Pat and Martin's Travel Adventures
September 6, 2016
Today we left our cabin on the edge of the forest and the shore of the fjord in a rain storm. Along the way, we shot through endless tunnels cutting through massive mountains of stone. We skimmed past along lakes and along the coast through mist, drizzle, and deluge.
As the sky cleared, mountains began to a
ppear from across the silver sea. Layer upon layer of pale grey, dark grey, misty blue peaks emerged, veiled by shifting clouds.
Serendipity is delightful! We were driving on a forested road back to our cabin after a demanding and rewarding hike to the top of a peak overlooking the fjord, the valleys and layer upon layer of mountains. Why am I not writing to you about that impressive scene? We planned it, we persevered, and we conquered it. We have bragging rights.
The answer is this: Serendipity. Something caught my eye, something unusual. Martin pulled the car over. He started towards the overlook. “No,” I called, “it’s over here.” We looked down at a steep gorge, with flat rocks that tumbled in every imaginable angle and massive rectangles of stone making deranged stair steps. It looked as though a mighty castle had been swept off a high cliff by Thor himself, and had crashed in pieces down a plunging chute. Here was a a suggestion of an ancient stone wall, there was a ledge like a rampart, here was a giant cornerstone thrown by some unfathomable force greater than anything we have ever witnessed.
All this was remarkable. But it was the very absence of something that was even more amazing. One would expect to see in such a precipitous gorge deep, churning water gushing down the mountain. Not so. Water languidly pooled and gurgled and slowly made its way down, no deeper than a foot or two. In this wild place, forged with huge forces, there was calm.
And there was something else even more extraordinary: Bright green, spongy mosses covered the banks with tufts a foot deep. Everything was blanketed in nature’s velvet. Below, every rock wore its mantle of green. Walking across a six-foot slab in the gorge was like stepping from a shower onto a plush bathmat. What looked treacherous from above, when encountered up close, became a benign paradise. You could step from one stone to the next without ever touching water, without fear of slipping. Up ahead, a place where you might plunge to your death in a cascade of water. No, merely natural steps leading to the next calm pool, spread with spongy green cushions.
We could have whizzed by in our car. Instead, we looked twice. A few minutes turned into an hour. We happened upon this place where everything was not as you would expect. A place of dreams. The spawning ground of nymphs.
August 29, 2016
Today is our anniversary. Two years minus two days ago today, on a cool morning, Martin took me to Pont St. Michel. All the way along the bridge, left and right, the bridge glittered with hundreds of locks, linked, together, on this span above the Seine. Lover’s vows and lovers’ hopes squeezed close, bound to its guard rails, locked with keys that have gone to the four corners of the earth.
In the end, the burden grew too heavy for one bridge to bear. One sad day, the appointed executioner severed every lock. All those lovers know not where their locks now lay. They only know what is preserved in their hearts. Every click of the lock was an act of courage, hope or steadfastness. How do these stories end? How many of them have stayed truer to their love than did the locks upon the bridge?
We know only what is in our own hearts. Actually, we are lucky if we do know our own hearts. The path to that knowledge can be perilous, and declarations of love can exact the courage of a lion – or maybe even a lioness.
Two years minus two days ago today, on a sunny afternoon, Martin suggested we go to the park at the tip of Isle de Saint Louis. As we leaned against the ancient stone railing, watching the Seine flow by, he asked me a very important question. I gave a very important answer. We sealed it with a very significant kiss.
Now, one year ago exactly, on a sunny afternoon, we celebrated our one-year wedding anniversary. We returned to that overlook on the tip of Isle de Saint Louis. Together, we locked a shiny new golden lock – not on a bridge that could in time be unable to support the weight, but on the solid rock of an ancient island. There was no question. However, it was sealed with a very important kiss.
August 28, 2016
Whenever I come to Paris, I always get a special feeling. I have wondered what it is about this city that touches an emotional core. After four days of wandering through the Latin Quarter, strolling the banks of the Seine, and lingering in cafes, something came to light. Morning, noon and night, people live their lives communally on the side streets of their neighborhoods.
One morning, we sat at a sidewalk cafe bakery, sipping cafe au lait and nibbling the flaky, golden crust of a croissant. I watched the people. It was early, and few tourists had ventured out. I watched the locals; you knew them immediately. The mother pushing the stroller. The man in the suit carrying two baguettes home under his arms. The young woman in the red skirt on the bicycle. The old woman carrying the basket of vegetables. It occurred to me that Parisiennes live their lives together, in the streets. They meet. They greet. They eat. Each day, they go to the corner fruit stand, and to the bakery and to the butcher, and that it was all here, on this very street.
