AlOlaf's Log (Danish/German/Norwegian)

[AlOlaf]

SLEEP IS GOOD


With sleep:

Italki session went great. I think I'm finally starting to get the hang of those open vowel sounds. Man, I just can't wait to see Denmark again.


Without sleep:

I can feel my determination evaporating. I realize now I've fallen victim to the Siren song of a very attractive cheese grater. I picked up the shiny, inviting implement over five years ago and called it my own, paying no attention to its innate and unalterable keenness. Since then, with my wholehearted approval and enthusiastic participation, the thing has managed to flay every last shred of pulpy residue from my once eager and hopeful being, transforming my brain into a soggy bowl of gray matter shavings in the process. Somewhere there must be fulfilled and contented people busying themselves with activities they're actually capable of, happy wanderers deaf to the call of the unrealizable pursuit, but I wouldn't know. At the moment, I'm fighting the urge to consign my portable CD player and headphones to a watery grave in the toilet bowl. It's too late for me, but maybe not for you. Heed my warning: Beware the Lorelei Danish.

[AlOlaf]

Here I’m trying to mimic the Danish narrator of a YouTube video. There was no text, so I transcribed it from the audio. I had a Danish guy check me, so I’m pretty sure it’s right. I’d be grateful for any feedback.



Jellingestenen er kendt af de fleste danskere som Danmarks dåbsattest. Men hvorfor står denne besked om et kristent Danmark egentlig midt i resterne af hedenske gravhøje og sten? Og hvorfor er denne runesten så unik at den er på UNESCOs liste over verdensarven? Oprindelig var Jelling en hedensk gravplads. Her blev Gorm den Gamle sandsynligvis begravet på en overdådig kongelig begravelsesplads, en kæmpe gravhøj i midten, og en enorm skibssætning af store sten rundt om, som det var skik og brug i vikingetiden.

Det var sandsynligvis Gorms søn Harald, der sørgede for at begrave sin far så stort og pompøst, og det var også Harald Blåtand, der satte det, vi kalder den store Jellingesten. Han var en utrolig dygtig politiker, der forstod at kommunikere så tydeligt, at vi i dag, tusind år efter, ikke er i tvivl om meningen. Vi står ved siden af et af Danmarks bedste stykker propaganda, en pressemeddelelse mejslet i sten.

Men hvorfor satte Harald Blåtand denne besked om at danskerne er kristne, når det sandsynligvis var en halvsandhed? Og hvorfor midt i denne hedenske gravplads for Gorm den Gamle? Svaret skal måske søges udenfor Danmarks grænser, for presset udefra for at kristne danskerne er voksende. Flere kristne missionærer har i tiden inden Gorm, Thyra og Harald forsøgte at omvende hedningene i Danmark.

Om det virkelig passer, at Harald var så from og god, at han straks indså kristendomens sandheder, eller om der også var praktiske, politiske hensyn bag hans beslutning, det ved vi selvføgelig ikke. Men måske er en del af sandheden også, at det var ganske belejligt for Harald at lade sig omvende til kristendommen.

I år 962 bliver Otto den første kronet til romersk kejser i Rom. Kejser Ottos rige var stort og mægtigt, og Danmark blot en lille tarm mod nord. Måske måtte kong Harald tilføje de nye kristne dele til sit hedenske monument for at overbevise kejser Otto om, at han mente, hvad han sagde: Her i Danmark er vi virkelig kristne. Måske var det også derfor, han rejste Jellingestenen, den størst kendte runesten, med beskeden til tyskerne: Bliv bare væk.

Men det er ikke alle, der synes Harald er en helt, der redder Danmark fra tysk invasion. Hans egne landsmænd, deriblandt hans egen søn Svend Tveskæg, synes ikke, det var en god ide at underkaste sig kejser Otto. Ifølge Roskildekrøniken er det Svend Tveskæg, der giver ordre til, at Harald skal dræbes.

Jelling markerer i dag overgangen fra hedenskab til kristendom I Danmark. Men Jellings storhedstid bliver forbavsende kort. Heldigvis står Jellings høje og sten i dag og vidner om en stormfuld og betydningsfuld tid I Danmarks historien.

