Saturday, April 01, 2006
Hilsen fra Danmark
[originally posted Wednesday 5 April 2000]
Hi Everyone!
It's been almost a week now since I left for Denmark, so I thought maybe I'd try sending you all an e-mail. Still haven't completely recovered from my 7 hour flight across 9 time zones. My flight was oversold, so naturally I volunteered to fly later in exchange for $800 in SAS travel vouchers, but as it turned out they didn't need my seat after all. I did manage to get a free upgrade to Business Class out of the deal though, simply for being a good citizen. So the flight was a lot more comfortable than it might have otherwise been wedged into a center seat in coach, although with all the free drinks and food and movies I was offered, I didn't get as much sleep as I might have otherwise either, and thus arrived in Copenhagen slightly less rested (and more "dehydrated") than I'd hoped. Picked "The 13th Warrior" as my personal in-flight movie: it's an adaptation of an early Michael Creighton novel "Eaters of the Dead" which plagiarizes an actual Viking-era historical document describing the adventures of a 10th or 11th century Arabian Moslem among the "Rus" (Swedes) who traded and raided along the Volga river, and then combines it with the Beowulf epic and Creighton's own imaginative Sci-Fi plot twist that "the Wendel" (Grendel) were actually a tribe of surviving Ice Age Neanderthals/cannibals who raided the Vikings for/as food! Whatever. I'd been curious about this movie for a long time, having read both the novel and the sources which inspired it some time ago, but I wasn't about to spend good money to rent it, much less see it in a theater. Antonio Banderas played the culture-shocked Arabian poet, and all-in-all I thought it made for a pretty interesting introduction to my own sojourn among the descendants of the Vikings.
Copenhagen's International terminal looks like it has been recently remodeled into a huge, duty-free shopping mall (complete with a Danish version of Niketown), but the airport itself is actually much smaller than I expected: perhaps half the size of PDX, and considerably smaller than SeaTac. The domestic terminal (where I had to transfer to get my connection to Aalborg) is still waiting for its face-lift, and reminds me a lot of the airport in Midland, Texas. To get from the one terminal to the other I had to clear customs and take a shuttle-bus; fortunately, the line for non-EU passengers was considerably shorter than the other, and since my luggage was checked through all the way to Aalborg, I was able to breeze right through without any delay. As I went through Passport Control the official in the window looked at my name, and then grinning launched into a long stream of loud, rapid Danish just to see my confused reaction, which I'm certain was not a disappointment to him. >>Jeg taler kun en smulle Dansk<< I mumbled, and was waved right through.
The flight to Aalborg was open seating (like on Southwest Air), but since I didn't realize this beforehand I sat around in the gate area waiting for someone to show up and give me a seat assignment, and as a result was one of the last persons to get on the plane. We spent almost as much time on the ground waiting for permission to take off as we did in the air, but the entire trip from the time I boarded the airplane to the time I stepped off again was only about an hour. The nice thing about sitting in the back of the plane is that they let you disembark through the rear door, since the terminal in Aalborg has only one "gate" and it doesn't include a jet-way. The bad news was that my luggage was still in Copenhagen, and by the time I'd figured this out, I'd missed the bus into Aalborg Centre. The bus is timed to match the flight arrivals, so I had to wait another hour for the next one. The problem with my bag turned out to be that it had been coded to the wrong flight back in Portland, so it actually arrived safely just a few hours later, and was delivered by taxi to my apartment. Having already had some experience recently with lost luggage in NYC last Christmas, I was able to deal with the entire situation very calmly.
My apartment is only a few blocks east of the bus and train stations, so the address was very easy to find. It was also a little discouraging at first, since it is located in an older building that is being partially gutted and remodeled at the moment, so the first view from the street is of a muddy construction site and an old, apparently abandoned brick structure with most of the windows broken out. My apartment is in the rear section of the building, located away from the street. That section has already been remodeled and is actually quite pleasant, although the apartment itself is tiny. "Efficiency" describes it perfectly: one modest room with a kitchenette on one end and a window on the other, a table, some chairs, and a cleverly-designed couch that quickly converts into a bed about the size of a quarter-berth. There's a small closet next to the door, and a small bathroom next to that with an equally-ingenious compact shower that I am growing to love. But I probably wouldn't have been about to find it at all in the first place if my next-door-neighbor Tatiana (another visiting PhD student, from Moscow) hadn't wandered out the door in search of me, since she'd been told I'd be arriving that day and had volunteered to help me get oriented. She had my keys and my orientation packet, and after I'd taken the time to straighten out my luggage situations, we took a quick walking tour of the "Gamle By" or Old Town, which is just north of where I live. Aalborg is historically an old Viking settlement "strategically situated at the narrowest point of the Limfjord" (as one of my guidebooks so succinctly puts it), which allowed them easy access to both the Baltic and the North Sea. All that is really left from the Viking era is an old burial ground north of the fjord; I live on the south side, which still has plenty of interesting pre-modern buildings, including two very cool churches (one of which dates back to the 12th century). Lots of it has also been blocked off from traffic and turned into a pedestrian mall, so it is all very compact and easy to get around in by foot.
Saturday I did a little more exploring, and discovered the local McDonalds, Burger King, and Pizza Hut, but (unfortunately) no Starbucks (which was the one American chain I would have LIKED to find!). I also did a little shopping for groceries, had the usual difficulty figuring out the money, and met my first real Dane who didn't speak any English: an elderly woman out pushing her equally-elderly dachshund in a baby carriage. I asked her >>Er Hund venlig<< and when she nodded , I let him give my hand a little sniff before I gave him a pet. No language barrier there! Sunday I attended services at Vor Frue Kirke (Our Lady Church) and received communion in the Danish Evangelical Lutheran State Church. The liturgy was fairly easy to follow, and since the Scripture lessons were printed in the Order of Service, I could figure those out as well: the passage from Exodus on Manna in the Wilderness, and the "Jeg er Livets Brod" ("I am the Bread of Life") pericope from the Gospel of John. Didn't understand a word of the sermon (which I suppose is an important lesson in humility for a preacher), although I was able to make up a pretty interesting one of my own in my head. The congregation in this beautiful old building numbered fewer than 40, almost all of them (with the exception of a young family who had brought their infant to be christened) white-haired.
Monday Tatiana showed me how to catch the bus to the University, and I got to meet some of the other people in the department here, including the departmental secretary Malene, who speaks a delightfully-accented British English and who set me up with my (shared) office and a computer account, a library card, keys and an after-hours doorpass, etc. I also got my first taste of smørrebrod at the Student canteen, which was even better than I had expected, and (I learned) is properly eaten with a knife and fork. Tuesday I was supposed to present my paper, but someone mercifully decided out of compassion for my anticipated jet-lag to postpone it until sometime in May, so Tatiana presented her paper instead. My office-mate is named Matilde and comes form Germany, so you can see we are quite an international group here. Everyone seems to speak fluent English along with their native language, as well as Danish much better than I can, so I really do feel like the dunce of the class a lot of the time. Probably another important lesson in humility.
My greatest linguistic challenge so far came when I tried to purchase my monthly bus pass. Was sent away the first time because I need to have a spare passport photo (and didn't have one), then once I had figured out how to acquire one from an automatic machine at the railway station, it took two more trips before I was able to figure out the kind of pass that I wanted, which turned out to be not the pass I should have purchased after all. So it's going to cost me an extra $20 more than it should have to ride the bus for two months here, but what the hell -- I left at least that much "value" on the bumper of my car because I couldn't scrape off the UO parking sticker in order to receive a spring quarter rebate. The bank, the post office, buying my telephone card, and signing up for the free "International Staff Club" (a special lounge in the Student Union building where one can play pool and supposedly watch CNN) were all relatively easy by comparison.
After my last encounter with the clerk at the bus terminal, I went back to the small pub around the corner from my apartment (the kind of place frequented by the working class Danes who are gutting the other wing of my building, rather than University students), and managed to order >>en grøn Tuborg Øl<< for 13 kr (about $1.85). As I sat there in this crowded, smoke-filled neighborhood tavern sipping my beer, I notice a presence between my feet: it was the bartender's terrier, who apparently figured out that since I was sitting alone I was probably a pretty good candidate for handing out some "free pets," and maybe even a treat. She got her reward, and I got mine...and for the first time since arriving here, that night I was finally able to sleep through until morning.
Today the sun at last is shining for the first time since I arrived here, and there are some very interesting birds (I think they are Magpies) outside my office window, and it is simply too nice a day to squander any more of it in front of a computer screen. I hope you all have enjoyed this letter; I'll try to write more as the opportunity arises, and look forward to hearing from you as well. Take care, do good work, and keep in touch (to quote Garrison Keillor.
Ciao! (for now)
Tim
My apartment building in Aalborg, Jyllandsgade 21
Hi Everyone!
It's been almost a week now since I left for Denmark, so I thought maybe I'd try sending you all an e-mail. Still haven't completely recovered from my 7 hour flight across 9 time zones. My flight was oversold, so naturally I volunteered to fly later in exchange for $800 in SAS travel vouchers, but as it turned out they didn't need my seat after all. I did manage to get a free upgrade to Business Class out of the deal though, simply for being a good citizen. So the flight was a lot more comfortable than it might have otherwise been wedged into a center seat in coach, although with all the free drinks and food and movies I was offered, I didn't get as much sleep as I might have otherwise either, and thus arrived in Copenhagen slightly less rested (and more "dehydrated") than I'd hoped. Picked "The 13th Warrior" as my personal in-flight movie: it's an adaptation of an early Michael Creighton novel "Eaters of the Dead" which plagiarizes an actual Viking-era historical document describing the adventures of a 10th or 11th century Arabian Moslem among the "Rus" (Swedes) who traded and raided along the Volga river, and then combines it with the Beowulf epic and Creighton's own imaginative Sci-Fi plot twist that "the Wendel" (Grendel) were actually a tribe of surviving Ice Age Neanderthals/cannibals who raided the Vikings for/as food! Whatever. I'd been curious about this movie for a long time, having read both the novel and the sources which inspired it some time ago, but I wasn't about to spend good money to rent it, much less see it in a theater. Antonio Banderas played the culture-shocked Arabian poet, and all-in-all I thought it made for a pretty interesting introduction to my own sojourn among the descendants of the Vikings.
Copenhagen's International terminal looks like it has been recently remodeled into a huge, duty-free shopping mall (complete with a Danish version of Niketown), but the airport itself is actually much smaller than I expected: perhaps half the size of PDX, and considerably smaller than SeaTac. The domestic terminal (where I had to transfer to get my connection to Aalborg) is still waiting for its face-lift, and reminds me a lot of the airport in Midland, Texas. To get from the one terminal to the other I had to clear customs and take a shuttle-bus; fortunately, the line for non-EU passengers was considerably shorter than the other, and since my luggage was checked through all the way to Aalborg, I was able to breeze right through without any delay. As I went through Passport Control the official in the window looked at my name, and then grinning launched into a long stream of loud, rapid Danish just to see my confused reaction, which I'm certain was not a disappointment to him. >>Jeg taler kun en smulle Dansk<< I mumbled, and was waved right through.
The flight to Aalborg was open seating (like on Southwest Air), but since I didn't realize this beforehand I sat around in the gate area waiting for someone to show up and give me a seat assignment, and as a result was one of the last persons to get on the plane. We spent almost as much time on the ground waiting for permission to take off as we did in the air, but the entire trip from the time I boarded the airplane to the time I stepped off again was only about an hour. The nice thing about sitting in the back of the plane is that they let you disembark through the rear door, since the terminal in Aalborg has only one "gate" and it doesn't include a jet-way. The bad news was that my luggage was still in Copenhagen, and by the time I'd figured this out, I'd missed the bus into Aalborg Centre. The bus is timed to match the flight arrivals, so I had to wait another hour for the next one. The problem with my bag turned out to be that it had been coded to the wrong flight back in Portland, so it actually arrived safely just a few hours later, and was delivered by taxi to my apartment. Having already had some experience recently with lost luggage in NYC last Christmas, I was able to deal with the entire situation very calmly.
My apartment is only a few blocks east of the bus and train stations, so the address was very easy to find. It was also a little discouraging at first, since it is located in an older building that is being partially gutted and remodeled at the moment, so the first view from the street is of a muddy construction site and an old, apparently abandoned brick structure with most of the windows broken out. My apartment is in the rear section of the building, located away from the street. That section has already been remodeled and is actually quite pleasant, although the apartment itself is tiny. "Efficiency" describes it perfectly: one modest room with a kitchenette on one end and a window on the other, a table, some chairs, and a cleverly-designed couch that quickly converts into a bed about the size of a quarter-berth. There's a small closet next to the door, and a small bathroom next to that with an equally-ingenious compact shower that I am growing to love. But I probably wouldn't have been about to find it at all in the first place if my next-door-neighbor Tatiana (another visiting PhD student, from Moscow) hadn't wandered out the door in search of me, since she'd been told I'd be arriving that day and had volunteered to help me get oriented. She had my keys and my orientation packet, and after I'd taken the time to straighten out my luggage situations, we took a quick walking tour of the "Gamle By" or Old Town, which is just north of where I live. Aalborg is historically an old Viking settlement "strategically situated at the narrowest point of the Limfjord" (as one of my guidebooks so succinctly puts it), which allowed them easy access to both the Baltic and the North Sea. All that is really left from the Viking era is an old burial ground north of the fjord; I live on the south side, which still has plenty of interesting pre-modern buildings, including two very cool churches (one of which dates back to the 12th century). Lots of it has also been blocked off from traffic and turned into a pedestrian mall, so it is all very compact and easy to get around in by foot.
Saturday I did a little more exploring, and discovered the local McDonalds, Burger King, and Pizza Hut, but (unfortunately) no Starbucks (which was the one American chain I would have LIKED to find!). I also did a little shopping for groceries, had the usual difficulty figuring out the money, and met my first real Dane who didn't speak any English: an elderly woman out pushing her equally-elderly dachshund in a baby carriage. I asked her >>Er Hund venlig<< and when she nodded , I let him give my hand a little sniff before I gave him a pet. No language barrier there! Sunday I attended services at Vor Frue Kirke (Our Lady Church) and received communion in the Danish Evangelical Lutheran State Church. The liturgy was fairly easy to follow, and since the Scripture lessons were printed in the Order of Service, I could figure those out as well: the passage from Exodus on Manna in the Wilderness, and the "Jeg er Livets Brod" ("I am the Bread of Life") pericope from the Gospel of John. Didn't understand a word of the sermon (which I suppose is an important lesson in humility for a preacher), although I was able to make up a pretty interesting one of my own in my head. The congregation in this beautiful old building numbered fewer than 40, almost all of them (with the exception of a young family who had brought their infant to be christened) white-haired.
Monday Tatiana showed me how to catch the bus to the University, and I got to meet some of the other people in the department here, including the departmental secretary Malene, who speaks a delightfully-accented British English and who set me up with my (shared) office and a computer account, a library card, keys and an after-hours doorpass, etc. I also got my first taste of smørrebrod at the Student canteen, which was even better than I had expected, and (I learned) is properly eaten with a knife and fork. Tuesday I was supposed to present my paper, but someone mercifully decided out of compassion for my anticipated jet-lag to postpone it until sometime in May, so Tatiana presented her paper instead. My office-mate is named Matilde and comes form Germany, so you can see we are quite an international group here. Everyone seems to speak fluent English along with their native language, as well as Danish much better than I can, so I really do feel like the dunce of the class a lot of the time. Probably another important lesson in humility.
My greatest linguistic challenge so far came when I tried to purchase my monthly bus pass. Was sent away the first time because I need to have a spare passport photo (and didn't have one), then once I had figured out how to acquire one from an automatic machine at the railway station, it took two more trips before I was able to figure out the kind of pass that I wanted, which turned out to be not the pass I should have purchased after all. So it's going to cost me an extra $20 more than it should have to ride the bus for two months here, but what the hell -- I left at least that much "value" on the bumper of my car because I couldn't scrape off the UO parking sticker in order to receive a spring quarter rebate. The bank, the post office, buying my telephone card, and signing up for the free "International Staff Club" (a special lounge in the Student Union building where one can play pool and supposedly watch CNN) were all relatively easy by comparison.
After my last encounter with the clerk at the bus terminal, I went back to the small pub around the corner from my apartment (the kind of place frequented by the working class Danes who are gutting the other wing of my building, rather than University students), and managed to order >>en grøn Tuborg Øl<< for 13 kr (about $1.85). As I sat there in this crowded, smoke-filled neighborhood tavern sipping my beer, I notice a presence between my feet: it was the bartender's terrier, who apparently figured out that since I was sitting alone I was probably a pretty good candidate for handing out some "free pets," and maybe even a treat. She got her reward, and I got mine...and for the first time since arriving here, that night I was finally able to sleep through until morning.
Today the sun at last is shining for the first time since I arrived here, and there are some very interesting birds (I think they are Magpies) outside my office window, and it is simply too nice a day to squander any more of it in front of a computer screen. I hope you all have enjoyed this letter; I'll try to write more as the opportunity arises, and look forward to hearing from you as well. Take care, do good work, and keep in touch (to quote Garrison Keillor.
Ciao! (for now)
Tim
My apartment building in Aalborg, Jyllandsgade 21
II. Rolling to Rolduc [originally posted 12 April 2000]
I made my first long excursion from Aalborg last weekend, and it was a doozy --thirteen hours by train from Aalborg through Fredericia, Hamburg and Düsseldorf to the little town of Herzogenrath on the Dutch-German border, one stop short of Aachen. The reason for my trip was to attend a weekend retreat of Unitarian-Universalists from all over Europe being held at the Rolduc Conference Center in the Netherlands, a former Augustinian monastery and boarding school now being operated as a Conference Center by the Dutch government. This wasn't a trip I'd planned on making before I got here, but shortly after my arrival I started checking out websites and looking for the names of other Unitarians that I might contact while over here. The President of the Parish Fellowship told me about the retreat, and encouraged me to contact the registrar to see whether there might be room for me to attend: I e-mailed him Thursday morning and then started checking out trains schedules on the web, heard back from him Thursday night at about 6 pm that there was plenty of room, so I went down to the train station at 6 am the following morning, validated my railpass, and was off on a cross-country adventure.
