After a lavish breakfast included in the tour’s hotel accommodation, our group of nine assembled in the lobby under the leadership of a local guide.  Its membership fluctuated throughout the ten days allotted, probably as a result of low enrollment. This was reflected in the decision to use public transportation rather a van to take us to appointed attractions. At first I liked that option, but it turned out that the initial destination–the statue of The Little Mermaid in a remote section of the harbor– demanded a long, fast paced and uninteresting trudge from the subway that was onerous for the heavy-set limping Australian housepainter and us two octogenarians. That little landmark, widely forewarned on the web as a disappointing trap, was packed with tour buses and crowds of people elbowing their way to a railing to snap selfies with it.  The rest of the three hour directed excursion offered little improvement, and we were relieved to be released to our own recognisance to return to the hotel, rest and explore further.

Sharing our early interests in Viking age culture–reinforced for me by the recent audiobook, Embers of the Hands by Eleanor Barraclough I’d heard on the flight from San Luis Obispo–we returned to the National Museum to an exhibit emphasizing the neglected female perspectives of the fearsome Nordic conquerors.

One entered through an “immersive” multimedia show dramatizing occult roles and rituals of Scandinavian wise women.

That led to galleries displaying real artifacts and captions detailing new discoveries and research. One was a gold pin similar to a replica that Jan often wore

It depicted a favorite Scandinavian theme of furious sea monsters like the ones Beowulf battled in his long sea-swim.

This item is supposed to represent either a Valkyrie or the Goddess Freya.

A sidewalk cafe nearby provided a welcome glass of wine and early dinner

Afterwards Jan went back to the hotel and I walked to the Arts Academy where we’d been the day before and roamed through its courtyard featuring posters promoting avant-garde political/cultural themes that recalled our own visions during the 1960’s

at the age of its present day students.

This was probably the same age as the Israeli pianist who again thrilled the small audience

Back at the Royal SAS, I grudgingly enjoyed the 12th floor panoramic view looking down into Tivoli Gardens and the Central Railroad station.

It was raining the third morning of our stay, and we agreed to go off the beaten path negotiating our way by two buses  to the six million brick cathedral.  Located in a district of affordable housing and from the outside less pleasing looking  than the photo of the interior in BLOX, we found it was locked up, nobody around.

Knocking on the door produced no response, so I crept around to a back cellar door and kept banging.  The person who opened it explained that the Church was reserved for a later morning baptism ceremony but yielded to my badgering and led me through a side aisle  to the front door where she let Jan in.

As we entered the nave together,  our senses were engulfed by sound and sight:

After the sound ceased, the front doors opened pouring in a crowd of dressed-up families many with small children.  Jan lit a candle and then we departed.

Looking for the bus stop in the rain,  a sign in Danish and English stated  that the line in that direction had been cancelled to accommodate street construction. A young man passing by led us a couple of blocks to a stop on a different route that could take us back to Hotel Savoy to retrieve our baggage and relocate to the  hotel booked by the tour.

This was the SAS Royal Hotel, featured in the BLOX museum, built in 1960 and famously designed by architect Arne Jacobsen. As have many others, I found the exterior blocky and ungraceful, especially compared to the variety of Copenhagen buildings I’d already seen or the Lever House on New York’s Park Ave. I’d admired growing up during the 1950’s.

It was the sole subject of a large book found in the building’s museum to itself in the lobby

and the of the memorial room containing all its original furnishings, including Jacobsen’s ubiquitous swan and cloud chairs.

After the requisite nap, we took a tram to the Art Academy housed in another palace to attend a late afternoon concert we’d preordered tickets for presented by two young Ukranian virtuousi.  It featured pieces by Beethoven, Ravel and two Ukranian composers.  That made it one of many political/cultural events staged throughout Europe

Another gratifying architectural experience was offered by the escalator to the subway back to the hotel

Tired and hungry in search of dinner, Jan led us to the  appealing Bodega cafe around the corner

across the street from the Tivoli Gardens, the 19th century progenitor of Disneyland, which we never entered.

At the end of a long day, we preferred to enjoy the local food, music, and company of this great discovery.