[AlOlaf]

I recently went to Denmark and Germany. This is what happened:


Denmark

I arrived at Copenhagen’s airport an a ‪‪Saturday afternoon‬‬ and took the train to the central station, where I validated my rail pass. I’d bought a 1st class Eurail pass for both Denmark and Germany, good for 10 travel days, and it proved to be perfect for my needs. From the station, I walked to my hotel and, in halting, jet-lagged Danish, checked in. I was determined to speak only Danish in Denmark, no matter what. I managed to do it, but it often wasn’t pretty. At least nobody switched to English on me.

‪‪On Sunday ‬I got up and walked from my hotel to the place where my private Danish lessons were to begin‪ the following morning‬. I timed myself, and it took 45 minutes. Although I normally prefer to experience travel destinations on foot rather than from inside some kind of vehicle, the pain in my left foot (from plantar fasciitis) told me I’d better scope out the subway system. Fortunately, there was a station nearby, where I bought a one-week ticket, good for all subway and S-trains in the city.‬

The rail system in Copenhagen is user-friendly and works great. I could make it from my hotel to my lessons in 10 minutes, and from my lessons to the central station in about 20. I only experienced a delay on the subway once, and it lasted just six minutes, while the S-trains were always on time. If such a public transportation system existed where I live, I’d get rid of my car. 

It’s well-known that lots of people in Copenhagen commute via bicycle. I’d initially wanted to rent a bike and join in, but thought better of it as soon as I saw the city’s cyclists in action. I’d always considered biking a leisure activity, but rush hour in Copenhagen is more like a motorless, two-wheeled Formula I grand prix. I came to the conclusion that a combination of public transport and walking was a more prudent choice and less likely to result in a trip to the emergency room.

Still, being a pedestrian in Copenhagen is not without its dangers. I quickly learned it behooves one to strictly obey the walk/don’t walk signals when on foot in the city, because stepping off the curb at the wrong moment could mean getting nailed by a speeding cyclist. I wasn’t watching where I was going one time and almost got my face taken off; thereafter I made it a point to always be aware of where the bike path was, and to make sure I wasn’t standing in it.

Armed with my new rail ticket, I immediately used it to get to the central station, where I caught a train to a 10th century Viking ring fortress called Trelleborg ved Slagelse. I had seen Lars Mikkelsen walking around this place in the third installment of the DR series “Historien om Danmark”, so I naturally wanted to do the same. I tramped all the way around the top of the giant circular berm, and from up there, I could see the stone outlines of the 16 symmetrically placed long houses that had once stood within the protective circle. I also saw a sign saying there were mass graves there, but never could figure out where they were.

After I explored the fortress, I took a look at a reconstructed long house situated just outside the ring, but, being a reconstruction, it didn’t interest me much, so I decided to leave. The museum at the entrance to the fortress area was closed when I got back to it. There was nobody in sight, and only one car left in the parking lot. It dawned on me that, in my haste to get to the fortress, I’d never once thought about how I’d get back.

I’d taken a cab from the train station in Slagelse, and en route to Trelleborg had been too busy chatting with the friendly Danish driver lady to pay any attention to where we were going. Now I was standing in front of a deserted museum with a bum foot and no idea how I was going to get back to the station, which I guessed was several miles away.

I tried to reach the taxi service in Slagelse, but my phone wouldn’t let me call out. Panic was starting to set in when I looked up and saw the owner of the last car, an elderly man, maybe in his 70’s, getting into it. I quick-stepped over, and he rolled down the window. Holding my phone out, I told him I had tried to call a cab, but my phone didn’t work, and asked if he could possibly call one for me. The man squinted at me and asked if I was going to the station in Slagelse. I said yes, and he said “You’re in luck!”, and pointed to the passenger’s seat.

God must love the stupid, that’s all I can say. This man saved my dumb ass, even though I was a total stranger and a foreigner, to boot. We had a nice conversation on the way to the station despite his hearing impairment and my dubious Danish elocution. I’d assumed he lived in Slagelse and was just dropping me off on his way home, but it turned out he lived seven miles away and was going way out of his way to help me. I offered to pay for gas, but he refused. “If I ever come to the USA”, he said, “you can drive me around.” Yep, Denmark is home to some fine folks, all right, and this guy was damn sure one of them.

