Part 2
Cashed up a few hundred guilders I got my rucksack together, scratched ‘BORAS’ on a shred of cardboard, tore myself away from home and took to the highway.
I savoured the lethal frown of a Calvinist class maid, who drove by with her mother in a DAFt fully automated perambulabile.
Soon my mother tongue became obsolete, and I caught on that I’d better change my sign text into more moderate and current destinations. Thus just before dark I touched down in a tiny town in Sleezewitch-Holestone. Got my tent out in a meadow and that was it. Doubt reared its ugly head from the wet grass, but soon I was lifted into dream heaven.
At daybreak I went onward, cheerfully bought a Danish newspaper on the Aabenraa border, but could not figure out much beyond the picture-aided items. Just before Kolding a lone girl was hitchhiking. I wanted to explain to her how travelling together would be safer for her and faster for me, but I only had to smile. At Nyborg the day was done and as the ferry would drop us into darkness we decided to camp on the beach. The water was so clear that the moon illuminated the boulders resting in the sand. Because she was not into bathing suits Edith walked into the waves in her knickers. Her high breasts shone like alluring harvest and her nipples shied to the stars. I hate slack immersion, but she shuffled in foot wise and when the water met her bloomers she stalled. The undies were of charitable mileage and proved not to be designed for wet leisure. It sponged up the ripples and thereby caught on such weight that the crotch slowly sagged. What a dreamboat mirage, this frank Danea, being tenderly fleeced by the gurgle. I doused my throbbing temples in the brine and we towelled each other torrid.
The next day we were capitally dropped off at Radhuspladsen and bee-lined to Edith’s parents’ residence who had just taken off on holiday and where I could crash. Copenhagen in soothing soft subtle supple summer dress was overwhelming. Everything seemed to cosily happen on the street and that felt like a warm welcome. ‘Stroget’ street proved to be an unexpected city paradise. All along its length flamboyantly dressed artists from all corners of the Earth drew diverging images on the tarmac. I leapt in the groove, this was my inspiration! This was where I belonged and if I had any doubts left about home here they heaved in relief towards heaven. I bought a box of street chalk and specialised in sunrises. When finished I flanked it with a ‘Thank you’ in any speak I knew. On the other side a square invited ‘Pige’, girls. Entirely and refreshingly new in my street scene were the gals abjuring bras who increasingly graced the venues. Merrily double-dancing natural jewellery dallied and swung through the crowd. Life indeed was dee-lushious!
With the dough gathered I bought ‘Oste reste’, cheese bottoms, left from the slicer, concerting with bread and milk on the bottom of my belly. What was left I spent on local delicacies, Danish pastry, oddly called ‘Wienerbrød’, ‘Risted hot dog, med løg og senf’ and lethally expensive Danish beer.
The latter was right up Edith’s street. We lived in Enghave Pladsen, a top’s throw away from the Carlsberg brewery. Here tours were conducted that boozed into a sampling slurp. We learned to land at a table with many children. They got the fizz, while we went for the froth. As we fairly often quenched our thirst from this source we alternately blended in with different language parties, so many a time, that I was soon able to explain the brewery process in Japanese- after the swill, naturally.
Jan Ploeg
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