Art... July 20

One can never truly recreate an experience. A friendship, the ambiance of a party, or the feel of the city on a certain day. The previous day, during my customary tour of the streets, I saw many things I had wished I could have photographed, but I had left my camera behind. Everywhere I had looked, there was an something that I wanted to capture. The way the crane operator slept with his feet against the window, high off the ground, as he waited to lift the next dumpster bin from the roof. The way the light caught the frame of the hidden door in the wall. The way an African family, brightly dressed in their colourful robes, walked down the street.

This day, I left my hostel with the thoughts of capturing what I had seen before. As I wandered, I realized I could not photograph what had already happened. The moment was gone. So lost in thought, I missed much of what was new and should be photographed. Even as pulled myself into the present, I could not bring myself to photograph the strange beauty I see in every object and space. Perhaps I was too concerned with how my photographs would be perceived by others and that is a terrible thing to think. Admittedly though, seeing every second tourist with a camera taking the same photos over and over again is discouraging. When does one become deserving to be bold enough to proclaim his ideas are "art"?

My aimless wandering took me to an alley where a man was spray painting his thoughts on a wall already covered with an array of strange creatures. Mouths and eyes and ears and arms were all randomly placed around a blob of monster staring out at passers-by. At first, I wanted to engage in conversation as I had with the Carlos, the man from Rio, but thought better of it. He acknowledge my presence with a brief nod and I stood quietly to watch him create another monster to join the ranks of his mates.

Using only spray cans, he brought to life the lines and patterns and colours that would form his newest creature. Thin black lines became the outline of eyes, filled in with white. More black horizontal lines created the pattern of the odd fellow's mouth. Blue paint was brought out again to over-spray the patterns to make them complete and clean. Hair sprouted from the top of its head, looking very much like an unkempt school boy. Before my eyes, the vision of this man appeared from atomized paint into an entity with a personality and history one could easily imagine.

I watched only for a little while, snapping a few photos before quietly wandering off. I don't know if he saw me leave or if he cared. It doesn't really matter I suppose, he wasn't making art for me or for any one else I imagine. He was doing it for his own sake or at least for the sake of his pets.

Carlos, July 18

It was late and the evening light was beginning the wane, the lull in the crowd was only temporary as people went home between shopping and an evening out. Since it was Richie's first day busking in Oslo, I came down to Carl Johans Gata, to watch and encourage my friend. He did not particularly need the encouragement or the audience, but I thought it would be worth my while to see him perform. The promenade was not particularly busy and money was slow to come, but people were stopping briefly to listen and by the end of the night Richie did well enough. .

As usual, my attention wandered and I found myself observing my surroundings, watching the people as they shopped
Up the cobble-stoned street, was a man I had seen every day I had ventured to this area. Standing no more than five feet tall and wearing a yellow Brazil shirt, but barrel chested with thickly muscled arms, he leaned on his crutches. He had clearly been stricken by some disease that had robbed him of any sustained use of his stunted legs. However to imply he was standing there, begging for money, would be a grievous insult. One did not have to watch for long to realize he was not capitalizing on pity one might feel for his "disability", it was plain to see he was more able than not.

He was a busker or rather an athlete performing as many do on street all over the world. Although his mobility seemed to be in the wheelchair that sat patiently next to him, he stood rooted to the stones under his spread feet, like an old tree suited to a harsh environment, thick and solid against the winds. From crutch to crutch, his football (soccer ball, but this is Europe after all) bounced back and forth. Then he would keep the ball airborne with a single crutch. Next he would balance the ball on the end of the shaft of the crutch, carefully keeping the it centred and stable. It would stay there until he lifted it high into the air, directing it over his head. Leaning forward on his crutches, he caught and steadied the ball, then juggled ball off his head in true football style.

I stopped counting after a dozen or so bounces, but he did not stop at that. The ball never touched the ground, he never lost control, and never stumbled. He stands there all day, every day (every nice day, he doesn't much care for the rain), earning a living. He does, if only occasionally, take a break when he feels the need
His name is Carlos Da Silva and he lives in Rio de Janeiro. Speaking in perfect English, he tells me the money from busking is so good in Oslo, he flies here every summer to work. It was clear to me this man possessed far more than the physical strength required to stand all day and perform, he also had the strength of spirit that proclaimed he would not lie down and accept the his fate. Another man asked why he had the crutches. Carlos answered simply and directly, polio, when he was a child. Brushing the question aside as though it were of no importance than the colour of his crutches, he added, but it doesn't matter. He would not be pitied. I pressed him for more details of his life as I snapped photos in the fading light and he willingly spoke about his life. Never once did the ball stop.

He was anxious to get home to watch the Parapan American Games in Rio that were to take place in August. His house was only blocks away from most of the venues and he was quite excited to watch. I found it unlikely he simply watched sports, he was too well built to be some one who contented himself by sitting in the stands or on the couch. Grinning, he told me he was an avid basketball player, he had competed at various levels,and would rejoin his team when he returned home. As with most athletes, he was not limited to one sport. His other passion was distance races and his best time in a marathon was 1h:58m, placing 28 of 400. I could not hide my appreciation for that feat, any endurance race at that pace and distance is gruelling.

Incidentally, his record for keeping the ball aloft is two hours and forty-five minutes, with over twenty-five thousand consecutive bounces.

Music, July 17

After a dinner of delicious thin crust pizza, Jan (the Swedish motorcycle traveler), Richie (the Australian busker), and I (vagrant) debated the plans for the evening. I opined for staying in at the hostel where the beer was cheap and there was guaranteed to be a crowd that would provide for an entertaining evening. After the previous night's successful gathering, I knew it would be possible to create something fun, as long as we had the right ingredients. If Richie was willing to play and sing for us, I knew a crowd would gather and we would have a good night. Richie was indeed amiable to playing and with that, we sat ourselves down on the couch, beer in hand.

Naturally, people came to join us. Some were friends from the previous night, others were new and were looking to share in our conversations. Eventually, Richie sought out his guitar and when he returned, he was ready to play for us. Finding a tall stool and arranging himself comfortably, he began to play. It was a small area, so his voice carried easily around the room. It was still early in the evening and there were many people hanging about the common area. There were groups checking in, heavy packs still on their backs. One or two people were checking their email in the corner with the computers. A few others were chatting idly as they waited for a friend or were just relaxing. Many paused and listened for a moment or two before continuing on their way, but a few stayed for a while.

Then, Richie launched into Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah. For the next seven minutes, as he sang the verses and choruses of the poetry, every one was quiet. The crowd that had been busy was now still, stopped dead in their tracks, arrested by the words and the music. Computers sat idle as their users' attention was diverted. For those seven minutes, a room full of strangers were quietly joined in spirit. It was only when his voice faded, did people return from where ever the song had taken them and back to their tasks.

Intermission: Kebabs at the Kebab House Rules. If ever there was an international food, kebabs would be it. So good.

