Too much water

Summer's here, and we finally went to see the new Pirates of the Caribbean movie. My family waited for me to come back from my big adventure to Denmark, and this was the first chance we've had to go see a movie. We had diligently watched the two previous Pirates (thanks to the convenience of Netflix), so we were ready to view the continuing saga of Captain Jack Sparrow.

Well, with all of this build-up, we were bound to be disappointed. It was good fun ... for a while. The theater we went to -- the beautiful Grand Lake Theater -- serves free popcorn, so we each had our own popcorn. We also each bought a bottle of water to drink with our salty popcorn, and by the second or third battle scene, I really needed to go to the bathroom. Really. Badly. I kept thinking I could hold out till the movie ended, but this flick was relentless. Just kept going on and on and on. Plus, all those oceanic battle scenes, with all that water sloshing around ... wave after wave ... splashing mercilessly across the screen ... well, it was just too much for me to take. I finally gave in and ran to the bathroom to relieve myself during one of the battle scenes. Of course, when I returned, the battle was still not over. Then, my daughter needed to go. I took her to the bathroom, and when we returned, the battle was still not over.

Finally, the movie ended and the credits began to roll. My son ran to the bathroom, followed by my husband -- apparently, they were able to hold it better than me and my daughter -- maybe all the battle scenes were a big enough distraction to the boys, and the sloshing water did not have the same effect on them. Whatever the case, we were all able to relieve ourselves, and I was especially relieved that the movie was over.

hej hej

All this fascination with my hair made me think about the group of Asian-looking women I saw at the park when I was walking back to the hotel the other day. They were there again, today, but in larger numbers, still drinking and just hanging out. Today, there were men hanging out, as well. I wonder if they represent a local community of former refugees, where they immigrated from, and how the Danes perceive them. I watch as a white man approaches a group of the women, and wonder if there is some transaction about to occur. Nothing seems to happen, but I am curious, noticing that there a number of tourist-looking folks periodically approaching these groups of Asian-looking folks, and seeming to conduct some sort of business. I decide I better just stay clear, and try not to look like I am watching. Wouldn’t want to upset anybody, and, although I think I look clearly different from the long-haired women hanging out in the park, I know that there is always that chance of being lumped in with a group vaguely resembling oneself -- and that distance can be a good thing.

Hej!

I’m sitting here on my balcony at five thirty, gazing at the sun-saturated face of the brick building next door. Although it is only five thirty in the morning, it is bright enough outside for it to feel like 10 am. I can hear the hum of the early morning commute as I look down onto the small rear yards of the surrounding retail and apartment buildings. The birds are chirping, and I can see the sign on the old beer factory in the distance. The pitch lines of the roofs are all the same, meeting at 60 degree angles over their bodies of variegated brick or neutral-toned stucco, and this repetition of roof design is soothing to me. Tiny dormers and sunroofs accent the roofs, seemingly squinting into the sun. I am glad to be on the shady side of the building -- it must feel like high-noon in the rooms where the sun is streaming in with a direct hit.

After being in Denmark for a few days, I have gotten over my initial irritation at the freakishly long hours the sun works here. It doesn’t get really dark until about 11:30 pm, and then it starts to get light again at around 3:30 am. I know this, because I was tricked into thinking it was time to wake up at 4:30 am my first morning here, when the sun was already streaming into the cracks of the not-quite-blackout shades in my hotel room, seducing me into thinking it was already after 7 am. By this time, my fourth morning waking up in Copenhagen, I have forgiven the sun for so rudely waking me that first day, and have come to embrace this place. My ear has gotten used to the sound of Danish, and I have even managed to pick out a few words from people’s conversations. I love the food, the design, the architecture, the efficiency of this city.

I had thought Denmark would be very homogeneous, but instead found Copenhagen to be very diverse. I could blend here, in that Asian-faces-sprinkled-into-the-crowd kind of way. Aside from my own preconceptions, I had also been misinformed by friends who warned of drug dens and overly-friendly Danish men. I didn’t notice the drug dens, and about fifty percent of the men I met on this trip were gay. And the only time I felt like a circus freak was when some people asked if they could touch my hair, and I let them. But this was not initiated by the Danes -- this was initiated by the Americans I was traveling with, with some Danes joining in. I now have great empathy for animals in petting zoos. I will never look at my daughter's My Little Pony dolls in quite the same way again.