Day 11: Gothenburg

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March 3, 2008: Gothenburg, Sweden

The sun rose over the levee. Why in the world did I wake at dawn, and why won't my neck move? Oh right, our late night stops saw the addition of a few more cabin-mates, which forced me to abandon my comfortable, prone position in favor of a much more unnatural stance: one suitable for a contortionist. I wished my other conscious companions a good morning, as the only words uttered last night were groans and incoherent mumbles that sounded more like a pissed off groundhog than like words.
The sky shimmered a bright gold, steam rose from someone's morning coffee, glowing orange as the sun edged over the top of the levee. A clear, bright sky solidified the feeling of a crisp winter day, and I realized I still only had a sweatshirt.
The levee was somewhat worrisome as I kept thinking we were under the level of the water, which was confirmed as our train rose and fell through the uneven grade of the track--or the land.
Safe... potential flood.
Causeway... a half-assed tunnel.
Good for fishing... good for fish.
The long bridge, perched atop a man-made sandbar, leading from the island of Funen to the island of Zealand, which boasts Copenhagen, painted a beautiful scene--the blue of the sky and water contrasted by the orange sparkles floating lazily across its surface--that rivaled anything in a museum. The bridge ended at Sprogo, a tiny island halfway across the Great Belt. I glimpsed the quaint setting of a lighthouse perched on a hill, dramatically lit by the Danish Natural Welcoming Committee. The scene flashed and disappeared as we entered the tunnel leading to Zealand. I had yet to step off the train and already it seemed that Denmark was putting on a show for me. The red carpet, the royal treatment, presented in panorama for my own personal enjoyment. Hopefully, this was a good omen of things to come.
Bikes lined the overpasses and zipped through the streets unimpeded as we came into Copenhagen--maybe I should have planned the bike tour here instead. The station, built it 1911, is what I think of when I picture a traditional turn-of-the-century railway. Peopled by men in trench coats and hats, rushing beneath the high wooden ceiling and arched iron trusses, made beautiful by their simplicity and functionality; brick walls, alive with the echo of rushing footsteps; a bustling hub of commerce and travel--and a hub it has remained. Despite the McDonald's, and various other modern eyesores, the station retained much of this feel.
Birds congregated on the high trusses of the ceiling, presumably to follow the heat. The short hallways leading down to the platforms left the main hall at the mercy of the weather (apparently, a door, or similar partition, was too hard to implement along with the other renovations). Again I was reminded that I only had a sweatshirt.
My train odyssey continued as I purchased a ticket for Gothenburg. Euros are not the currency of choice for the Danes or Swedes--fight the power!--so I found myself having to pay for everything by credit card... a credit card that didn't work because it has no passcode, which was required here. My eyes widened and I squeezed out an almost silent 'eep'. Well, I thought, Copenhagen doesn't seem like such a bad place to be stranded. One is supposed to encounter obstacles and hardships on an odyssey anyway. After all, Odysseus spent a year shipwrecked on Circe's Island, and she turned half of his men into pigs. At least it won't get that bad. Revelation hit as I remembered the other credit card I was talked into acquiring before I left... one with a passcode (a mother's nagging can be helpful sometimes). The ticket stared back at me mockingly, smirking like a villain who knows the mean joke about to be played on his victim, as if to say "Ha! You only have five minutes to catch this train too sucker. Oh, and not only that, you only have four minutes to switch trains in Malmo." I mentally punched the ticket-villain in the face and sprinted once again to my train.
The ride to Gothenburg felt like it was almost entirely by tunnel. Blackness filled every crevice of my consciousness as I closed my eyes and... oh, I must be asleep. This much needed nap was interrupted only by my internal clock waking me a few minutes before we stopped at Malmo for the change-over. With all the rushing to trains finished, I lay my head back down and waited to be woken up once we arrived in Gothenburg. After all the delays, train switching, lost sleep, sore muscles in my neck, I finally step off in Gothenburg, thirty hours after leaving Venice. My odyssey was at a close, I could now relax and take things slow.
Previously, I had called Henrik to tell him that I wouldn't be late after all. He was waiting outside for me. I walked the length of the sidewalk and back and realized that I hadn't seen a recent picture of him. Where's the sign with my name on it? I picked up my phone and called him. The voice was unusually loud and clear coming through the receiver, until I realized he was five feet behind me. It was great to finally meet him after seven years of correspondence. He was just as friendly and funny in person as he had been online (though, had he actually been an ass, but able to keep up a false persona for seven years I would have voted him for an Academy Award on the spot). We loaded my gear and headed for my surrogate home for the next five days.
Heat from the engine blasted through the vents, warming my Scandinavian-chilled blood. The engine was well stoked with the sort of heat I needed to unfreeze my limbs and regain what little pigment hides in my skin. Henrik made sure of this by demanding of his car what slave masters demand of their slaves, attacking the road like a rally driving course. If cars could sweat, this one would be soaked. It was nice, for a change, to be just a spectator to such a frantic pace, rather than its unfortunate victim. I could now sit back, detach myself, and enjoy the view out of the windshield, like watching a bad car chase movie from the seventies.
Back at his apartment I met his girlfriend, we had some lunch, and lazed around for the remainder of the day watching Swedish TV. Swedish TV is almost exactly like American TV, right down to most shows being in English. It's actually a good way to learn English: watching the subtitles as people speak. Unfortunately, American programs don't exactly represent the majority of intelligent people in my home country, and we broadcast this celebration of mediocrity to foreign countries as representation of our best. Or, maybe the problem is, they do represent the American populous.
It's odd how tired one can get after doing nothing but sitting in a cramped, little room for thirty hours, and how much of a relief, how relaxing it is, now to sit in a slightly larger room. Time drags, for me, when going between destinations, left with my own thoughts, counting the seconds, the hours to my next stop. Good company certainly makes the time go faster. When I next looked up at the clock, I realized Henrik and I had been sitting in his kitchen talking for six hours--it was two in the morning. We called it a night and I retired to the air mattress that would be my bed for the next five days.

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