travel notes

Last morning in Copenhagen

I’d woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist. I paced from one side of the room to the other, dreaming out loud incoherent and impossible things—deeds I’d forgotten to do, hopeless ambitions haphazardly realized, fluid and lively conversations which, were they to be, would already have been. And in this reverie without grandeur or calm, in this hopeless and endless dallying, I paced away my morning, and my words…

Reading The Book of Disquiet by Fernando Pessoa. Taking my time, skipping around some, savoring every word. Just read the passage above. Which seemed apropos.

It’s cold and wet and dark. We’re up and moving. Bags are packed. Not much time left, nothing much left to do but wait. Still raining. I put a bath towel under the leaking window. What you can’t see all that well through the rain-streaked pane: the famous Tivoli Gardens.

‘Tis the season for Christmas markets. Tivoli’s opens for the season right around the time we will be boarding our flight back home. The website boasted of a thousand decorated Christmas trees. “A magical, sparkling Christmas atmosphere is guaranteed.” Too bad. Maybe next year.

Hallstatt sunrise

Winter Sunrise, Hallstatt, Austria

During the pandemic we bought a puzzle featuring a photo of this gorgeous little mountain village beside a lake called Hallstatt. Neither of us had heard of it. While we were putting the puzzle together, I said, half-serious: Maybe we’ll go there once we’re able to travel again. Sure, she said. What not? It ended up being the first stop on the first trip we booked post-pandemic. Stayed in this historic hotel on the waterfront. Had a room with a view. First morning, woke up early, was immediately rewarded for doing so. This lovely predawn light reflected on the water. Of course, I tried to snag a photo. Still groggy, cold fingertips fumbling with the settings on my camera, I did what I could. We had breakfast in the hotel restuarant. In fact, we had all our meals sitting at the same table, looking out over the water. Asked our waiter about the white house across the way. Was told it was abandoned. Said to my wife, half-serious: Maybe we’ll buy that house one day. Sure, she said. Why not?

At the airport bookstore, this little drama…

Perusing a table of Vintage Classics at an airport bookstore. Struck by the number of unfamiliar titles with unfamiliar authors. Picked up a copy of Stoner by John Williams. The cover art caught me. This antiquey monochromatic photo of an earnest young man in a suit leaning against a wall. He is reading. And kinda sorta looked like Kerouac, or so I thought.

I read the back cover, noted Julian Barnes’ recommendation. Read the first page. “Stoner” turned out to be the name of the title character. William, his given name. What I got from the first page was that William Stoner was born in 1892, that he attended the University of Missouri, that he became an assistant professor at the same institution, that he died in his 50s, that no one—not his colleagues, not his students—were likely to linger long on his memory.

Asked myself: Are you in the mood to take a chance on a book you never heard of, on an author you have not read?

Told myself: You already have a book for the plane. And you are already in the middle of one two three… I count four books. Plus that audiobook you are six hours or so into, and then there is that leaning tower of unread books on your nightstand…

I put it the book down; picked it back up. The blurb red-dotting the title like an accent: THE GREATEST NOVEL YOU’VE NEVER READ. Bold statement. It proved to be persuasive.

Daffodils

Daffodils everywhere—in gardens, along the roadside, atop an old stone wall. Every time we stopped to admire the daffodils, one of our traveling companions took it upon herself to recite the first stanza of “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud” by William Wordsworth; it goes:

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Greetings from Edinburgh!

Robert Fergusson statue

Steps from where we were staying,
this bronze statue of a young man, midstride.
We stopped to have a look, I said:
Must be a poet. No idea why
I said that. It was something maybe to do
with the earnest seeking of his countenance.
Turns out it was
a rendering of Robert Fergusson.
I was not at all acquainted
with his life, his work, though it inspired
other dead poets I did feel
I did know.
Some nearby signage said that
Fergusson took a tumble, suffered
a head injury, and died after
a stint in an asylum. He was 24 at the time.

We strolled the kirkyard,
found his mossed-over marker, paused there,
read his epitaph,
paid our respects, just a beat or two
of silence, in the shadow
of an old oak tree, its fallen leaves
plastered to the wet, broken cobble underfoot.
I took care to watch my step.

A traveler, not a tourist

Got up early. Grabbed my camera. Bit of a whisky hangover. Sleep still heavy in my step. Wound my way down a spiral staircase, three floors. Footfalls echoing. Stumbled out onto the street, instantly regretting that I did not catch the heavy door, wincing as it slammed. Then up the cobbled street. The weather about what I expected—let’s call it brooding. I trudged up the hill, camera like a millstone, strap biting into the back of my neck. Had a spot in mind, had already framed the photo. By the statue of Adam Smith, just in front of cathedral, its gothic crown dark and looming. Looking back from whence I came—the street gently descending, slightly curving, another church spire, a glimpse of water… Nah. The light refused to cooperate. More importantly, I had assumed—correctly—that there would be few to no tourists clogging up the frame. Check. But I had failed to anticipate the preponderance of lorries making early deliveries, the neon-clad street sweepers, the unwelcome presence of a waste deposal truck with its lights flashing, backing up—beep beep beep. And I cursed the tourist—the tour buses, the tour groups, the Griswalds on their European vacation, the cameraphone-wielding throngs trampling the very thing they came to point and shoot at. Even when not present—seemingly always in superabundance— the regrettable, lingering effects persist like this goddamn hangover. Then I remembered I was a tourist. Then I reassured myself that I was in fact a traveler, not a tourist. Then I popped into a Starbucks and ordered a grande, lactose-free vanilla latte.

On the road in Norway

Lofoten Islands, Norway. Bridge near Reine, along the E10.

The arctic light is otherworldly. This time of year the sun sits low on the horizon for the four hours or so it remains in the sky. Like sunrise and sunset combined. The weather is moody. Raining one minute, snowing the next. Clouds gather, disperse in minutes, like squawking flocks of gawking tour bus tourists. Though the cold damp is consistent. As are the blustery winter winds. Speaking of tourists, there aren’t any. This is decidedly the off-season. I love that. Makes me want to visit the arctic in the dead of winter more often. Do not know the name of the bridge, by the way. Nor the mountains rising from the sea beyond. Our little fisherman’s cabin is just up the road on the left. The road! This beautifully curved arch of sea-spanning single-lane “highway” is fairly representative of the E10, which you can drive from one end of the Lofoten Islands to the other. Though you need studded tires to do that this time of year. Not going to lie; there have been some white-knuckle moments.

Oslo to Bergen by train

Wintery scene, on Oslo to Bergen train

It was supposed to be scenic. Indeed, “one of the most scenic train journeys in the world,” this according to Norway’s official tourism site. It did not disappoint. Spent the six or so hours gazing out the window, snapping photos of the beautiful snow-dusted countryside. Which proved to be a bit of a challenge. Because of the winter light, or lack thereof. The high speeds we were traveling did not help, nor the glare from the light of the train compartment on the glass. Most of the photos I took did not turn out. This one was a surprise. Because I did not see the cabin peeking through the spruce when I took it. By the way, love that cozy shade of yellow. Many of the homes along the way seemed to be painted the same color.

Words For The Meanwhile

a commonplace blog