Half a year. Expatriates for half a year. It has been six months since we stepped away from my mom’s driveway, kissing our family and dog goodbye. Handed over the keys of our home to renters the day before, after countless days culling and packing and separating and storing all our earthly belongings. Much of sold in an epic yard sale. Much of it in my mother’s attic. Some more of it cordoned off in our own garage. Boats sold, cars sold or given away or stored. Goodbye parties with friends for both the littles and the adults. All behind us. Getting on that plane, there was a collective familial exhale. The months and months of preparing, planning and processing before that moment now complete. Yes, it was bittersweet. Tears were shed. Hugs held longer than normal. But the anticipation and excitement and sheer utter exhaustion took over and flying around the world became surreal. Not on vacation. But flying 30 hours around the world to our new home. To Denmark.
High above the chimney tops – that’s where you’ll find me. Haha! Definitely not me. Still relegated to a more grounded perspective due to recent surgical ankle relocation. But, rather, my wee peeps. Up in the trees. Swinging from the branches. Maneuvering obstacles. Crawling over old tires and logs and beer crates and shipping palettes and shopping carts – even through an old car – all strung up in the trees, way over my head behind the Carlsberg Brewery complex in the Vesterbro neighborhood of Copenhagen. Klatreskoven is a high ropes course for all ages, a playground in the trees.
Klatreskoven
We first found Klatreskoven in the winter time, on a weekendly family discovery drive around town. Everyone drives down the famous Elephanten Gate at the historic Carlsberg Brewery. Those cement larger than life elephants are something to behold, even if you don’t drink Carl’s beer. Hang the second right past the elephants and follow the huge red brick building with the gold circles down to the right. You can’t miss it. At first it looks like a possible art installation – upcycling sorted garbage in a criss-crossing web through the branches. Wait – what does that sign say? Google translating as fast as my thumbs can type, we realize that it is a playground, a climbing course. Holy cats. Seriously – they let people up there? THAT IS WAY UP THERE! The childrens’ collective eyes grew and excitement mounted – “Can we do it? Can we do it!?” Er. Uh. (EEK) Alas it doesn’t open until spring.
Spring forward. Maj Day weekend. We’ve already celebrated our Danish solidarity on our free Friday off. The following Søndag was a beautiful spring day – sunny skies, mild weather – you might say – a blue bird day. Klatreskoven has pushed itself into the forefront of our littles’ subconscious again. “Can we do the ropes course? Please?” Umm. Uh. Ask Dad? For me… two things. First – I can’t do it with them for obvious reasons. Second – it kind of terrifies me. I had done some research online and translated that participants do wear helmets and harnesses and must have a safety orientation before beginning. There are also varying “levels” depending on one’s age, ability and height (most importantly). The top, highest, most precariously terrifying course is the Black course. Egad. Please no. Not that one. Ok.
Klatreskoven behind Carlsberg
Start Her
Klatreskoven
Orientation at Klatreskoven
As it turns out – our eldest wasn’t interested in scaling the ropes – so we did the most teenager-y of things – he and I went shopping. Dad took the subsequent two littles on their bikes cross-town to Frederiksberg and Klatreskoven. It was perfect. By the time I crutched my way from the bus stop there – my son and daughter had confidently maneuvered the first path of the course and any insecurity on their part that I may have perceived as a safety issue had been worked through. They were having a ball. It was impressive watching them unhook and re-hook the double safety system between each obstacle. My husband reassured me that they are never unattached preventing any potential plummeting to the ground. Are you sure? Yes. I’m sure. Sure?! Sure.
At one point, my wee lass had followed big brother (of course, why wouldn’t she?) onto a course above her level. In the original orientation, she had been relegated to the “blue” course and suddenly realized while waiting on the platform about 20’ up that this was the harder “red” course from the red ties around the trees. Unfortunately the paths move in one consistent direction and people were continuing to progress behind her – there was no turning around. Dad assured her (and me) after a quick assessment where this new path would take her, that she could proceed forward. Her slow, calculated, determined progression was a sight to behold, especially for the nervous mother neck straining looking up from below. Watching her carefully work through where the next step would be, how she would not tangle herself from the harness, how to reach that slightly higher ring. I had to let go. She had to do it. I could not help. Neither could Dad. It was freedom. For her and for me. (I’m a little verklempt actually writing about it actually.)
