Untitled I

Prologue:

     It was around 08:00 at the tail end of my trip in Scandinavia.  A gentle sunny morning, some light breeze blowing in, and the nearby sea’s salty aroma was wafting all across.  While I walked through Esplanaden en route to pay homage to E. Eriksen’s iconic Little Mermaid, a dog and an old man wearing a tweed herringbone jacket plus a newsboy cap made an uncomfortable approach.

     "B-inaudible” said the old man.

     I took my earbuds off.

     “Hvad?”  Attempting to sound as Danish as possible, to no avail.  

     He smiled and repeated himself:

     “Bon appetit.”  He pointed at the untarnished chocolate croissant that yours truly held abreast while staring blankly towards nowhere.  As quickly as he had approached, he continued on his walk, the little terrier following him along.  While processing the encounter, I pivoted his way realizing the phrase was French and then hastened to return the old man’s gesture:

      “Merci, merci beaucoup!”

      The old man turned around, raised his hat, and proceeded in his direction.

View from Kastellet on Esplanaden

Introduction:  

     Last year, I embarked on a journey around Mount Rainier along the Wonderland Trail.  In the grandest sense, it was modest if compared to the numerous thru-hikes that anyone could set off to, in the US or elsewhere in the world.  However, that shouldn’t suggest that the journey did not herald sensations of self-transcendence and other measures of enlightenment because in reality, it did.  It was a solo journey.  It was something I felt I needed to do because there, I was slowly realizing that the capital T, truth, about life is that you do it alone.  That idea was never more evident than when I trudged through sections upon the Wonderland when it was swept by a storm; the weather piercing each forward motion with misery and I was struck with the notion that nobody was around for aid.  This became the locus of my expectations for the trip to Scandinavia.  I wasn’t there to enjoy the journey by surrounding myself with people.  I didn't need to, I thought.  I just needed to be there.

Chapter I: 

     I flew straight to Bergen, Norway; well, not really - Frankfurt and Oslo were a layover, but you get the idea.  Lufthansa, alas, appeared to have striven to ensure that my journey would register fairly high in the crazy scale.  The eleven hour flight from Seattle to Frankfurt was devoid of sleep, but heavily laced with cognac poured from fancy bottles and scotch whose smoky oak barrel manifested in the tongue, like a bouquet of flowers blossoming from a good cup of creamy espresso.  I half-read and half-listened to books and when the plane landed in Germany, two novels had been relished.  There would be a five-ish hour wait there before the flight to Oslo.  

    The benefits, in minute contrast to the cost, of flying business class, apart from the roomy cabin seat, was that one was guaranteed entrance to the BC Lounge and exercise exclusive yet not-so-special, really, privileges like a shower or “free” food.  Shower I did, and abundant food I reluctantly partook the feast of: coffee, fruits, bread, and hotdog.  Only hotdog.  No lentil patties, or avocado sandwiches.  This was Europe, for real.  I should mention that I haven’t had a hotdog in almost 11 years.  While tolerating the vicious throes of hunger induced by an eleven hour flight [although there was one meal during and some snacks scattered throughout (which certainly was not enough)], I cold-turkeyed out of vegetarianism and allowed myself one Frankfurter link.  And then two, and then three.  

      When I arrived in Oslo, I had been awake for twenty hours.  When I reached Bergen, it had been twenty-seven.  

     So anyway, unbeknownst to me, Lufthansa failed to transfer my backpack (which contained all of my camping gear) to the subsequent flights after Frankfurt.  When I landed in Bergen, I waited by the conveyor belt for 45 minutes before filing a claim, claiming that my checked in baggage never came out.

     “We’ll get it here tomorrow.  You can call us for updates” said the officer.

     I was acutely exhausted and did not have the energy left to fight this out.  I also knew that even if I did, the universe wouldn't just rearrange itself to allow a petty miracle to happen and quell my feelings of rage.

     So I took the bus to downtown Bergen and checked in at the Hostel.  When I arrived, I tried to sleep, but for some reason couldn’t.

     “Hello, where are you from?”  Said a girl from London who walked into the room shortly after I did.

