitor – and a foreign one at that. All the kids knew about the United States, and asked me questions – in Danish and some basic English – about how old I was, where I lived and when they learned I was from California asked how many movie stars I knew. There was one kid who spoke English better than the rest of the kids. He asked me specific questions about American TV shows. He was a cute little thing! He took a liking to me, and spent the rest of my visit trying to impress me.

After the initial excitement, I sat quietly off to the side while the children continued their lessons. I don’t recall what was going on exactly, but the instructor would give orders and the children had to guess answers she pointed to on the board (or maybe they had to come up and point to the answer on the board). There was a lot of excitement as the kids got up and jumped around and tried to work out the problems. At one point it was my little friend’s turn but he answered his question wrong. Dejected, he returned to his desk, hit the surface with his hand and declared: “Aaaaw, fuck!”

I must say the sailor-mouth in me was keenly impressed. However, it is always a shock to hear a child swear, regardless the tongue in which they do it. I pretended I didn’t hear him, or otherwise failed to acknowledge his remark. I think he may have said it or another curse word one or two more times before his teacher, or perhaps my guide, asked him to stop.

Shortly thereafter we left the school and I waved goodbye to the children. As we exited the building my guide attempted some kind of apology or else explanation for the boy’s behavior but I waved it off, chalking it up to his trying to bedazzle me with his great command of the English language. But he succeeded, at least, in this: I will never forget him, my little Danish potty-mouth.

DENMARK II – The Family

Written October 21, 2015

The Danes know how to party.

I remember when my aunt and uncle got married: I was twelve or thirteen and they were still living nearby. My grandfather rented the community hall in his mobile home park and my aunt spent the week prior to their reception party planning and cooking up a storm. The days before we spent decorating the space and readying it for the celebration to come. My aunt and uncle had been married at the court house with a small entourage of witnesses that included myself, my parents and sister. Though the ceremony was formal and uninteresting, the gala my aunt had planned was going to prove wondrous. There were decorations of Danish flags and delicate hand-cut paper stencils hanging throughout the building. There were main dishes, appetizers and desserts providing a grand cross-section of Danish cuisine. There was wine and champagne. There were tables enough to seat 50 or 100. The people descended upon the space and devoured the food. We did singing and toasting and cake cutting and presents. Four or five hours passed. Guests began to leave, first in a trickle, but by mid-evening the place was practically deserted. My aunt was a little disappointed. In Denmark, she explained, a celebration such as this one would last for hours: far into — or even through — the night. Though any American gathering could indeed last into the wee hours, most of us politely excuse ourselves after a few hours’ time, especially if agéd or with young children. So it is no surprise my aunt felt a little cheated when her wedding bash that fizzled out after less than six hours.

My visit to Sæby happened to coincide with my aunt’s mother’s birthday. We meandered over to her home that afternoon along with my aunt’s sister and her two little daughters so that the women might ready the house for the party that evening. It was a similar sight to the wedding reception: mountains of food, stacks of alcoholic beverages, and when the guests began to arrive that cold April evening I could tell we were in for a long night.

Prior to the party, as my aunt and her kin were busy in the kitchen, I was outside with my uncle and my aunt’s nieces. They were I think seven and nine at the time. We were playing like children – all four of us! – jumping in and around a trench, running through the freshly plowed field, racing amongst the woodlots bordering the property. The girls bonded with me and despite the language barrier they stuck near me all night, exchanging simple words with me as we taught each other to say “elephant” or “boots” in each other’s language.

The night wore on. We ate. The food was amazing. My aunt’s father pulled out his treasure box of foreign coins he had collected throughout his lifetime of travels. I was impressed: I have a similar collection albeit much smaller. He dug through the box until he had extracted all his American money and I nodded, relishing in the chance to see familiar coinage after so much time dealing with pounds and kroner for so long. There was more food. Sitting around the table my uncle translated best he could: the conversation was what one would expect around a party table. Soon I excused myself to jump on the bed with the girls in an adjoining room. Skol after skol and the liquor began to disappear. I began to tire. I’m not sure when we left, but I’m sure it was “early” by Danish standards.

Food in Denmark is also much more lavish and plentiful then it is in America. Breakfast is a delightful smorgasbord of choice cheeses, chocolate wafers, crackers, fish, and spreads. I enjoyed these meals the most: sitting in their cramped dining room at a table by the window, the bright spring sunshine illuminating the table and its bounty.