The European train system is everything I had expected and more. The IC from Aalborg to Fredericia (which is also the first leg of the regular service to Copenhagen) is magnificent: fast, efficient, high-tech, very comfortable...only the coffee is 14 kr ($2) for a 6 oz cup, and lacked the punch of the tall, skinny latte I was craving. On the leg to Hamburg I rode in a large, center, 2nd class compartment crowded with maybe a dozen traveling school-aged students (and their two beleaguered teachers), some soldiers, and a large assortment of other interesting characters, including at one point a loud, somewhat older Danish man who rolled his own cigarettes, finished two beers during the half-hour he shared our compartment, was carrying way too much luggage, and then missed his stop and launched into a loud but futile protest with the unsympathetic conductor, while everyone else in the compartment listened in, made knowing eye contact, and tried desperately not to laugh out loud at the poor fellow's plight. It was really quite comic, and I think I would have felt a little more guilty about being so amused if it hadn't been obvious to everyone that he had brought it on himself, as well as equally obvious that he was simply going to have to get out at the next station and retrace his steps I had a reserved seat on the train from Hamburg to Düsseldorf, which I think in retrospect was a waste of time and money; rode in a large, American style coach stuck against the window, so I just read my book (Benjamin Barber's *Jihad vs McWorld*) and tried to enjoy the rapidly-passing German countryside. At one point, my seatmate changed from a 30-something business-type who war reading some sort of mystery thriller written in German but set in New York City to a five or six year old African-European (?) girl in cornrows carrying a Donald Duck backpack, who spoke German in a tiny, little-girl voice that was hard for me to understand, and who seemed a little frustrated that her language skills were better than mine. I think she was as relieved as I was when a seat opened up next to her mother. The last leg to Herzogenrath was a commuter "milk run" filled with folks heading home for the weekend; everyone seemed to know everyone else, and nobody even bothered asking for tickets.
Having successfully managed all of the changes and transfers and connections to that point, I was nearly done in at the Herzogenrath Bahnhof trying to travel the last 2 kilometers to Rolduc. My first thought was simply to take a taxi, but the registrar had given me his cellular number and instructed me to phone from the station, which meant changing money, buying a German phone card, and then trying to figure out the phone system, which I eventually managed to do with the help of a friendly local. Apparently I need to dial the Dutch country code in order to call across the International border, which the registrar had neglected to mention or provide. When I finally got through, he told me that his shuttle driver had just gone down to the refectory to get a bite to eat, and that I should just go ahead and get a cab to the Abbey! Finding a taxi was no problem, and 10 minutes and 10 Deutschmarks later I was standing in front of a magnificent, 12th century (I think) Romanesque Church high on a hill overlooking the Dutch countryside. Found the registrar, got my key, dumped my bag, and headed down to the refectory myself feeling rather famished after my long trip. When I walked through the door, the first people I saw were two friends of mine from University Church in Seattle, Bill and Melinda Mains, who are now members of the Paris Fellowship (where Bill is employed by the US Foreign Service). Talk about small world!
The theme speaker for the retreat was Rebecca Armstrong, a graduate of Meadville/Lombard who is a talented musician and storyteller, as well as a huge Joseph Campbell aficionado. I hadn't really expected that much from the program, so I was pleasantly blown-away by the quality of her presentation: very interactive and surprisingly engaging and insightful. We talked a little afterwards about how difficult it is to present material like hers in a way that is neither too pedantic nor too "New Age" -- she seems to have discovered just the right balance, so that even a curmudgeonly old school Harvard polity-wonk like myself can get off drawing his personal mandala in crayon, or participating in the spontaneous creation of a group liturgical dance reenactment the "myth" of the "Big Bang" creation story. (For you non-UUs I'm sure this all sounds a little bizarre; I guess you kinda had to be there. I suspect the UUs on this list have already been there many times...but trust me, this time was special). For the afternoon session, I took a guided tour of the Church and Abbey led by a man who had been a student at the Boarding School prior to the Second World War. Now in his eighties, he was filled with interesting details about the history of the monastery and the construction of the Church, which is everything one might hope for in an 800 year old house of worship. Huge pipe organ in the back of the sanctuary under the steeple, the mummy of the patron of the abbey encased in metal (complete with his death mask) and "buried" under a grate in the center aisle of the nave, two transept chapels, and an actual crypt (complete with the supposed relics of the founding monk) beneath the chancel. The chancel itself is (of course) divided between a choir and a high altar, and has its own small pipe organ. Naturally, there were frescos everywhere on the walls and ceiling vaults. But the best part is that we had it all to ourselves, and could explore anywhere we liked, including places UUs seldom see, like the inside of the confessionals, where I had to explain to at least one of my co-religionists that it is actually God who forgives the sins of the penitent, and that the priest/confessor only offers a blessing along with the penance. Her response: "Whatever...."
Saturday evening was a home-grown cabaret night down in the basement pub which has been built by the conference center in the old wine cellar of the Abbey. What a great time! -- kind of a Jr High School talent show for (in some cases at least ) VERY talented middle-aged UUs. It started out with an eclectic chamber ensemble that included a french horn, various woodwinds, and a bagpipe (!), then some folk singing, some storytelling (including Melinda's very animated retelling, in Russian, of the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, which concluded with a pronouncement by the Papa Bear as Goldilocks fled the scene: "Americanski Tourist!"), solos by the piper and the horn player (who blew us all away by using a coiled up length of garden hose and a funnel as her instrument), all topped off with a pick-up rock & roll band who let anyone who wanted to come up on stage and sing the back-up parts. We sang and danced and drank up our guilder until well after "The Midnight Hour," when I think even the bartenders were sorry to see us go.
I decided to leave the retreat the following morning after breakfast, having neglected to print out an itinerary for my return, and therefore uncertain about my connections back to Aalborg and a little worried about getting stranded overnight in the Hamburg Bahnhof. Turned down a chance to ride into Aachen to see the Tomb of Charlemagne, and then taking the train back through Köln where I might have been able to take a quick peek at the cathedral there; as it turned out, that probably would have been OK, since I ended up with a two-hour wait in Hamburg before I could catch the train back to Denmark. It was nearly midnight when I finally got home to Aalborg. For the trip home I decided to ride in the 1st class compartments, since my railpass allows it and I wanted to see what I'd missed on the way down. What a difference! -- maybe it was just the fact that I was traveling on a Sunday, but in some cases I had an entire car all to myself. Moreover (at least on the Danish IC) in First Class juice and coffee are free. So I guess it's true: Second Class is where the action is, but First Class is great if you just want to kick back and relax, which is exactly how I felt at the end of this long weekend. Of course, the best part of the entire trip is that I was able to meet so many other Unitarians living in Europe, including a young woman who is planning to be married on June 21st (my own wedding anniversary) on the Greek island of Sifnos, and is still looking for someone to perform the ceremony. She has hopes that her minister from the States will be able to make the journey, but if not,l I'm now the "back-up." I also found out about a program administered by my former "Orientation to the Ministry" instructor at HDS which subsidizes travel for UU ministers willing to work with European Fellowships on a temporary, consulting basis, so I'm already starting to daydream about coming back here sooner rather than later. And I own it all to the very unlike-me decision simply to jump on a train at the eleventh hour and entrust myself to the hospitality of others.
Meanwhile, back here in the land of the Vikings, I feel like I am finally starting to settle into a routine: I have my apartment, an office, my buspass, keycards and computer password; I've found a bakery and a supermarket and even the local laundromat; I'm starting to get along a little better in the language (at least well enough that I can read the signs and make myself understood -- sorta -- in public, although I'm still a long way away from being able to carry on a sustained conversation), and am generally beginning to get to know my neighbors and my neighborhood. Had a very interesting conversation yesterday afternoon with the Studenterpræst ("campus minister") here, and tonight hope to attend one of the programs he offers of International Students at the Student Union building. I'm also enjoying the academic portion of my exchange: heard a very stimulating paper at yesterday morning's seminar from Adam Muller of the University of Manitoba, and this weekend Adam, Tatiana, and myself have all been invited out to the summer house of the European Cultural Studies Programme Coordinator, who arrange all of our exchanges. Still don't have firm plans for the upcoming Easter recess other than trying to worship Palm Sunday at the Buldolfi Cathedral here in Aalborg, and Easter Sunday at the indigenous Unitarian Church in Copenhagen. Think I may also take a day trip into Copenhagen Monday for the Queen's birthday, which will mean catching another early morning train out of Aalborg and returning home late that same night. I'll try to continue to keep you all posted from time to time of my latest adventures. And thanks to all of you who have written me back; I know I've responded to some of your e-mails, while others of you I've neglected; unfortunately this mail program doesn't tell me automatically which of the messages I've responded to and which I haven't, so I have to go to the "sent mail" file and try to cross-reference from there. So if you haven't heard back from me yet, I apologize...and likewise to those of you whose e-mail I may have inadvertently answered twice. And forgive my spelling -- the resident spell-check program here is all in Danish, and not much help to an American!..............twj
A "Kermit" from Anna Berglind's bakery
I made my first long excursion from Aalborg last weekend, and it was a doozy --thirteen hours by train from Aalborg through Fredericia, Hamburg and Düsseldorf to the little town of Herzogenrath on the Dutch-German border, one stop short of Aachen. The reason for my trip was to attend a weekend retreat of Unitarian-Universalists from all over Europe being held at the Rolduc Conference Center in the Netherlands, a former Augustinian monastery and boarding school now being operated as a Conference Center by the Dutch government. This wasn't a trip I'd planned on making before I got here, but shortly after my arrival I started checking out websites and looking for the names of other Unitarians that I might contact while over here. The President of the Parish Fellowship told me about the retreat, and encouraged me to contact the registrar to see whether there might be room for me to attend: I e-mailed him Thursday morning and then started checking out trains schedules on the web, heard back from him Thursday night at about 6 pm that there was plenty of room, so I went down to the train station at 6 am the following morning, validated my railpass, and was off on a cross-country adventure.
The European train system is everything I had expected and more. The IC from Aalborg to Fredericia (which is also the first leg of the regular service to Copenhagen) is magnificent: fast, efficient, high-tech, very comfortable...only the coffee is 14 kr ($2) for a 6 oz cup, and lacked the punch of the tall, skinny latte I was craving. On the leg to Hamburg I rode in a large, center, 2nd class compartment crowded with maybe a dozen traveling school-aged students (and their two beleaguered teachers), some soldiers, and a large assortment of other interesting characters, including at one point a loud, somewhat older Danish man who rolled his own cigarettes, finished two beers during the half-hour he shared our compartment, was carrying way too much luggage, and then missed his stop and launched into a loud but futile protest with the unsympathetic conductor, while everyone else in the compartment listened in, made knowing eye contact, and tried desperately not to laugh out loud at the poor fellow's plight. It was really quite comic, and I think I would have felt a little more guilty about being so amused if it hadn't been obvious to everyone that he had brought it on himself, as well as equally obvious that he was simply going to have to get out at the next station and retrace his steps I had a reserved seat on the train from Hamburg to Düsseldorf, which I think in retrospect was a waste of time and money; rode in a large, American style coach stuck against the window, so I just read my book (Benjamin Barber's *Jihad vs McWorld*) and tried to enjoy the rapidly-passing German countryside. At one point, my seatmate changed from a 30-something business-type who war reading some sort of mystery thriller written in German but set in New York City to a five or six year old African-European (?) girl in cornrows carrying a Donald Duck backpack, who spoke German in a tiny, little-girl voice that was hard for me to understand, and who seemed a little frustrated that her language skills were better than mine. I think she was as relieved as I was when a seat opened up next to her mother. The last leg to Herzogenrath was a commuter "milk run" filled with folks heading home for the weekend; everyone seemed to know everyone else, and nobody even bothered asking for tickets.
Having successfully managed all of the changes and transfers and connections to that point, I was nearly done in at the Herzogenrath Bahnhof trying to travel the last 2 kilometers to Rolduc. My first thought was simply to take a taxi, but the registrar had given me his cellular number and instructed me to phone from the station, which meant changing money, buying a German phone card, and then trying to figure out the phone system, which I eventually managed to do with the help of a friendly local. Apparently I need to dial the Dutch country code in order to call across the International border, which the registrar had neglected to mention or provide. When I finally got through, he told me that his shuttle driver had just gone down to the refectory to get a bite to eat, and that I should just go ahead and get a cab to the Abbey! Finding a taxi was no problem, and 10 minutes and 10 Deutschmarks later I was standing in front of a magnificent, 12th century (I think) Romanesque Church high on a hill overlooking the Dutch countryside. Found the registrar, got my key, dumped my bag, and headed down to the refectory myself feeling rather famished after my long trip. When I walked through the door, the first people I saw were two friends of mine from University Church in Seattle, Bill and Melinda Mains, who are now members of the Paris Fellowship (where Bill is employed by the US Foreign Service). Talk about small world!
The theme speaker for the retreat was Rebecca Armstrong, a graduate of Meadville/Lombard who is a talented musician and storyteller, as well as a huge Joseph Campbell aficionado. I hadn't really expected that much from the program, so I was pleasantly blown-away by the quality of her presentation: very interactive and surprisingly engaging and insightful. We talked a little afterwards about how difficult it is to present material like hers in a way that is neither too pedantic nor too "New Age" -- she seems to have discovered just the right balance, so that even a curmudgeonly old school Harvard polity-wonk like myself can get off drawing his personal mandala in crayon, or participating in the spontaneous creation of a group liturgical dance reenactment the "myth" of the "Big Bang" creation story. (For you non-UUs I'm sure this all sounds a little bizarre; I guess you kinda had to be there. I suspect the UUs on this list have already been there many times...but trust me, this time was special). For the afternoon session, I took a guided tour of the Church and Abbey led by a man who had been a student at the Boarding School prior to the Second World War. Now in his eighties, he was filled with interesting details about the history of the monastery and the construction of the Church, which is everything one might hope for in an 800 year old house of worship. Huge pipe organ in the back of the sanctuary under the steeple, the mummy of the patron of the abbey encased in metal (complete with his death mask) and "buried" under a grate in the center aisle of the nave, two transept chapels, and an actual crypt (complete with the supposed relics of the founding monk) beneath the chancel. The chancel itself is (of course) divided between a choir and a high altar, and has its own small pipe organ. Naturally, there were frescos everywhere on the walls and ceiling vaults. But the best part is that we had it all to ourselves, and could explore anywhere we liked, including places UUs seldom see, like the inside of the confessionals, where I had to explain to at least one of my co-religionists that it is actually God who forgives the sins of the penitent, and that the priest/confessor only offers a blessing along with the penance. Her response: "Whatever...."
Saturday evening was a home-grown cabaret night down in the basement pub which has been built by the conference center in the old wine cellar of the Abbey. What a great time! -- kind of a Jr High School talent show for (in some cases at least ) VERY talented middle-aged UUs. It started out with an eclectic chamber ensemble that included a french horn, various woodwinds, and a bagpipe (!), then some folk singing, some storytelling (including Melinda's very animated retelling, in Russian, of the story of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, which concluded with a pronouncement by the Papa Bear as Goldilocks fled the scene: "Americanski Tourist!"), solos by the piper and the horn player (who blew us all away by using a coiled up length of garden hose and a funnel as her instrument), all topped off with a pick-up rock & roll band who let anyone who wanted to come up on stage and sing the back-up parts. We sang and danced and drank up our guilder until well after "The Midnight Hour," when I think even the bartenders were sorry to see us go.
I decided to leave the retreat the following morning after breakfast, having neglected to print out an itinerary for my return, and therefore uncertain about my connections back to Aalborg and a little worried about getting stranded overnight in the Hamburg Bahnhof. Turned down a chance to ride into Aachen to see the Tomb of Charlemagne, and then taking the train back through Köln where I might have been able to take a quick peek at the cathedral there; as it turned out, that probably would have been OK, since I ended up with a two-hour wait in Hamburg before I could catch the train back to Denmark. It was nearly midnight when I finally got home to Aalborg. For the trip home I decided to ride in the 1st class compartments, since my railpass allows it and I wanted to see what I'd missed on the way down. What a difference! -- maybe it was just the fact that I was traveling on a Sunday, but in some cases I had an entire car all to myself. Moreover (at least on the Danish IC) in First Class juice and coffee are free. So I guess it's true: Second Class is where the action is, but First Class is great if you just want to kick back and relax, which is exactly how I felt at the end of this long weekend. Of course, the best part of the entire trip is that I was able to meet so many other Unitarians living in Europe, including a young woman who is planning to be married on June 21st (my own wedding anniversary) on the Greek island of Sifnos, and is still looking for someone to perform the ceremony. She has hopes that her minister from the States will be able to make the journey, but if not,l I'm now the "back-up." I also found out about a program administered by my former "Orientation to the Ministry" instructor at HDS which subsidizes travel for UU ministers willing to work with European Fellowships on a temporary, consulting basis, so I'm already starting to daydream about coming back here sooner rather than later. And I own it all to the very unlike-me decision simply to jump on a train at the eleventh hour and entrust myself to the hospitality of others.
