From Africa To Russia

The room is loud overnight, with doors slamming and guys snoring, so I basically get no sleep. I am lying wide awake at 6:30, turn off the alarm before it goes off. A quick shower, pack up and walk across town to the train station, catch the early train at 8:23. I am apprehensive since hearing the news yesterday about the concert, and my concerns are justified, as there are no seats available on the train. However, there are a few pull-down seats in the connecting corridor, so I manage to be able to sit down anyway. Four hours go slow, with the six of us in the carriage all glancing uneasily at each other. There is a giant muscular frat boy listening to speed metal, he twitches impatiently, he is like a gorilla in a cage. There is an old woman with a broken leg, propped up on a bag. There is a backpacker with bad body odor. There is a girl bopping along to the tunes on her ipod, eyes closed, mouth moving. She has unshaved legs and giant orange bushes under her arms. People start to pack into the car at the local stops, it is cramped, barely room to stand. A fellow with a beard and huge bushy eyebrows comes in with a tuba on his back, then another guy climbs aboard carrying a bike in multiple pieces. It begins to feel like candid camera. Another old lady gets on, and I give my seat to her. Amidst the commotion, I manage to pay some attention to the passing Swedish countryside. The flora and vegetation have become much more sparse, more grassland than forest now, red roofed cottages, groups of cows, the sea off in the distance, like a postcard. I get off at Goteborg, intending to transfer to the Oslo train, but again my fears are realized, as they tell me that the train is full and can take no more passengers. They do however direct us to a nearby bus that will take us to Oslo. Myself and the other refugees climb aboard (after a short wait), and we are off along the alternate route. Scandanavian women are undeniably beautiful, by the way. This is not a myth, this is indeed fact. A very large percentage of them are drop dead gorgeous long-legged blondes that look like they have jumped from the pages of some magazine. I saw them on the streets of Copenhagen, and now I am surrounded by them on the bus. I spend a good forty-five minutes just ogling a consumingly pretty blonde from the back, I am hypnotized, my eyes are glued to her, just to watch her put her hair back is a miracle. The blonde sitting across from me has deep blue eyes and a blinding smile and beautiful feet which she dangles all over the seat. She sees my glances (which I am not controlling too well), and teases me, flexing them and posing them in all their glory, leaving me a frustrated lovesick ball of writhing despair by journey’s end. We finally pull into Oslo around six or so, I get out and find my hostel, then walk around a bit. Oslo is supposedly the world’s most expensive city. The prices reflect this, but I would say the people do not. Many of the ones I encounter are rough-looking, almost homeless, heckling and hassling each other on street corners. Perhaps it is just the local area I am in. Upon returning to the hostel, I discover that it has been overrun by screaming teenage cheerleaders – the European cheerleader championship or something is in full swing in Oslo. One of the girls has broken a leg, there is a big hubbub about it. My roommates in the hostel are a Spanish doctor and his young son, who offers me a drawing he did as a present. Later on, I take it and pin it up on the wall using a plastic bread bag clip.

Sleep in pretty late, am dead tired, my legs are sore. First I go to the train station to try to reserve tomorrow’s train, but apparently there is a huge music festival that is wrapping up and all of Norway is going to try to get home tomorrow. There is an outside shot I may get stranded in Denmark for an extra day. I am standing in line for the tickets, and a group of young Danes walk up to the counter next to me. After some dialog, one of them mumbles something. “No, you’re an idiot,” replies the guy behind the counter. More mumbling. “Shut up,” exclaims the counter guy. Some intra-Danish spat, highly amusing. Walk out into Copenhagen, take some pictures (Stroget – big street full of stuff to buy, a palace with a fountain, The Little Mermaid – chick made of stone). Wander into a strange area which appears to have been a medieval compound of some sort, embankments surrounded by a moat. At this point I have hiked all over the city for the second straight day and am pretty damn tired, my legs are like jello. Walk back down through a park and back to the hostel. Drink some beers, talk to the Aussie receptionist. Go out and grab some food. Stop at a bar, talk some politics (delicately) with a cheerful Tunisian bartender and his Danish buddy. Denmark does not accept euros, they prefer their own kroners due to the fact their economy is doing so well. The same goes for the other rich countries, like Switzerland and Norway. At the bar, I don’t have enough kroners, so I offer him a combination of kroners and euros for the beer. “Don’t worry about it,” he says. My kind of bar. Then back to the hostel to shoot some pool for a while, and call it a night shortly thereafter.

Hop on the early morning train to Copenhagen. I am saddened to be leaving Germany. I sit across from a pleasant old man on his way back to Denmark, he walks with a cane and is very dignified. At the ... [Continue reading this entry]