The night was well into its prime by now, but not yet old enough to pass on. Returning to his stool, our Australian busker treated us to more music before passing the guitar on, happy to share. It was picked up by a man born in Toronto, but who had lived his life in Spain. He spoke very little English, but was eager to strum on the guitar for a while. Working his way through Hotel California, we worked our way through our libations.

A man walked into the hostel. Well into the latter part of his life. He was soft spoken, and well seasoned. He wore a faded tweed jacket and clothes that had seen many miles, but were well sewn and would see many more miles. It was easy to see he had, also seen many miles, but was not at all faded. With shaggy grey hair and stubble he carried himself like a man who had seen much and was slow to judge. He checked in, then joined our circle, eager to play his harmonica and sing with Richie. I learned his name was Jan Williams and he had spent 30 years hoboing around the U.S. He grew up in Norway and had a place in the northern islands now, but I never did learn why he was in Oslo. It didn't seem to matter though, he was here and was a friend for the evening. As the guitar found itself back into the hands of its owner, Jan had sat down and began to play. For a while, he and Richie sang the blues, and we listened.

Again the guitar changed hands, first to Jan then to the Spanish man. Each took a turn playing and singing a little. The simple joy of making music and sharing was enough. The guitar was in the hands of the Spaniard, who played lovingly, when the man from Gambia entered. He was another man who had seen many miles and been to many places. He spoke little English and was dressed in a rich purple, traditional robe. A matching cap sat neatly on the top of his head. I don't know how the three of them communicated, neither the Spaniard nor the Gambian man spoke much English, but some how they communicated and they began to play and sing in harmony. Jan had removed a cooking pot from his bag and was tapping out a rhythm to match the Spaniard's. From the three of them came the music of Miles Davis in true jazz fashion. Impromptu and improvised.

This was my night.

Letting the crowd come, July 16

The hostel in Oslo had a small lounge area, but it was part of the open space that also contained the reception and the T.V. Music was usually playing in the background, often battling with the T.V. for auditory supremacy. None the less, there were always people around, drinking from the bar, using the computers, or otherwise hanging about.

The coveted place though, was a spot on the large, arced couch. Occupying a spot here placed you in the middle of everything. With the intention of meeting people, I sat myself down and looked for a likely victim who might indulge me in conversation. It was still early and the only people close were two German girls who were sitting quietly, but after a couple failed attempts to start a conversation, I returned to my book. I remained seated, there wasn't anywhere else I particularly wanted to be and I did not have any desire to hide out in my room, nor was I in the mood to wander the city any further. I had spent the day on the waterfront, some distance from the hostel. Reading alone, but surrounded by people was my preference, for the moment.

I had read very few pages before a Swedish man sat down and began speaking to me. I obliged happily, he was older and not nearly as cute as the German girls, but he was interesting to talk to. Like the man I had met in Lillehammer, he was traveling through to northern Norway by motorcycle and was looking to get out of the rain for a couple days. At least he ended up staying there for a couple days, I am not sure how long he intended to stay. We chatted for some time, from one topic to another, with one beer to another.

Empty beer bottles began to collect on the table, it seems alcohol is always the precursor to any sort of gathering. We were joined by some young lads who had been skateboarding and were quite ready for a rest. Two of them were from Stockholm, like the man traveling on his motorcycle, and the third lad was a Parisian. They were in town to make a skate video of some sort and were sponsored by various companies.

The German girls were content to stay and, to my surprise, participate in the conversation. I think though, much of their participation was due to the charismatic Australian man who joined us. I learned he had spent the last 7 months living in Ireland, busking for the post-bar pedestrians (read: very drunk Irish) and was now traveling a little throughout Europe. His singing and guitar playing were sufficient to finance not only his travels and accommodations, but it was enough that he was able to save up a very large nest egg for his eventual return home. He later confided in me how much he had been able to save, let me just say it was enough for me to be quite jealous and wish I had the ability to sing (read: sing well) and to play an instrument. I suppose it is up to all of us to find that talent we love and use it constructively. Maybe not to be rich, but at least to find some measure of happiness.

The night passed easily as the crowd that had gathered grew and dwindled, as the conversations ebbed and flowed. I found it to be a nice alternative to spending a night out in a club or bar. For once, I was not wading through cigarette smoke and straining to hear people speak.

Hungry for Paper, July 16

I was craving a book. I needed to read. My conversations with Guro rekindled that desire to devour written words, pages at a time, until my eyes hurt and my mind forces me to quietly ponder new perspectives and ideas. Buying a book though, can often be an overwhelming and trying experience for me. Presented with choices numbering in the thousands, I often leave a book store empty handed, unable to decide on one book that I feel I have connected with. Today though, I was on a mission.

In any major city, there will always be more than one book store that will have an English section. In Oslo there were several and I easily found one with a large section devoted to my native tongue. I quietly perused the selections, letting my eyes rest on the spines of the books, contemplating author and title. Atwood, Ondaanje, Hosseini, Herbert. Celebrated and acclaimed authors, some I have read, others I will read later, and of course there were those I wished to reread. For a long while, I stood, randomly selecting sections to read titles, until a name became clear to me. Coehlo.

Coehlo, the author of The Alchemist, perhaps the most personally inspiring book I have chance to read. The Alchemist was given to me by my friend, Nadya, just as I was leaving Ottawa for my adventure. Although a small book and simply written, it reverberated through me as I placed myself in the story. I would happily read more of what this man had thought to pen, perchance there would be more inspiration to be drawn from his books.

From the book store's selection, I chose two books that intrigued me the most. A novel about madness, accepting it, and living in a world that strives for normality (Veronica Decides to Die), and a collection of Coehlo's thoughts, essays, and short stories (Like the Flowing River). Indeed both these titles gave me much to reflect upon. The former led me to be more accepting of the little bits of crazy we all have, hidden or not, and the later influenced my decision to be more faithful in keeping my journal up to date and to allow myself more freedom to express my thoughts. Some of those thoughts will remain in those journals and it will be many years before I allow them to be seen by curious eyes. Others, I suppose I will freely express as I feel necessary.

All in due time though.

Platonic is an Ugly Word, July 14

Do you remember what your mother told you when you were little; Never judge a book by its cover? Every once and a while we get a reminder to the truth of this. Mine came, not as real surprise, but as an interesting addition to my previous observations.

After a day of doing very little and accomplishing almost nothing (it was raining and I was tired), I went over to the Princess of Culinary Delights for dinner. Since we had met, she had divulged some personal details that were, I hesitate to say surprising, but were definitely unexpected. Of course, you will want to know what they are, but I think in the interest of tact and respect, I will leave you guessing. Well, just so I am not a complete jerk, I will give this up: Princess of Fashion and Style is also a law student. Yes fellas, I can arrange introductions.

Onto my original point then. When I got to her place, one of the things that caught my attention was the floor to ceiling bookshelf overflowing with books. This was actually the fourth thing in the list of attention grabbing items. The first was the amount of her shoes I had to climb over just to get in the door, but after shopping with her, I wasn't particularly surprised by this.

