For the Love of Libraries

On Tuesday evening, my friend M. told me of this library, one of the largest in the world dedicated to children's literature, that is in an old castle and within zone one on the metro/bus system, just an hour away. We make plans to go, and on Wednesday we set out, each with our small food supply for the trip and what we assumed would be a long stay at the library. We talktalktalk on the way there, but once we reach the spot, we see that it is completely magical and are momentarily struck by silence and awe. It is like a tucked away cove in Munich that everyone remains hushed about; there are bike paths that sprawl out over the whole area
and a gigantic field of sunflowers, straight from the cover of Everything is Illuminated.

The tiny old castle looks more like a church, and has a little moat, plus a lake and a stream nearby. People are out sunning, eating and laughing loudly at the restaurant as their skin freckles and browns. We later got ice cream, after hours of reading, and watched the bikers go by and the sunflowers continuously stretch toward the sun. First, though, we went to the study halls, where there were desk areas, like cubicles without the walls, with plenty of space to spread out books and research. There were so many marvelous books, and I spent forever with one written in 1862 called The Science of Fairy-Tales. It was incredible and had an entire chapter dedicated to story-telling. My mind is full of these stories and theories, on which I took extensive notes. There was a gallery dedicated to Eric Carle, one of my favorite children's book authors and illustrators - the one who did The Hungry, Hungry Caterpillar. He is German-American and spent half of his life in each country. For this reason, in addition to his talent, German educators love him. There are even Eric Carle pillows and mugs with the caterpillar's image.

A crazy event was going on outdoors in the same caterpillar theme. Gaggles of children and their parents were making masks, building things, screaming a bit, and playing in a fabric tunnel. One girl had a butterfly painted on her face, but on either side of her mouth rather than on her cheek.
She looked like she could swallow everything.

We went over to the library soon after, where there were so many different sections, each divided by language. I especially loved a book of tales by Jim Henson, or later adapted by him, at least. M. got Where the Wild Things Are in Russian, since she just wanted to use the pictures for ideas in an art project. I had a book on anatomy and started drawing the heart, and another book that I remember reading once I upgraded to chapter books in school. It was called The Borrowers and had to do with tiny people who live under the floorboards and in the walls, like mice. They hang stamps on their walls like paintings, use thimbles as pots and carpet swatches as rugs. I remember being fascinated by it as a child.

Københvn (2)

The chronicle of my Copenhagen tales continues.

12:45pm, July 29th:
I made my own bike tour for free!

Just a moment. Before I expand on this, it must be said that four middle-aged German women just passed, all wearing identical white capris. What’s more, all but one wore matching black shirts. The fourth woman, who donned a hot pink shirt vest, didn’t get the second memo, I believe.

Regarding the DIY tour: geographical skills + + +
I made it all over the place, biking like a Dane on one of the city bikes, courtesy of Copenhagen’s bike share program. You put 20 crowns, which is approximately 2,70 Euro into the slot, unlock the bike and proceed to gallivant around on two wheels. The deposit is returned if you find one of the racks elsewhere and drop off the bike. On the handlebars is a map of the city (mine was ripped off, but I wasn’t dissuaded in the least) and the seats are rather cushy and comfortable. The bikes are designed for travelers, as Copenhageners statistically own two bikes each. The share program is encouraging and more widespread than in Barcelona, or in most cities, for that matter!


After dropping off the bike and walking around a bit, I stepped into Overgaden, a small gallery filled with contemporary Danish artists’ work. I liked the feel of it a great deal and actually got a lot more substance out of an essay one artist wrote about his work than his actual creation of stacked soda cans. Articulate man, weird execution. I then strolled over to Café Wilder, a place I’d highly and emphatically recommend. It has the best atmosphere and great, inexpensive organic food. Everything tasted so fresh and crisp, but as I am not a food critic, I’ll trail off here. My legs, especially my upper thighs, are unbelievably sore from the night of dancing and few hours on the bicycle. This is the good kind of pain, though; the kind that reminds you that you are living. Oh, another note about the café: they play music from Jack Johnson’s first album, which is always remarkably effective in putting me at ease. Two other minor observations were that of a father teaching his toddler the names of different draft beers and the conclusion that Danish sounds like Simlish mixed with French and Dutch.

