Cold and bright. Knuckles cracked and bleeding. Water, water, all around. Stella in lapplander cap. Amelisa with a yellow backpack. Ilma in stripes. Short Bridges. Long bridges. Neon green eyeglasses. Street hot dogs served on paper plates. No fork. No knife. No bun. The Danish way. Curried Herring Smorrebrod. Scnapps. Dill. Beer. Skål.
More bikes than cars. Tired feet. Pandas handing out licorice samples. State Museum. George Baselitz. Per Kirkeby. Bob Dylan? A man and daughter play country music in the torv. Corn on the cob. Teepees in the town square.
The leaves are changing, red, gold, brown. A bad cold with a stuffy nose. Reading a book at Wilder Café. Quiet mornings. No shopping on Sunday. Chocolate Weinerbrod. Louisiana. I can see Sweden. Sophie Calle. Islands Brygge. My suitcase and I wheeling through the botanic garden. And then back to the airport. Cope.
At the gas station where I go to pick up some toothpaste, the young woman at the counter asks me where I am from, as I struggle to decipher the denomination of the coins I am holding. I tell her New York and she laughs and say, “Why would you want to come to Denmark? This is the most boring place in the world!”