As I perused the books, I was surprised at the number of authors and titles I recognized, and by the number of books I had read. For some one who was the first person I met in my travels beyond Canada and a random introduction at that, we certainly had a lot more in common than I had anticipated. We lost the evening discussing the things that interested us and recommending books to each other until neither one of us could stand any more tea and our yawns became frequent. By the time I reached my hostel and was in bed, the sun was coming up.

Leaving Los Rena, July 13

With the morning came the obligatory hangover which, admittedly, could have been a lot worse. I was some how smart enough to hydrate myself during the night and the effects of the alcohol withdrawal were somewhat mitigated. Jo Ann wasn't quite so prudent. Neither one of us felt much like moving though or at least moving quickly. By the time either of us had rolled out of our beds, it was well past noon. God bless our inn keeper and his 2pm check out time.

As we began the arduous process of packing our bags, Jo Ann realized she didn't have her camera and had no idea where she could have lost it. I had a vague notion it could be at the bar, but neither of us could remember using it there. Although she was concerned she had lost it, she didn't seem able to muster up the energy to get too worked up over the potential loss.

Bags packed, we left for the lobby and our gracious host who didn't seem to be in nearly as rough shape as he should have been after having to get up at 6am. He readily agreed to watch our bags for us as we opted to hunt for the camera and maybe get a little bit to eat.

The camera was indeed at the pub, but our memories were still fuzzy and we weren't sure how it got there. I still had that odd recollection of seeing it on our table. We had to wait to get back to the hotel to use Jo Ann's lap top before we could see the photos and whatever damning evidence may be on it, the screen on the camera was broken.

As we flipped though the photos, we laughed at the highlights of the previous evening. The video of the kid driving his POS Citroen or whatever while playing his 50 Cent excessively loud as he drove around the block repeatedly gave us a chuckle. Nothing like a skinny white kid driving daddy's grey sedan through the main street of The Middle of No Where, Norway while listening to his hardcore, gansta rap. Small fish, my friend, very small pond.

We particularly enjoyed the photos of us and the hotel baron as he and I were involved serious discourse. We eagerly showed him the photos, as we sat in the hotel lounge, he said he was as equally oblivious to the camera man as I was. Finally, coming to the end of our photographic and video record, we were ready to view the file that had piqued our curiosity the most. The last file on the camera was a video file. Neither one of us had any idea what was on this video nor did we know who was the artist. Well, imagine my surprise when I heard my own voice in a drunken monologue describing our night out, the surrounding area, the proximity of our hotel, then exclaiming "VIVA LA NORWAY". This is why one should not do shots of tequila.

Since Jo Ann's train wasn't leaving until 5pm, I had to stay in town until 5pm. It was just as well though, according to our city guide and accommodations provider, there was a bus leaving at 5pm that would be cheaper than the train to Oslo. It was only around 3pm at this point so we had a couple hours spend. Jo Ann decided she had lost the will to live and spent the time in sleepy bliss on the couch. I watched Young Guns. Do you think they could have found a worse actor than Emilio Estevez to play Billy the Kid? Thankfully Kiefer was there to lessen my suffering.

My quota for western movies filled for at least the next little while, I tried to shake Jo Ann into this dimension. Eventually she returned from where she was, presumably a place far more comfortable than consciousness. She was a little irritated at me, she could have slept for at least another 15 minutes. I thought that was pretty insensitive of her, she didn't just sit through Estevez badly overact a ruthless, adolescent gunslinger.

Truthfully, I thought it would take her a lot longer than it did for her to get packed and ready to go, then for us to get to the tracks. After her train came and we said our goodbyes, I was left to wait for my bus. I had only about 10 minutes to wait, but I decided to check the schedule that was posted at the bus station next to me. It took me up until that point to realize that Rutebillenstajon was the bus station. Unfortunately, the bus to Oslo was at 15:00. 5pm and 15:00 are not the same, I guess I should have checked the schedule for myself before then. At least there was a train leading to Oslo that was suppose to come within minutes of Jo Ann's train.

I found a couple army conscripts that were waiting for that train as well, but before long we had decided the train simply was not coming and we would have to take the next one at 7pm (1900). There was only one obvious way to pass the time, at the pub. I nursed that beer for a very, very long time. I never did learn the names of the lads, but I did find out a bit about them and there lives.

Every Norwegian man has to do military service for at least a year, I think. These two were stationed at the base just outside of Rena, on security detail. It was a pretty boring post by the sounds of things. They weren't particularly excited to be there, even if they did get to carry big guns all day and shoot their automatic weapons at the range once a week. They were on their way home to Bergen, which is in the west coast and about 7 hours by train from Oslo. The older of the two boys was 23 and was about to be the father of a baby girl. He was on his way home to be with his girlfriend, who I am sure is not impressed he was away for so long. The other lad, well, he was around 20 and was just doing his best to pass his time while he had to do his service.

Finally, that time came and we were able to catch the train. One transfer later, I was back in Oslo and civilization.

Random Adventures and 10 Pin Bowling, July 12

Rain. Why does it always rain in this part of the world, I thought it was summer? No matter, a hot cup of tea and some breakfast was enough to make the sun come out again. It wasn't enough to create emails in my inbox though...

My morning was proving to be very uninteresting, but there is nothing quite like boredom to force a decision. After a few minutes of indecisive pacing, I wandered back up to my room for a hot shower. Hot showers make the world a better place and decisions a little easier (mostly because it means putting them off). By happy circumstance, the TV that was placed for easy viewing from the beds, also allowed for a comfortable view from the shower. I procrastinated under the hot water for a little longer until I got shampoo in my eyes. I spent the rest of the morning watching Rihanna dance with her umbrella.

I checked out of the hostel, again, but this time I wizened up and put my pack in a locker. I had learned my lesson and felt no need to repeat yesterday's full body work out, as much as I probably need it.

Feeling good about my day, I walked up to the promenade to explore the shops and watch the people. I had to withdraw some money before I could do much else, but isn't that always the case? It didn't take me long to find an ATM and I went about the process of refilling my leaky wallet.

Insufficient funds.

Um? I tried a lesser amount.

This machine is not authorized by your bank.

Panic? I kept my emotions under control -barely- and thought things through a little. It might be a weird bank sharing, interac thing. Maybe the solution was another bank. Well, do you think I could find another machine after a half hour of walking up and down the main strip? Of course not. Finally, after exhausting the most obvious spots for an ATM, I was forced to think. Perhaps I ought to use the handy dandy internet thing. I could check my account status and get a better handle on what my malfunction was.

As is always the way, I found another back on the way back to the computer, but I was on a mission and I walked right passed. It only took a few minutes to discover the problem and a few more minutes to rectify the situation with a phone call to a sleepy bank operator. It was 11:30 am for me, but way late (or early?) for her. For some reason, the Norwegian cash machines were withdrawing money from another account. I could breath a sigh of relief, I wasn't broke. Yet.