Our picnic lunches were also lavish, thanks to my aunt. She would pack a standard type meal: snacks and sandwiches, fruit and drinks. Maybe sweets. I recall our journeys around Jutland, especially the picnic we had in Skagen while visiting the spit. The meats and cheeses and even the bread tasted different. The remloude spread was delicious and so much more exotic from the mayo/mustard my palate was accustomed to. As a gift for their hospitality, I lugged a six or twelve pack of glass bottled Dr. Pepper from Leeds. It was my uncle’s favorite beverage in the States, and at the time it was unavailable in Denmark. My treat to him were these precious bottles of carbonated syrup. We indulged in one or two of them on that picnic in Skagen.

My uncle, my aunt, her sister and nieces. Skagen, April 1995. (Note the Dr. Pepper on the cooler.)

We were joined on that trip by my aunt’s sister and her daughters. On that same day we visited the Skagen spit and the Den Tilsandede Kirke (a historical church that continually gets buried in sand drifts and is continually shoveled out), we drove farther inland to visit a travelling sand dune, the Råbjerg Mile, that continually moves northeasterly between Skagen and Skagerrak, often covering the few roadways that dare invade its territory. We walked out atop the dune to view the narrow peninsula around us. After that we drove west to the far coast and took a quick walk to the beach amid the howling and sand-filled wind.

Walking through the mists to the spit…the northern most tippy-tip of Denmark, as seen in the distance. Skagen, April 1995.

This old church survived centuries of burials and recoveries only to be called “the Minecraft building” by my gamer daughter.

Atop the huge sand dune. It was windy. And sandy.

It was maybe this day also or perhaps another that we went to visit Lindholm Høje, an ancient Viking burial grounds just outside of Aalborg. We toured the museum and the grounds where there were rock headstones, burial mounds, and evidence of longhouses and villages. The girls and I ran through the pathways, the woods and adored the sheep grazing the grassy hillsides.

Carefully preserved Viking history. It was eerie to be so close to such ancient remnants. I found it ironic to see the modern skyline of Aalborg in the distance.

In the car ride on the way back to Sæby, the girls and I sat in the backseat of the car playing our language game again. This time one of the girls had a pack of cards with her that had pictures of animal on it. We named off a few basic farm animals in our respective languages until we came to the pig. “Pig!” I said, and both girls squealed and turned red. My aunt and uncle exchanged a look in the front seat. I was confounded. The girls were now giggling and taking turns saying the word amid a fit of giggles and pointing to their crotches.

“Pik is slang for a man’s…” my aunt, or maybe my uncle, started to explain. I understood immediately. Who knew that learning the names of Danish farm animals could be so fun?

DENMARK I – The Journey

Written October 21, 2015

They say it’s about the journey, not the destination. This may be true, but traveling sucks. Be it on a cramped plane for eight hours as you soar over the Atlantic Ocean. Be it on a train that whisks you on a rhythmical pathway to and through inner and outer cities. Be it on a bus that drives overnight through five European countries. Be it in a car zipping along roadways battling motion sickness. Be it on a ferry or boat also battling motion sickness. Point being, I’m a terrible traveler despite my love of traveling, in most cases much prefer the destination to the getting-there part.

And so it was that I found myself on a bus, driving south through the cramped streets of London towards Dover and a ferry boat that would shuttle the vehicle across the English Channel to Calais so we may proceed onwards towards Denmark. A 22-hour bus ride in total. Through foreign countryside I had only dreamed about, or read about in history books. My final destination being Aalborg where I was to meet my aunt and uncle who were to host me in their home in Sæby. Daunting and long notwithstanding, I was excited, I was ready.

The dingy waiting room in the Victoria Coach Station was only about half full when I boarded the bus. I had a seat to myself to gaze out the window at south London whizzing by. Soon the buildings melted away and we were in the countryside, speeding along motorways until finally we crested a hill and made our way downwards to the docks and seaside ahead.