Hjælp!
Reach for it
Copenhagen has afforded my children much freedom. And I feel so very fortunate that for a city this large and this European and this cosmopolitan – it is so very ok to let them have it. It is safe here. Leave your babies sleeping outside in the enormous pram on the sidewalk while you sip, eat, shop. Yes. I am not naive that things can happen. Believe me. It has been a process to afford them the same opportunities allowed Danish children, the same freedom. I blame a little bit of it on my American bred fear-based conditioning. We put our children in bubbles for fear of what might happen. But when the nightly news shows you images of your worst fears occurring time and again, it is no wonder why we are all “nervous Nellies.” But why aren’t the Danes?
Yesterday was the 4th of Maj. In our house this date always conjures Star Wars references – May the 4th be with you and a possible showing of one of the franchise movies. Take him to you I will (Oh sorry, that’s my favorite.) But here in Denmark – this day has a much different connotation. It is a day of freedom – an end to the 5-year occupation of Nazi Germany during World War II. A day when blackout shades were torn down and thrown out and windows all over the city slowly lit up with candles showing the light again. It was over. They were free. Queen Margrethe celebrated the 70th anniversary of the occasion at Mindenlunden i Ryvangen (Ryvangen Memorial Park) – the historic site where Danish resistance members were executed and buried so many years ago. There were candle lit parades around town filled with generations of people who may not have even been alive in 1945, but the stories from FarMor and MorFar (grandparents) have had lasting impact. Never forget. Light your candles. Remember our freedom.
Maj 4th
It made me wonder, as my daughter lit every candle we have in every window of our 5th floor flat (nearing fire-hazard levels, despite the excellent hygge up in there) how was it that Danes remember the light, but have been able to let go of the dark. They had to know fear. I cannot begin to pretend to know what it was like to live under an oppressive occupying force in my own country.
As an American, I know that our fear during that time was somewhat different – sending our young men into the fray and worrying about their safe return. My paternal Grandpa was one of those forces. A pilot, based in England, flying B-17 bombers over Germany. He did return. Thankfully for our family. My Grandma, in her inability to celebrate him as one of the “Greatest Generation,” passed on her fear – not directly expressed, but translated clearly. His experience was not to be discussed, talked about, lauded over. That was a terrible time and it was past. Maybe that is how the Danes have moved on. I can only guess.
What living in Denmark in 2015 has definitely taught me, in six short months, is that there is freedom in letting go. See the light. See it in your children’s faces as they confront their own challenges and have chances to succeed. Now I’m all verklempt again. It isn’t easy. It is pushing me as well – outside of my comfort zone. This is not the bubble. Being mobility impaired has proved an unlikely catalyst – I simply can’t do as much for them. But they were ready to step up. Ready to tip on the tightrope. Ready for the challenge. For this we are all expanding. Freedom.
May 1st or May Day, the world around, conjures images of flowers born from April showers. Placing cones bursting full of blossoms upon the front doors of unsuspecting loved ones and neighbors. May poles with colorful ribbons being woven round by dancing happy young girls in layered dresses skipping to live music being played and happy standersby clapping and welcoming sunny days and new green leaves on the trees. Is it just me? This version of May Day has roots in many cultures extending as far back as Ancient Rome. This was not exactly the 1st of May picture we encountered in our corner of Copenhagen this past Fredag.