Meanwhile, back here in the land of the Vikings, I feel like I am finally starting to settle into a routine: I have my apartment, an office, my buspass, keycards and computer password; I've found a bakery and a supermarket and even the local laundromat; I'm starting to get along a little better in the language (at least well enough that I can read the signs and make myself understood -- sorta -- in public, although I'm still a long way away from being able to carry on a sustained conversation), and am generally beginning to get to know my neighbors and my neighborhood. Had a very interesting conversation yesterday afternoon with the Studenterpræst ("campus minister") here, and tonight hope to attend one of the programs he offers of International Students at the Student Union building. I'm also enjoying the academic portion of my exchange: heard a very stimulating paper at yesterday morning's seminar from Adam Muller of the University of Manitoba, and this weekend Adam, Tatiana, and myself have all been invited out to the summer house of the European Cultural Studies Programme Coordinator, who arrange all of our exchanges. Still don't have firm plans for the upcoming Easter recess other than trying to worship Palm Sunday at the Buldolfi Cathedral here in Aalborg, and Easter Sunday at the indigenous Unitarian Church in Copenhagen. Think I may also take a day trip into Copenhagen Monday for the Queen's birthday, which will mean catching another early morning train out of Aalborg and returning home late that same night. I'll try to continue to keep you all posted from time to time of my latest adventures. And thanks to all of you who have written me back; I know I've responded to some of your e-mails, while others of you I've neglected; unfortunately this mail program doesn't tell me automatically which of the messages I've responded to and which I haven't, so I have to go to the "sent mail" file and try to cross-reference from there. So if you haven't heard back from me yet, I apologize...and likewise to those of you whose e-mail I may have inadvertently answered twice. And forgive my spelling -- the resident spell-check program here is all in Danish, and not much help to an American!..............twj
A "Kermit" from Anna Berglind's bakery
III. Rocking in the DK [originally posted Tuesday 18 April 2000]
I had my first taste of Danish rock and roll this past week, and all I can say is that it is both loud and lascivious. I'd gone up to the Studenterhuset looking for a gathering for international students that I'd read about on a bulletin board; never found it, but I did find myself in the midst of a throng of folks who all seemed to be wandering in the same direction, so naturally I followed along, and ended up at something called the "Melodi Gran Prix 2000" -- a contest featuring eight local, amateur acts who were the winners of some earlier, preliminary competitions. Each band played one song, and then between acts the audience was entertained by a kind of campy German oom-pah band who played things like the Spice Girls "Tal mig hvad du vilst, hvad du really, really vilst") and medleys of American television show themes with a characteristically Bavarian beat. It was difficult for me to follow the lyrics (a problem I also often now have with American rock and roll -- what was that fellow Kurt Cobain mumbling about anyway?), but fortunately the choreography left little to the imagination.
First prize went to a band called "Soldaterdammerater" -- two guys dressed in Army uniforms and a couple of female backup singers -- who sang a song about a Danish soldier who apparently really, REALLY missed his girlfriend back home. Second prize went to an appropriately-named band called "Sugar," which featured a female saxophone player and might have passed for a reasonably-tight local dance band in the States, but who were just a little too sweet for my taste. The most talented performer of the evening (IMHO) actually won third prize: a singer named Anne-Marie Østergård who has the look, the pipes, and the stage presence to sign a major studio recording contract tomorrow. She simply oozed charisma, and would make an excellent addition to a band like Pink Martini now that Pepe is doing his bottle-blonde thing. Honorable mention goes to an act called "Sexy Laila & the wonder brazz" -- sort of a one-joke performance whose climax featured some strategically-placed sparklers.. The Danish language, BTW, is lovely when sung. Spoken it might easily be mistaken for mumbled German, but when set to music it sounds enchantingly French.
Saturday I was invited along with some of the other visiting PhD students to the summerhouse of the International Studies coordinator: a delightful little beach cottage located between Frederikshavn and Skagen on the east coast of Jutland. We took a long walk along the beach, and I had my first experience of authentic Danish "hygge," which my dictionary translates as "coziness," but which is basically tipsy Danes sitting around a candlelit table after a terrific meal telling stories and laughing heartily. Definitely an experience I could get used to. The place of hygge in Danish society is actually a little controversial in Denmark now, since the intimacy enjoyed by the in-group can also be viewed as "excluding" various outsiders: Greenlanders, Guest-workers, and third-world political refugees to name a few. As one commentator has put it, "Hygge always has its back turned to the world."
Witnessed my first example of what seemed to me overt racism last week as well, when I saw a bus driver pull away from the curb in rainstorm while a dark-skinned man who had run for the bus pounded at the door. Two days later, in a similar situation when I was the one running for the bus, the same bus driver stopped and opened the door to let me in! As grateful as I was for not having to wait another twenty minutes in the rain, I felt a little guilty for enjoying the privilege of "passing" for Danish simply because of the way I look. But I don't want to sound too critical of the Danes either, especially given America's reputation in this regard). It seems to me that most Danes' hearts are in the right place, but because this traditionally a highly-homogeneous society which is very concerned about maintaining its distinct, cultural identity in the face of things like the European Union, there is a certain lack of perspective and expertise when it comes to dealing with some kinds of diversity issues. It's like there’s a willingness to extend hospitality to anyone who asks for it, provided they are willing to "fit in." But issues like whether Moslems should be allowed to register births and marriages or record deaths at the mosque (or even have a real mosque at all), rather than taking care of this sort of thing through the Folkekirke like the rest of Danish society, remain somewhat contentious.
Palm Sunday I attended services at the Budolfi Domkirke (the medieval cathedral here in Aalborg), where I received communion kneeling between a white-haired Danish woman who must easily have been in her eighties, and an African man wearing a tie and a navy blazer and carrying an English Bible. The lesson was from Mark 14 ("the poor ye shall always have with thee") and even though once again I couldn't understand a word of the sermon, I was easily able to follow the liturgy and was quite inspired by my participation in the service.
Monday I made a day-trip into Copenhagen for the first time for the Queen's 60th birthday, only to discover that I had misunderstood and that it had actually been the day before; probably a good thing too, since I read in the paper on the train back home that 100,000 Danes had shown up at Amalienborg Palace to sing "Happy Birthday" to the Queen. Did get to see the changing of the guard though, and took a brisk walking tour through the center of town out to the statue of the LIttle Mermaid, and then over to the Unitarian Church. Decided to head home a little early when it started spitting rain, so my climb to the top of the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke and an exploration of Christianshavn will have to wait another day.
The train ride between Aalborg and Copenhagen is about four and a half hours, but the time goes very quickly, and the trains run approximately hourly from around five in the morning until eight at night. There is also a train that leaves Copenhagen after midnight and arrives back in Aalborg at five am, which would make for a very long day indeed. As it was, I got back to Aalborg about 8:30 pm after having taken the 6 am train in that morning, and found that it was plenty.
I'm planning to go back to the city again this weekend anyway to spend Easter with the Danish Unitarians, so it's not as if I'm not going to have plenty more opportunities to explore. Classes at Aalborg University don't meet the week between Palm Sunday and Easter, and the Monday after Easter is a holiday as well, so I may make a few additional excursions this week as well. Or maybe not. I really walked myself silly yesterday, and I've been feeling it a little in my legs this morning. I may be feeling young at heart, but my knees are still pretty high-mileage!.............twj
I had my first taste of Danish rock and roll this past week, and all I can say is that it is both loud and lascivious. I'd gone up to the Studenterhuset looking for a gathering for international students that I'd read about on a bulletin board; never found it, but I did find myself in the midst of a throng of folks who all seemed to be wandering in the same direction, so naturally I followed along, and ended up at something called the "Melodi Gran Prix 2000" -- a contest featuring eight local, amateur acts who were the winners of some earlier, preliminary competitions. Each band played one song, and then between acts the audience was entertained by a kind of campy German oom-pah band who played things like the Spice Girls "Tal mig hvad du vilst, hvad du really, really vilst") and medleys of American television show themes with a characteristically Bavarian beat. It was difficult for me to follow the lyrics (a problem I also often now have with American rock and roll -- what was that fellow Kurt Cobain mumbling about anyway?), but fortunately the choreography left little to the imagination.
First prize went to a band called "Soldaterdammerater" -- two guys dressed in Army uniforms and a couple of female backup singers -- who sang a song about a Danish soldier who apparently really, REALLY missed his girlfriend back home. Second prize went to an appropriately-named band called "Sugar," which featured a female saxophone player and might have passed for a reasonably-tight local dance band in the States, but who were just a little too sweet for my taste. The most talented performer of the evening (IMHO) actually won third prize: a singer named Anne-Marie Østergård who has the look, the pipes, and the stage presence to sign a major studio recording contract tomorrow. She simply oozed charisma, and would make an excellent addition to a band like Pink Martini now that Pepe is doing his bottle-blonde thing. Honorable mention goes to an act called "Sexy Laila & the wonder brazz" -- sort of a one-joke performance whose climax featured some strategically-placed sparklers.. The Danish language, BTW, is lovely when sung. Spoken it might easily be mistaken for mumbled German, but when set to music it sounds enchantingly French.
Saturday I was invited along with some of the other visiting PhD students to the summerhouse of the International Studies coordinator: a delightful little beach cottage located between Frederikshavn and Skagen on the east coast of Jutland. We took a long walk along the beach, and I had my first experience of authentic Danish "hygge," which my dictionary translates as "coziness," but which is basically tipsy Danes sitting around a candlelit table after a terrific meal telling stories and laughing heartily. Definitely an experience I could get used to. The place of hygge in Danish society is actually a little controversial in Denmark now, since the intimacy enjoyed by the in-group can also be viewed as "excluding" various outsiders: Greenlanders, Guest-workers, and third-world political refugees to name a few. As one commentator has put it, "Hygge always has its back turned to the world."
Witnessed my first example of what seemed to me overt racism last week as well, when I saw a bus driver pull away from the curb in rainstorm while a dark-skinned man who had run for the bus pounded at the door. Two days later, in a similar situation when I was the one running for the bus, the same bus driver stopped and opened the door to let me in! As grateful as I was for not having to wait another twenty minutes in the rain, I felt a little guilty for enjoying the privilege of "passing" for Danish simply because of the way I look. But I don't want to sound too critical of the Danes either, especially given America's reputation in this regard). It seems to me that most Danes' hearts are in the right place, but because this traditionally a highly-homogeneous society which is very concerned about maintaining its distinct, cultural identity in the face of things like the European Union, there is a certain lack of perspective and expertise when it comes to dealing with some kinds of diversity issues. It's like there’s a willingness to extend hospitality to anyone who asks for it, provided they are willing to "fit in." But issues like whether Moslems should be allowed to register births and marriages or record deaths at the mosque (or even have a real mosque at all), rather than taking care of this sort of thing through the Folkekirke like the rest of Danish society, remain somewhat contentious.
Palm Sunday I attended services at the Budolfi Domkirke (the medieval cathedral here in Aalborg), where I received communion kneeling between a white-haired Danish woman who must easily have been in her eighties, and an African man wearing a tie and a navy blazer and carrying an English Bible. The lesson was from Mark 14 ("the poor ye shall always have with thee") and even though once again I couldn't understand a word of the sermon, I was easily able to follow the liturgy and was quite inspired by my participation in the service.
Monday I made a day-trip into Copenhagen for the first time for the Queen's 60th birthday, only to discover that I had misunderstood and that it had actually been the day before; probably a good thing too, since I read in the paper on the train back home that 100,000 Danes had shown up at Amalienborg Palace to sing "Happy Birthday" to the Queen. Did get to see the changing of the guard though, and took a brisk walking tour through the center of town out to the statue of the LIttle Mermaid, and then over to the Unitarian Church. Decided to head home a little early when it started spitting rain, so my climb to the top of the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke and an exploration of Christianshavn will have to wait another day.
The train ride between Aalborg and Copenhagen is about four and a half hours, but the time goes very quickly, and the trains run approximately hourly from around five in the morning until eight at night. There is also a train that leaves Copenhagen after midnight and arrives back in Aalborg at five am, which would make for a very long day indeed. As it was, I got back to Aalborg about 8:30 pm after having taken the 6 am train in that morning, and found that it was plenty.
I'm planning to go back to the city again this weekend anyway to spend Easter with the Danish Unitarians, so it's not as if I'm not going to have plenty more opportunities to explore. Classes at Aalborg University don't meet the week between Palm Sunday and Easter, and the Monday after Easter is a holiday as well, so I may make a few additional excursions this week as well. Or maybe not. I really walked myself silly yesterday, and I've been feeling it a little in my legs this morning. I may be feeling young at heart, but my knees are still pretty high-mileage!.............twj
IV. Bicycler, cigaretter, og mobiltelefoner [originally posted Saturday 22 April 2000]
Had my first real twinge of homesickness recently, when I realized that the NBA playoffs begin this weekend, and I still haven't figured out a way to watch them on European TV. I have seen a couple of pretty interesting soccer matches while here though, as well as witnessing something called "handball" (which the Danes supposedly excel at) -- a sport I think best described as water polo without the water. "Football" (as contrasted to "American Football," a sport which George Wills once described as combining the two worst elements of American Society: violence and committee meetings) is a brilliantly simple game -- the idea is to put the ball into a net using any part of your body but the one you use most often and easily, your hands. Of all the variations on this same basic idea (basketball, hockey, lacrosse, etc.) "handball" has got to be the silliest -- here the idea is to put the ball into a net WITH your hands, and, after a half-hour or so of watching this spectacle, you really begin to appreciate Dr. Naismith's genius when he decided to put the goal ten feet above the ground. I've seen a little badminton on Danish TV as well (another sport at which the Danes are said to excel), and it was a lot less disappointing; I sure don't remember the shuttlecocks flying so fast in my back yard as a kid!
Broke out of my basketball-deprived funk by attending something called a Påske Frokost ("Easter Brunch") hosted by one of the local cafes. Usually, I'm told, these take place in people's homes (which is more "hyggelig"), so this was apparently somewhat unconventional: 65 kroner for all the herring, salmon, smoked lamb, Danish ham, potato salad, pasta salad (two kinds), bean salad, various kinds of Danish cheeses, and delicious deviled eggs with caviar that you could eat, along with thin-sliced bread to spread it on, and, of course, Aquavit (Danish schnapps -- for which Aalborg is famous). The "house" label was free (until it was gone, which took about twenty minutes) after which you could buy the good stuff at 10 kr a shot (about $1.35), then chase it with a half-liter of yummy Påske Øl for another 30 kr. The party started around 14:00 (two in the afternoon) and we were all still there six and a half hours later, feeling quite hyggelig indeed.
My companions for this fest were Susan, a fifteen-year American expatriate who teaches in my department, and her friend "Dutchy" who is originally from the Netherlands but has lived here about as long as Susan, a woman named Helle who grew up in Denmark but moved to London when she was nineteen and has only recently returned to Aalborg, and Steen, a 35-year-old blacksmith who now aspires to become a photographer. They all spoke excellent English (and usually remembered to do so), so I got to find out which of my jokes were capable of leaping the cultural divide. Fortunately, there is something universal about being caught having sex with a sheep that seems to have broad international appeal -- thanks Dad for teaching me how to tell a funny story!
The best Danish joke I heard was about the Danish immigrant who returns from America and boasts to his cousins that back in the States his farm is so big that it takes him all morning just to drive from one end of his fields to the other. "Yes," his Danish relative replies, "I used to have a truck like that."
The next morning I had my first encounter with the legendary Danish Tømmermænd ("hammer-man"), the little fellow who sets up residence inside your head after a long afternoon/evening of drinking aquavit. Commemorated the occasion with a long, hot shower, and then by shaving off my beard and seeing my real chin for the first time in many years. Went out in search of a real cup of coffee only to discover that the entire town of Aalborg essentially shuts down between Good Friday and "2 Påskedag" (Easter Monday), so I was left to my own devices. Finally ended up making myself a cup of Nescafe up at the International Staff House -- a pale substitute for what I really craved, although I do now have a line on a pound of Peet's French Roast which another American expatriate I've met here has sent to him monthly be a friend in the Bay Area.
Since I'm kinda in that kind of mood, this seems like a good time to write about some of my other experiences of Ugly American culture shock I've experienced since arriving here. The first thing I noticed were all the bicycles. Most of the main thoroughfares here (including my street, Jyllandsgade) are set up with a sidewalk, a bike lane, a bus lane, and a lane or two for other vehicular traffic. During my first week here I was nearly run down by bicycles three times because I hadn't figured out yet that I need to look both ways before stepping on or off a bus! Generally speaking, I'm a fairly bicycle-friendly person, so I have a hard time being TOO judgmental about the bicycles (especially since I was in the wrong), but at the very least you would think they would come equipped with bells and helmets...if not for the bicyclists, then perhaps for the pedestrians like myself who really need them.
The second thing I've noticed is that Danes smoke almost everywhere, including indoors. I've even noticed Danes smoking while riding their bicycles, which is a skill I was never ever to master. The corollary to this phenomenon is that there are ashtrays and cigarette butts everywhere you look, especially at bus stops, since busses are apparently one place where smoking is still not allowed...although you CAN bring your dog on a bus, provided it fits into your purse or backpack : ). Lots of broken beer bottles and the like as well, especially on weekends.
The third thing I've noticed is the ubiquity of cellular phones. The Danes seem to be talking with one another constantly on their mobiltelefoner: on busses, in restaurants, while walking down the street, and (of course) even while riding their bicycles (although I have yet to see a Dane both smoke a cigarette AND talk on a cell phone while riding a bicycle...but I'm sure I eventually will). Think part of the reason for this is the difference between "public" and "private" space in Denmark and in the United States. In the States we tend to spend a lot more time in our automobiles (where I've seen plenty of people smoking and talking on their cell phones while cruising at 72 mph down the Interstate), and more often than not we end up talking to someone's voicemail rather than the person themselves, even when they are home and sitting right next to the phone. Danes seem to spend a lot more of their "private" lives in what Americans would think of as "public" places: clubs, cafes, restaurants, or just out on the Stroget ("the walking street"). So it is only natural that they would bring their telephones with them. Likewise, being entertained in someone's home is a big deal, while taking someone "out" to a restaurant in certain contexts might even be considered a little gauche. Or at least that's the way it seems to an outsider who has been here less than a month. I'll be sure to keep you all posted as I learn more.
