I am normally meek as a metaphorical mouse when it comes to issues that concern religion; even if it is just a speck of religious ketchup on the napkin of the issue. Of course it is not to say that when the rest of the guests have left I don’t use it to wipe crumbs from around my lips and my sweat and behind the ears – I just don’t really express any view that has a hint of bias, preferring to leave them as bland as bad margarine.

However, there is only so much catharsis that can be derived from furious thought while brushing one’s teeth or empty moments on the bus, especially times when things have come to a head. Petty as we are, arguments often erupt over the tiniest and most ridiculous things, like drains or parking spaces, instead of the much more honourable but equally petty matters that the noble Europeans quarrel about and challenge each other to chainsaw duels. On an average day such disputes bring about a rather macabre form of amusement as we read about the various attacks launched by the respective parties, riding on their flaming stallions of superglue and dog afterbirth, babbling indecipherably about non-existent riches and very sharp knives. Then we’d go home and shake our heads resignedly about ‘the ugly citizen’.

Nothing fires up little things like religion being dragged into it, like slipping hot sauce into an unsuspecting colleague’s coffee mug. Had that church in S-- been nothing more than a childcare centre or elderly karaoke session, an equal amount of mad raving by an irate resident would not have warranted a newspaper appearance and letters to the forums. Such constant parking mayhem never raises more than just a few eyebrows for things like schools situated near landed residential estates, speaking from experience. Everyone just gets a little annoyed, raises a little temper, and then rush their children home. In fact, multiply that by five times a week and you get an even more appalling problem overall. Religion aside, this was hardly an issue.

But now some poor, two-storey terrace house dwelling man is facing years in jail for (undoubtedly rashly and foolishly) expressing his ire at inconsiderate people blocking his gate with their cars, shining brightly under a Sunday sun. This sounds a little sympathetic on my part for this undeniably callous lunatic, which can only attract righteous indignation for my part. As I said, if you strip the religious aspect away and get a man demanding action from a bunch of incontinent, befuddled old people halfway through Unchained Melody to move their cars, you might end up with some sitcom fodder and maybe a civil suit, not some man with a family who might go to prison soon and crap in a hole.

Deliberations on the inconsiderate behaviour of these gate-blocking, sidewalk-parking church-goers abound, ending up with most of the congregation dismissing them as black sheep and shaking their heads resignedly. They jeered at the man as being “insensitive” because it’s not really your grandfather’s road. After all, car parking is just such a miniscule affair compared to not burning for all eternity in hell. It would be okay if this had not been going on for TWENTY YEARS with residents putting up with such nonsense for so long. Not to say that they are all nasty, horrific trolls roaring at innocent car-parkers, chilling their souls to the core, but orderly, non-obstrusive parking, while mildly agitating, still allows for the continued normal function of roads and vehicles. Once again, the self-proclaimed moderate local newspaper tries to put down the righteous, non deity-backed anger of the residents down to the few black sheep of those who recently moved in. I rarely burn like so; must be that hot sauce again.

Because it seems the right time to do so, I attempted to look for some quotes from many people’s favourite book to justify the need to be considerate even without being told to under duress. “Remind the people to be subject to rulers and authorities, to be obedient, to be ready to do whatever is good…to be peaceable and considerate…” (Titus 3:1,2) and of course another one much favoured even by the secular "Do unto others as you would have them do to you". (Luke 6:31) that seem to explain themselves perfectly fine. I was also looking for quotes about telling other people like your fellow church-goers not to be inconsiderate (part of not being a bad person, though I suppose that also works out if you aren’t homosexual etc.) but my lack of familiarity meant that this could only be backed up as an impression gleaned from the many many things that my devoutly Christian grandmother tells me. Um, yeah, but they didn’t, like, have cars in about 75 AD did they. Religious or not, you would think the least that someone could do was not be an asshole about the car parking so it’s not really about the religion here (just that many other people are considerate because their parents taught them to or because they think it’s right). Also, whatever happened to weeding out the black sheep who reflect badly on the whole flock (there is some quote about this to, I remember).