Money crisis averted, I went back to the promenade. I met an interesting man there who was selling shawls and scarves from Kashmir, made by his family. He spends his time traveling and selling his wares around the world. He looked like a man who loved what he was doing, he had the air of a man who was living his dream. For a couple months at a time, he would rent flat in one city or another, and sell his family's silks. I thought about buying one, but they were expensive (even though he would have given me a deal) and I had no place to carry them.

There was very little else to do in Lillehammer and I wasn't much interested in sticking around. I took a roundabout route back to the train station and did see a pretty creek that ran through the city, but it's not like I haven't seen fourteen thousand of those. As usual, I had to hurry up and wait so I could take the right train to meet up with my American friend, Jo Ann. I certainly have a lot of time, I just wish I would learn to spend that as liberally as I spend money, which I have much less of.

Jo Ann and I had plans to meet in Hamar where she was working then head to a little town called Skarnes. My lonely planet guide had it listed and it seemed like a good idea. A good idea until we realized it was over four hours away. Neither one of us much felt like spending the next fours, essentially the rest of the day, on the train. It would have been close to ten in the evening before we got there. Unsure of our options and, for once, my lonely planet book couldn't suggest anything nearby, we did the only logical thing we could think of. We randomly picked the closest town.

And that's how we ended up in Rena, population 2009 (thank you wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rena,_Norway). Rena has one hotel, two pubs (one of which seems to be closed), and not much else. Oh, there is the massive army base nearby, which is pretty much the only reason the town exists. As we marched up and down the street, it soon dawned on us we had two choices. We could either get back on the train and find somewhere else to be or we could pay the inflated lodging costs at the hotel. We were in the middle of nowhere with seemingly no activities for tourists to do, the answer is obvious. We checked into the hotel.

As we were chatting with the hotel owner/desk clerk, we talked about the possibly of going for a hike. We thought that might be fun, considering how far into the middle of nowhere we were. By the time we had unpacked and settled in for a little while though, we had one thing on our minds. Beer. It was definitely that time. So, back to the front desk. Where is a good place to get a pint and sit on the patio, we asked. Our host graciously pointed out the establishment across the street, reminding us it was the only place to go. We thanked him and made our way across the street. (We would be later thankful of the proximity of the hotel to the drinking establishment, but I am getting ahead of myself)

The pub was a nice little place with room for maybe a dozen outside and twice as many inside. The owner didn't speak much English, but ordering beer in most languages is not difficult. As it frequently does, one beer turns into two, and two into three. Somewhere through our second pint, the hotel keeper/owner/tourist information guide left his post to joined his buddies for a few rounds and a rousing game of darts. For those of you who know me well, you may be aware I can sometimes be a little on the gregarious side. Fueled by even small quantities of alcohol, the little voice in my head that keeps me out of trouble and that I do so well to ignore, is utterly silenced. I did a very good impression of the NY Yankees pitcher-styled dart player. The trash talking had begun and I was making new friends.

Near the end of our third beer (that's when I stopped counting), the hotel owner/pro darts player came up to us as he and his buds were leaving. They were off to go bowling and we were welcome to join them. It took us all of 13.7 seconds to concur, bowling was a damn good idea. It may have been the beer talking. I am pretty sure it was.

It took us a few minutes to find the bowling alley. It was at the other end of town, maybe 900 metres away, around a corner, and on the back side of a strange building. Jo Ann told me it was inappropriate to bring up the movie "Hostel".

With our slick bowling shoes laced up tight and our balls chosen carefully (Jo Ann picked a pink one, mine was blue), the battle lines had been drawn. Our first match was against each other. I had hoped to at least put up a good fight, but it was soon apparent I was clearly out matched. After I was solidly shellacked, we joined the opposing ranks of the dueling locals. Maybe with a small army supporting me, I could maybe prove a worthy opponent. Not even close. The first round went decisively to Jo Ann and her crew. By this time the folks I had harassed at the pub were feeling more than a little vindicated and they were saying things that made the old lady blush. Dramatic dart thrower was an equally bombastic bowler. He was equivocal in his feelings for Jo Ann, who he had decided was my girlfriend. He pronounced his ever changing opinions often and loudly. Maybe a little belligerently. In the end the second round went to us, but I am not sure my one strike was enough to reclaim any honour I may have had nor was enough to particularly contribute to the win.

Since no one was able to see straight, we decided the best thing to do would be to pack it in for the night. So we staggered back to the pub. My friend the hotel keeper was in worse shape than I was, at least I could stand without swaying (I think), and decided give up for the evening. Jo Ann had already disappeared into the pub for some vodka shots and I didn't see her until I went in to sit. That's how I remember it anyway, unfortunately there is photographic evidence to the contrary. There is a fantastic photo of yours truly in deep conversation with the hotel keeper, while Jo Ann posed with us for the camera. I think I know who took the photo, but as is evident in the pictures, I am completely unaware of the photographer.

It was 11pm and still fairly bright out side, but things were getting a little fuzzy for me. Fortunately, bad ass dart thrower and bowler extraordinaire bought me a beer and a shot of tequila. Of course that would make things much better. It wasn't long after that and after making a few promises to be up at 8am to paint for one of the locals, Jo Ann and I decided enough was enough and it was time to find the hotel. How fortuitous it was across the street.

Midnight rolled around and it was starting to get dark, everything was awfully fuzzy. Once in our room and starting to get ready for bed, we exchanged a few inane comments, none of which I remotely remember. What I do remember is this; it was late and I was feeling a little, um, shall we say randy. Using my best swagger, I walked over to Jo Ann and kissed her, which of course was received well. Feeling as though things could go very well for me, I surreptitiously placed a couple items next to the bed. Not quite ready do my best Casanova, I left things as they were for the moment so I could drink some very cold water and brush my teeth. As I stood over my bag, trying to retrieve my tooth brush, I noticed the ground was oddly getting closer. Sitting seemed like a better option, I was well on my way there anyway.

While enjoying the stability from a lower centre of gravity, I started feeling a little religious. Getting up, I swayed into the bathroom as though I were a zealot lost in the spirit world and said a few porcelain prayers. I felt remarkably better and knew my morning would be much better for my devotion. I brushed my teeth and collapsed in a heap on my bed and did not move until the morning. Jo Ann had long left the world of the conscious.

The Man Who Went Up a Mountain and Came Down with Sore Legs, Lillehammer July 11

I thought I would start the day off right, with a cup of tea and some much needed breakfast. I didn't know at the time how much I would need the energy from my morning meal. I wanted to check my email, but the wireless connection on the hostel's communal laptop wasn't working. I fiddled with it for a little while, but it was morning and my brain is slow enough at that time of day without having to read Norwegian. It wasn't long before I gave up on the laptop and went in search of another machine. (I did find a kiosk in the information centre which became my link to the outside world while I was in Lillehammer)

I had expected to leave that day to meet my American friend in Hamar, so I packed up my stuff and checked out of the hostel. I had no immediate plans to leave the city, so I thought I would explore a little of what Lillehammer had to offer. (This is when I should have put my 20 Kilo pack in a locker at the train station, why I didn't...)