I became so enthralled in an exhibit at Charlottenborg, the contemporary art museum, that they had to usher me out at closing. Lonely Planet lied and claimed the hours went until 7pm on Wednesdays, but I was promised that I could return tomorrow, free of charge. Now I am in Kongens Have, or the King’s Gardens, relaxing after the overwhelming nature of Christiania and a great deal of walking. I think I’ll nap and mellow out with a Radiolab podcast before heading back to Nørrebro to find a small restaurant that serves veggie burgers. I’ve an irrationally powerful craving for one right now, and the walnuts and raisins do not suffice. A short note on Christiania: no photos are allowed to be taken there, which perhaps lets it retain a bit of its magic, but I will say that it’s a combination of Saturday Market, a modernized hippie commune and the Sunnyside neighborhood in Portland. It didn’t feel like Santa Cruz, oddly enough. I bought a turquoise ring and abruptly stopped myself while admiring the pattern on a pair of those wretched bohemian balloon pants now in fashion.

Later that evening:
Two housemates just went dumpster diving, biking off into the night armed with multiple plastic bags and grungy clothing. This made me think of my friend N. as well as a girl I used to work with during the summers. We once salvaged decent cupcakes from a ritzy specialty bakery in SE Portland on 4th of July and ate them together with apples taken from a community garden while we watched the fireworks in a park. I’ve recalled this memory numerous times, yet it still feels accurate and good, despite the difficult emotional backdrop it stood against. The dumpster divers are back with a [purchased] bottle of wine and some organic cookies that taste of chocolate dust. In the background, the Juno soundtrack minus Kimya Dawson songs is playing. Piazza, New York Catcher, one of my favorite songs of all time, was just on. Ok, wine. Adieu.

July 30th
I stopped at the botanical gardens today on the way to the Staatens Museum for Kunst. It was, without a doubt, one of the most spiritual moments I have experienced since doubting and then rejecting the validity of what religion could offer me in terms of explanation and comfort. I idled around outside at first, comparing it to the Portland Rose Garden or the Desert Botanical Gardens in Arizona. I circled the greenhouses and was initially distraught by their shut doors. Then I found a lake with willow trees, lily pads and a small rowboat just down the hill. It was nearly identical to how I had imagined the backyard in Sophie’s World. I was entirely at peace there and just stood, taking in the serenity of it all in the lightly falling rain.

Shortly after, I made my way up to a gazebo-style greenhouse full of trees. If there was ever a trace of doubt in my conversion to lover of science and its beauty in nature, it evaporated in this instant. At first I walked the perimeter of each room, eyeing the tropical and familiar plants alike. As I came closer to the final room and the air turned thick and muggy, I dove straight into the heart of the area and relished in the divine greenery all around. It was quite fitting and certainly over-the-top that I wore a dress covered with a leafy pattern and golden brown leaf earrings today. I felt like an unintentional chameleon, blending in with the trees.


I smiled at the enormous dog ear leaves that licked my face as I passed and marveled at the elaborate dangling flowers, which posed motionless and with complete grace. The walls were glass windows and, though such bright light was let in, branches and trunks had entangled themselves to form impressive crevices and dark, mysterious corners. The rounded metal object at the top of each greenhouse room looked rather like a chandelier, and vines had taken the liberty of crawling up the sides of walls and railings to reach it, creating a circus tent effect. In the final room, I was beside myself with oversized water lilies, numerous rare trees and spiraling antique staircases that stood out like a Victorian house in the jungle. I climbed one staircase and took it all in while having vaguely megalomaniacal but mostly light-hearted thoughts like, “this is your kingdom!” Simba must have felt the same when looking over the Pridelands. Beautiful, beautiful place.