It all seems terribly unfair from my side of things, my dark corner of the ring where flames and brimstone are all ready to consume, that there should be provisions in the Penal Code for the protection of religious ceremonies and the like. Fair enough that you don’t want solemn things like sermons to be despoiled by infidel clown-suited shrimp-eating (Deuteronomy 14:10) homosexual men. But the decades of a multi-religious society means that religion has to be carefully regulated, segregated, and protected, because people take their religion seriously. A commendable job has been done about this, though one dreads to think what it would be if that man had been of another, more controversial religion (he was a free-thinker). I think he would have been much better off too (not facing charges and this being explained away), because realistically, you don’t want to turn this into another 21 July 1964 NEVAR FORGET. But because he’s some godless heathen it’s okay because all he really wants to do is to destroy our precious way of life by hurting the religious feelings of others (!). There are some black sheep (who cannot be taken into hand) who use religion only as a shield/excuse, and they are of course also spurned by the more serious practitioners. Such “internal” problems are of course left alone, because the police can’t earnestly investigate allegations of somebody using religion as a crutch for the conscience. The man got the thick end of the stick because he was a free-thinker, who have no such legal protection for their “beliefs”. If someone were to question a theistic person about his faith and blaspheme his deity/deities/other beliefs there would be reason to conclude under this law that he was hurting his religious feelings. But throw that into reverse gear (evangelism) and the police would probably laugh you off for being stupid. Seems you can’t take your atheism seriously, because it’s not a religion even though one can derive spirituality and satisfaction and similar warm, comforting sentiments from having a solid grounding/philosophy. In fact, why not outlaw spreading atheistic propaganda because it will destroy our religious harmony? (You can’t outlaw atheism because it would be a shocking 1984-esque thought police action)

Now I do feel much better after that tirade which means I might have left in serious logical flaws/sensitivity landmines, which I might not be so apologetic for this time, because, hey, I have no religious feelings to hurt, do I.

(Atheist)

Left Out

13 August (odd how so many people have adopted the American style of writing dates just because of September 11 drilling it into their heads; there it goes again – it must be the only date ever to recognised as a noun in common – very common – usage) being Alfred Hitchcock's birthday (and hence the commencement of his magnificent creation) and World Left-Handedness day, seems like a day rich with portentous overtones and webs of conspiracy (probably the only reason why Hitchcock was roped in here, or it might just be a coincidence – a sinister coincidence). Indeed, the left has always been regarded with suspicion, as ominous, foreboding, something abnormal, running contrary to mainstream thoughts and habits. Centuries ago, the Catholic Church denounced left-handed people as servants of the devil, the phrase "Let thy left hand know not what thy right hand doest," (Matthew 6:3)(I hope I did this correctly - somehow invoking religion is a fine way of getting one's point across succinctly – at least there are less people who would argue with that), and even in the present day, alienation of the "left" still exists, for example the Muslim belief that the left hand is unclean, and in a more stylistic sense, some discrimination against the political "left".

But it is not without truth. In fact, you could say that, in an enlightened age of political correctness (if that could be said to be enlightened) left-handedness is the only genetic "defect" that people possess (if it is possible to possess a defect) , so to speak, that is still being discriminated against. Not actively of course, but perhaps on the basis that one cannot hide one's handedness like other genetic diseases, and in a world built for the right handed (it is not immediately obvious to the right-handed (even the words themselves try to show the correctness/superiority of those who use their right hands) but the smallest of construction details can irk the left-handed) the left-handed quickly find themselves wrong-footed (or wrong-handed, just that such an expression doesn't exist) in their actions. It seems like an anachronistic form of colonialism then, for the minority (and hence the weaker, the "conquered") to have to adapt to the ways of their "masters", the right-handers. Such a conception has been turned on its head however, as I let loose a little yelp upon seeing our new PM easing himself into the seat of power with his left hand.

So as it is with tokenism towards the oppressed, there has to be some day which is their day in the sun, for them to feel pride that will melt away months of injustice, for the left-handed to celebrate the uniqueness that is left-handedness. Sure, you have many celebrities and notable figures who are and were left-handed, for example Leonardo Da Vinci or Winston Churchill, who are all the more celebrated for overcoming that bias against the left-handed to stand on par, if not above, their middling, right-handed counterparts. Spare a thought for the left-handed - empathise like one would empathise with the homeless, or less privileged, by maybe switching your mouse over to the left side to feel the awkwardness, because they too, have suffered (not to say in the same way, or to the same degree, as say Jews or the poor, of course), but you never know if they have a conspiracy afoot, since they are all smarter than us 'righties' anyways (or so they say).

National Nationalism

It is peculiarly poignant that the National Day celebration (technically not a parade – there was not much of a procession to speak of) be held in a stadium (also peculiar that we, unlike many other, albeit older, countries to have a centrally organised and executed concerted celebratory effort) - a place which normally is the site of divisive influence and conflicting interests - since such an event is no doubt one that very dearly holds unity of purpose and co-operation. Perhaps it is to embody a triumph over such discordant courses, but it is probably because a stadium is the only structure that can accommodate so many people in relative (dis)comfort. Though one might be able to read much more into the significance of the stadium as the venue for an event of such great consequence and with such heavy overtones, for example, the closed construction of the stadium as a metaphor for the insular and close-knit attitude with which citizens celebrate the continued existence of the nation together, against 'the others' that could be taken to be everything outside of the stadium, the very essence of National Day to most is the patriotic, even nationalist spirit.