Think I'll finish up today with a few odds and ends that have caught my eye. Like the sign on the Pizza delivery place >>Du ringer, Vi bringer<< or the slogan for the bookstore Bog & Ide ("Book and Idea"): >>Vitaminer til hovedet<< ("vitamins for the head"). Or the bus placards advertising the Armed Forces as >>Aktiv Fritid<< ("active freetime") and featuring a photo of two soldiers aiming a machine gun, or (in the alternative photograph) a group of medics caring for some injured people.
Then there's the woman's clothing store on one of the walking streets which, in good weather, displays two attractively dressed female mannequins sitting out on the sidewalk at a small, round cafe table. At first glance you think you are actually passing a cafe, then you realize how your eye has been tricked. Or my personal favorite: a television advertisement for a radio station featuring an animated spermatozoa trying to "fertilize" a large, round circle; at first it can't break through, so it stops to catch its breath (huffing and puffing -- hard to describe, but very amusing), then finally succeeds and is transformed into a musical note: the station's logo. These clever Danes! What will they think of next? Highest suicide rate in the world, and not a handgun to be found anywhere in the country. At times I wonder whether they are managing to kill themselves by having too much fun......twj
Had my first real twinge of homesickness recently, when I realized that the NBA playoffs begin this weekend, and I still haven't figured out a way to watch them on European TV. I have seen a couple of pretty interesting soccer matches while here though, as well as witnessing something called "handball" (which the Danes supposedly excel at) -- a sport I think best described as water polo without the water. "Football" (as contrasted to "American Football," a sport which George Wills once described as combining the two worst elements of American Society: violence and committee meetings) is a brilliantly simple game -- the idea is to put the ball into a net using any part of your body but the one you use most often and easily, your hands. Of all the variations on this same basic idea (basketball, hockey, lacrosse, etc.) "handball" has got to be the silliest -- here the idea is to put the ball into a net WITH your hands, and, after a half-hour or so of watching this spectacle, you really begin to appreciate Dr. Naismith's genius when he decided to put the goal ten feet above the ground. I've seen a little badminton on Danish TV as well (another sport at which the Danes are said to excel), and it was a lot less disappointing; I sure don't remember the shuttlecocks flying so fast in my back yard as a kid!
Broke out of my basketball-deprived funk by attending something called a Påske Frokost ("Easter Brunch") hosted by one of the local cafes. Usually, I'm told, these take place in people's homes (which is more "hyggelig"), so this was apparently somewhat unconventional: 65 kroner for all the herring, salmon, smoked lamb, Danish ham, potato salad, pasta salad (two kinds), bean salad, various kinds of Danish cheeses, and delicious deviled eggs with caviar that you could eat, along with thin-sliced bread to spread it on, and, of course, Aquavit (Danish schnapps -- for which Aalborg is famous). The "house" label was free (until it was gone, which took about twenty minutes) after which you could buy the good stuff at 10 kr a shot (about $1.35), then chase it with a half-liter of yummy Påske Øl for another 30 kr. The party started around 14:00 (two in the afternoon) and we were all still there six and a half hours later, feeling quite hyggelig indeed.
My companions for this fest were Susan, a fifteen-year American expatriate who teaches in my department, and her friend "Dutchy" who is originally from the Netherlands but has lived here about as long as Susan, a woman named Helle who grew up in Denmark but moved to London when she was nineteen and has only recently returned to Aalborg, and Steen, a 35-year-old blacksmith who now aspires to become a photographer. They all spoke excellent English (and usually remembered to do so), so I got to find out which of my jokes were capable of leaping the cultural divide. Fortunately, there is something universal about being caught having sex with a sheep that seems to have broad international appeal -- thanks Dad for teaching me how to tell a funny story!
The best Danish joke I heard was about the Danish immigrant who returns from America and boasts to his cousins that back in the States his farm is so big that it takes him all morning just to drive from one end of his fields to the other. "Yes," his Danish relative replies, "I used to have a truck like that."
The next morning I had my first encounter with the legendary Danish Tømmermænd ("hammer-man"), the little fellow who sets up residence inside your head after a long afternoon/evening of drinking aquavit. Commemorated the occasion with a long, hot shower, and then by shaving off my beard and seeing my real chin for the first time in many years. Went out in search of a real cup of coffee only to discover that the entire town of Aalborg essentially shuts down between Good Friday and "2 Påskedag" (Easter Monday), so I was left to my own devices. Finally ended up making myself a cup of Nescafe up at the International Staff House -- a pale substitute for what I really craved, although I do now have a line on a pound of Peet's French Roast which another American expatriate I've met here has sent to him monthly be a friend in the Bay Area.
Since I'm kinda in that kind of mood, this seems like a good time to write about some of my other experiences of Ugly American culture shock I've experienced since arriving here. The first thing I noticed were all the bicycles. Most of the main thoroughfares here (including my street, Jyllandsgade) are set up with a sidewalk, a bike lane, a bus lane, and a lane or two for other vehicular traffic. During my first week here I was nearly run down by bicycles three times because I hadn't figured out yet that I need to look both ways before stepping on or off a bus! Generally speaking, I'm a fairly bicycle-friendly person, so I have a hard time being TOO judgmental about the bicycles (especially since I was in the wrong), but at the very least you would think they would come equipped with bells and helmets...if not for the bicyclists, then perhaps for the pedestrians like myself who really need them.
The second thing I've noticed is that Danes smoke almost everywhere, including indoors. I've even noticed Danes smoking while riding their bicycles, which is a skill I was never ever to master. The corollary to this phenomenon is that there are ashtrays and cigarette butts everywhere you look, especially at bus stops, since busses are apparently one place where smoking is still not allowed...although you CAN bring your dog on a bus, provided it fits into your purse or backpack : ). Lots of broken beer bottles and the like as well, especially on weekends.
The third thing I've noticed is the ubiquity of cellular phones. The Danes seem to be talking with one another constantly on their mobiltelefoner: on busses, in restaurants, while walking down the street, and (of course) even while riding their bicycles (although I have yet to see a Dane both smoke a cigarette AND talk on a cell phone while riding a bicycle...but I'm sure I eventually will). Think part of the reason for this is the difference between "public" and "private" space in Denmark and in the United States. In the States we tend to spend a lot more time in our automobiles (where I've seen plenty of people smoking and talking on their cell phones while cruising at 72 mph down the Interstate), and more often than not we end up talking to someone's voicemail rather than the person themselves, even when they are home and sitting right next to the phone. Danes seem to spend a lot more of their "private" lives in what Americans would think of as "public" places: clubs, cafes, restaurants, or just out on the Stroget ("the walking street"). So it is only natural that they would bring their telephones with them. Likewise, being entertained in someone's home is a big deal, while taking someone "out" to a restaurant in certain contexts might even be considered a little gauche. Or at least that's the way it seems to an outsider who has been here less than a month. I'll be sure to keep you all posted as I learn more.
Think I'll finish up today with a few odds and ends that have caught my eye. Like the sign on the Pizza delivery place >>Du ringer, Vi bringer<< or the slogan for the bookstore Bog & Ide ("Book and Idea"): >>Vitaminer til hovedet<< ("vitamins for the head"). Or the bus placards advertising the Armed Forces as >>Aktiv Fritid<< ("active freetime") and featuring a photo of two soldiers aiming a machine gun, or (in the alternative photograph) a group of medics caring for some injured people.
Then there's the woman's clothing store on one of the walking streets which, in good weather, displays two attractively dressed female mannequins sitting out on the sidewalk at a small, round cafe table. At first glance you think you are actually passing a cafe, then you realize how your eye has been tricked. Or my personal favorite: a television advertisement for a radio station featuring an animated spermatozoa trying to "fertilize" a large, round circle; at first it can't break through, so it stops to catch its breath (huffing and puffing -- hard to describe, but very amusing), then finally succeeds and is transformed into a musical note: the station's logo. These clever Danes! What will they think of next? Highest suicide rate in the world, and not a handgun to be found anywhere in the country. At times I wonder whether they are managing to kill themselves by having too much fun......twj
V. Easter Sunday with Copenhagen's Unitarians [originally posted Tuesday 25 April 2000]
Spent Easter Sunday worshiping at the Unitarian Church in Copenhagen (which celebrates its 100th anniversary this year), and had a terrific experience. Caught the 6:31 train from Aalborg, which put me into Copenhagen at 11:00 am, in plenty of time to poke around the city a bit before the 2 pm worship service. I'd read in one of the Tourist Information magazines that Danes play pick-up basketball at a playground called Israel Plads near the Jewish Synagogue, so I wanted to stroll by there and "check out the competition," but the result was very disappointing: four backboards, all of which were scrawled over with graffiti (and one missing its rim), a horrible, uneven concrete playing surface, no nets and (naturally) no players...at least not at noon on Easter Sunday. Somehow, though, I don't think they were simply all in church.
Continued north to the Botanical Gardens, then crossed the street to Rosenborg Slot and Kongens Have ("The Kings Gardens"), Copenhagen's oldest public park, where I found another basketball court, this time occupied by soccer players playing a lively game of four-on-four. Somehow it wasn't quite the same. As I walked on to the grounds of the Slot ("Castle"), one of the armed, uniformed soldiers there came to attention: must have been something about my dark aviator sunglasses, newly-shaven chin and determined gait which evoked a primordial martial spirit; almost instinctively, as I passed his post, I returned a snappy salute that would have done Bill Clinton proud, even in North Carolina. Decided against going into the Castle itself and checking out the crown jewels, because I didn't feel that I had the time to do them justice and not be late for church, so that too will have to wait another day.
Arrived at church about a quarter of two just as the first people were showing up to open the doors. I'd been rehearsing my introduction on the train (>>Jeg hedder Tim Jensen, og jeg er en Unitaren Praest fra Portland, Oregon i USA<<), so I was able, at least, to carry on that much of a conversation. The building itself is a lovely landmark located just up the street from the US embassy, and inside the sanctuary there is a famous fresco of the Good Samaritan in the alcove behind the pulpit The congregation has just successfully negotiated with the city of Copenhagen to purchase the land on which their building stands, which has stretched them quite a bit financially (since unlike the Folkekirke, as a "frikirke" or "free church" the Unitarians receive no government support), but has insured the long-term future of the church, since under the terms of the previous agreement, the building itself would have also reverted to the city when the lease on the property had expired.
I found that I was able to follow the service (in Danish, of course) remarkably well. The Danish Unitarians have their own Salmebog (most of which was apparently written by the congregation's original minister, Thorvald Kierkegaard), and I even picked up the gist of the sermon, which (as I suspect was true in a lot of Unitarian churches last Sunday) revolved around various interpretations of the literal vs symbolic nature of the Resurrection, and focused on the theme of "the old dies, the new lives." Attendance was only around 35 however (out of a congregation of about 100 members), which I was told was a little lighter than normal, and which reflected the fact that, in Denmark, Easter is a four-day holiday weekend.
The best part of the service came afterwards, when we all went downstairs to the fellowship hall and sat around a long table, where (after a few obligatory announcements) we drank coffee, ate delicious coffeecakes, and participated in something called a Debat-Cafe -- essentially a sermon talk-back, where everyone had a chance to grill the speaker about his remarks. Talk about something "universal" about Unitarianism! The discussion was quite good-natured and animated, and I was even tempted to chime in myself, even though I only had a vague idea of what folks were talking about (not that I've ever let that stop me before). But I couldn't come up with the Danish word for "body," and I didn't want to ruin the mood by breaking into English (which I suspect would have been understood by those in attendance much better than my pidgin Danish anyway).
In any event, what I WOULD have said goes something like this: "When the Apostle Paul speaks of Christ's body, often times what he is talking about is the Church, the 'Body of Believers' who symbolically eat Christ's Body and drink Christ's Blood, and who say, as Paul himself said, 'It is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me.' And when we sit around this table, and eat together and drink together, and talk together about things that are important to us, I know in my heart that we share the same spirit and are 'One Body,' even though we speak different languages, and come from different lands."
I also found out that there is another Timothy Jensen in Denmark, a well-known professor of religious studies, who has actually spoken at the church himself. Apparently one of the things he said here was: "You Unitarians. You believe in everything, and you believe in nothing. Where is your future?" My response to my namesake: we don't believe in everything, and we do believe in some things, but mostly what we believe is in the authority of personal religious experience disciplined by the light of human reason. Mysticism Disciplined by Reason (or as we used to say at Harvard, "Faith Seeking Understanding"); and our future is the future of all humankind: an openness to the intensely powerful, life-transforming experience of the sacred, but (ideally) protected by our own skepticism from the more extravagant excesses that experience sometimes carries in it's wake.
OK, I suppose that's enough preaching for the week. But as you can see, I found my first visit with these Danish Unitarians very inspiring, and hope to find the chance to get back there again before it is time for me to return to the U.S. And at least I will be bringing home with me an authentic Danish Unitarian Flaming Chalice lapel pin, and a book bag, and my very own copy of the Unitarens Salmebog, some of which I may even try to translate into English someday.
It's a brisk 30 minute walk from the Unitarian Church back to the Copenhagen railway station, which I discovered firsthand when I tried to make it in 25. Rather than sulking on the platform, I decided to spend the better part of an hour across the street at Tivoli Gardens, that quintessentially Danish amusement park located in the heart of downtown Copenhagen. Boy I'm glad I missed my train! Bought myself a soft ice cream cone with chocolate sprinkles and simply wandered around inside this city-block-sized haven from the hustle and bustle of urban life. Watched a parade, checked out some restaurant menus for possible future visits (my favorite so far is an open-air restaurant on the deck of a replica of an old-fashioned square-rigged sailing ship floating in the pond on one side of the park), and generally had a nice, relaxing pause before my four-and-a-half hour train ride back to Aalborg. Got back home just in time to catch the tail-end of my neighbor Tatiana's birthday party; there's nothing like a little chocolate cake and a nice, cold Påske Øl to mark the end of a delightful day. God Påske! ("Happy Easter!").................twj
The Frigate at Tivoli
Spent Easter Sunday worshiping at the Unitarian Church in Copenhagen (which celebrates its 100th anniversary this year), and had a terrific experience. Caught the 6:31 train from Aalborg, which put me into Copenhagen at 11:00 am, in plenty of time to poke around the city a bit before the 2 pm worship service. I'd read in one of the Tourist Information magazines that Danes play pick-up basketball at a playground called Israel Plads near the Jewish Synagogue, so I wanted to stroll by there and "check out the competition," but the result was very disappointing: four backboards, all of which were scrawled over with graffiti (and one missing its rim), a horrible, uneven concrete playing surface, no nets and (naturally) no players...at least not at noon on Easter Sunday. Somehow, though, I don't think they were simply all in church.
Continued north to the Botanical Gardens, then crossed the street to Rosenborg Slot and Kongens Have ("The Kings Gardens"), Copenhagen's oldest public park, where I found another basketball court, this time occupied by soccer players playing a lively game of four-on-four. Somehow it wasn't quite the same. As I walked on to the grounds of the Slot ("Castle"), one of the armed, uniformed soldiers there came to attention: must have been something about my dark aviator sunglasses, newly-shaven chin and determined gait which evoked a primordial martial spirit; almost instinctively, as I passed his post, I returned a snappy salute that would have done Bill Clinton proud, even in North Carolina. Decided against going into the Castle itself and checking out the crown jewels, because I didn't feel that I had the time to do them justice and not be late for church, so that too will have to wait another day.
Arrived at church about a quarter of two just as the first people were showing up to open the doors. I'd been rehearsing my introduction on the train (>>Jeg hedder Tim Jensen, og jeg er en Unitaren Praest fra Portland, Oregon i USA<<), so I was able, at least, to carry on that much of a conversation. The building itself is a lovely landmark located just up the street from the US embassy, and inside the sanctuary there is a famous fresco of the Good Samaritan in the alcove behind the pulpit The congregation has just successfully negotiated with the city of Copenhagen to purchase the land on which their building stands, which has stretched them quite a bit financially (since unlike the Folkekirke, as a "frikirke" or "free church" the Unitarians receive no government support), but has insured the long-term future of the church, since under the terms of the previous agreement, the building itself would have also reverted to the city when the lease on the property had expired.
I found that I was able to follow the service (in Danish, of course) remarkably well. The Danish Unitarians have their own Salmebog (most of which was apparently written by the congregation's original minister, Thorvald Kierkegaard), and I even picked up the gist of the sermon, which (as I suspect was true in a lot of Unitarian churches last Sunday) revolved around various interpretations of the literal vs symbolic nature of the Resurrection, and focused on the theme of "the old dies, the new lives." Attendance was only around 35 however (out of a congregation of about 100 members), which I was told was a little lighter than normal, and which reflected the fact that, in Denmark, Easter is a four-day holiday weekend.
The best part of the service came afterwards, when we all went downstairs to the fellowship hall and sat around a long table, where (after a few obligatory announcements) we drank coffee, ate delicious coffeecakes, and participated in something called a Debat-Cafe -- essentially a sermon talk-back, where everyone had a chance to grill the speaker about his remarks. Talk about something "universal" about Unitarianism! The discussion was quite good-natured and animated, and I was even tempted to chime in myself, even though I only had a vague idea of what folks were talking about (not that I've ever let that stop me before). But I couldn't come up with the Danish word for "body," and I didn't want to ruin the mood by breaking into English (which I suspect would have been understood by those in attendance much better than my pidgin Danish anyway).