May 1st is also – you may or may not know – known as Labor Day or International Worker’s Day in many parts of the world. Adopted in 1889 by socialized countries to commemorate the 100th anniversary of the French Revolution as well as American labor union strikes of the late 19th century pushing for fairer working conditions, including the 8-hour work day. We now live in the socialized country of Denmark who takes their May 1st celebrating very seriously. It is somewhat of a sacred institution here. At least for some. Every year the large Fælledparken – in our neighborhood – turns into a enormous union rally and party on the lawn. Booths set up for each labor union. There are speeches by local illuminati including the Prime Minister and others, followed by live music, DJ’s, food, carnival rides, cheap white wine and Tuborg beer – all to celebrate the day of the worker. And no one works. Well – most people aren’t working. It is a school holiday and bank holiday, so we all had a free day off. And to celebrate – almost everyone drinks. A lot. Skål to the working man!
To be fair, maybe we did not truly celebrate May 1st as a festive Dane. I feel fairly confident that if I had two able feet to walk with and wasn’t concerned about the escalating level of intoxication coming to and fro the park out on our neighborhood streets, we would have cruised through Fælledparken and checked it out. When in Copenhagen, right? But having experienced just a fragment of its celebrants on their way to the celebration made me a wee bit wary in my crutching for my life current condition. Open containers? Underage drinking? Check and check. Oh – that’s right. Did you know that you can legally buy alcohol here at 16. Yes. 16. So maybe they weren’t actually underage. But alcohol was everywhere. And the cans, bottles, cheap white wine and emptied bubbly all left exactly where it was finished. On the sidewalk. On the corner. By the cafe door. By our door. I am not intending to lay judgement. To each his own I usually say. And to be honest not one of these boisterous young attendees was really doing anything inappropriate that I witnessed – just celebrating a free day communally. And festively. And drunkly. Unlike other Danish holidays that we have experienced when the city shuts down and feels cavernous and echo-ey – leaving us to wonder where have all the people gone? (And where are we supposed to get groceries?) In contrast, May 1st was PACKED. To the brim. At least in our neighborhood. We waited alongside the throngs and masses for the bus that was late due to being over capacity – so packed, and filling more at each stop, that our children were worried that they were to be boxed in at the back of the bus and would be unable to get off at the requisite stop. Fear not, dear reader, as all of us – even I with my crutches – were able to maneuver the burgeoning bus crowd and make it to our destination.
So what did we do on this 1st of May? We celebrated this most Danish of holidays with an invitation to join some Danish and American friends at the opening of an outdoor seating patio for two little cafes in our neighboring neighborhood, Nørrebro. Lækkerier på Nørrebro is known for its fabulous cakes, Danish rugbrød sandwiches and latina Pisco Sours. Next door is the Green Buddha offering delicious thai fare and Singha beer. Order up, bundle up (it was cold) and listen to the festive South American rhythms of Trypical Cumbia – band members hailing from Chile, Columbia, England and Ecaudor singing in Spanish. Ai! Ai! Ai! All of this painted against the graffiti’d backdrop of Vedbæksgade (remember gade means street) made it a very colorful outing. How does this all fit together? Did it make sense? Not in a traditional sense. But as newly minted citizens of the world, sharing it with our new friends, throwing around an American football, it felt like a celebration indeed. We sat outside and enjoyed the music on this abnormally chilly May 1st (so I’m told by two Danes who would know) wrapped up in the cafe’s fleece blankets, and shared stories and talked of new plans and enjoyed excellent cake and a new sense of growing community. For this I will happily celebrate in solidarity.
Lemonade from lemons. In theory, motivating. In theory, inspiring. In theory, possible. When life serves you lemons, make lemonade. Make something good out of the bad. Right? In theory. Call me a sour puss, but sometimes the lemons just sit there. All cheerful and happy in their sunny yellow-ness all the while mocking you. Pucker up sucker. Do you know what I mean? Turning around the hand you’ve been dealt takes moxy. It takes effort. Bluffing works. Sometimes. Sometimes it is easier said than done, making that god damn hypothetical lemonade.