     “Seattle, in the United States.  Have you heard of it?”  I replied, although not quite sure why the rest was added; Seattle is a bigger city than Oslo or Copenhagen, and there should be no reason for a traveler to not know, or let alone to have not heard, of it.

     “I think so, but I’m not certain exactly where that is” replied she.  “My name is Rachel.”  Rachel continued.

     Okay, maybe my presumption that there were travelers who didn’t know that Seattle existed somewhere in the world was very likely not outside the bounds of reality.  I took my phone and showed a picture; a quintessential view of the city taken from Kerry Park.

     “Oh yeah, I’ve seen pictures of this place before.  I didn’t think it was real.”  Said she, eyes transfixed on the screen.

     “Is it your first day in Bergen?”  I asked.

     “Yeah, I’d just been out killing time in Gudvangen.  Well, hiking, really.”  

     I would be winding up in Gudvangen, too, later that week so I queried on the must dos.  Also, at that point, I had been awake for 30 hours and took on the personal challenge to test how much longer I could stay up for.  As the minutes went past, Rachel mentioned that Bergen, at 21:00, was currently alive with activities and that I should get out and look around.  Her intentions for suggesting the idea was quite good, probably.  My carry on bag contained extra clothes and I donned them on for a short walk to Bryggen.  When I returned, Rachel was asleep and shortly after changing into my shorts, I was too.  The four others who stayed in that same room came and went; their faces anonymous, nameless, and largely unremembered.  

     The next day, I awoke at 04:30 and left the hostel to see more of the city.  When I returned at around noon, Rachel and the four others had gone.  I laid in bed, relaxed, and called the airport to see if my backpack had made it.  It did.  After I went to pick it up, I returned to the hostel and passed out.

     It was now 18:00.  When I emerged into consciousness, a new roommate was sitting at his bunk, reading a book.

     “Hello.”  He said.

     “Hi.” I replied.

     “What’s your name, where are you from?”  

     “The name’s Herb, I’m from the United States.  Seattle. You heard of it?”  

     “Yeah, of course, Who hasn’t?  That’s where Macklemore is from.”  He said.

     I shrugged.

     “What about you, what’s your name, where ya from?”  I asked.

     “Nema, I’m from here in Norway.”

     Nema grew up in a town north of Oslo and was in Bergen for the week to find housing.  He was accepted as a student of philosophy at a nearby college and needed to make all the necessary arrangements before commencing his studies.  A pleasant character and of similar age to yours truly, he had an olive complexion and sharp brown eyes.  I surmised that perhaps he had Sephardic lineage, but I knew it was inappropriate to pre-judge so I kept to myself.  

     “I’m going out for beer in a little bit, if you want to join a long.”  Nema said.

      Given that I didn’t have plans, I took him up on the offer.

     While I readied, another roommate entered the room.  A gigantic backpack fell from behind him and he was out ostensibly doing wilderness-y things.  

     “Have you been hiking?”  I asked.

     “Yeah, I was in the Ulriken Mountains right above Bergen, but it was cloudy the whole time and I couldn’t see anything.”  Said he.  He then procured his phone to show us pictures of landscapes socked in by fog.

     “We’re going out for drinks in a little bit, if you want to come along.”  Nema offered.

     “Sure, I’ll go.  My name is P-indistinctly.”  Nema understood it right off the bat.

     “What?”

     “Actually, you can call me PJ.”  An idle-faced I.T. Engineer from Ghent who spoke with a deep baritone.

     Prior to the trip here, I looked forward to trying the stronger spirits that Scandinavia could offer, but at that point I didn’t mind our search for local establishments that served its patrons good beer.  

     I could just look for absinthe in Denmark next week.  I thought.

     As a flag-waving son of fair Cascadia, the standards for good beer by one like yours truly was quite, unreasonably, high.  

     “What do you suggest?”  I asked the bar tender.

     “How about the IPA?”  He said, standing prideful. 

     The offer felt astonishing because I thought IPAs were a fashionable thing only in the West Coast, United States, of course.

     “Yes, I’ll try it.” 

     But… The IPA was a dud.  It smelled of piss liquid extracted from scary rodents, cooled and endowed with bubbles for effect and relayed to their would-be victims, somehow this was possible, offensive flavors messier and infinitely more lugubrious than puke.  It was a potion earmarked to the derelicts of society.  