In any event, what I WOULD have said goes something like this: "When the Apostle Paul speaks of Christ's body, often times what he is talking about is the Church, the 'Body of Believers' who symbolically eat Christ's Body and drink Christ's Blood, and who say, as Paul himself said, 'It is not I who live, but Christ who lives in me.' And when we sit around this table, and eat together and drink together, and talk together about things that are important to us, I know in my heart that we share the same spirit and are 'One Body,' even though we speak different languages, and come from different lands."
I also found out that there is another Timothy Jensen in Denmark, a well-known professor of religious studies, who has actually spoken at the church himself. Apparently one of the things he said here was: "You Unitarians. You believe in everything, and you believe in nothing. Where is your future?" My response to my namesake: we don't believe in everything, and we do believe in some things, but mostly what we believe is in the authority of personal religious experience disciplined by the light of human reason. Mysticism Disciplined by Reason (or as we used to say at Harvard, "Faith Seeking Understanding"); and our future is the future of all humankind: an openness to the intensely powerful, life-transforming experience of the sacred, but (ideally) protected by our own skepticism from the more extravagant excesses that experience sometimes carries in it's wake.
OK, I suppose that's enough preaching for the week. But as you can see, I found my first visit with these Danish Unitarians very inspiring, and hope to find the chance to get back there again before it is time for me to return to the U.S. And at least I will be bringing home with me an authentic Danish Unitarian Flaming Chalice lapel pin, and a book bag, and my very own copy of the Unitarens Salmebog, some of which I may even try to translate into English someday.
It's a brisk 30 minute walk from the Unitarian Church back to the Copenhagen railway station, which I discovered firsthand when I tried to make it in 25. Rather than sulking on the platform, I decided to spend the better part of an hour across the street at Tivoli Gardens, that quintessentially Danish amusement park located in the heart of downtown Copenhagen. Boy I'm glad I missed my train! Bought myself a soft ice cream cone with chocolate sprinkles and simply wandered around inside this city-block-sized haven from the hustle and bustle of urban life. Watched a parade, checked out some restaurant menus for possible future visits (my favorite so far is an open-air restaurant on the deck of a replica of an old-fashioned square-rigged sailing ship floating in the pond on one side of the park), and generally had a nice, relaxing pause before my four-and-a-half hour train ride back to Aalborg. Got back home just in time to catch the tail-end of my neighbor Tatiana's birthday party; there's nothing like a little chocolate cake and a nice, cold Påske Øl to mark the end of a delightful day. God Påske! ("Happy Easter!").................twj
The Frigate at Tivoli
VI. Danes in Black [Originally posted Monday 1 May 2000]
Something I probably should have mentioned in one of my earlier e-mails is the Danish penchant for Black Leather. These sorte lædere jakke are ubiquitous - almost like a uniform of some sort - and I think they may also involve some sort of coming-of-age ritual as well, since they are typically not part of the wardrobe of the very young or the very old. In any event, I often feel as though I really stand out as an American in my forest green Gore-Tex.
My mother and my aunt are both over here visiting me now, so my activities have taken a decidedly touristic twist. Seems like my mom has practically memorized the guidebook, while my aunt is an independent traveler of great experience, and thus a terrific source of practical travel tips. Saturday we all met in Skagen, at the very tip of Jutland, to see the place where the Baltic and the North Seas meet. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and it seemed like half of Denmark was up there with us. Enjoyed a picnic lunch of sandwiches I surreptitiously constructed out of my mother's hotel's buffet breakfast, bottled water we picked up on the train, and some fruit purchased at the Skagen Super Brugsen, the splurged for some soft ice cream cones (and a cold Carlsberg for me!) before leaving my aunt to repair her bicycle tires and taking the train back to Aalborg.
Sunday Mom and I went south to Århus, where we visited Den Gamle By ("the old town"), an outdoor museum similar to Old Stubridge Village in Massachusetts, where dozens of authentic, old-time half-timbered buildings have been reconstructed in a park along several cobblestoned streets and a small, artificial canal. The buildings have also been furnished with antiques and other period equipment, so that you can wander in and out of the buildings and get some sense of how people actually lived and made their living in Denmark in times past. But the coolest exhibit (at least in my mind) was the cobblestone gutter which ran down the center of the street from the town well in the center of the main Torvet down to the canal - very subtle, yet a very vivid reminder of what it might have been like to live in a time before PVC pipe.
Had a terrific Smørrebord lunch, strolled by the Domkirke (the largest Cathedral in Denmark - unfortunately closed on Sundays!), then enjoyed a cold 44 kr half-liter Øl (expensive even by Danish standards) at a canal-side cafe along Arhus's lovely walking street before catching the train back to Aalborg. My mom is now staying at a delightful little B & B just across the park from the train station, and a 10 minute walk from my place, very convenient to everything and complete with its own balcony - although the bathroom is across the hall. She seems to be enjoying her time here very much.
Having my mom in tow (who speaks no Danish to speak of whatsoever) has really reinforced how much of this language I understand, as well as how much of it I don't! Fortunately, there is usually someone around to bail me out when I run into trouble, like I did trying to order my mom a diet coke at one of the sidewalk Pølse (“sausage”) carts. Danish is not a very complicated language in many respects: a simple grammar, and not a lot of lexicon - the words which don't resemble English are usually fairly recognizable from German, except for all those "little words" which simply need to be picked up and memorized. The problem is with the phonology, and the fact that most Danes the way that I speak English: about 140 kph while mumbling and swallowing every other word! I can usually read it with a fair amount of facility (and the help of my pocket dictionary), although it is a tediously slow process compared to the speed that I read in English. Speaking is also not a huge problem, since I tend to keep it simple, try to figure out what I want to say beforehand, and can usually make my meaning clear somehow. But when people stop ME on the street to ask directions, forget it!
Of course, I have a theory that most Danes don't really understand what they are saying to one another either - but like an old married couple who are both losing their hearing, they are simply able to figure it out from context and long familiarity. (My cultural informants tell me that I'm way off base on this, BTW. But what do *they* know about baseball?). It has also gotten me thinking though about the relationship between language and cultural identity, and the question of what distinguishes a "language" from a "dialect." I'm sure the linguists have a clear and precise definition for these categories, but to my ear, for example, Danish, Swedish and Norwegian all seem very similar (except for the spelling, which I suspect is deliberate); and certainly no more different from one another than, say, British, American, and Australian "English" (to say nothing of the dialects spoken in Maine and Texas). But Danish, Swedish and Norwegian are all separate "languages" none the less. German, on the other hand, is filled with mutually-unintelligible local "dialects," yet German "culture" is tied together by the twentieth-century descendant of Martin Luther's High German and the substantial national literature published in it.
The Danish language is similarly important to Danish national/cultural identity, and I strongly suspect that one of the reasons they switch so quickly to English (as well as talking way too fast and mumbling) is to keep the "club" closed to outsiders. (My informants tell me I'm way off base on this as well). Still, there is a certain satisfaction in responding to Danish English in an "English" which is also full of slang, spoken way too fast, and mumbled, and seeing the confused look on *their* faces for a change. Not that I do this deliberately. Actually, living in Denmark has made me very sensitive to some of the basic principles of interpersonal communication I learned as both a writer and a clergyman: speak slowly and distinctly, try to use the active voice, stick to common words, and paraphrase what you are hearing to make certain you have understood correctly.
Usually that's good enough to get by; and if it's not, one can always rely upon the kindness of strangers. At least the dogs all seem to understand English perfectly well! Till next time!.......twj
Something I probably should have mentioned in one of my earlier e-mails is the Danish penchant for Black Leather. These sorte lædere jakke are ubiquitous - almost like a uniform of some sort - and I think they may also involve some sort of coming-of-age ritual as well, since they are typically not part of the wardrobe of the very young or the very old. In any event, I often feel as though I really stand out as an American in my forest green Gore-Tex.
My mother and my aunt are both over here visiting me now, so my activities have taken a decidedly touristic twist. Seems like my mom has practically memorized the guidebook, while my aunt is an independent traveler of great experience, and thus a terrific source of practical travel tips. Saturday we all met in Skagen, at the very tip of Jutland, to see the place where the Baltic and the North Seas meet. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and it seemed like half of Denmark was up there with us. Enjoyed a picnic lunch of sandwiches I surreptitiously constructed out of my mother's hotel's buffet breakfast, bottled water we picked up on the train, and some fruit purchased at the Skagen Super Brugsen, the splurged for some soft ice cream cones (and a cold Carlsberg for me!) before leaving my aunt to repair her bicycle tires and taking the train back to Aalborg.
Sunday Mom and I went south to Århus, where we visited Den Gamle By ("the old town"), an outdoor museum similar to Old Stubridge Village in Massachusetts, where dozens of authentic, old-time half-timbered buildings have been reconstructed in a park along several cobblestoned streets and a small, artificial canal. The buildings have also been furnished with antiques and other period equipment, so that you can wander in and out of the buildings and get some sense of how people actually lived and made their living in Denmark in times past. But the coolest exhibit (at least in my mind) was the cobblestone gutter which ran down the center of the street from the town well in the center of the main Torvet down to the canal - very subtle, yet a very vivid reminder of what it might have been like to live in a time before PVC pipe.
Had a terrific Smørrebord lunch, strolled by the Domkirke (the largest Cathedral in Denmark - unfortunately closed on Sundays!), then enjoyed a cold 44 kr half-liter Øl (expensive even by Danish standards) at a canal-side cafe along Arhus's lovely walking street before catching the train back to Aalborg. My mom is now staying at a delightful little B & B just across the park from the train station, and a 10 minute walk from my place, very convenient to everything and complete with its own balcony - although the bathroom is across the hall. She seems to be enjoying her time here very much.
Having my mom in tow (who speaks no Danish to speak of whatsoever) has really reinforced how much of this language I understand, as well as how much of it I don't! Fortunately, there is usually someone around to bail me out when I run into trouble, like I did trying to order my mom a diet coke at one of the sidewalk Pølse (“sausage”) carts. Danish is not a very complicated language in many respects: a simple grammar, and not a lot of lexicon - the words which don't resemble English are usually fairly recognizable from German, except for all those "little words" which simply need to be picked up and memorized. The problem is with the phonology, and the fact that most Danes the way that I speak English: about 140 kph while mumbling and swallowing every other word! I can usually read it with a fair amount of facility (and the help of my pocket dictionary), although it is a tediously slow process compared to the speed that I read in English. Speaking is also not a huge problem, since I tend to keep it simple, try to figure out what I want to say beforehand, and can usually make my meaning clear somehow. But when people stop ME on the street to ask directions, forget it!
Of course, I have a theory that most Danes don't really understand what they are saying to one another either - but like an old married couple who are both losing their hearing, they are simply able to figure it out from context and long familiarity. (My cultural informants tell me that I'm way off base on this, BTW. But what do *they* know about baseball?). It has also gotten me thinking though about the relationship between language and cultural identity, and the question of what distinguishes a "language" from a "dialect." I'm sure the linguists have a clear and precise definition for these categories, but to my ear, for example, Danish, Swedish and Norwegian all seem very similar (except for the spelling, which I suspect is deliberate); and certainly no more different from one another than, say, British, American, and Australian "English" (to say nothing of the dialects spoken in Maine and Texas). But Danish, Swedish and Norwegian are all separate "languages" none the less. German, on the other hand, is filled with mutually-unintelligible local "dialects," yet German "culture" is tied together by the twentieth-century descendant of Martin Luther's High German and the substantial national literature published in it.
The Danish language is similarly important to Danish national/cultural identity, and I strongly suspect that one of the reasons they switch so quickly to English (as well as talking way too fast and mumbling) is to keep the "club" closed to outsiders. (My informants tell me I'm way off base on this as well). Still, there is a certain satisfaction in responding to Danish English in an "English" which is also full of slang, spoken way too fast, and mumbled, and seeing the confused look on *their* faces for a change. Not that I do this deliberately. Actually, living in Denmark has made me very sensitive to some of the basic principles of interpersonal communication I learned as both a writer and a clergyman: speak slowly and distinctly, try to use the active voice, stick to common words, and paraphrase what you are hearing to make certain you have understood correctly.
Usually that's good enough to get by; and if it's not, one can always rely upon the kindness of strangers. At least the dogs all seem to understand English perfectly well! Till next time!.......twj
VIII. Ærø-borne [originally posted Thursday 11 May 2000]
And suddenly it occurs to me why there are so many Sol Center (tanning booths) in Denmark. When the sun finally comes out here it comes to stay: from five in the morning until ten at night; and if you are a fair-skinned Scandinavian without an established base tan, you end up looking just like me - burnt to toast on your face and arms, and pastey-white everywhere the sun don't shine. Danes love the sunshine, there's no doubt about it. The parks are full of sunbathers now, the students sit out on the lawn during lunch, and I even witnessed a woman roll up her pants at the bus-stop in order to get a little sun on her legs. The black leather jackets are quickly being replaced by an amazing assortment of sundresses and halter tops, and rollerbladers now compete with the cyclists for space in the bike lanes. Lots of restaurants have set up their outdoor tables too, which quickly fill up with folks sitting in the sun, smoking cigaretter, sipping fadøl, and chatting on their cell phones. Springtime in Denmark. Not so different from springtime anywhere else, I guess, but celebrated with particular relish after the long, dark Danish winter.
Friend Susan Baca and my Mom at an outdoor cafe in Aalborg
Had mit hår klippet by an authentic Danish (actually, Turkish) frisør this week as well: nice and kort, exposing plenty of extra skin on the top of my head suitable for sunburning. It was an amazing cultural experience: I've never seen scissors snip so quickly; in fact, I was a little worried about him cutting something other than my hair, so I made sure to remind him that my ears stick out a bit! And when he reached for the straight razor to trim my sideburns and the hair on the back of my neck (which was now standing up quite nicely, thank you) my anxiety increased noticeably. But the entire experience only lasted about ten minutes, including the hair oil and the aftershave, and not a drop of blood was spilled.
Egeskov Slot
Last weekend my mother and I made an overnight excursion to the island of Ærø, where we met up again with Mary Lou and her friend Ann at the Ærøskøbing Vandrerhjem. On the train trip down Saturday we stopped off to see Egeskov Slot, a Rennaisance-era castle just outside of Draerndrup, which is build in the center of a small lake and surrounded by magnificent topiary gardens. Met a maverick Aggie on the train platform in Odense, who has been here in Europe for a year on a Rotary exchange and decided to take along with us to see the castle too; it was kind of fun having a little company from the States, and to compare notes about the differences between Europe and Texas. The castle has a webpage, BTW, www.egeskove.com so if you want to see (more) of what you missed just go ahead and click.
After spending a few hours exploring the castle and grounds, we caught the train on to Svendborg, where we boarded the ferry to Ærø. Enjoyed a very pleasant 70-minute cruise over to Ærøskøbing, where Ann and Mary Lou were waiting for us dockside. They helped lug my mom's luggage the 700 meters back to the hostel, then we all went out to dinner at the Hotel Ærøhus, where I enjoyed a dessert of Rødgrød med Flød -- which proved much easier to eat than it was to order!
Ærø is a very popular destination for both Danish and German boaters. Even this early in the season we noticed lots of sailboats in the marina, and at various other anchorages around the island. This got me fantasizing about someday coming back for the summer and buying a small sailboat myself, then "gunkholing" around Denmark and the Baltic for several months before selling the boat again at the end of the season.
Sunday Mary Lou was adamant that I accompany her and Ann on the 18-mile bicycle tour of the island's hinterland described in Rick Steves Scandinavian guidebook, so I rented a clunky old 3-speed (with coaster breaks as well as hand brakes!) at the hostel for 40 kr and away we pedaled. I think my 62-year-old aunt was kind of expecting to cycle me into the ground, but I quickly took the lead (since I was the only one who could read the Danish road signs) and only had to walk my heavy bike up one long hill in the center of the island (which I probably could have made if I hadn't been thinking about what my quads were going to be feeling like the next day). I was very much impressed by how much thought had gone into figuring out the route: the prevailing winds were always at our backs during the ride, while the final leg into the wind was all downhill.
Saw plenty of magnificent scenery, plus plenty of old windmills and an amazing 17th-century country church in the village of Store Rise, where I climbed into the high pulpit just to see what the view was like. Somehow managed to miss the Neolithic passage grave behind the church though, which was a real disappointment when we got back to the hostel at noon and read about it in the Lonely Planet guidebook. Caught the afternoon ferry back to Svendborg (where we managed to miss our first train connection) and methodically made our way home to Aalborg, where we arrived just as the sun was setting at 10 pm. Got up early the next morning and accompanied my mom to Frederickshavn, where she boarded another ferry (the size of a small ocean liner, complete with four restaurants and a casino!) to Larvik for the start of her week-long “Norway in a Nutshell” excursion to Olso, Bergen, and the Fjords. When she returns on Friday morning, we are both off again to Copenhagen for her last four days in Denmark before she returns to Seattle.
