by L. R. Olson
She explains that she owns a few apartments around Europe that she rents. She calls them her babies. When someone is staying at one, she moves to another. Nothing to hold her down. Some women dream about getting married, having kids. Not me. She has the life I want. Travel. Make interesting friends. See the world. Absolute freedom.
I follow her around the apartment, hanging on her every word. Maybe I’m her in another world, another lifetime. It’s a ridiculous thought but it makes me happy. The ceilings are low and sharply pitched. The walls are pristine white, while dark beams break up the monotony. Three hundred years ago this was probably where the servants or children slept. It wasn’t the modern two bedroom apartment it is now.
Clean. Beautiful. Light. So Scandinavian. “It’s great.”
“If you look outside you can see a peek of the Rundetaarn. A tower you can climb. It’s an easy walk. Should be no problem, and there’s a great view. Rosenborg Castle is right down the street. There’s a beautiful park.” She hands me the key. “I’m off to Paris. I’m sure you want to rest.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
She starts toward the door. “Oh, and there’s a food market on the corner below. Did I mention that? I feel like I’m forgetting something.” She laughs, then waves. “Have a great stay!”
“Thank you so much.”
Just like that, she’s gone, skipping down the stairs, full of an energy I crave. I close the door, lock it, and suddenly I’m left standing there in my very own place, if only for a couple weeks. My own place for the first time…ever. I know I’ll never move away from home. Never know what it’s like to have an apartment. For now I can pretend. Here…I can be the adult I always dreamt of being.
I wander to the windows and rest my hands on the wooden sill, smooth with age. Below are tourists standing near the tower, taking pictures, and locals hurrying to work. I take in the steeped rooflines around me and wonder about the people who live in these homes. People who have lived here for centuries through war, famine, love and hope. Finally, I look at the white clouds above, the sky streaked with red and pink and orange, and I realize I’m home.
This is what I want out of life…to go on adventures. To see the world. However short that life might be. This is what I dreamt of before I got sick. I’m finally meeting the person I always wanted to become. I’m meeting me.
An incoming text dings from my phone, grounding me back into reality. It’s Zach.
Hans Christian Andersen lived in Denmark.
With a grin, I type back. I know, Nerd. I’m not a complete dunce.
Are you sure?
I start toward the couch. Brat. There goes the present I was going to get you.
Was just kidding! You’re the smartest ever!
I laugh softly. For shiz?
I’m going to ignore that.
Teasing him is just too much fun. Hey, I just wanna be like the cool kids. By the way, left your Walden book in your mailbox.
Yeah, got it. Did you enjoy?
I hesitate. It was interesting.
Liar. You didn’t even read it.
I laugh. He knows me well. I will when I get back. Promise.
Gotta go. Chemo. Try not to be pickpocketed or make America look bad. The world hates us enough.
Still grinning, I type: I’ll attempt to keep my global catastrophes to a minimum.
I slide my phone into my jacket pocket. The windows are open. A soft, warm breeze sweeps inside, fluttering the gauzy, white curtains and whispering promises over my skin. Exhausted, I drop my backpack. There’s a calm peace that vibrates through my very body, and I know I’ve done the right thing. This is where I’m supposed to be. I fall back onto the plush, white couch. By tomorrow Heidi will be here. Until then I should rest. Gather my strength. Prepare to live.
I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. The sounds of the city seep through the window. The ring of a bicycle. People talking in a variety of languages. Church bells. I’m not used to these sounds, but for some reason I find them comforting.
I’m just starting to relax enough to sink into slumber, when the creak of the door opening tears me from my hazy state. “Alex?”
“Oh, hello.”
Not a French accent. American. Frantic, I stumble to my feet. A young woman stands on the threshold, looking as confused and startled as I feel. She’s curvy with black, curly hair, and dressed as smartly as any model. Her dark skin practically glows under the light of the sun piercing the curtains. In her white dress she looks like an angel, and for a moment I think I’m dreaming. Or maybe…hell, maybe I have finally kicked the bucket after all.
“Who are you?” I demand.
She steps cautiously inside, pulling a suitcase behind her. “I’m Gabrielle. I’ve rented the apartment for the week.”
“No,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I’ve rented the apartment for the week.”
She sets her bag down, pulls her phone from the pocket of her dress and starts to dial. “Right. So, obviously we have a problem.”
****
We called Alex only to find out she’d accidentally double-booked. But no worries, because she knows Gabrielle so well, she has her own key. Gabrielle, the world traveler, who is from New York, and according to Alex…is wonderful. As a plus, Alex says she’ll cut my charges in half. I don’t care. I can’t take the money with me. I do care about sharing an apartment for two weeks with a woman I don’t know. A woman who likes to sing 80’s pop at the top of her lungs while showering.
Desperate to escape the awkwardness of the situation, I decided to forgo my nap and leave the apartment as soon as I could manage to scurry away. Yep, I’m a coward. Living with a stranger is not my idea of fun, which is how I find myself standing in line for the bathroom in a tiny, crowded, basement café instead of returning home and using the toilet.
“Ten bucks for a little Danish?” a woman whispers to her friend as they head toward the exit. “Ridiculous.”
