The Walker

Celebration of Life

Aalborg, Denmark
May 26, 2012

 

While the tears fall across the border, they party at the top of the world. 

 

In Flensburg, Germany: his name was Dirk and everyone liked him. He had a great sense of humour, which is often hard for Germans. Easy going; quick to smile, he cherished his wife and his new baby daughter. He got to see her baptized right before he died at the age of 46, from an aggressive brain tumour which took his life in little under one year.  He leaves behind that daughter and a beautiful wife, a woman I’ve known for some time.

 

At the budding start of her new life - with a husband and a new daughter - with hopes and dreams of a happy domesticity. Those yearned-for, bliss-filled nights, and bright mornings - the proverbial hand holding on the front porch - savouring the promised arc of a long life together; watching the sun go down as the years go by. But the dark angel appeared; the reaper too soon, harvesting the source of joy with his sharpened scythe; his cape cloaked and suffocated the life she loved.

 

And so it is. The baby will cry in the night and she will reach over for her husband to go and comfort the child. Her hand will grasp the emptiness before her mind. She will rise and tend her crying child alone, and their tears will become one in a pool on the floor.

 

This is the roughest time; the toughest time. When the heart has shattered in a million pieces, very little can help to heal or mend: let the pieces remain shattered, and scattered; and just cry, Christina, cry.  And we will cry with you. It is all we can.

 

While they grieve in Flensburg, a party of unimaginable scale took place in Aalborg – the annual bacchanalian fest called Karneval.  This truly is a celebration of life, although most of the participants here are usually too drunk to notice, and some so catatonic from the drink, they barely know they are alive.

 

The night before, the city is full to the rim and the atmosphere is electric: the party is just hours away.

 

They come in costumes, usually the same themes, year after year: clowns, Vikings, flight attendants, cavemen, the African jungle girls, pirates, Bavarian maidens; and the plethora of cartoon characters; of which “Where’s Waldo” was in the majority this year.  There are always the cows, with the psycho-sexual udder protruding and exposed with pride.  There are the awkward youths out of the first time, and the slightly older, more aggressive types, usually the buff boys moving in on the intoxicated and inexperienced girls, especially those doubles, outside the group. Easy prey.

 

They begin drinking long before the parade begins at 10:00am, and the vast majority are drunk by noon.

 

The music is always techno with the house beat, to get the crowd riled up and dancing. Even the children get into the groove.

 

Body fluids abound as the toilet facilities are just too hard to find, if one’s drunken brain can even function to think to find one.  People just urinate everywhere.

 

The hospitals fill up to overflowing with those who’ve fallen, or been hit, or cut by flying glass bottles.  The youth have free reign, and reign they do; often terrifying the local residents and everyone else with their antics.  This year was a heat wave, so I can only assume a large number of the party-goers ended up with heat stroke.

 

Sex is the lure and the biking girls and scantily clad pole dancers on the floats attract – like bees to pollen – the muscle boys from the provinces who come to ogle, cheer, and eventually try to woo to a corner of the woods, or to a back street party where you know the sex is sloppy, bumpy, and, most likely, uncomfortable. Cement was never meant for that, methinks.

 

This year, a few of the men went dressed in Playboy bunny stripper outfits with only a thong as an outfit.  All I have to say is “be careful, before the end of the day, you may be approached by a hard core drunken crowd willing to take off your little thong…” Not pretty.

 

The Eastern Europeans and Asians were out in force, looking for bottles and cans that can be redeemed for cash. The majority of students in this parade are paid by the government, so they have no cares in the world for picking up discarded bottles and cans.

 

The day was so warm – the exact opposite from last year – and the super summer temperature caused many to strip out of their clothes and jump into the fjord. They came out naked as jay birds and looked like they were having the time of their lives.

 

And so they danced and sang and drank all day long and deep into the night. The city, covered in garbage and the yet un-scavenged beer cans and bottles.

 

The life, yes, taken for granted by so many today, was to be enjoyed. And it was, to the hilt.