Lillehammer is still living off the '94 Olympic high and the main attractions are the Olympic museum, which was of little interest to me, and the ski jump. The sky jump is at the top of the hill (read mountain) in the city. I had decided I would like to see after my Swedish room mate from the previous night had mentioned he watched people practicing. I thought it would be pretty cool to watch some real ski jumpers, even if it was in the summer.

It wasn't hard to find the ski jump, there were signs everywhere indicating the route and it was at the top of the mountain. There may have been a less circuitous route for those not driving, but it was a nice day for a walk, the rain had let off for a while and the sun was out. It was a long way up the hill, but when I got to the base of the jump, I realized there were stairs to the top. There was only one thing I could do, I had to go up. There was no way I was going to come to this city, get the hill, and not climb the stairs. 40lbs backpack be damned, I am going up. It wasn't exactly a record setting pace, but I did manage to get to the top, with more than one break. Please remember, these stairs are exactly as steep as the ramp the skiers whoosh down to jump over a hundred metres. It's pretty steep.

I did have to duck under the ramp for little while as it started to rain, but at least I was sheltered. While I was hanging out under an Olympic ski ramp, I got a great vantage point as the skier who was practicing that day, went whoosh down the sloop into oblivion. The ramp is covered with an artificial turf that is kept wet with a mister and the skier lands on a very steep section which is of a similar material. Whoosh.... fwump. Very cool.

I stayed at the top for quite a while. It was easier than going those stairs and it was raining. There was a covered terrace with some picnic tables, sitting there was preferable to doing just about anything else. Also the view was nice.

Eventually I began my decent. It was way harder than the ascent. The lactic acid was happily lounging in my legs and no intention of vacating the premises. My legs protested and shook during the long and slow process I can best describe as falling without much style. I eventually made it to the train station and promptly sat down for a good long while. I had some food stashed in my pack, so I had a little picnic and thought about what I was going to do next. I knew one thing above all, I wasn't going to do much. After calling my friend and making plans for the next day, I checked back into the hostel.

My socks had descended into the 7th circle of nastiness, so it was fortunate I had the room to my self. Laundry detail is not something you want to share with a stranger when the quarters were roughly the size of Millhaven's maximum security solitary confinement lockers.

Now that my funky socks and the rest of my clothes were hanging to dry all over the bathroom, I was free to do a lot of nothing. What I really wanted was to use the internet, which of course I could only do if I fixed the Norwegian computer. So I did. I probably would have had it fixed sooner, but there was much flirting with the hostel employee. She had chocolates and asserted I should have some. What? I love chocolate. The fact they were offered by a pretty woman has nothing to do with anything.

The rest of my evening was spent quietly taking care of correspondence and not walking up or down and mountains.

No Matter how Crazy you are... July 10

When I arrived in Lillehammer, it dawned on me, I had absolutely no idea where the hostel was and everything was closed. Some day, I might learn the prudence of planning, but it wouldn't be that day or the next. I briefly considered wandering in the vain hope of finding the hostel or maybe a sign to point me in the right direction, it was a small town after all. After what was a brief moment of insanity, I came back to my senses. I had written down the phone number of the hostel, just in case, so I decided to call them. Brilliant, no? Well, the fella on the other end of the line said the hostel was at the train station. I was at the train station. When I turned around 180 degrees, I found myself right in front of the hostel entrance. Sigh, what's a guy to do? It could have been worse, right?

As with the other hostels I have been to in small towns, this one was equally as boring. I guess young people tend to stick to the bigger cities that have the night life and larger attractions. Go figure.

My room mate, however, was an interesting man. He was on his annual motorcycle trip. Every year he spends 2-3 weeks riding through whatever Scandinavian route interests him. He usually camps, but the weather had been so atrocious, he decided to have a dry night in a hostel. He was an introverted man who seemed to prefer his own company, but he certainly had a lot to express. He had recently broken off his relationship with his girlfriend of a year and a half. It seems she cared more about her dog than she did for him. I think that would be enough for me to call off a relationship as well, I just know I could let that last a year and a half.

While he was away, it was up to her to deal with the apartment they had together. He seemed okay with letting her take care of all of their possessions and not having a place when he finished his trip. Well, he was a little concerned about having to look for a place in Stockholm, I guess housing there is difficult to find.

My favourite thing about this man though, is his hobby. Marathons. He liked to travel around, just to run marathons. Now I like running, but I guess this is a whole other level of addiction. He was still recovering from the marathon he ran the previous Saturday. With a cracked rib. In a few months, he would be traveling with some friends to do some extreme running in the mountains. I think that meant something like a hundred or more kilometres. To each his own, I guess.

In the morning, his parting words were, he was off to church to get right with God. It was raining again.

Oslo for an Evening and a Day, July 9-10

I was able to find a hostel with a free bed easily enough. It was also only a quick and direct walk from the central station where I had left my American friend. No, I didn't get lost this time. After a short time jockeying to keep my position, I had finally checked in.

For a Monday night, the town was buzzing with activity. Metallica was playing in town the next night and there were people everywhere looking for tickets, buying and selling t-shirts, and generally stoked for the concert. I have seen Metallica live before, they put on a pretty wild show so I could understand the anticipation the crowds were feeling. Unfortunately, since Metallica was in town, that meant all the hostels were booked for the next night. I would have to leave the city if I wanted to avoid an asphalt bed. Oh well, I would deal with that in the new day. For the moment, it was time to enjoy the city and the company of my friend.

Although it was late, Princess Hotness was eager to get out of the house for a little while. She has a room mate and their history is complicated. We met at the only landmark I could remember from my hour in the city: the tiger that prowls the fountain at the train station. It was good to see her again, although this time she hadn't spent 2 hours getting ready before going out. I almost had heart failure when I saw her in jeans,a t-shirt (not Metallica), and her hair tied back in a pony-tail.

We spent the evening sitting and working out her recent boy troubles. First at the Hard Rock Cafe but, the music was loud and prominently feature a certain band that people were excited about. It didn't take long before we had enough of the rock that ambiance (as long as it took me to drink my beer, infer what you like) and we moved to another cafe. This one though, had far more charm.

The main strip of Oslo is a walking street called Carl Johans gata. You can find just about anything here, including the predatory Nigerian prostitutes. I saw more than one unsuspecting man (or group of men) react in shock as they suddenly had a woman hanging off their arm proposing sex. The number of these women is simply astounding, within a block you could see ten women clearly looking for their prey. The presence of my Princess Guardian ensured I would not be approached in my apparent obliviousness.

The cafe we found though, was in an old and very large church that had, at some point, been converted into various shops and restaurants. The outer terrace was inset in a long curved wall that wrapped itself all the way around to the opposite side of the building. We sat in the cool evening, basking in the candlelight and the near perpetual light of the northern sky, looking through the pillars as the crowds passed, and enjoying the simple pleasure of good company and hot tea.

