Goddag - Hej då - Tere - Aloha

Greetings from the high latitudes,

The perfect combination: heathen rituals, rocky island seascape, zealous natives of Viking lineage, primordial fire, and celestial orchestration. Add in the undeniable festivity of burning a witch under the radiant midnight sun and we're talking penultimate pagan party. I was fortunate to spend Midsummer's Eve with some friends from Stockholm out on the Skargården, the archipelago in the Baltic Sea that is patinaed by over 24,000 islands. I learned how to perform the 'little frog dance' around the midsummer pole (think Paleolithic Fred Astaire) and was afforded the honor of tossing the effigy of a witch into the bonfire. With my best 'Holy Grail' Monty Python impersonation I howled "Burn the witch" and heaved her into the flame-licked pyre. Quality mayhem.

As I have been quite missively remiss as of late, a brief word or three of my recent wandering and squandering. I met my parents in London for a glorious three week pub crawl throughout England, Scotland, and Wales. Extensive and phenomenal (miss you guys!). Afterwards I met my younger but bigger brother and my uncle (a genetic mirror - equally warped and insane) in Paris. A whirlwind blitz of central Europe ensued in which we raised/razed a triangulated blaze between the canal cafes of Amsterdam - the Berlin wall - and the picturesque piazzas of Rome. Details will be saved for the memoirs to protect the guilty ... once again, quality mayhem. The three musketeers-little pigs-stooges cavort the continent: gambling at Monte Carlo, the thermal baths of Budapest (our only hygienic endeavor), exercising our brachioradialis muscles hoisting liter steins in Prague and Munich, puffing on cigars while playing cards beneath the Swiss Alps, and tossing the frisbee at 3:00 a.m. beside the Duomo in Florence. Cool moe dee.

Since leaving the companionship of my kinsmen, I've been in the European hinterlands (Denmark, Norway, Sweden, Finland, and Estonia). Deprived of their sage counsel and guidance, I've been through hell and spent a night in jail. Granted, Hell is a town in the polar region of Norway and my time behind bars was in an old island prison turned hostel in Sweden ... still, they nicely tempered my proclivity for living like a degenerate hobo. The trains are sensational. A three month unlimited first-class Eurailpass is analagous to Willy Wonka's 'golden ticket.' A magical pass to unlimited adventure and fantastical experiences, minus any moralizing Oompa Loompas. That said, a Eurailpass is also like kissing: it's fun at first but eventually leaves you a bit hungry for more. Hence, the past and future forays into the seductive embrace of Prague, Estonia, Krakow, Romania, and Morocco. I won't bore you any further with goofy metaphors or travelogue drivel ... instead, I'll bore you with idiosyncratic images of the lore and lure of the north.

One if by land, two if by sea: The most dazzling panoramic bliss encapsulates the Bergen to Oslo trainride - vertical plunges and meandering ascents across glacial fields, jagged peaks, and cascading waterfalls. The most beautiful topography I've ever witnessed was along Nærøyfjord - Norway's narrowest fjord - a surfeit of splendor. For a rare indulgence in sybaritic style I cruised from Sweden to Finland on the Silja Symphony; a posh 'Love Boat' vessel with nightclubs, casinos, and views of the setting midnight sun across the Gulf of Bothnia. Majestic.

Coldest place for a scrub: The Arctic Ocean beside Bødo. Two words - painful shrinkage.

As Cartman (the fat kid on South Park) would drawl, "Sweet, sweet, super sweet:" In Bergen I tried drinking coffee like my Great-Grandpa Opsahl who grew up there. Place the sugar cube(s) in your mouth rather than the cup; the java melts it nicely. A delicious free-based sugar high. The secret elixir of longevity? The strong norseman lived with vigor and health to the age of 103.

Advice for culture vultures: Skip the long lines at the Prado, Louvre, Uffizi, or the Tate Gallery and head up to Hamburg, Germany. The funkiest collection of 'art' is to be found at Harry's Hamburger Hafen Basar. Harry, an absolute kook, has spent his life collecting trinkets, curiosities, and assorted junk from around the globe. The masterpiece is a stuffed giraffe encircled by a tribe of shrunken heads.