 

Life goes on…

Number 10 Downing Street

May 15, 2012
London, England 

 

I had seen the movie The Iron Lady, starring Meryl Streep.  I had seen the interior of Number 10 Downing Street in that film, as well as in other movies and photo montages, etc.  I thought about those scenes just prior to my entry into the building. Here I was, invited to the Prime Minister’s residence to represent my company.

 

It was such a chaotic and busy day prior, and I only learned, whilst I was still in Sweden, about the meeting confirmation. I did not think about where I was, the next morning, or what I was going to do. I just put on a nice suit and I went there. And I thought I would be seeing the Prime Minister.

 

The security is as tight as you can imagine, but once you get through the security gates, you are in a wide open road with only a scattering of police officers. It is like a pavement oasis in central London.

I rang the doorbell and the door automatically opened. We were checked on the list (again, as it happened at the security checkpoint as well).

 

We sat in the main hall for a while and then we were lead up the staircase with the yellowish wallpaper that has the pictures of all the prior prime ministers on the wall. I saw Margaret Thatcher’s, as well as Winston Churchill and the others.

 

We were paraded into nice rooms and lead through double doors, some hiding behind innocuous facades of other doors. Like secretive passages built in the house to confuse or obfuscate.  We finally reached our meeting room. We had the meeting and the prime minister was not there. Instead we got to speak to a member of the House of Lords. 

 

In the end, we were lead out and I brushed up against the deputy Prime Minister, Nick Clegg. It was odd seeing him in person; like stepping into a news magazine or into the telly.

 

Were walked down the staircase again and saw the same set of former Prime Ministers, seen from a different angle.  I saw the picture of David Lloyd George – looking so dignified - just before the end of the stairs.

 

We retrieved out belongings and out we went, back to the pavement oasis and then through the security doors to see the throng of camera men and women and reporters. Behind there were the throngs of tour groups, mostly school children and their teachers.

 

I didn’t think much of it at the time, but the next day, my colleagues thought it was so cool I got to go into the Prime Minister’s residence. I guess so, but at the time, I was just doing my job.  I guess you could call it cool, but it was not the most impressive of houses and definitely was a hive of activity. It was, if anything, a working house. This was not really a home, but more of an office. I am sure there is more to it, but what I saw could have been an upscale office in an older building.

The Sadness of Life

May 14^th, 2012
Stockholm Sweden

 

As I stood by the magazine rack, reading about the looming foreshadow of Greece’s exit from the Eurozone, I spotted a young man walking with two canes; he was shaking in between steps;  very jittery -  his movements seemed almost uncontrollable.  As he hobbled forward in a busy corridor of the airport, people kept rushing around him and, often times, due to his shakes and instability, he would bump into them. When he did bump into them, the look on his face was extremely apologetic and you could tell his was a very tender soul, like a child looking up at you with wide eyes – the face of innocence.  He would stop and try to make contact with the people he bumped into and apologize, but the people were already on their way, rushing somewhere, so he was apologizing to air. 

 

I saw one business man bump into him, through no fault of the young man and his canes, and, as the young man turned to apologize, even though it was not his fault, his tender, sincere face was confronted with an angry businessman who shouted something, obviously negative, at him. The young man looked bewildered and sad – his soul yelled at.

 

It was in that moment I started to cry. Me, a grown man with responsibilities and a tough exterior – I began to weep like a child; my soft underbelly exposed for the world to see.  I had to flee to a quiet part of the airport, away from people, as my tears flowed. Seeing this man and his tender heart out there among the angry, teaming masses, touched something deep inside of me and made my heart just burn.

 

Even now, when I think about it - this vision of this man and his canes - I choke up have trouble holding back my tears.  

What was it about this episode that made me react and feel this way? I believe it was because of the ‘sadness of life,’ something I have discussed before. A professor I once had - at a class I monitored at the UC Berkeley Extension in Berkeley, California – stated that “Americans are often perceived as daft by other cultures, as they are so optimistic, they don’t appreciate the sadness of life.” What he meant was other cultures appreciate that there are moments of great sadness in life, and those moments are to be cherished and appreciated just as the great joys in life need to be cherished, etc.