I grin. They’re American, obviously. But she isn’t wrong. The food is incredibly expensive. And if it hadn’t been for my five dollar Fanta and tiny bladder, I wouldn’t be here. As the door opens and someone steps out, I realize there’s only one toilet, shared by men and women. I glance around to see how others take this surprise, but no one seems to care. They go in, do their business, and leave. I shrug it off. When in Rome…or Copenhagen…
My turn arrives and I reach for the door, acting as if I use unisex bathrooms all the time. No biggie. I’m cool and European like that. But as I pull on the door, it doesn’t budge. I try again, still nothing. I don’t dare glance back and alert the others waiting that something is wrong when it’s probably my fault.
I can do this, I won’t let a toilet get the better of me. Wrapping my fingers around the handle more tightly, I shake the door like it’s going to pop open with the right nudge or perfect command. Are Danish toilets so different from American? “Come on.”
I’m just about to give up and slink outside, murmur something about a false alarm, I don’t have to go, when someone reaches around me and taps on the sign. “You have to pay.”
Pay? Confused, I glance over my shoulder. Pure, crystalline blue eyes. The Florida Atlantic in summer. I feel like I’ve been hit in the chest. Like someone rushed up and sucker punched me straight in the ribs. And even as my heart is palpitating, my rational brain is sizing him up, taking him in all at once to see if he fits my check list.
Scandinavian? Check.
Cute? Hell yes.
Unattached? Hmm…
Did I mention he’s cute? Really cute, as he sits on a stool against the wall, drinking his coffee like some advertisement for Burberry, or whatever the Danish equivalent. Tousled, dark blond hair, blue eyes, and that body…dayum. Tall, broad shoulders…
No. Not cute. Model hot. My chest starts to burn, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. Who cares if I faint? It’s my first time spotting the elusive Scandinavian Hottie in his natural habitat. For a brief, insane mo
ment I think about asking for a selfie with the guy so I can send it to Beth.
Ha! I told you! Suck on that, Thor!
“Five kroner,” he adds like I’m an idiot, and maybe I am.
At least I can blame it on the chemicals that were supposed to kill the cancer and cure me. They’ve muddled my mind, amongst other things. Not that I can tell him that. It’s not the kind of conversation you have near a restroom with a guy you’ve just met. I force myself to smile, but have a feeling it looks more like a manic snarl. To him I’m just the stupid American holding up the line.
“Oh, thanks.” I have to pay to use the toilet. I knew that. I’d read about it online. But then the internet also told me I wouldn’t have to tip anyone. Stupid internet.
Blushing, I dig into my pocket and pull out my coins. Which one is a five kroner? Only a few seconds go by, but with the line growing it feels like an eternity. Stress makes my mind go blank. I can no longer read numbers. Frantic, I flip over one coin after another, looking for a five, anything to indicate its value. Some have holes in the middle. What the hell does that mean?
Hottie reaches around me, his arm brushing my shoulder and sending a bolt of something I can’t quite identify through my body. He drops a coin into my palm. It clangs against the others, like a bell chiming, announcing to all what’s happening.
Hear ye, hear ye. Come see the stupid American who doesn’t know how to count.
It’s a large coin with a hole in the middle and a five embossed off center. I know I have one…somewhere. Kill me now. At least when we’re married, I can tell our friends our first meeting took place by the bathroom, when he paid for me to pee. How romantic.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not daring to look at him again. What happened to the girl who doesn’t give a shit what people think? “I can pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Someone behind us sighs loud and long. Hottie checks the time on his phone. I get it, he’s done with the clueless tourist. Without a glance back, I shove the coin into the slot on the wall and as soon as the door unlocks I dive into the stall. It’s small and tight. The door closes. I’m safe…for now. For a moment I think about prolonging my visit just to make sure I miss him when I exit my safe haven. But then the line will assume I’m constipated, or worse.
When I leave the stall his little table is empty. He’s gone. Part of me is actually disappointed, but most of me is grateful. I squeeze through the crowd and dart outside. It’s only as I’m scurrying down the sidewalk hoping to put as much distance between the café and my shame, that it hits me…I’m embarrassed.
A surprised laugh slips between my lips. Hell, I can feel the heat on my face. Unfreakingbelievable. I haven’t been embarrassed in years. I thought I’d lost the ability. When you’re constantly receiving intimate medical care from cute, male doctors while you’re wearing a paper-thin hospital gown, you sort of get to the point where nothing can horrify you anymore. At least so I thought. But I’m in Denmark, a new person. And apparently this new Hope gets embarrassed about bodily functions.
I spot trees ahead just across the street. There’s too much open space for it to be anything but the park. I’ve found Rosenborg. Being embarrassed makes me…oddly happy, and finding my first site gives me an acute sense of accomplishment. I stuff my hands into my jean pockets, grinning like a fool as I make my way down the sidewalk, my camera bag bouncing against my hip. It’s so damn good to feel again. Feel something. Anything. I stop at a crosswalk, and beyond the trees I spot the towers of the castle. A giddy sense of anticipation shoots through me.