Minnesota - Land of 10,000 Lakes: Okay, the humbly understated motto is inaccurate; the actual total numbers over 15,000 ... more water than 46 other states combined. Impressive. What's damn near astounding is the quantity of lakes in Sweden and Finland; a respective 100,000 and 187,888. An aquatic paradise.

A room with a view: The floating hostel 'Gustav Klimt' in central Stockholm. Moored in an idyllic location, the bunks literally rock. The deck bar serves a local ale aptly named FAT. A dark complexion, stout and delicious body, and an alluring blonde head. Yum.

The fragrance of earth in my garments: Woozy from the scent of my fetid clothing, I stumbled into Cafe Tin Tin Tango in Helsinki. This was not your bland everyday local laundromat but an eclectic 'cafe - bar - art gallery - laundromat - sauna.' In the sweltering smoke sauna they've got hickory branches for the purpose of self-immolation. This type of sado-masochistic schizophrenia has endeared me to the lovingly odd Finns.

Europe's hidden gem: As the world quickly discovers and tramples the majestic cobblestone alleyways of Prague and Budapest (incredible, worthy cities)... the lemmings have yet to chance upon the fairytale enchantment of Tallinn, Estonia. A uniquely romantic gothic jewel that hasn't been tarnished by the process of 'Californication' sweeping the rest of Eastern Europe. At an old Hanseatic tavern in the medieval town center you can still buy a flagon of mead. Potent.

Old football injuries: If you hurt yourself playing American football, it can be a warrior's source of nostalgic pride. Decidedly less so if you are injured playing the weenie European version. The most pathetic sports injury known to man would have to be injuring yourself while DREAMING of playing soccer. Guilty. I blame the pervasive media hysteria that has been swirling around the Euro 2000 'football' championships. Last month in Paris, while in the nocturnal realm of Morpheus, I envisioned myself executing a skilled (but manly!) shot on goal. As the line between phantasmagoric illusion and reality has always been somewhat slippery for me ... I kicked the wall like a kung-fu master. Fortunately, I scored (and only suffered a bloodily scarred second toe). Warning: I'm unsafe to sleep with ;-)

The wacky world of sports (part deux): Undeterred by my soccer mishap, I am back in strict athletic training for another endeavor. Every summer the city of Helsinki hosts the 'World Wife-Carrying Championships.' It stems from the local 14th century tradition of raiding nearby villages and absconding with the babes. I figure that I'll be physically ready by the competition on July 1 this year; emotionally ready by 2009.

The pen is mightier than the sword: In the library where I am currently typing in Copenhagen is a quirky remnant of the 1807 British bombardment of the city: a cannonball and the target it hit, a book titled 'Defensor Pacis' (Defender of Peace).

Urban evolution: In 1971 an abandoned military camp on the east side of nearby Christianshavn was taken over by squatters who proclaimed it the 'free state' of Christiania. About 1000 people settled in and started their own collective businesses, schools, and recycling programs. It's an intriguing social experiment that continues to thrive despite endless parliamentary squabbles about its existence. It has a relaxed , neo-hippie, hazed out feel to it. Hashish is openly sold and smoked on Pusherstreet, the buildings are colorfully and artistically spray painted, and it exudes a communal sense of tranquility. Question ... isn't the old air force base in Waimanalo decomissioned? Hmmm.

Hygge: As the morning sun has given way to a chilly drizzle here on the isle of Zealand ... my library nest exemplifies the Danish idea of 'hygge.' Roughly translated it means 'cozy and snug'; it implies shutting out the turmoil and troubles of the outside world and striving instead for a warm intimate mood. Nice concept.

Final thought: The following wisdom is from a letter Voltaire wrote to Frederick the Great in July, 1737: "Dulce est desipere in loco (It is sweet to be foolish on occasion). Woe to philosophers who cannot laugh away their wrinkles. I look upon solemnity as a disease."

- a transient wave in the sea of humanity