 

Life is beautiful, but life can be cruel: two sides of the same coin. Like wedding vows exchanged during a bombing raid in wartime, emotions can change, and often do change, in seconds.

 

Seeing this young man - like a lamb among the wolves - I saw something everyone knows exists yet tries to suppress:  how cruel the world can be. Yet, seeing this young man’s face – the face of an angel – allowed a glimpse at the beauty; the depth of compassion in the world.

That contrast of beauty and its evil twin, on the flip side of the coin, still makes me cry.

Quelle Horreur

May 12, 2012
Viborg and Nykøbing Mors, Denmark

 

The coming doom!  The sky is falling! Our brother is marrying an African! Lord, lord, lord. The world is coming to an end.  The news came like a shock. We got the news on a Thursday night. A wedding was called - at the last minute – to be presided over by the Lord Mayor of Viborg. “All must attend in two days at 10:30am, Saturday.”

 

The fret and worry of a family in the throes of welcoming a new member can be quite overwhelming. This came after weeks of overshadowing gossip and hypothesizing once the said couple reached the fair shores of Europe – back from Africa.

“Catholic and conservative and French speaking. Quelle horreur!”

“The whole family will be moving with her, just you wait!” Africans are like that, you just don’t understand.”

“Maybe she was pregnant?”

 

And on and on and on: the hypothesizing did lessen once the marriage occurred on a blustery day in mid-May.  It started out, weather-wise, miserable, with a very early morning start on a train. We arrived and walked in the cold wind to the city hall in the beautiful city of Viborg, known more for its national mental hospital than its architectural charm.

 

It was the fastest wedding ever. I think it lasted 3 minutes, tops. Afterwards, we had a bit of Prosecco and chit chat and then it was off to the family farm to celebrate.

 

What started out as a shotgun wedding came around to form a circle of happiness as the bride and the groom were treated to the same Danish traditions as those in “normal” weddings. We had the singing and the dancing and the cake and the copious amount of food and drink.  It was a lovely, almost magical, way to end a nervous day.

 

For all the gossip and fear, the realization dawned on all that here were two people in love. There was no question.  Like the feeling of coming rain, you can sense when something is real. When the drops fall, you know you were right all along. These people bonded and everyone could see.

 

A long day’s journey into night as we took the last train (the “ghost train”) home, arriving at 1:00am in the morning - our train car filling over the kilometres of provincial stops - youths from the small towns leading up to Aalborg - all coming into the city to party and drink until dawn at the infamous Jomfru Anne Gade, the drinking street. A different world, these people live.

 

We collapsed in our bed, the moon as full as our bellies; the day a memory both pleasant and calming.  Catharsis complete: the moon still in a sky that has not yet fallen. 

 

Group Think

Saturday, May 5, 2012
6:20PM
Piccadilly Line towards Heathrow
London, England

 

We were late. This was the only bus we could have taken that would get us to the front of the Royal Albert Hall in time. If we missed this one, we would have no choice but to take the tube or a taxi. I really wanted to take the bus, as it would give my out of town guests a chance to see the city from above, instead of being like worms, traveling below ground in a hot and crowded subway.

The payment machine at the bus stop – the one next to Camden City Hall on Euston Road - was broken. I figured I could pay in coins on the bus. The rest of my traveling party had day travel cards, but I did not, so I was going to use my small change. Upon entering the bus, the driver adamantly refused to take my coins and told me I would need to go to the Tube station to buy a ticket: this would mean missing the bus altogether. I pleaded with him, but the bus driver looked in askance and became quite aggressive. Angry, I was, but finally we decided that I could not fight it and we, sadly, had to take the tube. No sightseeing from the bus today.

Once inside the overcrowded tube station, we waited with the large weekend crowds to enter one of trains. On the weekends, the trains are not as frequent, leading to severe overcrowding in the train cars. Ours was no different.

We entered the cars. Due to the number of people in the station, I was a bit separated from my group and I decided to enter the same train car, yet one door in front of the others. We could see each other.