I started my one-on-one Danish lessons the next ‪‪morning, Monday‬‬, and my teacher proved to be absolutely first class. The woman was a language nerd like me, and we connected immediately. The first thing she did was have me tell her about myself so she could hear my pronunciation and assess my grammar and vocabulary. She said my pronunciation was good in general, but that she’d detected some inconsistencies, so we began working with the sounds I was having trouble with. The three hours flew by, and after class I took the train to Roskilde to see the great cathedral there.

Inside Roskilde Domkirke, I gawked at the tombs of a number of great kings and queens of Denmark, among them big names like Margrete I and Christian IV. Also present were the remains of Christian VII, the mentally unstable monarch depicted in the movie “en kongelig affære”, as well as those of Christian X, who rode his horse through the streets of Copenhagen during the German occupation to reassure his people that they still had a king. 

After I’d seen enough of the cathedral, I walked over to Vikingeskibsmuseet, but by the time I got there, they were getting ready to close. They tried to run me off, but I told them I’d come all the way from the USA to see the ships, so they let me come in and take a quick gawk without making me buy a ticket. Once again, fine folks, these Danes.

Class the next ‪‪morning, Tuesday‬‬, consisted mostly of pronunciation practice combined with preposition and word order drills. I could see that my teacher wanted to make sure I understood every facet of Danish grammar, and she was careful to emphasize those aspects she knew to be stumbling blocks for native English speakers. Afterwards, we conversed for awhile, and the next thing I knew, the three hours were up. I left and caught a train to Hillerød, where there was a castle called Frederiksborg Slot I wanted to see. 

I didn’t know exactly where the castle was located, so I was hoping I’d be able to see it from the station, but no such luck. There weren’t any signs either, so I asked a young Dane if he knew where the place was. His initial “What the hell does this guy want?” facial expression quickly gave way to a faint smile. “Frederiksborg Slot?”, he said, and pointed to a nearby building. “Go around the corner there and then straight ahead. It’s right over there.” I thanked him and started walking.

The castle turned out to be a hell of a lot farther away than they guy had made it sound, but the walk was well worth it. Talk about your quintessential majestic European castle; it was a splendor hootenanny. There was a museum inside full of paintings, whose subjects included that kooky Danish sovereign, Christian VII, and his back-stabbing German buddy, Johann Struensee. I tried to take in every painting there, but there were just too many; I reached my museum saturation point and had to flee. I got lost on the way back and ended up walking around in circles before I finally stumbled onto the station. On a positive note, the unintentional detour led me to a pedestrian mall, where I bought a much-needed pair of gloves; I had lost one of the pair I’d brought from home sometime during my trip to Trelleborg.

On the train back to Copenhagen, I eavesdropped on two young Danish women sitting in front of me and marveled at the the fluid streams of words they produced. It was as if their speech was liquid and their conversation a face-to-face duel between two swaying cobras made of water. This distinctive fluidity is what initially attracted me to Danish, and I continue to strive for it, but it’s incredibly elusive. I often get discouraged because I can hear how far away I am from achieving it. 

During my lesson the next ‪‪morning, Wednesday‬‬, I told my teacher about the women on the train. She looked at me thoughtfully, then stood up and began to write on the whiteboard. When she was finished, she stepped back so I could see what she’d written. It didn’t take long for me to realize I was looking at the key, or at least one of the keys, to the fluidity I craved. 

She had written an explanation of when to use reduction and when not to, along with examples. I had read about reduction in spoken Danish and knew it was important, but I had never seen its usage broken down so simply, clearly and succinctly. My entire being swelled with hope. I could see that this knowledge, combined with lots of hard work, could translate into real, substantial progress for me. Most of the rest of the session was devoted to drilling the new material, and then I was off to Jelling.

Before I left, my teacher helped me find a direct train there (and, unlike me, she had the foresight to find one for the return trip, too). It would take about 2 1/2 hours each way, so we agreed to cut the lesson 15 minutes short so I could make the train leaving ‪‪at 12:52‬‬, which would let me spend over an hour there before I had to return.