The light changes and I’m swept over the crosswalk with my adopted group of fellow city-dwellers. Tourists or natives, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter. At the moment we are one, like a herd of antelope trying to survive the wilds.
Always cross at crosswalks in Denmark, a website warned. If you don’t, you chance getting run over by the evil bicycle brigade from hell. In America we teach children to fear terrorists, here you fear an unexpected step into the bicycle path.
As I move onto the sidewalk, my adopted group disperses, leaving me on my own once more. Some head toward the city, others walk in the direction of a row of townhomes. These people have a sense of urgency in their steps. But the ones like me, the ones who head into the park, are more languid in their stroll.
I know without doubt, this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing…visiting parks in cities, with castles as a backdrop. This is exactly what I would have wanted to do if I hadn’t gotten sick. Go to college abroad. See the world. Live. For one month I’ll be doing what I know in my heart I should be doing in another life. A life where I am healthy. Whole.
For now I can pretend.
My old life recedes as I step into the garden. A variety of people sit stretched out across the grass. Some are alone, some sit within clumps of friends. A few are reading, others having a picnic. A woman pushes a buggy, while two old men relax on a bench chatting. To them this is normal. For them sitting in a park that’s hundreds of years old with a castle as their backdrop is nothing to get excited about. I want this to be my normal. I open my pack and pull out my camera.
There’s so much to see that I immediately start clicking before I’m even sure it’s focused, as if I’m afraid it’s all going to disappear. I’ll fill my memory card by the end of my trip and probably have to buy another. But I don’t want to hide behind my camera every second of this vacation.
You’re welcome, the breeze seems to whisper. We knew you’d love it.
And I do.
I turn the corner and there it is…
My breath catches. The castle is just visible at the end of the trail. Tall and narrow and stately, surrounded by a band of water that was probably a moat at one time. It’s not decrepit and crumbling. This is a castle that could still comfortably hold a royal family within all of its magnificence even today. The castle is made of a reddish and tan brick, and the immense size and height stand out in stark contrast against the green gardens and open blue skies.
It’s the towers, though, that truly draw my attention and make me feel as if I’ve stepped back in time. Towers topped with what look like brass caps that have turned green over the decades, along with gorgeous, artistic spires that belong more in an art museum than out in the open. Pure perfection.
I start to lift my camera to take a picture when the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. My senses become highly alert. Slowly, I lower my camera. I have the odd sensation I’m being followed. From the corner of my eye, I spot a man heading my way.
Maybe I’m over-reacting but I can’t deny the odd sensation running through me, as if something is coming. Something I just might not be prepared for. I will not be robbed or intimidated on my first day here. Second or third…maybe. Desperate to find the safety of others, I hurry across the narrow bridge toward the castle. I can feel the guy growing closer and closer. When I reach the other side of the bridge, he’s right behind me.
All of my mom’s warnings come rushing back. I barely have time to register the castle looming at my side, instead, I focus on the two guards standing out front and my nervousness eases. I’m not alone. There is help—with guns—within reach. The relief I feel is immediate.
Still, I’m a feminist and I’m not about to let him get away with making me anxious. I’m pissed that as a woman I have to be afraid at all. No more running. I can’t confront my cancer, but I can confront this man.
I spin around to face him. “Are you following me?”
He pauses a few feet away and pulls the earbuds from his ears. “Sorry?”
I part my lips to curse him out, when I realize it’s the guy from the cafe. The guy who gave me the five kroner. Now I’m the one pausing, confused. “Are you…” I’m not sure what to say. He quirks a brow, waiting. God, he’s really good looking. It shouldn’t matter, it does. “I…you’re…”
It hits me all at once. Oh hell. He’s not following me. I don’t know w
here he’s going, what he’s doing, but it’s so very obvious it doesn’t involve me.
Heat shoots to my face, burning my skin from the inside out. I am a complete fool. “Nothing. I’m sorry.”
Keeping a wide berth between us, he moves around me and continues on his path. I watch him until he disappears behind the tall castle. He looks back only once, probably to make sure I’m not stalking him. The guy gave me money, and to repay his kindness, I accused him of harassing me.
“Idiot,” I mutter.
A woman walking by me pauses, frowning.
“Not you.” I smile reassuringly. “Me.”
She continues on, a look upon her face that says she agrees…I am an idiot. I’m no longer just embarrassed. I’m getting rather close to being mortified. And I’m enjoying every minute.
Still grinning, I continue by the front of the castle, staying clear of the guards least they decide to arrest me for stalking. If I thought I had any sort of chance with Hottie, which I didn’t, that chance has vanished completely. I’m so out of the loop I don’t even know how to flirt anymore, if I ever did. It was easy in middle school when I’d met Matias. A few smiles, a note or two…
Good ole Middle School. Sometimes I think I’m the oldest living eighth grader. At least that’s how naïve and innocent I feel. Fortunately, the line isn’t long as I step into the small building to get my tickets.
Travel abroad. Check.
See the sites. Check.
Find a Scandinavian Hottie…
Well, technically I found him.
“Next,” the woman behind the desk calls out. “The castle closes at four. The Crown jewels are in the basement.”
Get arrested for stalking and find out what a Danish prison is like…