It is rapidly dawning on me how few days I actually have left here in Aalborg. When I get back from Copenhagen Monday evening, I will be "home" just long enough to repack my bag before taking of the next morning for Norway (and possibly Stockholm) myself, then it'’s just one more week until I leave here permanently for my "“petite tour" of France, Italy and Germany in June. The time has passed very quickly, and this will probably be the last e-mail I will send for awhile... although I do hope to be able to write once more when I return from the north. Until then, God Rejse! to all of you, wherever your own travels may take you.........twj
And suddenly it occurs to me why there are so many Sol Center (tanning booths) in Denmark. When the sun finally comes out here it comes to stay: from five in the morning until ten at night; and if you are a fair-skinned Scandinavian without an established base tan, you end up looking just like me - burnt to toast on your face and arms, and pastey-white everywhere the sun don't shine. Danes love the sunshine, there's no doubt about it. The parks are full of sunbathers now, the students sit out on the lawn during lunch, and I even witnessed a woman roll up her pants at the bus-stop in order to get a little sun on her legs. The black leather jackets are quickly being replaced by an amazing assortment of sundresses and halter tops, and rollerbladers now compete with the cyclists for space in the bike lanes. Lots of restaurants have set up their outdoor tables too, which quickly fill up with folks sitting in the sun, smoking cigaretter, sipping fadøl, and chatting on their cell phones. Springtime in Denmark. Not so different from springtime anywhere else, I guess, but celebrated with particular relish after the long, dark Danish winter.
Friend Susan Baca and my Mom at an outdoor cafe in Aalborg
Had mit hår klippet by an authentic Danish (actually, Turkish) frisør this week as well: nice and kort, exposing plenty of extra skin on the top of my head suitable for sunburning. It was an amazing cultural experience: I've never seen scissors snip so quickly; in fact, I was a little worried about him cutting something other than my hair, so I made sure to remind him that my ears stick out a bit! And when he reached for the straight razor to trim my sideburns and the hair on the back of my neck (which was now standing up quite nicely, thank you) my anxiety increased noticeably. But the entire experience only lasted about ten minutes, including the hair oil and the aftershave, and not a drop of blood was spilled.
Egeskov Slot
Last weekend my mother and I made an overnight excursion to the island of Ærø, where we met up again with Mary Lou and her friend Ann at the Ærøskøbing Vandrerhjem. On the train trip down Saturday we stopped off to see Egeskov Slot, a Rennaisance-era castle just outside of Draerndrup, which is build in the center of a small lake and surrounded by magnificent topiary gardens. Met a maverick Aggie on the train platform in Odense, who has been here in Europe for a year on a Rotary exchange and decided to take along with us to see the castle too; it was kind of fun having a little company from the States, and to compare notes about the differences between Europe and Texas. The castle has a webpage, BTW, www.egeskove.com so if you want to see (more) of what you missed just go ahead and click.
After spending a few hours exploring the castle and grounds, we caught the train on to Svendborg, where we boarded the ferry to Ærø. Enjoyed a very pleasant 70-minute cruise over to Ærøskøbing, where Ann and Mary Lou were waiting for us dockside. They helped lug my mom's luggage the 700 meters back to the hostel, then we all went out to dinner at the Hotel Ærøhus, where I enjoyed a dessert of Rødgrød med Flød -- which proved much easier to eat than it was to order!
Ærø is a very popular destination for both Danish and German boaters. Even this early in the season we noticed lots of sailboats in the marina, and at various other anchorages around the island. This got me fantasizing about someday coming back for the summer and buying a small sailboat myself, then "gunkholing" around Denmark and the Baltic for several months before selling the boat again at the end of the season.
Sunday Mary Lou was adamant that I accompany her and Ann on the 18-mile bicycle tour of the island's hinterland described in Rick Steves Scandinavian guidebook, so I rented a clunky old 3-speed (with coaster breaks as well as hand brakes!) at the hostel for 40 kr and away we pedaled. I think my 62-year-old aunt was kind of expecting to cycle me into the ground, but I quickly took the lead (since I was the only one who could read the Danish road signs) and only had to walk my heavy bike up one long hill in the center of the island (which I probably could have made if I hadn't been thinking about what my quads were going to be feeling like the next day). I was very much impressed by how much thought had gone into figuring out the route: the prevailing winds were always at our backs during the ride, while the final leg into the wind was all downhill.
Saw plenty of magnificent scenery, plus plenty of old windmills and an amazing 17th-century country church in the village of Store Rise, where I climbed into the high pulpit just to see what the view was like. Somehow managed to miss the Neolithic passage grave behind the church though, which was a real disappointment when we got back to the hostel at noon and read about it in the Lonely Planet guidebook. Caught the afternoon ferry back to Svendborg (where we managed to miss our first train connection) and methodically made our way home to Aalborg, where we arrived just as the sun was setting at 10 pm. Got up early the next morning and accompanied my mom to Frederickshavn, where she boarded another ferry (the size of a small ocean liner, complete with four restaurants and a casino!) to Larvik for the start of her week-long “Norway in a Nutshell” excursion to Olso, Bergen, and the Fjords. When she returns on Friday morning, we are both off again to Copenhagen for her last four days in Denmark before she returns to Seattle.It is rapidly dawning on me how few days I actually have left here in Aalborg. When I get back from Copenhagen Monday evening, I will be "home" just long enough to repack my bag before taking of the next morning for Norway (and possibly Stockholm) myself, then it'’s just one more week until I leave here permanently for my "“petite tour" of France, Italy and Germany in June. The time has passed very quickly, and this will probably be the last e-mail I will send for awhile... although I do hope to be able to write once more when I return from the north. Until then, God Rejse! to all of you, wherever your own travels may take you.........twj
VII. Labor Day in Denmark [originally posted 5 May 2000]
Witnessed my first actual traffic jam here in Aalborg the other day. Three identical gray Mercedes Benz coupes were gridlocked at a "T" intersection. The vehicle on the side street (which wanted to turn left) had pulled out a little too far into traffic, while the car with the right-of-way refused to pull forward out of fear of straying too far into the on-coming lane, and the car in the on-coming lane was also stopped out of fear that one of the other two vehicles would cut him off. All three drivers stared at each other in confused panic, then the car in the on-coming lane moved forward, the second car pulled around, the car on the side street made its left turn, and as all three cars drove away I noticed that they each sported an identical bumper sticker as well: SKOLEVOGN (literally "schoolcar"). I just stood safely (?) on the sidewalk and laughed out loud, wondering what kind of country would put its student drivers behind the wheel of a new Mercedes. By the way, the local Politi ("Police") all drive Ford Escorts.
May 1st was Labor Day here in Denmark, and there was a big afternoon rally in the park behind the Banegård. At first glance it was indistinguishable from any other Labor Day picnic I've attended: plenty of beer and hot dogs, unintelligible political speeches, even a Country and Western band. Some folks had set up shop offering pony rides to youngsters, and everyone seemed to be having a pretty good time. But I was also a little surprised by the number of underage (at least by US standards) drinkers at the rally - large groups of High School-age teens openly carting around cases of beer and enjoying the holiday apparently oblivious to everything and everyone else around them. By five PM they were the only ones left in the park, with the exception of a small group of even younger kids who were busy scurrying around picking up the numerous empties so that they could collect the deposits.
When I arrived here, my initial impression was that Denmark seemed stuck in the Seventies: lots of disco, embroidered bell-bottom pants, etc.... But what I'm starting to realize is that Denmark offers a glimpse of what America might have looked like without Ron and Nancy Reagan: no war on drugs, no trillion-dollar military build-up, money spent on schools and social services rather than cops and prisons... but also high taxes, entrenched unions, and plenty of red tape everywhere you turn. I'm a little skeptical of traditional economic indicators like "productivity" figures and the like, because I don't think they really tell the whole story; Danes enjoy a terrific lifestyle, with excellent vacation and family leave benefits, often enough disposable income to purchase summer homes and the like, and undoubtedly one of the best health care systems in the world... even if the shops do close early and service is slow. And they also work hard to be able to pay for these things... the difference being that, in Denmark, the expectation is that people are supposed to work for the good of the society, rather than simply being in it for themselves. I may be romanticizing things just a bit, but it's hard not to. Greed is NOT good in Denmark. But Danes still sure know how to have a good time.
I think the most significant difference though is that Americans tend to tell ourselves that we live in "the greatest nation in history," while Denmark sees itself as a "little country" threatened with a loss of cultural identity and economic autonomy by the apparently overwhelming cultural and economic hegemony of the United States and (more close at hand) Germany. America prides itself as a "Land of Opportunity," a nation of immigrants and self-made entrepreneurs where one can always start over, get a second chance, reinvent oneself and begin again. In Denmark, these kinds of opportunities seem more limited, and when times get tough and work is hard to find, the question of who "belongs" and who does not becomes very poignant, The journeyman blacksmith Steen, for example (who I met at the Påske Frokost) seemed frustrated by the amount of additional education required to become "certified" as a professional photographer (even though I'm confident, given his training and certification as an ironworker, that he could probably still shoe a horse if you asked him). In America, all you need to call yourself a photographer is a camera and ambition, and then (at least we tell ourselves) only your own talent and work-ethic will limit your success. Yet in both countries, it seems, there are plenty of talented photographers who are out shooting weddings on the weekends in order to pay the bills.
Tuesday was my big presentation to the SPIRIT seminar, and it seemed to go over pretty well. My topic was "The Significance of Religion in American Society History" and (without going into too much detail), I basically examined some of the reasons American historians have typically given to explain the fact that on any given Sunday roughly half the population of the United States is attending church, while in Denmark most churches receive more visits from tourists than they do from worshippers, and if you ask a Dane "do you attend church regularly?" they will typically tell you "Sure. Every Christmas." The seminar seemed most fascinated by my description of some of the techniques that Henry Ward Beecher used in the 19th century to "market" his ministry, and with the entire idea of "designer spirituality" and "religion a la carte" which characterizes the American religious scene today. In any event, I'm very relieved to have my one tangible responsibility here out of the way, especially now that the weather has turned so nice.
Spent most of Wednesday helping my mom make arrangements to take a "Norway in a Nutshell" tour on her own next week: Monday she takes the ferry to Larvik, Tuesday is spent cruising on the Fjords, Wednesday she sight-sees in Bergen before taking the night train to Oslo, and then Thursday she will take the night ferry back to Denmark and arrive here in Aalborg on Friday morning just in time for us to catch the train to Copenhagen for her last weekend here. This coming weekend we have plans to travel by train down to Ærø island to meet up again with Mary Lou, and to spend some time bicycling in the countryside there. So life is good, I'm still eating well, and all seems at peace in the Universe... despite the fact that I only learned YESTERDAY of the Justice Department raid on Easter morning which reunited Elian Gonzales with his father. Like I said, Denmark is a little country.
Til næste gang................twj
Mom and Me at Lindholm Hoje - Aalborg's Viking-era cemetary
Witnessed my first actual traffic jam here in Aalborg the other day. Three identical gray Mercedes Benz coupes were gridlocked at a "T" intersection. The vehicle on the side street (which wanted to turn left) had pulled out a little too far into traffic, while the car with the right-of-way refused to pull forward out of fear of straying too far into the on-coming lane, and the car in the on-coming lane was also stopped out of fear that one of the other two vehicles would cut him off. All three drivers stared at each other in confused panic, then the car in the on-coming lane moved forward, the second car pulled around, the car on the side street made its left turn, and as all three cars drove away I noticed that they each sported an identical bumper sticker as well: SKOLEVOGN (literally "schoolcar"). I just stood safely (?) on the sidewalk and laughed out loud, wondering what kind of country would put its student drivers behind the wheel of a new Mercedes. By the way, the local Politi ("Police") all drive Ford Escorts.
May 1st was Labor Day here in Denmark, and there was a big afternoon rally in the park behind the Banegård. At first glance it was indistinguishable from any other Labor Day picnic I've attended: plenty of beer and hot dogs, unintelligible political speeches, even a Country and Western band. Some folks had set up shop offering pony rides to youngsters, and everyone seemed to be having a pretty good time. But I was also a little surprised by the number of underage (at least by US standards) drinkers at the rally - large groups of High School-age teens openly carting around cases of beer and enjoying the holiday apparently oblivious to everything and everyone else around them. By five PM they were the only ones left in the park, with the exception of a small group of even younger kids who were busy scurrying around picking up the numerous empties so that they could collect the deposits.
When I arrived here, my initial impression was that Denmark seemed stuck in the Seventies: lots of disco, embroidered bell-bottom pants, etc.... But what I'm starting to realize is that Denmark offers a glimpse of what America might have looked like without Ron and Nancy Reagan: no war on drugs, no trillion-dollar military build-up, money spent on schools and social services rather than cops and prisons... but also high taxes, entrenched unions, and plenty of red tape everywhere you turn. I'm a little skeptical of traditional economic indicators like "productivity" figures and the like, because I don't think they really tell the whole story; Danes enjoy a terrific lifestyle, with excellent vacation and family leave benefits, often enough disposable income to purchase summer homes and the like, and undoubtedly one of the best health care systems in the world... even if the shops do close early and service is slow. And they also work hard to be able to pay for these things... the difference being that, in Denmark, the expectation is that people are supposed to work for the good of the society, rather than simply being in it for themselves. I may be romanticizing things just a bit, but it's hard not to. Greed is NOT good in Denmark. But Danes still sure know how to have a good time.
I think the most significant difference though is that Americans tend to tell ourselves that we live in "the greatest nation in history," while Denmark sees itself as a "little country" threatened with a loss of cultural identity and economic autonomy by the apparently overwhelming cultural and economic hegemony of the United States and (more close at hand) Germany. America prides itself as a "Land of Opportunity," a nation of immigrants and self-made entrepreneurs where one can always start over, get a second chance, reinvent oneself and begin again. In Denmark, these kinds of opportunities seem more limited, and when times get tough and work is hard to find, the question of who "belongs" and who does not becomes very poignant, The journeyman blacksmith Steen, for example (who I met at the Påske Frokost) seemed frustrated by the amount of additional education required to become "certified" as a professional photographer (even though I'm confident, given his training and certification as an ironworker, that he could probably still shoe a horse if you asked him). In America, all you need to call yourself a photographer is a camera and ambition, and then (at least we tell ourselves) only your own talent and work-ethic will limit your success. Yet in both countries, it seems, there are plenty of talented photographers who are out shooting weddings on the weekends in order to pay the bills.
Tuesday was my big presentation to the SPIRIT seminar, and it seemed to go over pretty well. My topic was "The Significance of Religion in American Society History" and (without going into too much detail), I basically examined some of the reasons American historians have typically given to explain the fact that on any given Sunday roughly half the population of the United States is attending church, while in Denmark most churches receive more visits from tourists than they do from worshippers, and if you ask a Dane "do you attend church regularly?" they will typically tell you "Sure. Every Christmas." The seminar seemed most fascinated by my description of some of the techniques that Henry Ward Beecher used in the 19th century to "market" his ministry, and with the entire idea of "designer spirituality" and "religion a la carte" which characterizes the American religious scene today. In any event, I'm very relieved to have my one tangible responsibility here out of the way, especially now that the weather has turned so nice.
Spent most of Wednesday helping my mom make arrangements to take a "Norway in a Nutshell" tour on her own next week: Monday she takes the ferry to Larvik, Tuesday is spent cruising on the Fjords, Wednesday she sight-sees in Bergen before taking the night train to Oslo, and then Thursday she will take the night ferry back to Denmark and arrive here in Aalborg on Friday morning just in time for us to catch the train to Copenhagen for her last weekend here. This coming weekend we have plans to travel by train down to Ærø island to meet up again with Mary Lou, and to spend some time bicycling in the countryside there. So life is good, I'm still eating well, and all seems at peace in the Universe... despite the fact that I only learned YESTERDAY of the Justice Department raid on Easter morning which reunited Elian Gonzales with his father. Like I said, Denmark is a little country.
Til næste gang................twj
Mom and Me at Lindholm Hoje - Aalborg's Viking-era cemetary
IX. Mother’s Day at Tivoli; Syttende Mai i Askim [originally posted Saturday 20 May 2000]
Just got back from a full week on the road -- kind of a “shakedown” for my month-long trip in June. Started out Friday morning (May 12) with a five AM telephone interview with a search committee for a part-time church position back in the United States next fall, then met my mother at the train station as she returned from her week-long excursion to the Norwegian Fjords, and we made a quick connection to the InterCity into Copenhagen. I’d arranged accommodations in a private home recommended to me by a friend at the University of Oregon, who had neglected to mention (just as I had neglected to ask) that it was located on the fourth floor; we lugged our luggage up five flights of stairs (they count the ground floor as “zero” here in Denmark), but still found the energy to take an hour-long boat tour of the city before eating dinner in a Thai restaurant near where we were staying.
Saturday morning we took a day trip out to Roskilde to see the Cathedral there and the Viking Ship Museum. Had kind of a creepy experience on our way to the S-Tog -- an agitated little old Danish lady approached us about a man sitting unconscious in the bus shelter with a huge gash over his eye; I tried to rouse him but couldn’t, and was afraid for a moment that he was dead, and had simply been dumped by his “friends” outside the hospital near the bus stop. Tried to persuade the woman (in my pidgin “Ding-lish”) that she need to call the police, but she didn’t want anything more to do with the situation, so I finally went into the hospital myself (which is apparently no longer a working hospital anyway) and found someone who spoke English and was willing to come outside and investigate. He was able to rouse the man, determined that he was merely drunk, and promised to take care of everything from there. So I felt like I had done my bit as the Good Samaritan, and we continued on our way in good conscience.
Viking Ship Museum
When we got back from Roskilde, I took my mom out to see the Little Mermaid, then we walked back from the outer harbor (stopping just long enough to visit the Danish WWII Resistance Museum - a relatively quick stop, since there isn’t that much to see) through the grounds of the Royal Palace to Nyhavn -- the “longest bar in Denmark -- an entire street of restaurants and cafes lining a canal filled with picturesque wooden boats, where we paused for some refreshment and got a good look at Copenhagen’s professional bottle scavengers. These are adult men who apparently make their living at the margins of Danish society by collecting and returning bottles for the deposit (about 15 cents each). They are polite, but fairly aggressive in their work; and amazing to watch as they wander through the crowded public areas seizing every empty bottle they see -- much more efficiently than the restaurant workers who deliver the full ones!