The driver expertly maneuvered the bus through the customs line and asked over the intercom if there were any Americans onboard. Feeling singled out I shakily raised my hand, the guilt of being the only passenger without a EU passport, thus necessitating my standing in line inside the building to be cleared for entry. As I exited the doorway another woman hastily shuffled down the aisle; she had dozed off and was just now awoken by her boyfriend. I felt better to have someone to go with me across the empty roadway to the looming building ahead; I have always had a fear of being left behind (having too many close calls in my life) and I had a somewhat irrational fear of being abandoned while at customs. After what seemed like an impossible amount of time in line, and an unnecessarily brutal and probing string of questioning about my intentions behind entering Europe, my passport was finally stamped and handed back to my eager hands. Apparently the other American woman was also being thoroughly interviewed because the bus driver was forced to wait an additional quarter hour for her return.

On our way again we drove the short distance to the ferry boat. Then a mass exodus as everyone got off the bus and headed for the passenger areas for the 90-minute crossing. I did the same, making my way upstairs where I wandered around, maybe getting refreshments, watching from the stern as the white cliffs of Dover receded into the horizon, watching from the bow for the first sight of France emerging from the mist.

The White Cliffs of Dover and Dover Castle (atop the hill). I’m on the ferry crossing the English Channel!

France! My only photo of the country I once loved so much. See it? See? That teeeeeeny dark strip on the left above the horizon? It’s France!

France! I had studied French in high school (j‘ai étudié le Français à l’école) and had once upon a time entertained an idea of studying abroad in this wondrous and historical land. But the language proved too difficult for me (c’est très difficile) and I abandoned studies in my fourth year, along with my dreams of living in Paris (adieu, Paris!). However, seeing the shores of the French seaside made me wish that dream all over again. I paid close attention as we boarded the bus and drove off the ferry boat and onto the autoroute. I read the highway signs and tried to remember my French geography (nord, sud, est, ouest). I gazed out across the landscape, committing every rolling hill and tree to memory. France!

We weren’t in France long. Before I knew it we had crossed into Belgium. It wasn’t France (though it looked the same) and I couldn’t understand the language on the street signs, but okay, Belgium! At one point we stopped at a rest stop and I managed to purchase a drink and a sandwich despite not having the right money for wherever we were at the time (probably still Belgium but maybe Netherlands, I had no idea at this point.) Back on the bus I read and finished two pulp novels as we sped along the highway.

It got dusky and soon I found myself dozing in my seat. Once night fell the driver pulled over on what seemed to be the side of the highway and ordered everyone off the bus. Confused I followed everyone as we exited and stood outside in the dark. The driver went back on the bus and closed the door. I heard him banging around inside and saw him and the auxiliary driver pushing and pulling at the seats. Soon enough he opened the doors and we all filed on again. The seats had been converted into bunk beds of sorts, laying down like a horizontal recliner, with a row atop and a row on the bottom. I grabbed a spot on the top, wadded up my flimsy pillow, covered myself with my trench coat and attempted to fall asleep.

I had fitful sleep and awful dreams. Each time the driver merged lanes I woke up. Every time the driver turned I would roll over and wake up. Every bump in the road hit my bones like rocks and I’d wake up. The sky lightened and around 5am we arrived in Hamburg where we changed busses. I was groggy and cold, sitting on a hard bench somewhere in Germany. I tried to look around but I knew nothing of this city or its landmarks, and nothing struck me as particularly impressive in the murky dawn.

Back on the bus we headed for Denmark. I was sleep deprived and surrounded by foreign-ness. The people around me – who when we first boarded in London were mostly English – were now mostly German and Danish and their dialogs sounded like gibberish. My money barely worked and I wasn’t even certain I was on the right coach. After stopping twice in Denmark, I got off the bus for a bathroom break in Aarhus. Worried I was lost and stranded I asked the driver as I got back on: “This is the bus to Aalborg, right?” He smiled, chuckled a bit and said “Ja.”

Within an hour we were at the bus station in Aalborg. The drivers opened the storage compartments and tossed all our belongings into a single mound in the parking lot before driving away. I didn’t want my stuff to be taken by anyone else in the frantic grabbing so I was hastily searching for my two or three bags when a woman literally yanked my backpack out of my hands and said in English: “I’ll take that, young lady.” I turned to her, horrorstruck, wondering who would dare to rob me so blatantly in the –

– it was my Aunt Karen, smiling as she slung my backpack over her shoulder and reached for my suitcase. I was so relieved to see a familiar face and to hear what I then realized was English!! I hugged her and my uncle and together we found the rest of my stuff and made our way to their car and then northward to their little cottage on the outskirts of Sæby.