Now I’ve just reached the Staatens Museum for Kunst, which is enormous and kostenlos. I must tell Steve of the “Flying Steamroller” piece outside that looks like a NASA flight simulator device holding a medium-sized steamroller. Truction truck, as baby Steve would say. Really I have no idea as to the accuracy of this story, as I was negative five to three years old. Still though, I think he’d love this creation.

Oi. Just spent two hours in the museum and now I’m taking a break for soup in the café, This is painfully oversimplified, but the only way to describe the collection is ‘thought-provoking.’ So for the time being, I am stewing in my own thoughts and far too preoccupied to write them down. It’s raining today, which, truthfully, is fairly comforting. The rain is something to rely on, in a way.

Later:
On the now sunny steps outside Charlottenborg, I play with ladybug and am thrilled by the absurd truth that this is not just any aphid, but a Danish one. This detail alone doesn’t cause it to differ from its North American ladybug brethren, but something about it still seems novel. Charlottenborg is among my favorite museums on this earth. The ‘Culture Camping: spend the night in a museum’ event occurs every Friday, and beds with white linen have been pushed together in the center of the room for this activity. Visitors are encouraged to sleep there during opening hours as well, and I was pleased to oblige. From the ceiling hang hundreds of long white ropes, evenly spaced out to form a vast expanse of unconventional stars at 90-degree angles. They do not touch you upon sitting up, but lightly brush the top of your head. Lying on my back, looking up at them, I was reminded of that old Windows screensaver in which you were constantly zooming through a pixilated, planetless galaxy. Today is all about finding Zen, I suppose.


Eventually:
I purchased lovely new pens and am now very pleased with the world. Other activities included forgoing the design museum due to a distraction caused by the charming but outrageously pricey Urban Outfitters. Oh capitalism, how you lure me with your make-believe harmless talons. My excuse, though none should be permitted, is that the chain does not exist in Munich, and I never saw a store on my previous travels. I am on a never-ending quest to find a second pair of these perfect jeans I bought there two years ago. If you had these pants, you’d understand. I actually needed a moment to process all the art I consumed recently as well, and was not so much in the mood to rush through the design museum.

Ha. The World Out Games are going on and several clips from related films or performances are being broadcast in the square below my coffee shop vantage point. Two female performers were just doing things onstage that would make Madonna blush crimson and Britney or Christina cover their eyes and giggle. To dwell further on my failure to make it to the third museum, however, I’ll also argue that I bought the pens out of inspiration to produce my own work, so there. This microscopic shopping spree of six felt-tip pens and a blouse has reduced me to a five-year-old, it seems. At least I’m a five-year-old drinking a cappuccino. Oh lord, could there be anything worse?

The Danes who work in the service industry are insanely fluent in English, and no matter how much I strain to say hej and tak, the moment I order an Italian-sounding coffee, they’re on to me and my English-speaking ways. I find it fairly relieving, honestly. “Ok, you can continue to say hi and thank you, but when we require real sentences, cut the charade,” they smirk. Clever multilingual Danes.

At a plaza there were musicians playing traditional Incan music with wooden flutes, wearing Navaho headdresses and moccasins. My geography bone hurt.


That night:
My last evening in Copenhagen left me drowsy during the early morning flight to Stockholm, but the marvel of it all was worth it. All the collective housemates, plus three friends and three couchsurfers (myself among them), dined and drank together late into the night. I really connected with the newest couchsurfer from Melbourne and we had simultaneous and spastic bouts of glee upon hearing of all the films, music, people and places the other had no knowledge of but would surely love. We switched notebooks and furiously wrote down everything we could think of for one another that seemed somehow relevant. R., the couchsurfer, studies photography and just finished a semester in New York. Now she’s come to Copenhagen for another semester abroad before returning to Australia. I was at once envious of and glad not to be in her position – at the beginning of the abroad experience.


We smoked Parliaments and I thought of all the hyper-stressed debaters I knew; we occasionally remembered to socialize with the others at the table, who enjoyed their own parallel worlds, and we exchanged contact information. A friend of O.’s, who told of how she got lucky through a start-up company with her former professor involved in promoting arts and culture in Scandinavia, began playing the violin and making skat noises. Soon after, O. found the King Louie Jungle Book song online and we all sang along, transported back to our childhoods in the process. I wanna be like you-oooh-oooh, do everything that you do-oooh-oooh. I wanna walk like you, talk like you, oh yeaah! Come now, don’t say the song is not magical.