     Okay, I know I’m overreacting, but I assure you, dear reader, that it was terrible.  Moreover, this was true, unfortunately, for all of my attempts at finding good brew during my time here in Scandinavia.  But beer is beer, it would be criminal to not drink it.  

     Nema, PJ, and I wasted no time and initiated discussions on, of all subjects, American politics - much to my chagrin.  I felt  required to apologize for the rise of Donald Trump.  Which I did.  But I was quick to divert the shame onto the U.K.’s Brexit referendum as being more deserving of scorn given that it had already happened.  

      We laughed.

     As the discussions continued on, the dialogue travelled toward many geographical points.  When we arrived in Iran, Nema had said that he was a descendent of Persia.

Chapter 2:

     It had been a genuinely agreeable night out.  I mentioned hiking Hardangerford near Odda to the two.  Nema eschewed the idea, but PJ was keenly interested.  I told him he would be welcome to join along if so inclined, which he was.  It’d be easy to get around given that I had a car for three days.  If I ended up camping in the mountains, there’d be buses that would take him back to Bergen.

     The next morning, as I was exiting the kitchen after cooking breakfast, a lanky 18 year old came in to prepare his.  He smiled and I returned the act.  When he took his plate into the dining room, I offered a seat.

     The young man’s name was Raphael.  

     “It’s my first time in Bergen, but I just spent a month working on a sheep farm in Sognefjord.” Said he, an accordion-playing triathlete from Vienna.

      I’ve read about Sognefjord and the breathtaking landscape that can be found there.

     “Oh wow, that’s cool.”  I responded almost reflexively at everything he’s said so far.

     We chatted furthermore and I mentioned about driving to Hardangerfjord and hike. I also said that it was probably about as spectacular in scenery when compared to Sognefjord, although I wasn’t entirely certain whether that was true or not.  This was my second day in Norway and had no business comparing places I was yet to visit.  I clarified that I intended to drive out there with a roommate shortly after breakfast - in, like, a half hour.

     “Can I come?”  Said Raphael.

     Whoa, I thought.  Who couldn’t admire the quick and sheer spontaneity of that question?

     “Yeah, sure, how about let’s meet at 09:00?”  I said.

      At 09:00, not a second more, there he was, with a friend to add.

     We picked up the car at Bergen Flesland and drove through scenic country roads.  The roads were incredibly narrow, and although Odda was less than a hundred mile drive, it took several hours to get there.  It was rather difficult to attain American Interstate speed upon snaking and terrifyingly narrow highways.  But the scenery was breathtaking.  

     The steep cliffs that fell into the water, thus creating the phenomenon called fjord, was unexpectedly more grand than I initially envisioned.  The water was turquoise, there was livestock galore, almost like parodied replicas of real herds.  But there they were, they were very real, grazing across the land around hamlets carved into the faces of mountains.  I had the responsibility to keep my passengers alive and uninjured so I tendered the effort to keep my eyes fixed on the road and glanced up to bask in the awe only once in awhile.  

     “I would happily do this drive everyday.”  I thought.

      We arrived in Odda at around 13:30.  With the weather being half-rain and half-sun, half of us decided to proceed with the hike, and the other opted to kayak instead.  Fair enough.  Raphael and I arrived at the trailhead at around 14:30, and started the hike immediately.  It was reasonably steep, but unreasonably muddy; it clearly needed a bit of maintenance work.

     The hike was crazy crowded; this was Tuesday, on a rainy day, no less.  Banana peels were strewn all over the place, and non-perishable trash was conspicuously abundant.  Heaps of people's shit was found, shockingly, underneath large boulders where others could potentially go and seek shelter in; perhaps from the forthcoming storm that was evidently present aloft.  After about two hours of hiking, I was beginning to hate the place.
    I didn’t know how much Raphael was appreciating the journey, but when the 7th kilometer signpost greeted us, and with 5 kilometers more to go, he voiced an interest in returning to Bergen.  I welcomed the proposition and felt genuinely fine with turning around instead.  I had no place to stay that night because I intended to be up there camping, but after encountering a trail that had been disrespected en masse, I began entertaining thoughts of the city.  The gloomy sign of tempest and worrisome climate increased rapidly on our way back, and I was, in that moment, very sure that I wouldn't be out there camping overnight.  When Raphael and I drove to Odda to pick up PJ, I booked a hotel room in Bergen.