The Waiting Game. Wow. Apparently I’m good at it. Or maybe it’s the opposite, maybe if I was good at it, I wouldn’t be so affected by it. I feel like I am always waiting here. In Denmark. In America, waiting is not a worthy pursuit. Patience is a virtue, perhaps. But time is money, peeps. We don’t have time to waste. We are efficient masters of time. What are you waiting for? It won’t just land in your lap, you have to go out there and get it. Whatever your it is. In America. We work long hours to achieve our “it.” Shuttle our kids to and fro their scheduled active lives. Free time? I might have some. Next Tuesday. Let me check. Worth is measured in how our time is filled. What you do with your time. Downtime must be used efficiently as well. Long weekends are good enough. Fill it up. Get out there and get to it. The doing in the time you have allotted for whatever it was you set out to do. Did we get it all done? Who knows. Did my Facebook album and Instagram feed make it look like I did? Super. (They say that a lot here in Denmark.) Success. Right? Maybe.
Back in Copenhagen. In Denmark. Things are slower. It’s acceptable. It’s expected. Nothing wrong with it. Meals are slower (which I like.) Commuting is slower (on bikes and busses.) So here I wait. I wait for the bus. I wait for the train. Not long luckily, most of the time. I used to have to wait for the electric car to charge before we could make the final legs of our long weekend journey home. While the Leaf’s efficiency in lowering carbon emissions is bar none, the electronic charging station infrastructure outside current Danish metroplexes lends tedium to the logistics of using it. We ditched it. Too much waiting. Currently I wait for my ankle to heal. I dislocated it. Badly. And unfortunately the timing for its healing is vague and amorphous. If you can recall, I was released from the hospital with allowances to attend my pre-planned family reunion round the globe in Hawaii. I did. Make it. It wasn’t exactly fun traveling for nearly 36 hours with brand new screws in my ankle and heparin shots to self-inject. But. The arriving and the being and the experiencing and the reuning with family on the Big Island for a long week was worth it. The warm sun on our faces. The iced Kona coffees shared at the sand-floored waterfront shop. The perma-smiles on my childrens’ faces. Was worth it. Even if I couldn’t get in that blue blue water teeming with colorful sleek fish. So worth it. The return trip home equally as tedious. But again. Worth it. That was Thursday last.
Painting Ceramic Easter eggs at Copenhagen Creative-Space
God Påske from Denmark! We returned home to a quiet Easter weekend in Copenhagen. Even with 90% of the city shut down – it was beautiful. A long weekend dressed in spring’s finest. Daffodils emerging sunny and yellow. The bluest skies painted with the fluffiest whitest clouds you’ve ever seen. Seriously. You want to learn how to paint clouds? Come to Denmark. Where Copenhagen sits is an island. Clouds blow over the flat landscape in ever mutating puffy shapes. One advantage of our 5th floor flat is that I can bear witness to their passing from my window as I elevate my broken foot. This pro only slightly tops the scales balancing the con of crutching up those flights on one leg. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger may apply here, but allow me some license to gripe. It isn’t easy. And my husband waits. For me. Afraid I might careen back down and break another something I think. Not in my grand plan. But neither was the tossed ankle to be honest.
Epic clouds over Copenhagen
No filter added blues over Copenhagen
Epic clouds over CPH
Epic clouds over CPH
Copenhagen Harbor in blues and whites
View from GoBoat.dk rental in Copenhagen canals
I’m awaiting a call from the Doctor. Waiting to see when the follow-up surgery required to correct the original corrective surgery will take place. Waiting to see when the light at the end of my tunnel will appear. Right now – it’s pretty dark in there. And there is a traffic jam apparently. Back-up of surgeries more acute than mine at the hospital. Plugging along. But can’t deny that emotionally, it is a wee bit challenging, knowing that you’re rerouting. A big U-turn if you will, back to the beginning of your post-op recovery time. Any progress – less swelling, less pain, more mobility – all null and void. I know. I know. It could be worse. It’s just an ankle. It will heal. But more than my ankle, any progress that I was feeling in expatriation here has slowed to a snail’s pace. Hard to network and explore and share with children when your current reality is moving at a careful, metered crutch-across-cobblestones pace. Eight weeks post-operative progress starts…. NOW. Oh – not now? When, exactly? You don’t know. Oh. Do you know when you’ll know when? No? Ok. Let me know. When. I’m here. Waiting.