I love Jelling. The weather was perfect, and I stood and stared at the rune stones for a good long while before clambering to the top of both burial mounds. I had seen a YouTube video that showed a perky young archaeologist named Ditte walking the entire concrete pathway that encircles the historic area, so I naturally had to do the same. It’s a long way around, so when I got done, it was almost time to catch the train back to Copenhagen. I was hungry, so I hurried over to a little deli close to the burial mounds. 

I walked in and looked around for some indication as to what kind of food they had there, but all I saw was a small chalkboard with something written on it I couldn’t make out. The place was run by a bearded young man who looked like he’d come out of the same gene pool as the Vikings who’d been there in the 10th century. When he asked me what I wanted, I didn’t know what to say, so I asked him what he liked to eat. A bit taken aback, he said he could make me a nice (some word I’d never heard before). I said that sounded good. 

I could see into the kitchen, but the man had his back to me while he was making the whatsit, so I couldn’t tell what he was doing. After a time, he came back with something rectangular completely wrapped up in brown wax paper. I paid, and as I was leaving, couldn’t resist asking him if he found it thrilling to be so close to Gorm den Gamle’s burial place. He shrugged his shoulders and said he didn’t know that much about him.

I walked back to the station, sat down on a bench and, full of anticipation, unwrapped the mystery food thingie. It turned out to be a sandwich consisting of cheese, basil and some kind of meat on lightly toasted bread. It was glorious. See, you can trust the Danes. They’re some fine folks.

The next day, Thursday, brought a revelation. My teacher showed me how to reproduce the “long mouth” Danish vowel sounds using single-syllable reference words I could easily and accurately hear in my head. Vowel sounds loom large in Danish, so this was a big deal. She also helped me solidify my previously half-baked understanding of adjective endings, and she gave clear explanations for several other grammatical concepts I’d only vaguely understood before, enabling me to fully grasp them for the first time. Reduction training and pronunciation practice followed, and we ended with conversation.

Afterwards, I headed for Rundetårn, a fat, cylindrical 17th century tower in the middle of Copenhagen. I tramped the spiraling internal walkway up to the observation deck and gawked at the city panorama. That done, I went into the nearby Arnold Busck bookstore and browsed, but didn’t buy anything, because I didn’t have room to bring anything back. Next I visited Nationalmuseet, a wonderful museum packed with artifacts, where I blundered mightily at the ticket counter. I told the lady I wanted one ticket, but she thought I said four and started to ring me up for over 300 kroner. I said no, I just wanted one, and apologized for my not so good Danish. She said “We’ll figure it out.” She didn’t even switch to English. Those Danes. Did I mention that they’re some fine folks?

There’s lots of historical stuff to gawk at in Nationalmuseet, and I stayed for quite a while. Afterwards, I walked over to Christansborg and admired its stately largeness. I kept expecting Birgitte Nyborg to come out, but she never did. I bought some absolutely delightful pastries on the way back to the hotel, a cinnamon snail and a Vienna bread, to translate their names literally. I normally don’t eat sugar at all on account of my high cholesterol, but hey, how often do I get to come to Denmark?

The next ‪‪morning, Friday‬‬, I had my last lesson. It was sort of a summation, and we briefly touched on all the material we’d covered in the preceding days. I had thought up some questions, and my teacher answered them in typically clear and concise fashion. This woman knew her mother tongue inside and out, and she truly had a gift for explaining how it works. I told her I felt very fortunate to have found such a remarkable teacher, and she said she was impressed with how far I’d come with Danish, considering I’d only ever spent a sum total of less than two weeks in Denmark. We discussed how I might best continue with my studies when I got back home, and then my lessons were over. We shook hands, said goodbye, and she told me to have fun in Århus, where I was planning to go the next day, Saturday, to gawk at the celebrated bog corpse, Grauballemanden.

It was raining when I came out, so I went straight back to the hotel and started writing this chronicle while the events were still fresh in my mind. After awhile, I checked Saturday’s train schedules and found some suitable departures to and from Århus. Then I looked for a train from Copenhagen to Dresden for Sunday and got a rude awakening. I had planned to check out of the hotel in Copenhagen ‪‪Sunday morning‬‬ and take a train to Dresden, where I had a hotel reservation for ‪‪Sunday night‬‬ and a walking tour scheduled for ‪‪Monday morning‬‬. To my horror, I saw the only train going from Copenhagenr to Dresden on Sunday was a four-change nightmare that would take over 15 hours and put me in Dresden too late to check in to my hotel.