Raphael on Hardanger

Chapter 3:

     By 08:00, on day 3, I was already checked out of the room.  There were no set plans for the day and my list was bare with only three possibilities; Balestrand to the north, Voss towards the east, or Stavanger to the south.  I got in the car and drove off the parking lot.  If a sign existed for any of these three somewhere to help me decide, then it would be on the highway.  So when I entered the road, I searched for a road mark that would pilot me towards anywhere; the first I found was for Voss.

      Well I’m on my way, I don’t know where I’m going. The radio played.

     The route towards Voss was equally as scenic as the drive to Odda yesterday.  When I arrived, it was 11:30.
     Voss was a tiny village several hours east of Bergen.  It was also a namesake for the famously expensive brand of bottled water, I think. I walked around its shore, breathed the cool air, and went train-spotting for long freights.

     At around 13:50, after spending two hours at a coffee shop reading a book, I messaged a friend I once worked with at AmeriCorps 10 years ago.  10 years ago was also the last time we’ve truly seen each other.  She and her friend had been traveling across northern Europe for weeks, and Norway was their penultimate destination.  I was slightly aware that they would be somewhere in this country at that same moment, and was sure only that they would be in Bergen sometime tomorrow.  With that in mind, I didn’t think it would be necessary to start communicating seriously until then.

    Hi Emily!  I’ll be staying at Voss tonight and then drive back to meet y’all in Bergen tomorrow.  Are you doing the Nutshell tour today?

     I gulped my last cup of coffee, returned to the car to drive towards Vøringfossen Falls to hike - about an hour or two away.  The visitor center mentioned this destination and it looked decidedly worth seeing.  The engine was started, car was ready to pull, when my phone buzzed.  New Message from Emily.

     We’re at the voss train station until 2:30 p.m.!! Where are you??

    My jaw dropped.  I looked around as if to make sure this wasn’t a joke and then I sprinted towards the train station.

     So basically, the Norway in a Nutshell tour, which they signed on to take today was cancelled due to a landslide.  The landslide was brought forth by the freakishly crazy rainstorm that fell the day before.  The same rainstorm that forced me to nix my plan to camp atop Hardangerfjord.  If I were to guess, had the tour been running as normal, Emily and her friend, Kelly, would be on a cruise along Sognefjord, way up north of Voss.  

     The landslide had directly affected me, too, given that I bought tickets for the Nutshell tour that upcoming Friday.  The short section in Gudvangen I was looking forward to since day 1 was effectively sabotaged by this event.  

     “I can’t believe you’re here!”  I shouted.

     “Me too!”  She shouted.

     “This is Kelly.”

     “Hi Kelly.”

     “So, the Nutshell Tour was cancelled and we just saw tunnels all day.”  Said Emily.

     “That kinda sounds like it sucks.”  I commented with slight hesitation.

     “Yeah, no, it totally sucked," Kelly confirmed.  "And basically we’re stuck here until the next train comes to take us to Bergen.”  she added.

     “Well, ok, I know you guys bought tickets, and I really think you need to do this tour somehow in spite of it being cancelled, but I have a car and I’m planning to drive everywhere right now and I think you should consider joining along.  It’ll be like the Nutshell tour. But no pressure!”  I offered while ensuring that I wasn’t being too pushy with the idea.

     Emily and Kelly looked at each other.  They opted for the road trip.

     We drove through seaside towns, views of the fjords scattered all over, and then later made our way to Vøringfossen Waterfall, which, wasn’t a hike by any means; the viewpoint was a short walk from the parking lot.

     As we furthered an hour or two into the road, we stopped at a little hamlet to buy snacks, and beer, which was adjacent to a Travel Info office.

     “Where are we?”  Kelly asked.

     “Well according to this map,” Emily pointing at the ideo locator said, “we’re at Hardanger (Read: Hard Danger).”

     “Wait, if we’re on Hardanger (Read: Hard Danger), that means Odda is not very far away!”  I said.