I spent the early part of the next day, after I had grudgingly checked out of the hostel, wandering the city. I had time to meander through the streets and see some of the city.

Sometimes it is fortuitous to look the part of a traveler, people are more likely to approach, and to be approached, by some one who looks like they are on their own adventure. That day, I was wearing my well faded Tilly hat, the one I have had since I was 14 and looks very much like the kind of thing one would wear more for practicality than style. After I had walked a while, I had decided to rest my legs and observe some of the more colourful individuals as they moved through the streets. The two drunk and/or high men who yelled obscenities at each other, made threatening gestures, then shared a cigarette held my attention for a while. Then there was the the slipper wearing man in the form-fitting, slightly translucent, black dress harassing the street portraiture artists trying to make a living sketching tourists who would for 15 minutes or so. From what I gathered, the man in the dress was living his dream and dancing for the masses in the street.

My observations were interrupted by a local man on his way home from work who came over to start a conversation with me. He was also watching some of the people who were entertaining me. It was one of his pleasures in life to walk slowly down Carl Johans gata after his day at the travel agency so he could watch the people as them went on their way. Sometimes, he said, he would stop for a coffee and one of the cafes so he could sit while he watched people go on about their business. I noticed he was not wearing a wedding ring, but I decided not to say anything. In retrospect, I think I would have liked to learn more about him, simply as a matter of course. Every person has their own story and if we take the time to listen, we can learn so much from each other. Wouldn't the world be a better place if we all did that a little more? After we chatted for a little while, we exchanged pleasantries and he wandered off towards home, which while I suspect may have been empty, was still a place he was happy.

As for me, it was getting on time to catch my train to Lillehammer.

Slow Boat to Oslo, July 10

Finding the harbour and the right pier was a fairly simple task, I managed to not get lost and was there at a reasonable time. The path was well marked and the cruise ship-sized ferries were a pretty good give away. At the ticket window, I happened to overhear the person next to me order her tickets in English. Perfect, I had found a traveling partner. Although, I didn't yet know it would take 8 hours to get to Oslo and how much I would appreciate talking to some one along the way. I dawdled long enough so we boarded at the same time and I could make some inane comment about being unsure of where I was to go.

It wasn't long before we were friends and were sitting comfortably on the top deck with a beer - it was passed noon somewhere, if not where we were- and some sandwiches. My new friend was from Arizona and was on an internship representing a horse breed association during training camps put on throughout Europe. It was basically two months of traveling and meeting people who love the same things she does. Not only was it all expenses paid, but it was also a paid position. It is a pretty tough job right after college.

Our day was spent meandering and exploring the ship that was as big as I have ever been on. It had ten decks, two for cars, sleeping berths, four or five restaurants, a cinema (playing something in Norwegian I think), stores, a promenade deck or two, and where ever else we didn't bother to explore. There was enough keep some one unable to sit still, like me, busy for a while.

In Oslo, my friend had the foresight to grab a map, for some reason I opted not to. Perhaps I knew it would be a lost cause anyway. As it was, she had a worse sense of direction than I did. After some time and much wandering, she surrendered the map to me and I found our way to the train station. She was off to another city and I needed to find a place to stay.

The Dorm Room, July 8

Sunday night I stayed in Frederikshanv at busy hostel filled with scads of teenage girls with too much hairspray, old guys traveling in a pack of mopeds, and a couple of families monopolizing the common area. The one computer, at the check-in desk was occupied by a couple little girls tasked with whacking the moles. I could not think of a more perfect recipe for boredom!

My my bed was in a dorm room at the other end of the complex down the hall, so after I elbowed my way through a gaggle of 15 year-old girls and dodged the greying men in their underwear, I found myself unlocking the door to a massive dorm room with space for 50 people. My first thoughts as I entered the room went something like this: "Is that a man or a woman in their underwear changing on the bed next to the door? It must be a man, women tend to wander off to somewhere more private to change."

No sooner had those thoughts passed through my mind and into oblivion, did I hear the person say, "un suk, un suk." Being the linguistic genius that I am, I interpreted that as "one second, one second." Apparently I was wrong in my assumption. I did my best to back out of the room quickly, but succeeded only in bashing into the door and wall, tripping over the step, and struggling to close the door with the loose hinges that fell out of alignment when opened. My retreat was less expeditious. By the time I made in into the hall again with the door close, she muttered something that sounded like she was dressed and it was okay to come back into the dorm room.

Without pausing or looking at the speaker who had chosen the most inappropriate place to be prudish, I crossed the room to the furthest possible bed and began the process of setting up camp for the night. It was only nine o'clock, but my dorm room compatriot was already wrapped up in her bed and was making sounds like maybe she wanted to sleep. I did my best to be quiet, but ramming my large pack into my locker took less finesse and more brute force. I wasn't too tired nor ready for bed, but with my options limited, I set off to find some eats.

After a little wander through the town and a kylling-burger, I was back at the hostel by 11. Again I made an effort to be quiet as I came in and out after brushing my teeth, but, again, the door made skulking around less of a possibility. Finally in bed and rather annoyed I was sharing this huge room fit for 100 people with a person who took the bed right next to the door, I set off to sleep content with myself for my thoughtfulness. Two minutes after I was in bed, she was up and off to the bathroom.

How a broken printer changed my mind.

Sitting in the train station, I had to decided where I was going to go next. So, I sat. I paced. I really didn't know where I wanted to go next. I felt like maybe I needed to get out of Denmark for a bit and do some exploring. While I sat and/or paced, I started thinking about going south to Spain, but it would be a little silly to go directly there. Alright then, I will take the train down to Paris, see the city and the memorials on the beaches to the north. Then I would make my way down to Barcelona. Perfect, I had a plan and had made a decision. Thank you Dr. G for the Lonely Planet.

I bravely stepped up to the ticket counter and asked how much it would cost to get to Paris. Nope, she wouldn't tell me. A broken printer prevented her from selling those tickets. She advised I take the train to the next town and I would be able to book what ever I wanted from there. Let's do it then! I bought my ticket to Fredericia and I was happy in my decision. For about 4.7 minutes. By the time I had gotten on the train, I realized from Fredercia I could take the ferry to Oslo. That was an interesting thought, there were people in Oslo I wanted to see. I guess when I got to Fredericia, I would have a decision to make, south to Paris or north to Norway.

When I pulled out my map to see how far I had to go, I realized I had mixed up the towns. Frederica did not have any ferries, the town I was thinking of was Frederikshavn, all the way to the north. I guess that settled that then... Except I really wanted to go to Oslo now. That meant back tracking and...

At the next stop I was off the train and on the next one heading back to the north. I hadn't had my ticket checked yet, so when the ticket guy came, I could play the dumb tourist. All I had to do was get back where I came from, get a refund, then buy the right ticket. I hadn't gotten nearly far enough by the time the guy came to check the tickets, so I ignored him. Once you show your ticket the first time, they don't ask to see it again and there is often a different person checking. Unless he asked, I wasn't going to present my ticket. I will play the tourist card every chance I get. He looked at me, but kept going. Sweet. I win. I stayed on the train past my stop right until the end of the line at Ålborg. I figured if I had gotten as far as I had, I would just enjoy the free ride.