My Danish adventure had begun.

My aunt and uncle’s cottage off Langtvedvej.

ENGLAND VI – The Crossing

Originally written September 27, 2015

One of my music classes required a very specific and very elusive book that I was required to purchase in order to pass the class. The university bookstore on campus was supposed to have a few copies for sale, but had run out. “No matter, luv,” said the kind sales clerk as she rung up my other purchases, “just pop ‘round to W.H. Smiths or Waterstones.” I returned to my flat to see if there was anyone able to come with me on a journey into the shopping district of downtown – farther than I’d ever been before by myself. Nobody was free, but someone was able to give me vague directions to the shops.

I will pause to remind everyone that this was 1995. This was before cell phones, GPS, internet/WiFi, etc. I came to the country armed only with a ratty paper map of England and a brochure of the London Underground – neither helped me much navigating the streets of Leeds. Why I never bought a Leeds street map was beyond me, but what it meant is that I relied on sight to get me from place to place: I never learned many place names! Usually it wasn’t an issue because I only stuck to routes I knew, and if I did travel outside my known universe, I was almost always accompanied by a flatmate or schoolmate who knew their way around and prevented us from getting lost.

And so I set out! The first part was simple – I walked the familiar mile to Morrison’s grocery store, kept heading south on Woodhouse Lane and eventually maneuvered my way to the beautiful W.H. Smith building. Inside was huge and extensive and I spent much time wandering and looking (unsuccessfully) for this rare book. Exiting the building I took a wrong turn at the end of the block and ended up in an unfamiliar part of town. No matter, I thought, I know which way is north and the uni is west and if I keep heading in this direction, I’ll be back in no time.

At first I was just fine. I recognized a shop and a pub that I had been inside with my flatmates and it gave me hope. Following a pedestrian subway they had showed me I emerged in yet another unfamiliar street, unsure exactly what directions to go. I detoured into a churchyard and out onto a dingy and dark alleyway. Making my best guesses at intersections, I just kept walking, assuming that eventually I’d find a landmark and head for home.

After awhile I was getting tired and a little worried. I still hadn’t found a landmark, and the last recognizable area was blocks behind me. I ducked into a convenience store and asked the shop owner for directions. He wouldn’t tell me but he would sell me a map! He wanted a ridiculous amount of money for it and I was short on cash after shelling out quite a wad for my schoolbooks earlier in the day. He didn’t have an ATM nor did he accept debit/credit card transactions.  Forget it, I decided, I can’t be far now.

The shadows got longer and it started getting cold. It was only mid-afternoon but it was also early February, so it got dark close to 4pm. I was getting more worried now, and despite my best efforts to retrace my steps I was still hopelessly lost. At this point I was afraid to ask for directions: it was getting dark and I was alone and female and clearly foreign. Somehow I felt safer if I just kept moving, as if walking with a sense of purpose would somehow give me protection. I was starting to get jumpy and paranoid: a man who followed me down a deserted street certainly was my own personal mugger-rapist and possible murderer until he ducked into a building and disappeared. I continued on past a dilapidated theatre, a dead-end street, and row after row of drab stone buildings.

Finally, I saw a recognizable landmark: in the far distance on the hill I saw a dark cluster of church steeples and behind them the Parkenson Tower on campus. I quickened pace. Soon I recognized the street I was on was one on the south end of campus. At last, I was heading in the right direction! Then disaster struck. I found myself dead-ended into a 6-lane highway: the Inner Ring Road, a.k.a. the A58(M). This ribbon of concrete and speeding vehicles was all that stood between me and home, between me and safety, between me and the familiar. In front of me, just on the other side of the highway, was a car park. Beyond that a road I knew would lead me up to campus where I could then weave my familiar routes home. I looked to my left: there appeared to be no nearby overpasses or pedestrian crossings. I looked to my right: there appeared to be no nearby overpasses or pedestrian crossings.

By now it was definitely dusky and I knew with the fading light I needed to do something and fast. I couldn’t go back through the labyrinth of the city whence I had just come in hopes of finding another familiar road. I had no cash for a cab and wasn’t about to go searching for an ATM…

…someone was coming…

…a man approached me from the shadows behind. Without so much as glancing my way he passed me, hopped over the concrete barrier between us and the Ring Road, scaled down a short embankment, and proceeded to cross the freeway, dodging cars like goddamn Frogger. In that moment, I knew what I had to do. I hopped the concrete barrier, scaled the embankment, took a deep breath, and went for it.