     I told them that I’d been to Odda the day before and that it was a neat little village carved upon the foothills of both Hardangerfjord and Folgefonna National Park.  

     “Ok, so we’ll proceed to Odda and do the (arguably) most scenic ride of your life, and then ride the Ferry (an activity they couldn’t previously enjoy due to the Nutshell Tour being cancelled).  But my hotel is at Voss, so I’ll drop you off in Bergen right after.”  I said.

     “Why don’t you just stay with us?”  Kelly asked.

     “Well, I don’t want to superimpose.”  

     “Seriously, you get top bunk, there’s so much space in this apartment.”  Emily added.

      A deal I couldn’t refuse was afoot, so-

     “Oh my god, you guys, thank you!”

Kelly and Emily near Eidfjord

Voringfossen Waterfall

Chapter 4:

     I woke up at 07:00, and was in the car by 08:00 to do a little trail-running at Lyderhorn Mountain, 15 minutes from Emily and Kelly’s apartment.  When I got to the top, it felt like being on Mt. Constitution above Orcas Island.  I sat in the lotus position next to a rushing creek to meditate before returning to meet Kelly and Emily at the apartment by 10:00.

      “I think I’m coming down with something.”  Kelly remarked.

      Emily assured her that it was totally okay to stay put and sleep in while we searched for activities worth doing.  Shortly past noon, I returned the car to Bergen Flesland, and then came back to the city immediately after.  PJ and I agreed to meet up again before he took off for Oslo.

     “Hey, I’m at Flying Dutchman.”  I messaged.

     “Coming.”  He replied.

     Emily and Kelly did wind up meeting each other to tour the Hanseatic Museum at some point while I was out dropping the car off.  When I heard from them, PJ and I had been walking all over, trying different bars, and playing tourists.  

     “We’re in the Sjøboden pub along the same side of the street as the museum’s entrance.  They’re playing bob Marley…”  Emily messaged.

     If there was any place in Bergen that pandered to the American crowd, it would be the Sjøboden Pub.  When I arrived, Simon and Garfunkel was blaring on the stereo, and then Johnny Cash, then Bob Dylan and so on.  In short, we loved the place.  

      A round of tequila was bought and then I declared that there was a shuffleboard right in back. 

     “What’s a shuffleboard?”  PJ asked.

     The nature of said board was best explained to a Belgian only by practice. 

     “Here just watch; you slide-throw a puck, and either score by making it travel as far as possible without falling into the gutter, like so, or you could knock the other team down.” 

     “Like this?”  PJ substantiated his comprehension of the game by landing the puck on line 2.

     Just a small town girl / livin’ in a lonely world / she took the midnight train going anywhere.  Journey's ubiquitous number came on. Emily and I screamed alongside and naturally expounding, shamelessly (and that was okay), interpretive dances.  We were sufficiently drunk (in retrospect, I was always drunk when this song came on), and it was only 17:00.

     “We better head out and catch the fjordcruise” Kelly, our voice of reason designate, admonished.  The cruise was at 18:00.

PJ/Shuffleboard

Tequila

Chapter 5:

     Today was the scheduled Norway in a Nutshell Tour.  So far, it stayed cancelled.  When I boarded the Bergen Railway en route to Myrdal, the conductor who checked my itinerary stated that my only option was to wait there for nine hours and then take the train straight to Oslo.

     This lady doesn’t know I’m aware that the tour was cancelled. I thought.  And then, just out of mischief, I feigned ignorance.  

     “What?  What do you mean the tour is cancelled?”

     “Yes, there was a landslide near Gudvangen and the buses couldn’t get through.”  Said she.

      “But I flew all the way from Seattle to do this.  It was the only reason I came to visit Norway.”  I tried to look broken by the "news" and attempted to manufacture fake tears, to no avail.  Dear reader, I’m cognizant that this maneuver was unscrupulous, but I could either finagle my way into taking the Flåmsbana train to Flåm, since there was probably no harm in doing so, or wait at the train station for nine hours and feel sorry for myself.  I paid $220 to do this tour, and it winding up cancelled plus waste my day, I thought that perhaps bending that unlucky destiny a little to my advantage would effectively negate the injustice.

      “Let me talk to my boss.” 