Once I was in Ålborg, I though it would be a good idea to make sure I had a place to stay in Frederikshavn before I got on the train. It had been raining a lot and I didn't want to get wet while I was sleeping. I was in luck, there was a bed at the hostel. Onward to the next city.

I was that much closer to Norway. This was July 8, once month since I had left Canada.

Tall Ships and No Where to go

I left Odense pretty much as soon as I could. Now that I had my Hans Christian Anderson book, I had no real reason to stay there. Although the off chance of running into crazy artist was a compelling reason to stick around, it wasn't enough to keep me there. I pointed myself in the direction of Åarhus, where there was a big tall-ships race. I thought it would be pretty amazing to see the big sailing ships. As many of you may know, I have a bit of a dream to sail. If you don't know about that dream, ask around and you might find some decent stories of my ill-advised learning methods.

Once I got into Århus, I went directly to the tourist information centre, got a map, got my bearings, and proceeded to go in the completely wrong direction. Fortunately, a local who spoke English saw me looking at my map and assumed, correctly, I was lost. She pointed me in the right direction. This would not be the first day I went in the completely wrong direction, but more on that later. I managed to find the harbour fairly easily after that helpful nudge. It wasn't too difficult though, the tall ships have tall masts that offer a helpful navigation point.

I spent the rest of the afternoon wandering through the harbour and enjoying the ships. There were a lot of them. A lot. Some as small as 30 feet to as big as way huge. 4 masts and lots of sails. I should know how long they are, but I forget and I didn't bother to write it down. Suffice it to say, they were as big as big got. In a moment of sheer brilliance, I decided it would be better to keep my 40 pound pack on my back in case I found a ship that was looking for a crew. (This will not be the first time I regret carrying my pack all day, but you will have to wait until I tell you about Lillehammer for that)

As it happens, I did manage to find a ship looking for crew to sail to Finland. It took me a while, but I finally screwed up the courage to ask. It was a crazy idea, but I couldn't live with myself if I didn't even try. This is why I am here, right? So I asked. Turns out, I have to pay him for the privilege of working for him. It was like that on every other boat looking for crew as well. The luxury of working my tail off ran from 500 to 1000£. Do the math and that is something like 1000-2000$C. Um... What? I left the harbour in a rather foul mood. Oh yeah, it also rained. Hard. Fortunately this time I had my rain gear. Thanks mom.

My next step was to get to an Internet cafe to check my email, I had requested a room in town, but needed to see if there was a confirmation. I left the harbour in the direction I though was the least circuitous route. By the time I found the cafe I was looking for, and it took me a while, I realized I was about 4.7 minutes from the harbour I had just left. Only, I walked for about 45 minutes, sight-seeing. Arg.

Turns out the hostel I had emailed was full for the night. So was the other one in town. Now I was starting to sweat a little, where was I going to sleep? Denmark is a small country. I called the hostel in the next town over and got a bed there. Right, now I had to walk back to the station and, you guessed, took a wrong turn. I think I may have been a little sleep deprived.

When I finally got to the town Randers, it occurred to me I had no idea where the hostel was or how to get there. I thought the best thing to do would be to knock down a stack of flyers to get the attention of the cashiers so I would have an excuse to ask them if they knew where it was. Turns out they did and they even provided me with a map with the route traced out for me. Denmark is a fairly flat country. Except for this town and the hostel was at the top. After a full day of hiking with my pack on my back, I did not appreciate having to walk to the top of a hill. I did it though and I survived.

I can't say I highly recommend the hostel in Randers. Unless you are traveling with your family and don't mind going to bed and waking up to the sound of screaming kids...

Buffalo Soldier

Odense. Birth place of Hans Christian Anderson. Boring as hell. Looks like every other Danish town. And it rained. I did buy a book of HCA's complete and illustrated stories. Did you know the Little Mermaid, as Disney tells it, is terribly altered? Well, it is. Not that it should come as a surprise, but still. Anyway, she actually dies in the end. The one really interesting thing about Odense is the story coming up. I wrote it down as best as I could remember in my journal the day after and I think I may just transcribe it as I wrote it before. I would put into italics the part where I am speaking. Here it is: "If the US had nuked Berlin, John Lennon would have married a blue eyed, blond woman. How many squaws can an Indian have..." I went out last night to a pub for supper and I sat right at the bar hoping to attract some one interesting to talk to. While I would have preferred a lonely, but gorgeous Danish girl, the scruffy, chain smoking 43 year old with a thick, greying mustache and a blue shirt with maybe the first two buttons done up, who spoke in song lyrics would do just fine. If anything this man said is to be believed, he had a wife in Cuba, a wife in Berma named Berlin, and a wife in New York. First he took Manhattan, then he took Berlin. We shared a non-alcoholic tequila sunrise, they haven't served that spirit here since 1969, and talked about Elvis. I saw the ghost of Elvis, now security, they did not see him. He poured the raspberry and said "this is the earth", he poured the orange juice and said "this is the sun." He had found his song, but he would not tell me what what it was. I said I had many songs, but he said they were all the same. I shot the sheriff! I swear it was in self-defense. Did you shoot the deputy? English is the language of angels. Did I tell you anything about you by talking about me? Then you are an empty mirror. I'm looking at the man in the mirror, thinking about making a change. Bo Jangles, dance for me. Michael Jackson, Bo Jangles, dance. I found my song, but I am not going to tell you. Whitney Houston is a transsexual. I am your bodyguard. I wrote another song, the new bodyguard. I am the wind beneath your wings. I am a Buffalo soldier. Are there many Indians in Buffalo. What do they look like? This was pretty much our conversation for the two hours we sat together. The man is right off the rails. I wasn't sure to be offended or just to ignore the racial slurs made by a crazy artist. Never the less, it was certainly one of the more interesting conversation I have had in a long time. Genuine, bonafide, crazy. www.steenvaldelarsen.dk

Misadventures in an Opel

In order to see the surrounding area, we needed wheels. The on available set was my friend's brother's car. Calling this POS a car was generous indeed. The thing was about 20 years old and some serious issues with, well, going. It was actually okay for the first part of the day, we were able to drive around for a while to a couple of the different site I had wanted to see, then we cruised into town for a little while.

So far, my friend's brother's warnings were looking to be over-stated. The car had behaved itself well enough. Until that it is, we decided to go home. After a little shopping at an antique store, we got back into the car to leave. It wouldn't start. Nope. That is until I got into the driver's seat to try, of course it started for me. I was feeling pretty smug at that point, but that lasted for about 3 blocks when the car stalled.

We had stopped at an intersection when the car decided it didn't want to go any more and no matter who tried to start the car, it just wouldn't. After a few cycles of the lights, the guy behind, either in frustration or just to be helpful, helped us push the car through the intersection to the less busy side. We sat there for a good ten minutes fighting with the car.