I was eager to ride a bike around this City, even more bicycle oriented than Amsterdam, where two wheelers take precedence over cars and pedestrians.  I rented a clunker from the hotel, its weight and size making me regret I hadnt looked for a smoother ride, and took off along a dedicated path by the lagoon/canal toward a large section of greenspace, museums and historical monuments to the north. Parking at the stone gate of an immense formal garden surrounding the Rosenborg Castle I wandered in and felt enfolded by the beauty of the building and landscape architecture, completed 1633.

Spurred on by a cappucino in the outdoor cafe, I pedalled east toward the harbor, and across the water saw Copenhill,  the incinerator/power plant and snowless skislope, the highest point in Denmark which I’d been told about by my contact at the San Luis Obispo Waste Management Authority.

Nearby stood the  Copenhagen Opera House, financed by the founder of Maersk shipping corporation, whose conflicts over design with the architect, Henning Larsen, were chronicled in his book.  Both from this vantage and a couple of days later from a boatride, the building looked good to me.

A couple of minutes away I came upon the Christianborg Palace, home of the Danish Government, an equally symmetrical and pleasing design in contrasting neo-Baroque style last rebuilt in 1928.

Further along the quai, perched BLOX, a museum devoted to the Danish architecture which I’d become a fan of.

I paid the entry fee and found numerous engaging displays, glad I selected this among the embarrassment of riches where to spend some time.  One was a picture of a cathedral in a remoter part of the City built between 1920 and 1940 called Grundvig’s Church or “six million bricks.” I’d never seen anything like its combination of medieval vault and modernist austerity.

An extensive display featured the work of Arne Jacobsen, in particular the hotel in which our tour had reserved rooms for the last two nights of our Copenhagen stay

A large area was devoted to what we used to call Green Building, in particular a fancy kitchen built entirely out of construction waste

which would have fit nicely into the high-end second homes our son builds in Ketchum Idaho.

On the way back to meet Jan at the Hotel Savoy I took pleasure in the variety of less grandiose urban beauty:

The morning light illuminated a building on the corner with a tower also designed by Rosen

the whole streetscape an assemblage of distinctive masterpieces

After a light breakfast, a short tram ride took us to the downtown central square encircled by towered Victorian period buildings,

before one of which Jan posed to add to our collection of City Hall portraits.

The Radhuspladsen was still  free of the crowds, noise and litter that packed it later in the day, adding impact to its central fountain depicting the ferocious  and beautiful battle between a bull and a dragon.

Entering City Hall we were dwarfed by a grand rectangular space

adjoining a more modest chamber available at low cost for private weddings. In a corner near the entry, we noticed a cluster people preparing balloons, bags filled with food and bottles of champagne.

A couple of blocks away we found the National Museum and started in on the medieval collection, both of us having studied Anglo Saxon what seemed as far in the past as the material itself.  (Jan earned an M.A. in medieval comparative literature at Columbia in 1969).

Next to another fierce battle with a dragon, this one carved in wood, we were intrigued by the display of one of the earliest printed artifacts, an actual indulgence signed by the Pope’s representative in 1517 guaranteeing that the purchase by the living would shorten the term of torture in Purgatory of their dead friend or relative.

The massive promotion and sale of these early Crypto items was a major source of funds for the Catholic Church, and objection to the scam was a major energizer of the Protestant Reformation in Northern Europe. As we chortled knowingly over the case, we heard a loud voice from behind call out “Janet and Steven,” which I recognized immediately as belonging to Diana W., a fellow medieval literature student with Jan with whom we’ve had widely spaced connections since then in Canada and California.

Turns out she was in Copenhagen with her daughter who was attending an international conference. That brought the excursion in medieval history to an end with a lengthy catch-up session in the coffee shop.

After a late siesta in the hotel we took the tram to Krogers Familiehave a garden restaurant recommended by the driver from the airport the day before as a genuine Copenhagen hangout. The service was slow and the food forgettable, but the setting was lovely and we sat next to a large multigenerational multiracial family with whom we shared excited conversation.