After about two hours of highly-motivated brainstorming and possibility weighing, I came to the conclusion I had no choice but to drastically alter my travel plans. I found a train that left Copenhagen ‪‪Saturday morning‬‬ and arrived in Flensburg three hours later with only one change, as well as one with two changes that left Flensburg ‪‪Sunday morning‬‬ and arrived in Dresden six hours later. That was the only solution I could see, and it meant cutting out Århus and Grauballemanden. Sigh. With a heavy heart, I booked a room at a hotel in Flensburg for ‪‪Saturday night‬‬ (even though I was paid up at the hotel in Copenhagen ‪‪through Sunday‬‬), packed up my crap and went to bed.

‪‪Saturday morning‬’s check-out at the hotel in Copenhagen went a lot smoother than the check-in had gone six days earlier. I felt more confident in my Danish, and the words came out with no pauses. The desk guy pointed out that I was checking out a day too soon, and I said I knew that, but that there was nothing I could do about it.‬

On the train to Flensburg, I listened to a German audiobook, as Kat had suggested. The goal now was to speak nothing but German the rest of the trip. I ended up achieving it, but my pronunciation often sucked. The more Germans I heard, the more apparent it was to me that I didn’t sound like them. And as expected, I fumbled around and had difficulty finding German words after having spent six days speaking and thinking in Danish, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. 


Germany

I got to Flensburg ok, but had no idea where the hotel was. All I knew was that it was supposed to be close to the train station. I stowed the larger of my two backpacks in a locker and asked a cab driver parked out front if he could take me to my hotel. He said he certainly could, but that I‘d get there faster on foot. “It’s right over there.”, he said,  pointing to a cluster of buildings on the other side of some trees. “Straight ahead in that direction.”

I walked to, through and all around the cluster of buildings and couldn’t find anything that resembled a hotel. I asked several people on the street if they knew where the hotel was, and none of them had ever heard of it. One lady suggested I ask at the information center. “Go up that street there a little ways.”, she said, pointing. “That’s where it is.”

I walked up the steeply graded street she’d indicated until I reached the end, where I saw a sign for the information center pointing back in the direction I’d come from. How could I have missed it? I turned around and tramped back, looking up and down and in all directions until I realized I was back at the spot where I’d talked to the lady. My foot was starting to hurt, and I was getting kranky. I saw a sign for a travel agency and thought perhaps they’d sell me a map of the city.

I walked in and two woman greeted me, one of whom proved to be my savior. I asked this woman if she knew where the information center was, and she said “Oh, they closed it a long time ago.” I told her I was looking for my hotel and gave her the address. She cheerfully pulled it up on her computer, grabbed a map and drew a walking route to it. Then she took my arm and steered me outside to show me exactly where I needed to go. And here I’d thought they’d probably run me off as soon as they realized I wasn’t going to buy a vacation package. Those Germans, they’re some fine folks.

The hotel turned out to be just a couple of blocks away, but I never would have found it on my own. It was tucked away behind a parking garage, virtually invisible from the main thoroughfare. One thing was certain: walking there from the station was definitely not faster than taking a cab. Perhaps that taxi driver hadn’t wanted to bother with a short fare. Or deal with some idiot American tourist.

After I found the hotel, I had to trudge back to the station to fetch my backpack. I didn’t mind, though, because, thanks to the map, I knew where I was going for a change, and it was a great feeling. Once I returned to the hotel, checked in and got situated, it was getting dark, so I didn’t see much of Flensburg other than the small area I tramped back and forth through while searching for the hotel and the non-existent information center. I had heard there was a Danish minority in Flensbug, but everyone I encountered spoke German, and all the signage was in German.

The next ‪‪morning, Sunday‬‬, I slogged to the station again and caught a direct IC (inter-city) train to Hamburg, where I immediately got on another direct IC train to Berlin. There I boarded yet another direct IC train to Dresden. IC trains are a great way to travel, quiet and comfortable, and since you don’t have to concentrate on driving, you can relax and watch the scenery. I listened to some more of my audiobook, a German translation of the Swedish “En man som heter Ove”, and hoped it was helping me reconnect to German.