     A little while later, she came back and said that, even though they never ever do this (emphasis on ever), they could give me a free ticket to take the train to Flåm, but then I would have to stick to my itinerary later for the 19:00 Oslo departure because;

     “We feel so sorry.  We hope you end up enjoying Norway.”  

     This was probably the first, ever, that I’ve successfully exploited the system of a foreign country.  Nevertheless, Norway had just won my heart.

     “Oh my god, thank you.”  Genuine tears fell out of my eyeballs.

Flåm

Chapter 6:

     Flåm was lovely.  I chanced at a nearby hike and spent the rest of the day at a waterfront cafe playing their guitar.  When my itinerary was finally current, seven hours later, I boarded the train back to Myrdal, and onwards to Oslo.  

     “Hey!  How was your trip?  You left the Scandinavia book in Bergen and I have it with me if you’d like it before you head to Sweden!”  Emily messaged around midnight while I was on the train.  She and Kelly had half a day in Oslo the following day, as did I, and us meeting for a bit there was totally doable.  

     When I arrived, I stayed at Hotel Munch, a stone’s throw away from Nasjonalmuseet where the famous “Scream” was on display. 

     “There’s a ginormous breakfast happening here.  Come and partake!!”  I messaged the next day.  Emily came to meet me by 09:00, and we had coffee.  Thereafter, we walked to the Royal Palace, Nobel Peace Center, the Oslo Opera House, and then Oslo S Station - this so I could print my boarding pass ahead of time for a train to Stockholm later that evening.  When I got there, the SJ Train machine was non-responsive.  

      “Hey, can you help me print my pass?”  I asked an info booth guy.

     “Oh, the machine is just starting.  You should come back later and it will work fine.  Just come here early before your boarding time.” 

     I went back to the hotel, readied my things and then, given I didn’t have to check out until 14:00 (because I asked), I went sight-seeing some more; mainly to Frogner Park where the G. Vigeland sculptures were on display. 

       When I returned to Oslo S, the SJ ticket machine was still broken.

     “We can’t help you, you have to talk to a Swedish.”  Said a different info staff when I returned a few hours later; I was there two hours before departure.

     “What do you mean?  Where can I go find one?”  I asked incredulously.

     “They’re not here, they’ll get here when the train arrives.”  

     I was beginning to panic.  If the train arrived, I would have 20 minutes to inquire about the passes, then I would need to print them at the machine which, for the record, was a ten minute walk and it would effectively, or defectively, allow zero time for me to successfully board the train.

     1.5 hours to go.

    Oslo S was a massive edifice; multi-leveled with three food courts as well as a mall.  I walked around to find a quiet place to sit, wait, and digest the possible disaster that could arise later on.  As I was sauntering along, I found a grand piano; it was for anybody to use.  I looked around.

     “I think I’ll sit here” I murmured while adjusting the piano bench.

      I sat, warmed my fingers with a scale, and chose to start with J.S. Bach’s Sheep May Safely Graze, the E. Petri transcription.  The melody caught the ear of a few travelers and when I finished, an old couple came over to tell me how much they've enjoyed the melody. And so I continued playing. 

     When it came close for the train to arrive, I ran down to the track.

Emily in Oslo

      “Hi” I greeted one of the conductors.  “I’m supposed to be on this train but I couldn’t print out a pass because the machine is broken, and I really can’t miss this ride.”  I frantically said.

      “That’s okay, just go to your seat.”  Said the conductor.

   

Chapter 7:

     Stockholm was interesting.  I donned my running clothes and decided to go for a jog around 05:30 the next day.  The neoclassical architecture which was grandly abundant there was tarnished by the different hues of literal vomit haphazardly spewed all over the facades.  I ran back to the hotel to check my tablet and guidebook for things to-do; I was not enthused by any of the suggested activities or sights.  And with that, I decided to forego another day at Stockholm to fly ahead to Denmark. 

Chapter 8:

      The following day, I boarded a flight to Copenhagen.

      Hotel Amager was a several-storied brick structure boasting an architectural style faithful to Danish sensibilities.  Also, it had everything I needed; a room, a pub on the ground floor, and was located two blocks from Christiania.
     Freetown Christiania is a neighborhood east of Copenhagen's city center.  An anarchist commune that was also a hot bed for radical creative expression and other progressive ideals.