Oh, I am so tired and content.

Whimsical Copenhagen (1)

Upon my return to Bavaria yesterday, a friend asked how my ‘fantastic voyage’ had been. I replied that my bones were weary but I felt so full mentally. My ‘dream gallery,’ which is something that will make little sense here, even when explained, but has to do with lucid dreaming and the REM cycle, was especially wonderful during those nights of travel or when I fell asleep on the metro. This was largely influenced by the plethora of images I was exposed to in the past few days. My head, I went on, is crammed to the point of extremity, but it’s a good kind of chaos and overload.


In addition this madness and delight, I read and finished the best book of my [relatively young] life, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. While I am already susceptible to empathizing with fictional characters too strongly, never before have I identified with or adored any figure more than Oskar Schell. Read this book immediately if you have not already done so.

I documented the Copenhagen trip in tall, skinny notebook with interwoven designs of deep purple and green. This book was, for all purposes, my travel companion during the journey, and quite a good one at that. Who else would receive my observations, witty and banal alike, in such a welcoming manner? For your benefit, I’ll only reproduce the mildly or more interesting segments here and leave the more mind-numbing or personal aspects on the pages bound together by string.

On July 28th, the date of my departure, my good friend S. and I discussed potential travel plans for next summer while drinking tea and eating plums in my room in Munich. Included among these fantastical what-ifs was a road trip into the Deep South with J. and then on to Chicago to see friends at Northwestern. I have been harboring this desire to see Savannah and Atlanta, Georgia, as well as St. Paul, plus New Orleans and some of the Midwest, namely Minneapolis, Minnesota and Topeka, Kansas. The urge and momentum behind all this is the necessity of seeing more of my home country than just my West Coast and Southwestern corner. I want to become educated about the US in the way that I have during this past year, in more than just a surface level fashion, about Europe. Visual and exploratory learning is what I mean by this. Perhaps this is why we travel – or why I do, at least – to collect these powerful images and memories out of which we can form a personal gallery. No, not perhaps. This is a definite reason for travel or merely living more fully and intensely. I am an avid collector of memories, it seems.

During the wait period before the flight, I sat in the airport, watching men in stiff business suits and a little boy playing with dinosaurs while his sister dressed her dolls and his mother yawned in a chair, flipping through a magazine.

Later that day, at 4:05pm (June 28th):
Shortly we’ll land in Berlin. Hello, lovely city. I adore you. Don’t believe for an instant that you’ll never see the likes of me again.

I then proceeded to draw for some time. Among said doodles was a computer as a dementor, as it is quite a life-sucking box of diversion and fun. The metaphor isn’t too accurate in terms of adjectives, but I’ll ignore this if you will. More drawings included a mandala, a beer bottle used as a flower vase and the oddly futuristic paper towel dispenser in the airport restroom.

The security and staff at Berlin’s Tegel Airport are amusing and adorable. The man at the check-in counter started speaking to me in Spanish. ¿A Dónde va? I think the bangs are what cause me to be taken for a Spaniard, but I like this mistake a rather lot and shall refrain from complaint. Another man at the security and bag check area allowed someone to first go through the metal detector and then down his Apfelschorle, which was far above the standard liquid allowance. “Auf X!” the employee bellowed encouragingly, as if the man were drinking a beer. He congratulated him at the end and promptly gave directions to the next bathroom. Ah! Such hilarity and perfect delivery. Rampant overgeneralization: modern Berliners are a light-hearted bunch.

Arrival
Copenhagen proves to be a stunningly beautiful city populated with absurdly fashionable young hipsters, none of which even border on overweight. So this is where the fashionista robots are made! I am by the river in Nørrebro, a marvelous location full of cafés, bars and vintage shops. There is more than a sufficient amount of high quality street art, and I am beside myself with pleasure.