Nyhavn
After observing this for awhile, we resumed our walk up Stroget -- Copenhagen’s extensive pedestrian mall, and met my aunt for dinner at Jensen’s Bøfhus (rapidly becoming my favorite restaurant chain in Denmark), where we enjoyed a meal of authentic American-style BBQ spareribs, which are apparently just as popular among the Danes as they are with me. That was pretty much the end of a very full day for my mom, so we all walked back to our flat, then Mary Lou and I spent the rest of the evening at Tivoli, where I remained until midnight just to see the fireworks.
Sunday was another full day of sightseeing. Caught a quick breakfast at a place called the Cafe Saloon, then it was off to Rosenborg Slot to see the Danish Crown jewels, and the National Museum for a very interesting exhibit on Danish history from the time of the iron age to today. Left my mom there to have lunch at the cafe so that I could climb to the top of the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke in Christianhavn -- 400 steps (they say, and I believe it!) up the inside of the tower and then spiraling outside the steeple itself almost to the pinnacle, where one has a magnificent view of Copenhagen in all directions. Much more impressive (and less claustrophobic) than the climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty, although I think my money is still on the view from the clarion tower at NYC’s Riverside church (which also benefits from having an elevator that will take you almost to the top).
Copenhagen from the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke
Christianhavn from the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke
Christiana (you guessed it)
Hurried back to meet Mom again at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, another interesting art museum whose collection consists almost entirely of sculpture. Stayed there until it closed, then walked across the street to Tivoli (again), so that we could enjoy a special Mother’s Day dinner at the outdoor restaurant located on the deck of a mockup of a Danish sailing frigate, which floats (or at least appears to float) in the large, artificial lagoon there. We enjoyed a magnificent dinner of lamb shank prepared in a savory shellfish broth...it was truly incredible, and afterwards I felt compelled to thank my mother for giving birth to me simply so that I could be there to enjoy such a delicious meal.
We also had a chance to relax a bit and watch the nightly parade of the “Prince and Princess” -- two costumed children who ride around the grounds of the garden in a golden carriage, accompanied by a marching band and a small escort of soldiers and sailors...also all children, ranging in age from perhaps 8 to 15. Both my aunt and my mom were charmed by Tivoli (Mom probably more so than Mary Lou); it is so quintessentially Danish -- a combination of garden and amusement park and small town Fourth of July style hoopla with a peculiarly Danish twist. After dinner we ate ice creams, watched some Chinese acrobats, then sat down on a park bench near a bandshell and listened to Tivoli’s “Big Band” play swing music from my mother’s childhood. A truly terrific evening for my mom’s last night in Europe.
Cleaning the toiletter at Fredericksborg Slot
Monday morning we took a cab out to the airport, where Mom checked her bags for her afternoon flight home, then we caught a train back into the city, stashed my bag in a locker at the station, then caught another train out to Hollerød to see yet another castle: Fredericksborg Slot, sometimes referred to as the Danish Versailles, because of it’s extensive grounds and topiary garden. Got there early enough that we had time to wander through the gardens before the castle itself opened at 10, then made a quick tour of the castle and chapel (where I got to impress both my mom and one of the museum guards by translating the placards for her), then it was back into the city, where Mom decided to spend a little more time at Tivoli (free admission with her “Copenhagen Card”) before catching her train out to the airport, and I jumped on the InterCity back to Aalborg.
When I got home I thought I’d catch a bus out to the University to read my e-mail, and actually waited at the bus stop for nearly 20 minutes before a passerby kindly informed me that the bus drivers were all on strike. Decide to go ahead and walk to campus...took me nearly an hour to get there, but at least on the way I finally discovered a schoolyard where Danish kids play pick-up basketball! Nearly stopped to take a few shots myself, but I was on a mission. Arrived at my office, completed my internet chores, walk back to my apartment by a different route (along the bike path -- better scenery and fewer hills), and arrived home exhausted just as the sun was setting around 10 pm.
Woke up early the next morning to catch the train north to Frederikshavn, and a ferry to Göteborg, Sweden, where I was to connect to another train to Oslo to visit a Norwegian clergyman and schoolteacher whom I had met over the internet. Last Christmas Knut posted a message to the UUCF-chat saying that his Christmas Wish was for a Unitarian minister to come to Norway and organize a Unitarian Fellowship; I replied “Surprise!” and was invited to visit him and his family for “Syttende Mai” (the 17th of May), Norwegian Constitution Day.
My trip was nearly scuttled though in the Frederikshavn harbor, when I discovered that the ferry I had planned to take to Sweden had broken down, and that I would have to wait three hours for the next one, destroying the rest of my itinerary. To complicate matters, I had completed one volume of my diary the previous evening, and then rushed out of the house that morning with a blank one without transferring all of the addresses and telephone numbers I’d written on the flyleaf into the new volume. But with the assistance of a very able customer service rep, we were able to contact Knut over the internet and inform him of the change of plans, and I was on my way.
Knut and his family met me at the train station in Ski a little before 10 pm, and we drove the 40 minutes back to their home in Askim, a little town of perhaps 12,000 located about an hour outside of Oslo. Knut had warned me what to expect: three small children, a house in the midst of being remodeled, a large German Shepherd named Freya, and a bed on the couch. So naturally I felt right at home, especially since the bed was actually in a private room in the basement just opposite the surviving bathroom (there is a much larger one being planned for the new addition, along with a new kitchen and individual bedrooms for the children), and was (may the the truth be told) a lot more comfortable than the convertible couch I sleep on in my apartment in Aalborg! We enjoyed a light supper of cold cuts and cheese (very Scandinavian), and then all turned in for the night in order to be moderately well-rested for the festivities of the following day.
Wednesday morning I was the first to wake, and startled Knut in the kitchen when he came down to make coffee and found me sitting quietly at the kitchen table trying to translate the Norwegian national hymn >>Ja Vi Elsker.<< The first verse goes something like this: “Yes we love this country/ which springs forth/ its wrinkled face, bitten by weather over waters/ [and] its thousand homes./ We love it, love it and reflect/ upon our fathers and mothers/ and their sagas which whisper/ dreams of our land.” The last couplet repeats, and it is really rather stirring when sung by dozens of little schoolchildren, which was one of Hans Alexander’s (the oldest child) duties later in the day.
Knut had church responsibilities in the morning, so Anette and I herded the children over to the school, where Hans Alexander joined his class for the “train” -- a parade of all the schoolchildren around the streets of the town. Well-equipped with horns (“Tromba”), pinwheels, and Norwegian flags, Anette, Carl Christian (a preschooler), Inger Johanne (the baby) and myself then made our way back to the parade route to wait for the “train” to arrive. There were lots of folks dressed up in traditional Norwegian clothing, plus plenty of balloons, bunting and cameras...and as the train passed by, we all followed after it up to the hospital and then to the church, where we heard a few speeches, snag the national hymn, and dispersed for the afternoon to various family-oriented activities. Knut met us back at the school, where there was a universally-recognizable school picnic and bake sale taking place: kids eating ice cream and pølse wrapped in tortillas, playing soccer or simply running about; moms selling sodas and baked goods, and generally trying to keep order over chaos.
For supper that night, Knut prepared a traditional Norwegian meal especially for me: steamed broccoli, boiled potatoes, and reindeer meat in a brown, mushroom gravy -- yum! Sat up a little and talked about the challenges of organizing a Unitarian Fellowship in Norway, where church attendance is generally low to begin with, but the National Church is both an expression of national identity and an extension of the national government. He was particularly concerned about how his bishop would react if he learned of his Unitarian sympathies; I compared his situation to that of being a Christian in the UUA, and we talked a little more about what it meant to each of us to be both a minister within a specific church organization and a “minister of the gospel.” We also decided that bishops are bishops everywhere, regardless of what they choose to call themselves.
Thursday was my day for sightseeing in Oslo. Much to Knut’s envy, Anette had the day off from work, so we safely got the children off to school and to their regular day-care, then drove into Oslo, bought a couple of “Oslo Cards” (which gave us free parking, free transportation, a free map, and free admission to museums) and were in business. First a trip across the harbor on one of the water taxis, a walk up the hill to the Oslo Viking Ship Museum, then back down the hill to see the Fram (a polar exploring ship which holds the distinction of having been the farthest north and the farthest south of any sailing vessel) and the Kon Tiki (a balsa wood raft which Norwegian mariner Thor Hyordahl sailed across the Pacific to demonstrate that Polynesia might have been populated from South America).
Then another water taxi ride back across the harbor to the old fortress and the Norwegian Resistance Museum (are you sensing a pattern to my sightseeing here?), which was a lot more interesting than the one in Denmark, principally I think (Quisling excepted...Knut later told me that we walked right past the wall where he was shot after the war) because the Norwegians put up a lot more resistance to the Nazis than the Danes! We stayed there until closing time, then had a little coffee and carrot cake (OK, I had coffee and carrot cake; Anette ate a sandwich) at a small cafe before driving back to Askim, where Knut had prepared another traditional Norwegian dish for me: a kind of fish curry again served with boiled potatoes.
Friday morning Knut dropped me off at the train station on his way into school, and I slowly made my way back to Aalborg. I’d thought about going on to Stockholm, but decided against it since the weather was getting kind of crummy, I’d left all those addresses back home as well, and the only things I could think of that I really wanted to do there were see the Vasa, sleep at the floating Af Chapman youth hostel, and take a sauna... all things that can easily wait until another day.
Train back to Göttborg was no problem, but again the fast ferry was not running, so I had to wait for the late afternoon boat: three hours of utter boredom in the terminal, followed by three hours of bedlam on the water. The Friday evening ferry back to Denmark was simply insane: crammed with loud, drunk, smoking Scandinavians apparently interested only in gambling or shopping at the duty-free -- basically a floating Indian reservation without even the benefit of any actual Indians. It got so bad I was tempted to try to sneak into the truck driver’s lounge (yes, they have their own lounge...which I had been curious about on the voyage over, but now understand perfectly) just for the peace and quiet. Or maybe I was simply grumpy because by that point I was tired, hungry, sober and alone... with only five Swedish kroner in my pocket (not even enough for a slot machine) and not particularly eager to change any more money.
The boat actually arrived at the dock ten minutes early, but made up for this by keeping us all on board until ten minutes AFTER the scheduled arrival time, thus assuring that I miss the tight train connection back to Aalborg, and giving me another 45 minute wait at the railway station, where the restaurant had just closed five minutes earlier! But here I am, safe and sound, and with plenty of good travel lessons under my belt, which I’m certain will come in useful in the month ahead.
Med venlig hilsen...........twj
Just got back from a full week on the road -- kind of a “shakedown” for my month-long trip in June. Started out Friday morning (May 12) with a five AM telephone interview with a search committee for a part-time church position back in the United States next fall, then met my mother at the train station as she returned from her week-long excursion to the Norwegian Fjords, and we made a quick connection to the InterCity into Copenhagen. I’d arranged accommodations in a private home recommended to me by a friend at the University of Oregon, who had neglected to mention (just as I had neglected to ask) that it was located on the fourth floor; we lugged our luggage up five flights of stairs (they count the ground floor as “zero” here in Denmark), but still found the energy to take an hour-long boat tour of the city before eating dinner in a Thai restaurant near where we were staying.
Saturday morning we took a day trip out to Roskilde to see the Cathedral there and the Viking Ship Museum. Had kind of a creepy experience on our way to the S-Tog -- an agitated little old Danish lady approached us about a man sitting unconscious in the bus shelter with a huge gash over his eye; I tried to rouse him but couldn’t, and was afraid for a moment that he was dead, and had simply been dumped by his “friends” outside the hospital near the bus stop. Tried to persuade the woman (in my pidgin “Ding-lish”) that she need to call the police, but she didn’t want anything more to do with the situation, so I finally went into the hospital myself (which is apparently no longer a working hospital anyway) and found someone who spoke English and was willing to come outside and investigate. He was able to rouse the man, determined that he was merely drunk, and promised to take care of everything from there. So I felt like I had done my bit as the Good Samaritan, and we continued on our way in good conscience.
Viking Ship Museum
When we got back from Roskilde, I took my mom out to see the Little Mermaid, then we walked back from the outer harbor (stopping just long enough to visit the Danish WWII Resistance Museum - a relatively quick stop, since there isn’t that much to see) through the grounds of the Royal Palace to Nyhavn -- the “longest bar in Denmark -- an entire street of restaurants and cafes lining a canal filled with picturesque wooden boats, where we paused for some refreshment and got a good look at Copenhagen’s professional bottle scavengers. These are adult men who apparently make their living at the margins of Danish society by collecting and returning bottles for the deposit (about 15 cents each). They are polite, but fairly aggressive in their work; and amazing to watch as they wander through the crowded public areas seizing every empty bottle they see -- much more efficiently than the restaurant workers who deliver the full ones!
Nyhavn
After observing this for awhile, we resumed our walk up Stroget -- Copenhagen’s extensive pedestrian mall, and met my aunt for dinner at Jensen’s Bøfhus (rapidly becoming my favorite restaurant chain in Denmark), where we enjoyed a meal of authentic American-style BBQ spareribs, which are apparently just as popular among the Danes as they are with me. That was pretty much the end of a very full day for my mom, so we all walked back to our flat, then Mary Lou and I spent the rest of the evening at Tivoli, where I remained until midnight just to see the fireworks.
Sunday was another full day of sightseeing. Caught a quick breakfast at a place called the Cafe Saloon, then it was off to Rosenborg Slot to see the Danish Crown jewels, and the National Museum for a very interesting exhibit on Danish history from the time of the iron age to today. Left my mom there to have lunch at the cafe so that I could climb to the top of the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke in Christianhavn -- 400 steps (they say, and I believe it!) up the inside of the tower and then spiraling outside the steeple itself almost to the pinnacle, where one has a magnificent view of Copenhagen in all directions. Much more impressive (and less claustrophobic) than the climb to the top of the Statue of Liberty, although I think my money is still on the view from the clarion tower at NYC’s Riverside church (which also benefits from having an elevator that will take you almost to the top).
Copenhagen from the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke
Christianhavn from the steeple of Vor Freslers Kirke
Christiana (you guessed it)
Hurried back to meet Mom again at the Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek, another interesting art museum whose collection consists almost entirely of sculpture. Stayed there until it closed, then walked across the street to Tivoli (again), so that we could enjoy a special Mother’s Day dinner at the outdoor restaurant located on the deck of a mockup of a Danish sailing frigate, which floats (or at least appears to float) in the large, artificial lagoon there. We enjoyed a magnificent dinner of lamb shank prepared in a savory shellfish broth...it was truly incredible, and afterwards I felt compelled to thank my mother for giving birth to me simply so that I could be there to enjoy such a delicious meal.
We also had a chance to relax a bit and watch the nightly parade of the “Prince and Princess” -- two costumed children who ride around the grounds of the garden in a golden carriage, accompanied by a marching band and a small escort of soldiers and sailors...also all children, ranging in age from perhaps 8 to 15. Both my aunt and my mom were charmed by Tivoli (Mom probably more so than Mary Lou); it is so quintessentially Danish -- a combination of garden and amusement park and small town Fourth of July style hoopla with a peculiarly Danish twist. After dinner we ate ice creams, watched some Chinese acrobats, then sat down on a park bench near a bandshell and listened to Tivoli’s “Big Band” play swing music from my mother’s childhood. A truly terrific evening for my mom’s last night in Europe.
Cleaning the toiletter at Fredericksborg Slot
Monday morning we took a cab out to the airport, where Mom checked her bags for her afternoon flight home, then we caught a train back into the city, stashed my bag in a locker at the station, then caught another train out to Hollerød to see yet another castle: Fredericksborg Slot, sometimes referred to as the Danish Versailles, because of it’s extensive grounds and topiary garden. Got there early enough that we had time to wander through the gardens before the castle itself opened at 10, then made a quick tour of the castle and chapel (where I got to impress both my mom and one of the museum guards by translating the placards for her), then it was back into the city, where Mom decided to spend a little more time at Tivoli (free admission with her “Copenhagen Card”) before catching her train out to the airport, and I jumped on the InterCity back to Aalborg.
When I got home I thought I’d catch a bus out to the University to read my e-mail, and actually waited at the bus stop for nearly 20 minutes before a passerby kindly informed me that the bus drivers were all on strike. Decide to go ahead and walk to campus...took me nearly an hour to get there, but at least on the way I finally discovered a schoolyard where Danish kids play pick-up basketball! Nearly stopped to take a few shots myself, but I was on a mission. Arrived at my office, completed my internet chores, walk back to my apartment by a different route (along the bike path -- better scenery and fewer hills), and arrived home exhausted just as the sun was setting around 10 pm.
Woke up early the next morning to catch the train north to Frederikshavn, and a ferry to Göteborg, Sweden, where I was to connect to another train to Oslo to visit a Norwegian clergyman and schoolteacher whom I had met over the internet. Last Christmas Knut posted a message to the UUCF-chat saying that his Christmas Wish was for a Unitarian minister to come to Norway and organize a Unitarian Fellowship; I replied “Surprise!” and was invited to visit him and his family for “Syttende Mai” (the 17th of May), Norwegian Constitution Day.
My trip was nearly scuttled though in the Frederikshavn harbor, when I discovered that the ferry I had planned to take to Sweden had broken down, and that I would have to wait three hours for the next one, destroying the rest of my itinerary. To complicate matters, I had completed one volume of my diary the previous evening, and then rushed out of the house that morning with a blank one without transferring all of the addresses and telephone numbers I’d written on the flyleaf into the new volume. But with the assistance of a very able customer service rep, we were able to contact Knut over the internet and inform him of the change of plans, and I was on my way.