The first half was simple: there was a long break in the traffic and I made it to the concrete median without so much as a worry. But the traffic on the other side was worse and I and the strange man were marooned there, oddly together yet worlds apart, separated by mere meters, until a slight break opened and the stranger ran. There was a wall of cars behind the tiny window of opportunity, and despite the several seconds hesitation as I assessed my options, I ran across those three lanes of traffic faster than I had ever moved before or since. I almost didn’t make it: several cars honked as I scrambled up the opposite embankment to reach the car park.

The stranger took off in the opposite direction, but no matter, he was of no concern to me now. I crossed the car park and headed up a street towards the uni and was back at my flat less than 30mins later with my feet up and a hot cup of tea, regaling my flatmates my crazy and stupid adventure. They were appalled to realize where I had been wandering and how far it was from our flat. I was appalled to realize that I had been no more then two blocks away from several known streets the whole time I was lost.

Funny, though, I never did buy a city map.

The white Parkenson Tower and the two dark steeples that served as my beacon.

ENGLAND V – The Walk

Originally written September 17, 2015

My private oboe instructor lived in Headingly, about two miles from my flat. She only gave lessons in her private residence, and I was required to travel off-campus on a weekly basis to see her.

Since the bus schedule was too confusing, irregular, and slow, I figured I could just walk up to her home. It was late February, so I bundled up, grabbed my umbrella, put on my Doc Martins and started up the road. It was sleeting outside but I was snug and warm.

I have always loved walking through places. Hiking in the woods or mountains is especially fun, but even urban areas – especially foreign urban areas – afford such fun things to look at and ponder while trudging around. I mean, it’s all so similar, yet completely different. On my walk to Headingly and back I saw all manner of fun things.

I passed schools and sometimes saw children playing outside. I passed block after block of row houses. I passed a manor house walled in by grey stones and tall trees. I passed a Bass alehouse. I passed a dentist office tucked in a small complex set back from the road (it was always nice to respite here for a moment from the busy street). I passed a petrol station whose sign was the most foreign jumble of confusion I had seen yet: 1L = 50.9p. My mind was always alight imagining myself living in such places: wherever I’d visit I could feel and sense a place better on foot. Those walks up to my instructor’s house were so calming and peaceful for me. I spent most of my time either in lectures, rehearsals, or hanging out with my roommates. With few exceptions I was rarely alone. These walks were my only me time while living in Leeds.

But that first walk proved to test my endurance. It was windy and sleeting that day. I knew about sleet. I knew about wind. But I didn’t know about sleety wind (or windy sleet). I wasn’t two blocks up the road before I was freezing against the pounding gales, which had gotten into and under every protective layer I had on. Two blocks after that the road turned and angled northward, so the wind was now blasting me full in the face with its icy force. Within minutes my face and lips were chapped and numb. Standing on a street corner waiting to cross my umbrella popped inside-out. Now I was getting wet with heavy sleet. I popped it back into place. The light changed but halfway through the crosswalk it popped inside-out again. I gave up on the umbrella, putting it away and facing the rain unprotected. Each time I passed a bus stop I paused and looked for an approaching vehicle; to no avail (ironically, one passed me just as I was turning up my instructor’s street).

My instructor was aghast at my condition – I was wet from head to toe despite having bundled in boots, raincoat, gloves, hat, scarf, umbrella. She put on a “cuppa” for me and I warmed by her fire sipping the scalding tea for the first third of my lesson. We chatted about my journey and how silly it was for me to walk in such a storm.

Upon finishing the lesson, I walked up to the corner to catch a bus home.  With the night falling fast, there was no way I was going to walk back in this storm in the dark.  There was a grocery store on the corner near the bus stop and I popped in to pick up some things for dinner. I was riding the bus home, after all, so I didn’t stress about carrying my instrument bag and my grocery bags back to my flat. However, the bus was late and when it did arrive it was packed and I had to stand, nearly falling over with every stop, start, turn and bump, my hands too full to brace myself and so I would stumble into the people next to me.

The weather warmed. I never took the bus again.

St. George’s field on the Uni campus. This pic was taken in February 1995.

Same spot, three months later in May 1995. I loved watching this walkway transform through the seasons.