I'm in Denmark, still.
I've been traveling with Shay for the past few days, and have come to the conclusion that I can remain in one place for about three days before the jetlag catches me, and then it consumes me.
We were in Copenhagen, then train'd to Jutland, now back in Copenhagen. Things have started to look the same, everywhere in the world. DSB trains look like Metro North trains. Danes look like Germans look like Californians. The only place I can be relaxed is New York.
We went from Copenhagen to Jutland, literally across the country, to the North Sea coast. The land is incredibly flat; the sky unfathomably vast. The beaches are not marred with dunes in the way California beaches or Long Island beaches are--they are almost like moonscapes in their barren expansiveness.
I marvel, sometimes, at the pace of my life over the last few months. But also over the last two years. Two years ago, my brother was in jail and was a drug addict. Now, he's sober and on the dean's list. Two years ago, I weighed 88 lbs. Now, I'm running marathons and not waging a private battle for my life.
So, Jutland.
It's the strangest place, really. We went to kulturnatten, in the oldest town in Denmark. Steeped in Nordic history, we drank the spiced mead and watched the Viking passion plays. People dressed up in old costumes, asking us about their gods in languages we didn't understand because we looked the part; we looked Danish. People who looked and acted the same way people looked and acted at my aunt and uncle's church in Virginia; the same ways people looked and acted where I went to highschool.
People are all the same really. Communities are all the same. Autumn is the same everywhere...where it's cold, and people gather in community centers and churches and put on shows and listen to music and come together and noses run and cheeks are red and candles glow and the promise of holidays glisten in the distance.
We stood, the next day, on the shores of the North Sea, looking out.
"I swim in the Pacific in winter, you know," Shay said, removing her boots and socks; looking ridiculous in her borrowed fisherman's sweater.
"That's dumb," I said, hugging my coat closer around the zig-zaggy sweater I'd been assigned by our Danish host, looking doubly ridiculous in a too-big sweater that made my coat too tight, a slouchy beret, and expensive, buggy sunglasses. But I removed my shoes and socks too.
I remembered, a year and a half earlier, around the world, doing the same thing in the South China Sea on the shores of Repulse Bay in Hong Kong; now understanding the significance of all those things. Getting on a call to Hong Kong the day I signed the papers; now standing on the moon on the edges of uncharted waters.
It was a sort of baptism; a sort of purification ritual; a sort of stupid thing to be doing in the freezing weather with a marathon coming up.
"Doesn't it feel good!" Shay shouted from father out. It was a declaration, not a question.
"No," I said. I meant it.
It didn't feel good at all. But it was a necessary thing.
We emerged from the water; reshod ourselves; and felt warmer, suddenly, for having taken a dip in the freezing cold.
Comments (3)
Excellent post. I loved the P: "People are all the same...," especially the last line.
Reading your little stories makes me feel almost happy to be alive.
Love that you waded in the water if only for the "have to" thought! marilyn