There was a huge gap in the middle. I watched as my partner tried to maneuver around a girl who was blocking the way to the open area – he was trying to get out of the super stuffed area around the door. He asked her politely if she would move. She looked at him in disgust and said a few words to him, which I later discovered “oh, these Americans are always so pushy!” To which he replied, “Well, actually I am Danish, is it possible for me to get by?” 

For whatever reason, she took this as an affront and mocked him and he walked around her and shouted insults at him.  She was not alone. There were a whole group of girls that were with her in the car, seated in the area in front of her, directly in his path. He walked in my direction and all the girls, picking up on the queue of their apparently offended friend, also began to hurl insults at him.

I was staring at this scene with amusement, which then turned to concern. The girls would not stop.  Once he reached me, we began to talk. I faced this crowd of girls, he with his back turned away from them.  They continued to taunt him and hurl insults, and were talking about his shoes and his hair and making disparaging comments about Americans, etc. etc. What was interesting was the absolute look of hatred in these girl’s eyes. It was pure hate.  The thing that vexed me was the stem of the hate. Where was this coming from? As far as I could see, and from what my partner told me, there was nothing he said nor did that should have caused this reaction.  Due to the girl’s bond with each other, and the misunderstanding of the situation, they just kept at it, as there was an apparent offense perceived by their friend. 

The girl`s stop was one before ours. Most of the girls exited away from us, using the other door, but one of them came in our direction and when she got to me, she attempted a full body slam against me. I swerved to avoid her, and smiled as I saw what she was attempting to do, but the look on her face was insane.

I laughed about it at the time, thinking that ignoring people like this is the best policy, but it got me thinking about peer pressure and of the girls bonding over something so negative; something that was seriously a non-issue. What was more disturbing to me is that the girl attempting the body slam was taking a huge risk. I towered over her. I was a giant compared to her. She calculated that, being a woman, she would get away with any act of violence against a man. I somehow truly believe that if she had been alone, she would never have done anything. But the gall she had, putting her own safety on the line, just to show she was “part of the girls” was shocking. I could have pummeled her with one hand, had I (or any other large man in this situation) been so inclined. It was nuts.

Later, in the Hereford Arms pub in Hereford Square, whilst my in-laws and my partner were watching a concert at the Royal Albert Hall, I spoke about this incident with my friends.  They related another story to me about an incident which moved them and deeply unsettled them.

They had been standing at a bus stop, waiting endlessly for one of the busses into central London. There were many people waiting with them, including many women of color. Along came a group of large, very intoxicated, young men. These young men surrounded the women of color and proceeded to call them names. One of the women was targeted and a few of the young men kept taunting her “get out of my f***ing country” and “what are you doing here, you monkey face?” and “go home you dirty monkey whore” etc. etc.  The women were extremely uncomfortable and, sadly, the people in the crowd did nothing, including my friends, who stated they were frozen in fear, as they did not want to be the next victim of these young men’s taunts.  My friends stated that if someone else in the crowd had stepped up and confronted the men, they would have helped.

Apparently, bullying is a major issue in the U.K.; the nation was rated the worst for the subject in the European Union last year.  The fact the bus driver on the #10 to Hammersmith exposed us to this, opened my eyes to just how big a problem. 

Dreams in California

April, 2012
Santa Clara, Santa Cruz, and San Francisco County
California, USA 

 

The spiritual side returns. The feelings go deep. The familiar feelings of family and the bond that was always there, is still there.  Like a dream, where death stares you in the face, you get real, very quickly; and you begin to pray - regularly.

 

This golden sun doth shine. It has a magical way of washing away the sins of past transgressions. You feel renewed and enlivened - what a vitamin will do.

 

Strange, this life of loyalties and loves: living in two worlds – worlds which are not much alike – and somehow connected to both, but fleetingly.  

 

The sea snaps the head back to reality, back to the only world that matters: the now. Like a faded dream that only comes to life when the feet meet the sea – the dream is cleansed and revived.

 

And so goes the soul.