I don’t know if I will really do anything this evening, as I got in later (though thankfully it’s still light out), aside from take a few photos of my surroundings and socialize with the co-op people. Just earlier, a friend of the group and I talked briefly of India and Nepal, where she had spent some months traveling and teaching. My knowledge of the countries is entirely textbook-based, but extensive enough to permit informed discussion. I bought a bottle of inexpensive red wine at a grocery store in hopes of bonding with the housemates through alcohol and as a token of appreciation for their hospitality. I love how these people live amidst the chaos of parallel creative projects but with some semblance of structure and tidiness.

Tangent – some observations:
Surrounding me are strollers and small animals. There are fledgling ducks, whose head feathers are all ruffled, as if they used a styling product to get the intended messy look. They are not such babies, I realize upon closer inspection, and are more like preteen ducks in actuality. Still uncontrollably cute, though. The woman to my left has a small dog that Em would throw fits of joy over. Scottish terrier? He bounds across the grass in that way little legless dogs do. The ducks seem to litter the water and there are hoards of them. Does their quantity subtract from their fluffy adorableness? Not in the slightest, but this saccharine topic is making me feel a little crazy. At least seven of the girls who just passed on the dirt pathway in front of me have been wearing those damn gladiator shoes, which are everywhere, really. Ok, I should plan tomorrow, but all I want to do is read more of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. I already pummeled through 70 pages today. Must. Enjoy. Slowly. Do not devour! It is a dark chocolate. Genieß es langsam, bitte.

July 29th:
Last night was splendid, to use my grandmother’s favored adjective. The housemates, their friends and I sat in the kitchen/dining/living room and exchanged stories over wine and beer. It got late and all but two other souls and I headed to bed. We continued discussing film, linguistics ad the obscene cost of education. Earlier one had mentioned some screenings going on as part of a larger festival, and it was then suggested that we casually make our way over. I was lent a bike far too high for me but in wonderful condition, and we pedaled off across the bridge, first to the park, which seemed to be dead aside for some undesirable activity, and then to a bar and club area downtown.

We went to two different locals, chatted at the first and danced for hours at the second. Shortly after two, I was interested in heading home so that I could see museums, galleries and the alternative village community the next day. Meanwhile, the guys considered further bar options. The biked suddenly seemed to have grown tremendously in height and I swear it was like having to mount a horse, but with a small push, I was off and successfully navigated my way back along the elegant bike paths. Once back, I happily washed up and lay down on the couch made up with the softest comforter of my life. Ahh… sweet dreams.


I’m now sitting in a café with yellow tables, bottles filled with long-stemmed daisies, quickly burning candles, rust-colored chairs and rugs my parents would surely admire. Ok, hygge. I get it. It is Gemütlichkeit, but more sophisticated. Also, candles at 10am? That’s lovely. This cappuccino may be the best of my entire existence, which sounds hyperbolic and over-the-top, but it has the strong flavor of Barcelona espresso and the perfect amount of foam. Nebenbemerkung: I’d like to reiterate that people here are unbelievably stylish. I can hardly deal cope with it and want to photograph them so badly.

Hmm… it’s fairly unwise to skip breakfast, but I feasted on some bread slices in the apartment. To further exaggerate food and drink quality, it must be stated that Denmark has better bread than any other place in the world where I have dined. Better bread that Switzerland, even! As far as my own rations go, I’ve some raisins and walnuts with me and will probably buy some fruit before having a large lunch. This illustrates how similar I am to my father when he travels, forgoing physical hunger for the mental kind, craving more sights, more stimuli, more moments in which I laugh subtly to myself.


Yes, I love being a solitary traveler when it is framed within something as marvelous as a young people’s collective, replete with quirky types and a silver mannequin. Quite obviously, the reason I save money when traveling is that I don’t eat out as much – case in point being breakfast today – on my own as when I’m with others. Naturally it’s more fun to share a meal with a friend, but I won’t ever be ashamed to be the woman reading while eating. For god’s sake, I am that woman right now, writing in a journal while glancing over at an emptied, ground-stained cappuccino and its saucer.

Part Two still to come.