Knut and his family met me at the train station in Ski a little before 10 pm, and we drove the 40 minutes back to their home in Askim, a little town of perhaps 12,000 located about an hour outside of Oslo. Knut had warned me what to expect: three small children, a house in the midst of being remodeled, a large German Shepherd named Freya, and a bed on the couch. So naturally I felt right at home, especially since the bed was actually in a private room in the basement just opposite the surviving bathroom (there is a much larger one being planned for the new addition, along with a new kitchen and individual bedrooms for the children), and was (may the the truth be told) a lot more comfortable than the convertible couch I sleep on in my apartment in Aalborg! We enjoyed a light supper of cold cuts and cheese (very Scandinavian), and then all turned in for the night in order to be moderately well-rested for the festivities of the following day.
Wednesday morning I was the first to wake, and startled Knut in the kitchen when he came down to make coffee and found me sitting quietly at the kitchen table trying to translate the Norwegian national hymn >>Ja Vi Elsker.<< The first verse goes something like this: “Yes we love this country/ which springs forth/ its wrinkled face, bitten by weather over waters/ [and] its thousand homes./ We love it, love it and reflect/ upon our fathers and mothers/ and their sagas which whisper/ dreams of our land.” The last couplet repeats, and it is really rather stirring when sung by dozens of little schoolchildren, which was one of Hans Alexander’s (the oldest child) duties later in the day.
Knut had church responsibilities in the morning, so Anette and I herded the children over to the school, where Hans Alexander joined his class for the “train” -- a parade of all the schoolchildren around the streets of the town. Well-equipped with horns (“Tromba”), pinwheels, and Norwegian flags, Anette, Carl Christian (a preschooler), Inger Johanne (the baby) and myself then made our way back to the parade route to wait for the “train” to arrive. There were lots of folks dressed up in traditional Norwegian clothing, plus plenty of balloons, bunting and cameras...and as the train passed by, we all followed after it up to the hospital and then to the church, where we heard a few speeches, snag the national hymn, and dispersed for the afternoon to various family-oriented activities. Knut met us back at the school, where there was a universally-recognizable school picnic and bake sale taking place: kids eating ice cream and pølse wrapped in tortillas, playing soccer or simply running about; moms selling sodas and baked goods, and generally trying to keep order over chaos.
For supper that night, Knut prepared a traditional Norwegian meal especially for me: steamed broccoli, boiled potatoes, and reindeer meat in a brown, mushroom gravy -- yum! Sat up a little and talked about the challenges of organizing a Unitarian Fellowship in Norway, where church attendance is generally low to begin with, but the National Church is both an expression of national identity and an extension of the national government. He was particularly concerned about how his bishop would react if he learned of his Unitarian sympathies; I compared his situation to that of being a Christian in the UUA, and we talked a little more about what it meant to each of us to be both a minister within a specific church organization and a “minister of the gospel.” We also decided that bishops are bishops everywhere, regardless of what they choose to call themselves.
Thursday was my day for sightseeing in Oslo. Much to Knut’s envy, Anette had the day off from work, so we safely got the children off to school and to their regular day-care, then drove into Oslo, bought a couple of “Oslo Cards” (which gave us free parking, free transportation, a free map, and free admission to museums) and were in business. First a trip across the harbor on one of the water taxis, a walk up the hill to the Oslo Viking Ship Museum, then back down the hill to see the Fram (a polar exploring ship which holds the distinction of having been the farthest north and the farthest south of any sailing vessel) and the Kon Tiki (a balsa wood raft which Norwegian mariner Thor Hyordahl sailed across the Pacific to demonstrate that Polynesia might have been populated from South America).
Then another water taxi ride back across the harbor to the old fortress and the Norwegian Resistance Museum (are you sensing a pattern to my sightseeing here?), which was a lot more interesting than the one in Denmark, principally I think (Quisling excepted...Knut later told me that we walked right past the wall where he was shot after the war) because the Norwegians put up a lot more resistance to the Nazis than the Danes! We stayed there until closing time, then had a little coffee and carrot cake (OK, I had coffee and carrot cake; Anette ate a sandwich) at a small cafe before driving back to Askim, where Knut had prepared another traditional Norwegian dish for me: a kind of fish curry again served with boiled potatoes.
Friday morning Knut dropped me off at the train station on his way into school, and I slowly made my way back to Aalborg. I’d thought about going on to Stockholm, but decided against it since the weather was getting kind of crummy, I’d left all those addresses back home as well, and the only things I could think of that I really wanted to do there were see the Vasa, sleep at the floating Af Chapman youth hostel, and take a sauna... all things that can easily wait until another day.
Train back to Göttborg was no problem, but again the fast ferry was not running, so I had to wait for the late afternoon boat: three hours of utter boredom in the terminal, followed by three hours of bedlam on the water. The Friday evening ferry back to Denmark was simply insane: crammed with loud, drunk, smoking Scandinavians apparently interested only in gambling or shopping at the duty-free -- basically a floating Indian reservation without even the benefit of any actual Indians. It got so bad I was tempted to try to sneak into the truck driver’s lounge (yes, they have their own lounge...which I had been curious about on the voyage over, but now understand perfectly) just for the peace and quiet. Or maybe I was simply grumpy because by that point I was tired, hungry, sober and alone... with only five Swedish kroner in my pocket (not even enough for a slot machine) and not particularly eager to change any more money.
The boat actually arrived at the dock ten minutes early, but made up for this by keeping us all on board until ten minutes AFTER the scheduled arrival time, thus assuring that I miss the tight train connection back to Aalborg, and giving me another 45 minute wait at the railway station, where the restaurant had just closed five minutes earlier! But here I am, safe and sound, and with plenty of good travel lessons under my belt, which I’m certain will come in useful in the month ahead.
Med venlig hilsen...........twj
X. Kirken & Kongen [originally posted Wednesday 24 May 2000]
“I must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to make it up.” -- Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad
Inspired by a comment from one of you (OK, it was Marcus Borg), I’ve been reading Twain’s 19th-century travelogue and reflecting on the tradition it represents: that we travel not just to learn about foreign cultures, but because of what the encounter with foreign cultures can teach us about ourselves. That’s certainly why I came to Aalborg - not as a sightseer, but as a temporary expatriate, who wanted to be transported somewhere totally unfamiliar to me, and then attempt to become familiar with it and perhaps discover something more about myself in the process.
I’m still not really certain how successful my pilgrimage has been, but I did stop on the street the other day when I overheard two men pouring over a map and speaking to one another in English, and was able to give them directions back to their hotel. The people at the local bakery and at the small, inexpensive restaurants where I sometimes eat, all recognize my face and greet me with a smile, and I have an awful lot of friends to say good bye to before I leave here at the end of the week.
This will also no doubt be the last installment of these e-mails, since even though I still plan to be traveling here in Europe for another month, I will no longer have access to this computer account. I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading these e-mails as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. It really has helped give my sojourn here what little focus it has enjoyed, even if the narrative does occasionally descend to the level of what I ate for dinner and the price of beer!
I’ve been thinking about some of the “travel lessons” I have learned here - nothing particularly original, I’m sure, but truth rarely suffers from repetition. First, believe the old maxim about bringing to Europe “half the clothes and twice the money.” I sent home a pretty sizable bundle of clothing with my mom last week, and I’m still probably carrying around twice what I really need. I’m even thinking about mailing home another bundle, but I’m a little worried about what it might do to my marriage if Margie were to open up a parcel from Paris and discover only my dirty socks. As for the money, I think it is good to travel on a fairly tight budget - it forces you to live a little closer to the ground and to solve problems rather than simply buying your way out of them. But it is horrible to feel you have to bypass an interesting opportunity simply because you are worried that you can’t afford it. Like anyone else, I hate paying more than I have to for something, and I particularly hate having to pay for the same thing twice. But sometimes these things happen when you travel, and its good to know that you can afford to make mistakes without it ruining your trip. Likewise, if you ever get in the position where you feel you absolutely MUST have a clean pair of socks, you can simply walk into a story and buy them. They do have stores in Europe. Sometimes you can even find a bargain.
Along somewhat these same lines, if you do insist on traveling with four thick guidebooks (as I am; it must be some kind of sickness - even living out of a backpack, I have to carry along a library), it helps a lot if you open them BEFORE you arrive at your destination, instead of waiting to read later about the things you didn’t see. If I had opened my guidebooks before arriving in Göttburg on my way back from Norway, for example, not only would I have discovered that there is a map which shows a much more direct and scenic route between the train station and the ferry terminal, but I might also have learned that only 800 meters up the road from the ferry I took there is a competing ferry line which would have taken me back to Jutland on a hydrofoil in an hour and a half for only about $12 more. Books are like eyes, or minds, or parachutes...they really work best when open. But I might also have easily gotten along with only one guidebook, plus maybe photocopies from the others regarding destinations where I knew in advance I would be traveling later.
I guess I am also becoming a convert to the belief that “less is more” in other ways as well. When I have done my reading in advance, for instance, I tend to be somewhat ambitious about how much I think I can cram into a day (just as I tend to feel somewhat optimistic about how much I can cram into a backpack as well). But just because I can fit it all in doesn’t mean that it isn’t going to exhaust me to try to carry it all out. So it’s good to have priorities, and to know those priorities, and to live according to those priorities, without getting too distracted by every little distraction that attracts your attention along the way. Not that an occasional distraction isn’t an attractive option on occasion. But it really is important to stay focused on one’s priorities, and to let some of the small stuff slip away if it becomes too much of a burden.
Finally, flexibility, patience, tenacity and good humor are the secret ingredients for avoiding discouragement, and to finding creative and imaginative solutions to even the most perplexing problems. Or at least that’s how it looks to me. At the very least I can say this for sure: rigidity, impatience, the tendency to give up at the first difficult challenge and an inability to laugh at oneself are almost guaranteed to cause more problems than they solve. Foreign travel challenges some of our most fundamental assumptions about who we are. It confronts us with different ideas about “that’s just the way it is,” turns us from articulate experts into illiterate neophytes, humbles us in ways that are both disturbing and reassuring. And these experiences have nothing to do with museums or cathedrals or great vistas of natural beauty. They grow out of the face to face encounter with other human beings whose lives are dramatically different from ours, and yet are also fundamentally the same.
The thought has occurred to me, however, how much of my sightseeing here involves churches and castles. Religion and Royalty, >>kirken og kongen<< - as though this were some sort of fundamental division in human society echoing back to the days when tribal shaman and hunters gradually evolved into civilization's professional priests and warriors. A community of healers and a community of killers, and the reason the latter got to become the rulers and make the rules is because they quickly proved so much more effective at their job than the former. Which is not to say that these two avocations have existed in opposition to one another; even a pirate (and the Vikings were some of the most successful pirates the world has ever known) has occasional need of “clerical" assistance to help them keep track of their plunder.
Commerce becomes the province of the king, as pirates become merchants and traders, and ships and roads and walled citadels are used to store and transport merchandise as well as military stores. Meanwhile, the so-called “learned” professions of law, medicine, and ministry all derive from the church; a “doctor” is someone who, by virtue of education, is qualified to profess doctrine. Royalty derives its “legitimacy” from the blessings of the Church, which in turn benefits from the patronage of the monarchy, while taxes and tithes are paid alike in “crowns” or “sovereigns.”
And what about the common people? An interesting question when you pause to think: is there really such thing as a “common” person? Or perhaps more poignantly, how much better off will everyone be when people give up their aspirations to lord over others, and start thinking about how much we all have in common with one another? The world would certainly be much better off with less killing and more healing. Which means that we clergy need to become a lot better at our jobs.
I suppose that’s enough of a sermon for today. >>Kom God Hjem<< wherever your own travels may take you!.............twj
“I must have a prodigious quantity of mind; it takes me as much as a week sometimes to make it up.” -- Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad
Inspired by a comment from one of you (OK, it was Marcus Borg), I’ve been reading Twain’s 19th-century travelogue and reflecting on the tradition it represents: that we travel not just to learn about foreign cultures, but because of what the encounter with foreign cultures can teach us about ourselves. That’s certainly why I came to Aalborg - not as a sightseer, but as a temporary expatriate, who wanted to be transported somewhere totally unfamiliar to me, and then attempt to become familiar with it and perhaps discover something more about myself in the process.
I’m still not really certain how successful my pilgrimage has been, but I did stop on the street the other day when I overheard two men pouring over a map and speaking to one another in English, and was able to give them directions back to their hotel. The people at the local bakery and at the small, inexpensive restaurants where I sometimes eat, all recognize my face and greet me with a smile, and I have an awful lot of friends to say good bye to before I leave here at the end of the week.
This will also no doubt be the last installment of these e-mails, since even though I still plan to be traveling here in Europe for another month, I will no longer have access to this computer account. I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading these e-mails as much as I’ve enjoyed writing them. It really has helped give my sojourn here what little focus it has enjoyed, even if the narrative does occasionally descend to the level of what I ate for dinner and the price of beer!
I’ve been thinking about some of the “travel lessons” I have learned here - nothing particularly original, I’m sure, but truth rarely suffers from repetition. First, believe the old maxim about bringing to Europe “half the clothes and twice the money.” I sent home a pretty sizable bundle of clothing with my mom last week, and I’m still probably carrying around twice what I really need. I’m even thinking about mailing home another bundle, but I’m a little worried about what it might do to my marriage if Margie were to open up a parcel from Paris and discover only my dirty socks. As for the money, I think it is good to travel on a fairly tight budget - it forces you to live a little closer to the ground and to solve problems rather than simply buying your way out of them. But it is horrible to feel you have to bypass an interesting opportunity simply because you are worried that you can’t afford it. Like anyone else, I hate paying more than I have to for something, and I particularly hate having to pay for the same thing twice. But sometimes these things happen when you travel, and its good to know that you can afford to make mistakes without it ruining your trip. Likewise, if you ever get in the position where you feel you absolutely MUST have a clean pair of socks, you can simply walk into a story and buy them. They do have stores in Europe. Sometimes you can even find a bargain.
Along somewhat these same lines, if you do insist on traveling with four thick guidebooks (as I am; it must be some kind of sickness - even living out of a backpack, I have to carry along a library), it helps a lot if you open them BEFORE you arrive at your destination, instead of waiting to read later about the things you didn’t see. If I had opened my guidebooks before arriving in Göttburg on my way back from Norway, for example, not only would I have discovered that there is a map which shows a much more direct and scenic route between the train station and the ferry terminal, but I might also have learned that only 800 meters up the road from the ferry I took there is a competing ferry line which would have taken me back to Jutland on a hydrofoil in an hour and a half for only about $12 more. Books are like eyes, or minds, or parachutes...they really work best when open. But I might also have easily gotten along with only one guidebook, plus maybe photocopies from the others regarding destinations where I knew in advance I would be traveling later.
I guess I am also becoming a convert to the belief that “less is more” in other ways as well. When I have done my reading in advance, for instance, I tend to be somewhat ambitious about how much I think I can cram into a day (just as I tend to feel somewhat optimistic about how much I can cram into a backpack as well). But just because I can fit it all in doesn’t mean that it isn’t going to exhaust me to try to carry it all out. So it’s good to have priorities, and to know those priorities, and to live according to those priorities, without getting too distracted by every little distraction that attracts your attention along the way. Not that an occasional distraction isn’t an attractive option on occasion. But it really is important to stay focused on one’s priorities, and to let some of the small stuff slip away if it becomes too much of a burden.
Finally, flexibility, patience, tenacity and good humor are the secret ingredients for avoiding discouragement, and to finding creative and imaginative solutions to even the most perplexing problems. Or at least that’s how it looks to me. At the very least I can say this for sure: rigidity, impatience, the tendency to give up at the first difficult challenge and an inability to laugh at oneself are almost guaranteed to cause more problems than they solve. Foreign travel challenges some of our most fundamental assumptions about who we are. It confronts us with different ideas about “that’s just the way it is,” turns us from articulate experts into illiterate neophytes, humbles us in ways that are both disturbing and reassuring. And these experiences have nothing to do with museums or cathedrals or great vistas of natural beauty. They grow out of the face to face encounter with other human beings whose lives are dramatically different from ours, and yet are also fundamentally the same.
The thought has occurred to me, however, how much of my sightseeing here involves churches and castles. Religion and Royalty, >>kirken og kongen<< - as though this were some sort of fundamental division in human society echoing back to the days when tribal shaman and hunters gradually evolved into civilization's professional priests and warriors. A community of healers and a community of killers, and the reason the latter got to become the rulers and make the rules is because they quickly proved so much more effective at their job than the former. Which is not to say that these two avocations have existed in opposition to one another; even a pirate (and the Vikings were some of the most successful pirates the world has ever known) has occasional need of “clerical" assistance to help them keep track of their plunder.
Commerce becomes the province of the king, as pirates become merchants and traders, and ships and roads and walled citadels are used to store and transport merchandise as well as military stores. Meanwhile, the so-called “learned” professions of law, medicine, and ministry all derive from the church; a “doctor” is someone who, by virtue of education, is qualified to profess doctrine. Royalty derives its “legitimacy” from the blessings of the Church, which in turn benefits from the patronage of the monarchy, while taxes and tithes are paid alike in “crowns” or “sovereigns.”
And what about the common people? An interesting question when you pause to think: is there really such thing as a “common” person? Or perhaps more poignantly, how much better off will everyone be when people give up their aspirations to lord over others, and start thinking about how much we all have in common with one another? The world would certainly be much better off with less killing and more healing. Which means that we clergy need to become a lot better at our jobs.
I suppose that’s enough of a sermon for today. >>Kom God Hjem<< wherever your own travels may take you!.............twj