Our decision to schedule travel during the summer rush was necessitated by Jan’s City Council meeting schedule. We made the conservative choice of Europe again because of our ages and shared youthful  reverence for its high culture: literature, philosophy, music, art, architecture. We picked  Scandinavia to avoid the heatwaves and fires feared for the south and because I’d never been there, though Jan had visited briefly during her sophomore year abroad. Our one personal connection was a long lost college roommate of hers whom she managed to arrange meeting for coffee one afternoon in Stockholm. We selected a tour format at the late date we reserved that would choose destinations, handle transport arrangements, book accommodations, and provide only a single half-day local tour in each country. And we arranged for two days before and after the tour to make our own way.

The trip began on a disastrous note.  The day before departure, when I tried to check-in to our flight purchased in May on Expedia for Copenhagen on United from SLO via San Francisco to Munich and then via United’s “partner” Lufthansa,  I was informed by a United agent that Lufthansa rejected the reservation because my first and last names had been reversed and could not be corrected at this late date. In order to carry through, we would have to lose our seats on the second leg and purchase new tickets from Munich from Baltic Air at last minute prices plus a bunch of penalties–for the additional cost of $7,000.  Knowing that delay would mean missing the tour and assuming this could be eventually resolved (it never was), we accepted the extortionate deal.

The approach to Copenhagen on a calm sunny day highlighted the flatness of Denmark’s topography and  vulnerability to sea-level rise.

We’d booked a room in the boutique Hotel Savoy for two nights preceding the Firebird Company Tour and upon arrival delighted in the art-nouveau style of its facade designed by Anton Rosen (1859-1928),

whose eminent status among Danish architects was confirmed by a big book in the lobby.

Excited by the new destination, I went exploring the neighborhood and found a park that surrounded a large lagoon full of people enjoying the sunset

Google Maps led me back to the hotel via a street passing right through a fanciful theatre building

On the other end of the passage a restaurant window sported the image of an exuberant waiter

Its adjoining window opened to living chefs gesturing with equal exuberance

Love and Marriage, love and marriage
Go together like a horse and carriage

That’s the old song from the play*
We used to sing back in the day,

Remembering an earlier time
When little farms and towns were prime,

Where couples met at church or dance
Familiar spots to find romance.

Since then, we switched our sense of place
The global village became the space

Where modern people first entwine
In the world-wide web, on screen, online.

But some old things remain the same
For our young Candice and her Shane

A community farm, a tie to the land
Co-workers and friends joined in a band,

And in this antique barn just now
The ancient rite of speaking their vow,

The words we witnessed that bind to last
Their lives, their families, their future and past.

A timeless moment, a rock to resist
Amidst the floods of change, to persist.

So, with love in marriage for 58 years
Sustained by that vow, I say, “Cheers!”

*

Went this morning to water the seeds on the steep bank above the riffle secured by jute netting and covered with a light layer of compost.  After that took out the paddle board, as I’d been resolving to do for some time, carried it and a paddle and a pole saw down to the beach, along with my phone sealed up in the cookie container.  Water and air were calm. Paddled slowly to the top of the long pool below the log seating area, where, as before there was a minor blockage of twigs, a log, and some caught up trash.  Tried to clear them, but didnt feel the stamina to portage over the bank to the next pool upstream, which I saw was full of small patches of algae. Worked vigorously to cut and move the brush (without power tools, yuck) and to free the flow, quicken the current above and below and hopefully flush the algae out.

Back home I lunched and napped and did a little housework while Jan prepared for the dinner gathering tonight.  After researching cannabis in copenhagen and discovering the difficulty of finding it since the demolition of “pusher’s alley,” I took up another long delayed obligation: to try out the tablet form cannabis edibles I’d bought for our trip in 2023 to determine if they were still good.

I lay down again and put in earbuds and started the Beethoven Adagios collection, which sounded as if I was stoned.  After an hour I walked the dog to the creek, experiencing heightened colors and sensations.  There I tried out a number of sit spots, though the wind was blowing wildly.

I saw two things at the edge of perception I’d not encountered before: beside the rifflepool, sheltered from the turmoil above, I saw tiny points of light floating downstream at a steady pace. As soon as I took notice of an individual, it would blink out.  I concluded that these were little sun magnifiers produced by reflective cups of the water’s surface tension formed around miniscule floating particles–bugs, blossoms, flotsam.