It was cold and raining when I arrived at Dresden’s central station, but I decided to walk to the hotel anyway because I had an umbrella and knew exactly where the the place was. At least that was my plan before I discovered I’d lost one of my new gloves. I’d have to carry a backpack in one hand and the umbrella in the other, so there was no way I’d be able to put my bare hand in my pocket. Cursing my carelessness, I made a beeline for the taxi stand out front, where a gigantic German guy picked me up and drove me to my hotel in a taxi-van designed to haul people in wheelchairs. 

After I checked in and got settled, I bought yet another pair of new gloves in a store inside the hotel and went out in search of German food. I love German food, the bread, the pastries, the cheese, the sausage, everything. This was my fifth visit to Germany, and I’ve yet to be disappointed by the food. Unfortunately, there were nothing but sit-down restaurants around the hotel, and I wanted something I could take back to my room. In the end, I was forced to content myself with the Danish bread and peanut butter I’d brought with me.

The next ‪‪morning, Monday‬‬, I met the German tour guide lady in the lobby, and she walked me around the old town, filling me in on Dresden’s history and landmarks. It had stopped raining, so it was a thoroughly enjoyable experience, and, as agreed, my guide spoke nothing but German with me. The woman was a walking encyclopedia of Dresden’s history and had a folder full of before-and-after-the-firestorm photos. She said most of the structures in the old town had been rebuilt true to the specifications of the originals leveled in the bombings, and that the rubble from the destroyed buildings had been used in the construction of the replacements whenever possible. This I didn’t know. She showed me a photo of rows of laboriously sorted bricks and sandstone blocks that had been salvaged from the ruins and later incorporated, like puzzle pieces, into the new constructions. Today it’s easy to tell which blocks and bricks are original; charred by the firestorm, they’re much darker than the new ones.

I was mesmerized by Dresden. My guide led me to the banks of the Elbe and to the Frauenkirche, Zwinger and Semperoper I’d heard mentioned in the film “Dresden”. At one point, she asked me why I’d learned German, and I told her I loved the language. I mentioned that my grandmother, who was of Swiss descent, had spoken German to me when I was a little boy. My guide smiled and said “It’s in your blood.” Then she showed me where I could get German food to take back to the hotel, and the tour was over.

Back at the hotel, I pigged out on a roasted pork sandwich and a pastry I can only describe as a giant vanilla custard burger dusted with powdered sugar. After watching some German TV, I went out into the night and walked aimlessly through the old town. I heard music in the distance, so I started walking towards it. I came upon an illuminated square full of people waving German flags; rowsing music boomed over a massive PA system. I had stumbled onto the regular ‪‪Monday evening‬‬ Pegida demo. The music stopped, and a guy gave a speech, then another guy gave a speech, and I left. I didn’t see any skinheads. They all looked like ordinary Germans to me.

The next ‪‪morning, Tuesday‬‬, I caught a direct IC train to Berlin’s central station. When I got there, I put my larger backpack in a locker and set off to find my hotel, which I knew was right next to the station. It was too early to check in, but I thought maybe if I told them I had a reservation, they’d give me a map. Not only did they do that, they gave me a free ticket for the city’s public transportation, good for all three days of my stay. 

Since I had six hours to kill before I could check in, I decided to see if I could figure out how to take the S-Bahn to the Rotes Rathaus, where I was to meet my Berlin tour guide the following morning. It wasn’t hard at all, and I could see the red brick town hall when I came out of the Alexanderplatz station. The Fernsehturm was right there, too, so I gawked up at it and admired its towering largeness. After that, I found the Weltzeituhr and gawked at it, too. Then it was on to the Brandenburger Tor, which was a pretty good walk.

As I neared the famous landmark, I noticed there were police cars everywhere. Up ahead, a block or so in front of the gate, I could see metal grates manned by swarms of uniformed officers blocking parts of the street. At first, I thought some catastrophe had taken place, but then I saw a group of women in headscarves in the middle of the street, holding banners and waving national flags I didn’t recognize. They were chanting something about the Sahara. A row of motorcycle police roared by as I struggled to make my way through the crush of milling onlookers. I was intent on reaching the other side of the street, where I could see the police were letting people through to the gate.