A man sat at the table behind us near the entrance, bantering with the waiter and conversing with those who strolled in. “Ah, ah,” he says to me, “Prenez la table comme ca, pour votre spouse. Il a les jambes longue!” And he popped over to assist with sliding the table over so Martin had more room. I had been oblivious to this need. Smiles and laughs. Voila! Un ami nouveau. Then, there was my backpack to attend to. “Oh, no, no. Votre sac, ne le prenez pas ici.” And he gestured to the other side of my table, near the protective planter. I had not noticed the peril my possession was in. Indeed, I myself was in need of protection. My patron then felt that we needed a picture–perhaps to record the utter perfection of the arrangement. I focused the camera for him and handed it over, whereupon he walked into the street instead and snapped the shutter with aplomb. (The picture turned out featuring a trash bin and barely squeezing our faces in.)
A handsome young man with blonde hair, sitting at a table across from us, gave us an amused wink. (He had escaped the attentions of the patron.) Voila! Another conversation ensued. He was from Copenhagen, Mikel, here for six months studying and staying with his friend Dominique, who of course, he also introduced. When Mikel found out we were celebrating our anniversary in Paris, and that indeed we had been married only one year, he became effusive. We had come to the perfect place! Dominique chimed in with a restaurant recommendation (Loulou’s near the Louvre, which turned out to be excellent). Mikel jumped in to tell us we must also go to the Jardin du Luxembourg right now, for the blooming flowers. They are the best. He sees them every day when he jogs. He declared, “I love this city. It is my home. You are so, so welcome here!” And he said it with such sincerity, we did indeed feel the city had opened its arms to us.
August 15, 2016
One of the (many) positive aspects of Danish life is that art and culture are integrated well into public and private lives. The integration is seamless from the perspective that one simply needs ‘wander about’ to have it.
When suggesting a visit to a park by cousin Elisabeth, we assumed it would be a way for the two boys Erik and Niels to let off a bit of steam. Yes, it was that, but much more – the best part being a personal escort by family!
Starting the day with a mixed-up exit from Kulhus which involved picking up left articles more or less dropped behind at numerous locations within the general Kulhus vicinity, we arrived at Odense more than an hour late, and were welcomed by two growing boys scampering through home and field because that energy just needs to go somewhere. Right?
Dad asks the boys if they would like to visit Hollufgård park and was met with whoops of glee. After necessary organization of kids and adults, we’re off.
Starting here, one immediately sees that this is no ordinary children/family park. In addition to highly inviting playthings for children of all ages, there is art liberally scattered all over the grounds. Adults and children both linger over new discoveries. Artists, of course, have an opportunity.
During this particular time of year there was an art event at the park which captivated all of the adults and children during our visit.
A portion of the large park is groomed and managed, with playgrounds and art displays of different types. A portion of the park is wild along with trails which meander throughout. The entire setting is quite lovely.
Sprinkled throughout the wild parts are art objects which integrate into the surrounding nature. There are plaques which verbally describe the artistic intent, and more often than not one must ‘look for’ the art which leads to much of the surprise value. ‘Where is the art,’ everyone will ask each other. Old and young search around the area to find objects which usually are greeted with ‘there it is, right in front of our eyes.’
A goodly fraction of these art displays are also ones on which the children can play. Through our Denmark travels, Patty and I find the ‘engagement’ factor to be implemented in many of the public display installations: children and adults are enticed to look at something closely, move a pointer, push a button, stab a Viking, etc., for child and adult to really think about what is being conveyed in that scene.
What park visit with young ones is complete without having tears and shoving matches? We did avoid the shoving matches, but alas there were tears so that our visit could be thought of as ‘complete.’ In fairness, Martin had French encounters with the tear-inducing nettles also … so glad it wasn’t a particular adult who experienced that unhappiness!
Managing the transition from tears to ride home and to dinner table, our gracious hosts Elisabeth and Michael did that thing which Danes do so very well: provided a great dinner and chat at the table of … family.
Thank you Elisabeth, Michael, Erik and Niels! We enjoyed the park, the art, the food, drink and family.
Additional photos of the Hollufgård park visit can be found here, along with other photos of the Nyborg area.
Photos of our complete Denmark stay are found here.