Finally, I figured out how to get the car going. Turn key, smash gas to the floor. Hold gas to the floor, put in gear, GO! Anything less than that it would stall. We decided it would be better if I drove home, I had more experience and didn't have to sit on a pillow to see over the wheel.

Driving through town with a car that stalled every time I stopped was an interesting experience to say the least. In order to keep the car running took concentrated effort to brake, clutch, rev the engine, and still steer. I didn't seem to have enough appendages to coordinate all of that at once. If it did stall, it was the same thing over again, turn key - hold gas to the floor. I am not sure how many driving laws I broke on the way back or how many people thought I was a nut when I didn't slow down for corners on the very narrow roads, but I did enjoy driving the hell out of that little car.

I did manage to get it back without crashing, driving into a field, or otherwise mangling the car. I think that was good enough for me. My friend seemed happy to be back in one piece though.

After that, we used my friend's mother's car. Another Opel, but at least this one behaved itself and didn't give us any grief.

Dress Shopping

By July 2, I had enough of the city and was ready to explore the rest of Denmark. The plan for that day was to meet up with my friend and head west to Høng. My friend's parents lived out there, so I could stay there a few days before I continued on to other parts of Denmark.

I spent the morning packing and doing laundry. Then the rest of the afternoon drinking tea and watching TV. You see, my friend was out looking for dresses with a friend. Yes, I was waiting on women to finish shopping before I could do anything. There was only one thing I could do. I had to take matters into my own hands and find a dress for this poor girl.

I am not sure what this girl must have thought when I was picking out dresses for her, but when I grabbed a couple that she liked that were also in her size, I am sure I confused her even more. What's a guy to do? I was tired of waiting!

Høng is on the west side of the island of Sjealand, which is the same island København is on. There are some pretty wicked beaches out that way and I wanted to explore those before I left the area. Also, I friend of mine back in Canada highly recommended the beach Stillinge Strand. If some one highly recommends a beach like that, I can't possibly ignore that.

With a short train ride later and a car ride through more farm land of Denmark, I had left København.

Malmö and Møn

June 30, I went to Malmö, Sweden for the day. It rained. That is about all I have to say about Malmö. That and the in the percussionist troop I could hear from across town. They were cool. I have a recording of them on my camera and I will add that to this post went I can plug my camera in to a computer.

July 1. Canada Day. I felt a little nostalgic and missed home that day. I really do enjoy that one day of patriotism and flag waving. We are not a patriotic bunch and we don't have a flag flying on every other house like our southern neighbours. Once a year we get to celebrate ourselves and I think that is good.

Ottawa is always a fun place to be with the crowds and free concerts. I heard it rained all day though, which is also typical of Ottawa on July 1. I think in the 8 or 9 summers I was there, it rained at least 6 times on Canada Day. At least once during that time the fireworks were cancelled, which was too bad because I was able to get behind the Parliament buildings for that year. It would have been the best view in the House.

I spent the day at my Danish family's summer house. I should say I spent a good part of the day trying to get to the summer house. My day really did start with the best laid plans, but it is amazing how quickly things can spiral out of control when I stop paying attention.

The plan was simple enough, catch the train from where I was staying, go to Nykøbing, meet my cousin and his mormor at the station, and from there we would drive to Møn. Easy right? Well, as usual, I was slow and moronic in the morning. I managed to just miss the train I needed to get there. If I had left the house 1 minute earlier, I would have made it. It wasn't a big deal though, the next train was in 20 minutes. I went and got some food for the ride over then came back to the track to wait for my train. As I was sitting there, patiently waiting waiting for my train, not too concerned it hadn't shown up yet, I turned just in time to see a couple people running to make the train on the other track as it pulled away. I felt bad for them, I knew how frustrating it was to be so close. It was at that moment I also noticed the train that was pulling away was the train I was supposed to be on. I was sitting at the wrong track, the train had been at my back for a good 10 minutes. I will let you imagine what was going through my mind at that moment.

After some angry pacing and frustrated indecision, I decided to get a refund on my ticket and just stay in town. I sent a message to my cousin explaining my predicament and my plan. The next train was not for another hour and that would make every one late for lunch at the summer house. As I was in line to get my refund, my cousin messaged me back to tell me to take the next train and get off at the stop before Nykøbing and they would meet me there. Alright then, back in the game. For some reason, they didn't take into account the 1 hour delay. I was surprised we didn't make up that time with the old lady's rally racing style of driving.

The rest of the family had waited for our arrival before starting lunch. I was glad for that, until I realized I had to drink Schnaps with the pickled herring.

Must. Update. Blog.

Fine. Leave me alone, I am busy traveling the world.

Let's see, what stories do I have to, hopefully, entertain you. You will have to forgive me though, there may be some censoring in these stories. I do have to make it G rated.

During my first week here, I met one of my cousins, Mads. Now he may only be my fourth, fifth, or sixth cousin, but he is still my cousin and he is only a couple years younger than I am. After dinner and a rather intense conversation about the ethics of science with his morstar, we decided to go out. We ended up at a place called Heidi's Beer Bar, where the waitress dressed like German beer wenches and served 1litre beers. You can see how this would turn out to be a good night. Well, by the end of the night, I had made some new friends and was looking forward to seeing them again.

Skip forward a couple weeks, I had indeed made a new friend and we had hung out a few times in the city. Now, I have to remember the point of this story as I get distracted by other emails, msn messages, and every person who walks by...

Tivoli. Tivoli is an old, old amusement park. The kind of place filled with rides, whack-a-mole games, and cotton candy. There are also the restaurants surrounding the gardens and pond. We only went on one of the rides, it was an old rickety coaster that was something like a hundred years old. It was also my friend's favourite ride. Now, the thing that makes this little thing special is the way it goes in and out of the little mountain. While the ups and downs are minor to any experienced coaster rider, the absolute darkness in which you ride through the tunnels is just enough to unsettle just about any one. Now it wasn't a dimly lit, sorta see if you looked around the corner darkness. No, this was zero light, can't see where to scream darkness. It was pretty cool.

I couldn't convince my friend to go on the big, twirly, fast, upside-down coaster though. Which was too bad. I could have gone on alone, but that isn't the point. If I can't get some one to scream, why bother?

After that, we went out to a disco called "The Australian Bar". We were on the "guest list" and got in for free. It was a good thing we didn't pay to get in, it wasn't much of a club, the music was a little lame and the place was packed full of high school kids who have just graduated. As much fun as watching 17-18 years old dance... No it wasn't really that much fun. At least the drinks were cheap.

I had every intention of getting home at a reasonable hour that night, but after two buses failed to make their presence known, I was forced to walk home. After a shawarma though. I did get to see some kid get chased down the street by some old guy at 4:30 am though, that was fun. The kid had a definite head start and was a fair bit faster than the old guy. Funny thing about this part of the world, the sun goes down at 11 and is up by 4. Weird.