I finally got to the majestic structure and gave it a good gawk, then continued on through it. On the other side, there were more people waving flags, and some guy was bellowing over a loudspeaker. I was rapidly approaching my crowd/chaos saturation point, so I freed myself from the mass of people and walked to the nearby Reichstag. My gawking there was repeatedly interrupted by people wanting me to sign their petition or give them money, so I gave up and walked back to the central station, where I sat down and wrote until it was time to check into the hotel.

Berlin’s central station is sort of like a giant shopping mall with trains. They have food stores galore, and after I checked in, I went back and got a delightful egg and cheese sandwich plus an enormous pancake/cookie pastry thing, which I took back to my room and savored while watching German TV.

The next ‪‪morning, Wednesday‬‬, was Halloween. I walked to the central station and caught the S-train to Alexanderplatz, as I had rehearsed the day before, and met my tour guide on the steps of the Rotes Rathaus. He was an energetic German roughly my age, and per our agreement, he spoke nothing but German with me. He proved to be an extremely knowledgable history buff, and as we walked by historic places, he explained their significance with genuine enthusiasm. I could tell he appreciated my interest in Berlin’s history and the fact that I already knew something about it, but when he discovered that I had once owned the exact same model motorcycle as him, our interaction became substantially more warm and casual. Not that we switched to “du” or anything.

My guide showed me some of the same landmarks I’d seen the day before, but also some I hadn’t seen and probably never would have found, such as the spot where the Nazis made book bonfires in the 1930s, which is now a memorial. As we approached the Brandenburger Tor, there was once again a huge police presence, flag waving and amplified bellowing out front. I asked my guide what was going on. “Oh, there’s a big Africa summit taking place in the city”, he said “and they’re afraid someone could try to assassinate one of the visiting heads of state.” He paused. “But there’s always somebody protesting something in this area. It’s been like that for years.” We squeezed our way through the mob, and I got another opportunity to gawk at the great Brandenburger Tor up close.

I asked my guide if the horses on top were the originals, and he said no, all but one got blasted by artillery during the Battle of Berlin, and the one that survived was in a museum somewhere. He said the current horses were third generation replacements. As we walked past the Reichstag, he started talking about the fire that destroyed it in 1933. He said there had been a tunnel underneath, which could have been used by helpful SA men to assist the supposed lone wolf Dutch arsonist in his efforts. There was no proof of this, he said, but added that he’d read that someone had conducted a computer-generated reenactment of the fire and concluded that a single person couldn’t have made the place burn down as fast as it did.

Next, my guide took me to the parking lot that has Hitler‘s bunker system underneath it, and then we saw what was left of the basement of the Gastapo headquarters, where God only knows how many people were tortured and killed. Nearby was a surviving section of the Berliner Mauer, which I gawked at intently, and then the tour was over. 

After I said goodbye to my guide, I visited a museum of German history he’d recommended, where I gawked at, among other things, a V2 rocket engine and an 88mm flak cannon. After that, I hustled over to the Siegessäule and climbed the narrow, winding stairs inside, reaching the observation deck just in time to gawk at Berlin in panoramic fashion before it got dark. It probably would have been more fun if I hadn’t been sardined in with a densely packed horde of people the whole time, but it was still thrilling. I can only imagine what it’s like at the height of tourist season.

The next day, Thursday, I did next to nothing because I was exhausted. I managed to walk over to the central station for more German num-nums, but other than that, all I did was watch German TV and write. 

The next ‪‪morning, Friday‬‬, I flew back home, but not before I encountered the first and only a-hole of the trip, the German driver of the bus to the airport. When I got on, I wanted to make sure the ticket the hotel had given me was good for that particular bus, so I asked the driver and showed him the ticket.. “No idea”, he said, grabbing it. He held it out as if it were a soiled diaper. “I’ve never seen anything like this before. How should I know? What are you asking me for, anyway? Do you mean to say you bought this ridiculous thing and don’t even know what it’s good for?” “I didn’t buy it”, I said. “The people at the hotel gave it to me and they said...” At that point, one of the guy’s colleagues, who had been standing outside the door, stepped up and said “You can use it.”

