23-08-09 OR the emperor's new clothes
Train: London to Copenhagen. What a funny little place Denmark is! What funny little people! And look, there's Mary Donaldson! Hello, Mary, how are you? For whatever reason I expected Copenhagen to be an ultra-modern, concrete-and-glass kind of city. It's not. In fact, it's one of the most historic cities in the world, if that's the word I want. Nice bridge, by the way.
If I were to describe the airport in one word (which is exactly what I'm about to do) it is acute. The walls and ceilings taper to the most impossibly dangerous angles - I've never been more afraid of losing an eye. The train from C-Hag (as we say in S-Den [as we say in the B-Town {as we say in chess club}]) was superman fast.
When I arrived in Lund, I felt, for the first time, utterly alone. What now? Decision and indecision. So, I sat for a little while. And then I thought for a little while.
And then I walked for a long, long while.
The locals smiled and waved at me as I walked: En turist! Patetiskt!
I smiled and waved back.
My only reference was a fading grey and white maps.google map; where is Stralsundsvagen? I circled the town square. Then, despite the Marx Brothers' advice, I went east. A church appeared from behind a small tree, and then, behind that, the most spectacular building I have ever seen. Actually, I have seen it before... but where? Ah! Yes! Madeline! In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines...
How else to put it? This Sweden is different to the Sweden I saw in my mind. To begin with, I was disappointed. But now I see the beauty. And how about the weather? Beautiful one day, perfect the next (and, I suspect, miserable the next). And the sky! As clear as an azure sky of deepest summer. High above, streaking across the sky, were the powdered trails of passing airliners, as though Hansel and Gretel had usurped the aviation society.
I wish I had the key to my apartment, but I didn't. My only key was a crumpled note. The train hostel. Sometimes, when you search too hard, you mistake the obvious for the impossible. The Train Hostel is, in every sense of the word, a train. I walked past it six times. Really, six. There were no vacant 'rooms', so I shared a tent in the garden with a fellow Australian, Michael Gunter. When I woke the next morning, I was not cold, but I was misarable.
Train, where from? Where to? (Home?)
24-08-09 OR Hercule in the Orient
Orientation day.. Hundreds of nervous international students shuffled their feet and folded and unfolded their arms. For what were we waiting? We needn't have. Abandoning the others, Michael and I walked to the SOL (sprach-och-literatur) Centre where we were (where we were, say it again - it's fun) greeted by blue shirts and the student mentors that inhabited them.
I stood in the world's longest queue for five minutes. Then I was redirected to the world's shortest queue. I want those five minutes back. Why do I/we stand in queues when I/we don't know what's at the end? Idiot/s.
Recipe for disaster:
Ingredients: students (x 200), small room (x 1)
Method: place students in room and mix
A key! A door! An apartment! A new home!
Sleep.
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