Afterwards, sitting on the eucalyptus log near the Water Shed out in the wind , I watched two red tailed hawks flying high. Then coming from the housing development I saw a flock of tiny purple birds, or maybe large insects, wavily making their way in my direction. As I stared, the body of the flock sent out elongated arms in which I could still see tiny purple creatures.  And then suddenly they disappeared, but not before I could tell that they were actually shreds of cloud–separate drops or droplets blown by the wind from the west and dissipating on their way over the creek and approaching the farmland.

Last week we received a meticulously packed parcel from Hanna and Karl Britz containing a new book published by the Community Foundation of Kehl titled On the Trail of the Stumbling Stones in Kehl: Memories of Jewish Kehl, to which they  made major contributions.  Their enclosed card recalls the intense experience of our visit with them in 2023 and alerts us to the inclusion of  material we provided for an entry about my great grandfather, Josef Wertheimer. As noted in the introduction, the recent trend toward extreme right-wing politics in Germany  as well as in many other countries make this project all the more relevant today. [English translation provided by Mac Photos app]

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Friday January 17 was the day appointed for the harvest, that is, the slaughter, of my favorite sheep of the flock.  Savannah, our wheelchair-bound student in Therapeutic Horticulture, gave her this name and I always preferred it, but she was officially known as Maple. I made no objection to the choice of sacrificial lamb, affirming the need to regard our animals as livestock rather than pets in order to maintain the semblance of an agricultural enterprise and to recoup a portion of the expense of breeding and feeding them. There was also the value of their hides for wool rugs and for me, otherwise a confirmed vegetarian, the opportunity to eat the most delicious meat I’d ever come across and share it with others on festive occasions.

Unlike the farm’s true pet sheep, Tucker, who was bottle fed from birth and raised as a 4H project by a young girl in Paso intending to sell her at the 2020 County Fair  but adopted out to us after the Fair was cancelled by COVID, Capri was never halter broken and like the others, only controllable when following Tucker, who would go wherever his shepherd or shepherdess led.

Whenever I approached Capri’s corral or pasture with a friendly greeting, she’d join the others in turning and walking away.  But if I came in, sat down on an upturned bucket and played my recorder for a few minutes, she’d shyly approach and then nose up to me for some closed-eye skritchy-scratchy followed by stroking on her cheeks and chin.

Jan studied German in High School and college. A few months before we first met at a poetry seminar at the Free University of Palo Alto in 1966, she returned from a year-long residence at the Stanford-in-Germany campus near Stuttgart which entailed several months of work as a nurse’s aide at Krankenhaus Bethanien, a nursing home founded by Martin Luther’s wife and located directly on the Berlin Wall. She told me later that when she first saw me, dressed in a white shirt, wine colored v-neck sweater and beret, she thought she was back in Swabia.  My being a first generation child of German refugees was one of the factors that drew us together more than those that separated us–a New York Jew and a Presbyterian Mayflower descendant from L.A.

She’d been a leader of the Stanford-in-Germany alumni group that met regularly ever since and had organized their three-day gathering a few years ago in San Luis Obispo.  She’d also been active in the  organization managing yearlong home exchanges since the fifties between San Luis students and those attending a high school also in Stuttgart, the city where both my parents grew up.

Driven by her general interest in genealogy as well as the post World War 2 effort to understand the horrors of the Holocaust, Jan continually collected stories and documents about my family which I generally preferred to ignore or turn away from.  Learning of the German government’s policy to offer reinstatement of German citizenship to those from whom the Nazis had revoked it, as well as to their children and grandchildren, she took on the challenge of assembling the formidable archive of proof required to qualify for this benefit.

After two years of persistent research and correspondance with the German Consulate in L.A. she secured an appointment on October 16 2024 for the four of us to be sworn in and receive our papers.  By then, given the travel and work opportunities throughout Europe they provided along with a possible escape from the shadow of fascism deepening in this country,  we all were excited to meet for the event and celebrate at a nearby German restaurant afterward.

mm