     Sold, I’ll stay there. I thought.

     When I came down for drinks that evening, I sat at the bar.

     “Do you have absinthe?”  I asked the bar tender.

     “What?”

      A gentleman sitting two bar stools away explained what it was, hand gestures and all. 

     “Oh, no we don’t.  But why do you want to drink that?”

     “I don’t know, I heard Europe makes them well.”  I said with an air of regret.

    “What you can try here in Denmark is Arnbitter, and it is similar.”  Said the bar tender, whose name I later discovered was Line (Read: Leen).  “But most Danes really don’t like this stuff, and I don’t want to give it to you unless you’re sure.”  She added while pouring a healthy dose on a shotglass.  Line was a tall woman with long blonde hair who sometimes danced when she heard a peppy song.

     “Ok, just let me have it.”  I commanded.

    The spirit was a hypnotic shade of brown, like mahogany, and its aroma emitted a pleasant mint.  

     “Do I sip this, or just drink it straight?”  I asked Line.

     “You need to drink it straight, and wait until something happens.”  She said and I was, at that point, unsure of what “something happens” meant exactly.

       Gulp.

     Arnbitter tasted a lot like Fernet, so, like absinthe, too.  After quaffing it entirely, my mouth swelled with invisible smoke.  Spicy sensations pinched many different parts of my jugular as the spirit flushed itself down my intestines.  I shook my head, face contorted, and tried to blow said invisible smoke out of my mouth.  I looked like an idiot.  My two companions watched with amusement.  They also seemed proud that something so quintessentially Danish was powerful enough to offend the palate of a stranger.  I wasn’t offended.  I enjoyed the drink fully, and I wanted more.  But Line suggested I drink beer before the next shot.  Locals were experts of their culture, and I was in no position to argue.

      A few minutes after the inaugural Arnbitter shot, my head began to feel faint.

     “Whoa you guys.  This feels kinda weird.”

      Line and the gentleman next to me laughed.

     “Yes, that’s supposed to happen!”  Said the man, patting my shoulder.  “My name is Jacob.”  He added, shaking my hand.  He resided in Jutland on the northern regions of Denmark, and spent plenty of time in Copenhagen due to work.  Ostensibly, he was a regular at this pub.

     “Where have you traveled to?”  Line asked.

     “Well I was just in Stockholm, and I kinda hated it.”  I replied.

     “How come?”

     “It gave me a weird Los Angeles type of vibe.  Also, lot of the people were arrogant and rude.”  I continued, not mentioning the vomit that covered its streets in case they both harbored affection for the city.

     “I hate that.  Why couldn’t people just be nice to each other?  I mean, come on!”  Said Line.

     I couldn't agree more.

     “What else can I try while in Copenhagen?” I asked them.

     “Well, have you heard of Christiania?”  Line asked.

     I nodded to the side as if to indicate, “I'm not sure.”  Which would have been a lie had I said it aloud.

     Line dug into her pocket and out came a small bag of kush.  

    “If you want, I can show you around and we can find some ‘good stuff tomorrow.’” Said she.

     “You’re on!”  I answered.

     “Okay, meet us here at 18:00.”  Said they.

Me, Line, and Jacob

Chapter 9:

     I awoke at 06:00.  A half hour later, I was on the bus headed for the Travel Info office near Strøget; it wasn’t scheduled to be open for another couple of hours so I opted to stay at a cafe and do some reading.  When the TI office opened, I bought a Copenhagen Card which allowed free public transport and admission to all of the government owned museums within the city.  First stop: Assistens Cemetery in Nørrebro;  I wanted to pay homage to Søren Kierkegaard who was interred there.  

     The highest and most beautiful things in life are not to be heard about, nor read about, nor seen, but, if one will, the highest and most beautiful things in life are to be lived.  Kierkegaard once wrote in a letter.  

     When I concluded my visit, I took the bus back into the heart of the city to visit museums.  My favorite of the many galleries there was the SMK; Statens Museum for Kunst.  I think it might have been similar to Oslo’s Nasjonalmuseet, but probably five times larger in size and content.  The Ny Carlsberg Glyptotek was a close second.  

