Alone in Copenhagen

Wally heard about the only tower from the Middle Ages left standing after Copenhagen's ramparts were torn down in the 1800's. Inside was a spiral ramp, wide and tall enough for a man on horseback to ride all the way to the top. The Danes did not explain why anyone would want to take a horse to the top of a 300-foot tower.

One morning, as he left for the philatelic exhibition, Wally said he wanted to climb the tower. He asked me to meet him there at 3 p.m.

I spent the day wandering about the old city. I walked between buses waiting to take people to the newer sections of the city and crossed the large square in front to the town hall. I entered the narrow, cobble stoned “walking street” (closed to automobiles) with its old houses converted into shops and restaurants.

After a half mile or so, I crossed the square with the Chinese restaurant, where Kierkegaard’s home had stood, and where I watched young hippies in blue jeans and tee shirts relaxing on the rim of the fountain.

Continuing on the narrow walking street, like going from a pond into a small stream, I side-tracked for a look into the neo-classic Lutheran cathedral. At the windows of Bing & Grondel and its next door rival, Royal Copenhagen, Danish porcelain manufacturers, I paused to admire blue and white bowls and dark blue Christmas plates.

A long walk after lunch in the sunshine, who could ask for a more pleasant way to spend a day?

The walking street ended in a “T” where I turned left. At exactly 3 p.m. I stood on a narrow sidewalk looking across the street at the entrance to the tower. It looked so odd: in that narrow street of 18th Century houses stood that massive, 12th Century stone tower.

No sign of Wally. It was Iceland all over again. My feet ached from walking all afternoon. I waited 45 minutes. Then, because there was no bus route, I turned to start back to the walking street.

I had only gone a few steps when a large, middle-aged woman, her round face flushed with distress, stopped me.

“Do you speak English?” an American voice asked.
I could not help it. I laughed. “Of course.”
“I’m lost,” she said. “I’m all turned around, and I have no idea how to get back to my hotel.”
“Where are you staying?”
“The Alexandria”
“That’s right next door to my hotel,” I said. “I’m going that way anyway. Let’s go together.”

Released from her panic, the lady relaxed. We chatted amiably as I lead her into the walking street. We came to a sidewalk café. I said, “I’m really tired. Would you mind if we stopped and had a cold drink?”

We sat at a little round table in the shade. Were we under a tree, or were we in the shadow of the cathedral? I don’t remember. I know I ordered a citron, and she said she’d have one, too. As we sipped our cold drinks, more strongly flavored than Sprite and non-carbonated, my companion said, “This is delicious! I wish I’d known about this when we were in Sweden.”

She explained, “My husband is a minister, and we’ve been touring with our church choir. Every place we’ve sang, the church gave a reception for us. All they served was beer! I don’t drink alcohol, and I didn’t know how to ask for anything else. I never thought we’d go to churches where they serve beer.”

Americans who go to Europe are always surprised to find places totally different from what they expected. But this American had a surprise for me.

She told me she and her husband were from Buffalo, New York. I told her that Wally and I were from Chicago.

“My daughter lives in the Chicago area,” she said. “She and her husband just bought a home in Arlington Heights, Illinois.”
“Wally and I used to live there.”
“My daughter’s place is on a little street called South Dryden Place.”
“That’s where Wally and I built our first home!”

I waited almost ten years before I persuaded Wally to buy a lot in the suburbs. He insisted on building a Chicago-style red brick bungalow laying the solid brick walls himself and with his friend Herb helping with the carpentry. Across the street was a row houses built years before on what had been the edge of town.

“Is your daughter’s house one of those two-stories with the bathroom half way up the staircase?”
“That’s it exactly!”
“Our house was the red-brick bungalow on the other side of the street.”

At a sidewalk café in Copenhagen, two middle-aged Americans shared their mutual interest in a short (about a block and a half long) street in Arlington Heights, Illinois.

When I got back to the hotel, Wally was lying on the bed reading some literature about stamp collecting. I didn’t bother ask where he had been or to tell him my afternoon. I was beginning to realize I didn’t need him as a traveling companion. I could go anywhere alone and find and enjoy my own adventures.