I don’t know if the guy was having a bad day, if my accent irritated him, or if he was just a natural-born dickweed. I guess it doesn’t really matter. Not everyone is fine folks.

[Axon]

A wonderful, wonderful travelogue. I enjoyed it immensely, particularly because the last time I was in Europe I traveled to some of the same places by train. I also do a lot of walking around, but it never occurred to me to hire tour guides for language practice.

What were some of the key points or examples from your Danish lessons? I'm sure other learners or enthusiasts would be keen on hearing them.

Edit: Next time you are in Denmark, you should see Ribe if you haven't already. There's a free night tour in Danish!

[Iversen]

Welcome to Denmark (og på gensyn).

Jeg nød at læse beskrivelserne af dine første dage her. OK, I also enjoyed to read about your time in Germany, but sad that you had to cut out Århus and the famous Grauballe man (almost my neighbour) - maybe another time...

[Melkor]

I ABSOLUTELY loved reading your travel log! I hope that you will travel more, so that I can continue to share in your experiences.

[AlOlaf]

A wonderful, wonderful travelogue. I enjoyed it immensely, particularly because the last time I was in Europe I traveled to some of the same places by train. I also do a lot of walking around, but it never occurred to me to hire tour guides for language practice.

What were some of the key points or examples from your Danish lessons? I'm sure other learners or enthusiasts would be keen on hearing them.

Edit: Next time you are in Denmark, you should see Ribe if you haven't already. There's a free night tour in Danish!

I’m glad you liked my long-winded narrative, and I appreciate the Ribe tip-I’ve not been there yet. As for examples from my Danish lessons, I’ve got a photo saved in my iPhone that might be of interest, but being a technical Cro-Magnon, I can’t figure out how to embed it.

Welcome to Denmark (og på gensyn).

Jeg nød at læse beskrivelserne af dine første dage her. OK, I also enjoyed to read about your time in Germany, but sad that you had to cut out Århus and the famous Grauballe man (almost my neighbour) - maybe another time...

Thank you, Iversen. Yes, missing Grauballemanden was a major disappointment. I hope there’ll be another time.

I ABSOLUTELY loved reading your travel log! I hope that you will travel more, so that I can continue to share in your experiences.

That’s good to hear. There’s nothing I’d rather do more.

[Kat]

Das klingt, als hätte sich die Reise gelohnt.

I don’t know if the guy was having a bad day, if my accent irritated him, or if he was just a natural-born dickweed

Es lag sicher nicht an dir, Berliner Busfahrer sind leider berühmt für ihre Unfreundlichkeit. Auch für mich ist das immer wieder ein kleiner Kulturschock, wenn ich dort bin.

„Machen se mal die Tür da hinten frei, aber ´n bisschen dalli!“ Und dann tönt es weiter aus dem Lautsprecher: „Ick hab Zeit, Sie wahrscheinlich nich“ - Sätze, die wahrscheinlich jeder BVG-Nutzer kennt. Ja, die Berliner Busfahrer sind legendär, gelten sie doch als Sinnbilder der Schnoddrigkeit, der hauptstädtischen Unhöflichkeit.

Fairerweise muss man sagen, dass sie keinen leichten Job haben, wie in diesem Zeitungsartikel argumentiert wird. Geärgert hat es mich trotzdem immer, in anderen Städten geht es schließlich auch netter.

[SGP]

Das klingt, als hätte sich die Reise gelohnt.

I don’t know if the guy was having a bad day, if my accent irritated him, or if he was just a natural-born dickweed

Es lag sicher nicht an dir, Berliner Busfahrer sind leider berühmt für ihre Unfreundlichkeit. Auch für mich ist das immer wieder ein kleiner Kulturschock, wenn ich dort bin.

[...]

Fairerweise muss man sagen, dass sie keinen leichten Job haben, wie in diesem Zeitungsartikel argumentiert wird. Geärgert hat es mich trotzdem immer, in anderen Städten geht es schließlich auch netter.

So this strongly is connected to things like having a very great workload and so on. But I'd still like to know whether it would be different in some other cities/towns even in the case of a similar workload. Because people's behavior (not telling you all anything new, I'd say) also often is connected to the place they live in and the place they grew up in.

[PeterMollenburg]

Thoroughly enjoyable! Thank you for sharing AIOlaf