     By 17:00, I realized that Copenhagen Cards enabled its users a free canal tour and I signed on to participate in one.

      Why the hell not? I reasoned.

     When I boarded the boat, unbeknownst to me, the tour would be over 1.5 hours long which effectively threw off my 18:00 meeting with Line and Jacob at the Amager Pub by, at least, a half hour.  I pulled my phone, googled the pub’s number and dialed:

     “Hello, is this Hotel Amager?”  I queried.  Amager was pronounced here with phonemes similar to amateur.

     “No, this is Hotel Amager.”  Pronounced uh-ma, by the receiver. I was confused and nearly hung up the phone.

     “Oh, well, is Line there?”  I continued.

     “No, Line isn’t here.”

     “Okay, goodbye!”  I thought perhaps, Line and Jacob hadn’t really intend to meet up for a visit to Christiania, and I was, at that moment, being effectively stood up.  However, that wasn’t the case.  When I got back to Hotel Amager, they’d been waiting for an hour and a half.

     “Hi!”  I said, with shame.

   “We thought you weren’t coming.”  Said Line, but she looked totally cool and not too disappointed.

    “I know, but I took this tour thingy and it was an hour and half long, and I didn’t know,” and so on.

     “Doesn’t matter, I know where your room is.”  She said, jokingly.  “Anyway, you still wanna go to Christiania?”  

      “Hell yeah I do.”  I said enthusiastically.
    As we sauntered along on our way there, we encountered a man who was  attempting to steal clothes from a consignment store.  Another man was already there to reprimand the thief.  My companions interfered with the thief's aim to loot the merchandise, and for about ten minutes, we stood around to ensure that the issue was sorted out.  Consequently, the thief took off.

     Christiania had a makeshift community feel to it.  Some of the establishments were sturdily designed and appeared unmistakably urban; beautiful graffiti covered the walls with tasteful presentation; the artsy collective vibe and the spirit of anarchists who pioneered the neighborhood were largely present in both the air and its walls.  The streets were covered with lush vegetation, as if to shield voyeurs from peering in to private quarters.  In addition, the air smelled of either nag champa or axe body spray, and sometimes, both.

Grafitti

     “This is Pusher Street.  I don’t trust the stores where sellers wear masks.  It just feels weird.”  Said Line.  We proceeded to walk towards a stand where she purchased hashish and a bag of kush.  Shortly thereafter, we headed to Nemoland.  Nemoland whose colorful motif was inspired by the cartoon fish was essentially a large outdoor foodcourt; a music stage on one corner, and then bar shacks on another.    

     “So this is only done in Denmark.”  Line took a cigarette (intended to help burn the hashish) but instead of extracting the content, she lit a lighter and grilled the stick.  She alleged that the practice burned the nicotine off which helped prevent addiction.  I didn’t know the science behind this, but the ritual looked interesting.  When the joint was rolled, we took turns until it was gone.

     “What’s crazy about the world today, is that we, humans, are built like robots.”  Said Jacob, almost apropos of nothing.  “We wake up everyday, work for 12-16 hours, and then go home, and then we do it all again.”  He added.

     The joint was beginning to take effect, and although I kept quiet, I figured this passionately existential remark was due to him being a progeny of ancestors that gave the world Søren Kierkegaard.
     Is this a Danish archetype?  I wondered.

     Line was laughing, and soon after, Jacob and I were too.  We laughed all the way back to the pub.

Epilogue:

      When I boarded the long haul flight back to Seattle two days later, I immediately began reminiscing.  Scandinavia, as a place, had been wonderful all throughout.  But when I was struck with thoughts of the old man and his dog after I had ran into them that morning, my attitude about the trip shifted.  Although I intended to travel to see only things or places, and be alone most of the time, all of my perambulations were immersed into the company of people; there was no period when I felt regret for having done that.  Maybe the capital T, truth, about life is that you sometimes shouldn’t do it alone.  There are a lot of good people around, said a neon sign in Bergen, and the people I befriended proved that was true.  As I hopped into different localities during this journey, I was met with amity and the best of humankind was always keenly displayed.  That’s probably the case everywhere and I just needed to learn how to embrace the presence of others.

Bergen

Scandinavia in 10 minutes.