The manifest nature of such a temper would be evident to any spectator at the event; the colours, the cascade of noise and a collective eagerness to rival any (foreign) professional football match. Manifest patriotism, the tendency to overtly display one's patriotic fervour, which, it seems, is most cathartically dispensed during days arbitrarily marked out for that particular purpose because of curious historical coincidence, has always been infectious. It only takes one flag waving to get the rest to start, and only one adventurous voice to begin a chorus to a patriotic song, such that people have no qualms about what they would normally perceive as making a fool of themselves in the spirit of exuberantly expressing the undying commitment that they have to their country, be it whether they actually feel it in their hearts or not. It would be cruel to draw a line from it to drunkenness, but the parallels are already in plain sight. In the litter carpeting the stadium grounds it was difficult to spot even a scrap of a flag amongst the miscellaneous debris, precious as they were, to be brought home and given a treasured spot, having stirred up some unknown feeling that nevertheless was something to be proud of.

Swollen with meaning as the word 'patriotism' is, it could not have only been the sort evoked, and represented by enormous brass bands, beguiling songs and shouting oneself hoarse on catchy slogans. Having at least one essay being written about it every this time of the year, inconspicuous patriotism is one of those things that everyone laments about not having enough of despite it being almost everywhere, so much so that we are convinced that it is what most things are made of. It is no more new to say that saving water is a form of patriotism, and that so is picking up litter, or performing community service and anything else that could be perceived to be in some way or another benefiting the nation. Which would bring us back, unthinkably, to the very roots of what definition we could attempt to peg to patriotism; men have gone to great literary lengths to expound about it, some never returning. Is it love of one's birthplace, the place of childhood's recollections and hopes, dreams and aspirations? Or the place where we would sit and read, enraptured by wonderful tales of great deeds and conquests? Is it love for the carefully bounded, demarcated spot in which a peoples with a collective interest enforced by geographical coincidence happened to reside when historical circumstance corralled them together and bestowed upon a common outlook? Inevitably so, which also leads to the irrevocable linkage of patriotism and militarism, for the love of such boundaries has to mean intent to maintain them as such, and perhaps even to widen them, and by the nature of things, to use martial means to achieve that aim. From then on, the name of patriotism can only be smeared, sometimes with good reason. It is "the principle that will justify the training of wholesale murderers; a trade that requires better equipment for the exercise of man-killing than the making of such necessities of life as shoes, clothing, and houses, " as Tolstoy remarked. The senseless fighting over what sometimes cannot even be seen seems terribly futile to most.

Patriotism, as with militarism, makes rather anachronistic an assumption, that the world is divided into various fenced-in areas. Those who have had the fortune of being born on the same particular spot consider themselves better, nobler, grander, and more intelligent than others inhabiting any other spot. It is, therefore, the duty of everyone living on that chosen spot to fight, kill, and die in the attempt to impose his superiority upon all the others. Perhaps that is a little anachronistic in itself, because locally, if I were to make that remark, it would be heavily retorted, as our own brand of militarism is only one that seeks to ensure the bottom line of self-defence, and certainly not one of conquest. Indeed, our own brand of patriotism has always been geared towards the guarantee of survival. Still, given that the Law of Natural Selection applies to civilisations and nations, it is difficult to ensure survival without first ensuring superiority.

Accusations fly which allege that patriotism is a mere toy of a government, and the louder its colours, the more gorgeous it is, the better it will appeal to those at who it is targeted at, to turn them into loyal subjects. Such accusations can only be reinforced by the fact that a uni-party parliamentary system here blurs the line between country and government, because through the smoky windows they can only seem as one. Therefore it stokes the cynicism that any fervour that one is encouraged to feel for the country is merely a veiled, sinister attempt to encourage mindless support for the government, a partisan approach for it to remain in power, without due consideration for the good of the nation (though that is thankfully not exactly applicable here), which leads to the probably conclusion that the wealthy and the powerful of a country are not patriots, only skilful manipulators of it, drugging the masses (and what a heady drug it is) for self-interest. So then it would seem like it is an exercise in oppression even, that "last resort of scoundrels."

Leftist as this is, it would only work if, one people were actually more 'patriotic' and two if it was more of the manifest variety. But we here are insulated against such a potential corruptive influence, because patriotism is a lot more our 'weapon' than it is of the governments, in the sense implied above. Calls to cultivate some love for the country and some form of identity commonality are more at the fundamental level than they are at the fundamentalist level, youthful as our country is, with deference to the fact that one cannot even maintain the boundaries of the spot on the earth that we have if we do not somehow believe in them. The level of manifest patriotism is also proportional to the prevailing zeitgeist of the approval rating of the government (or country, as some people see it); the number of flags fluttering on the front of a block of flats rises and falls with the unemployment rate. Manifestly patriotic acts such as flag waving, singing, face-painting and so on are more related to having a good time, a form of entertainment while throwing a few tokens the way of 'patriotism', that necessary thing that would seem elusive otherwise.

This hullaboo, this 'tug-of-war', does seem a little contrived, because is it not in good faith to have some fun once in a while, and is it not easy, even pleasurable, to have one more thing to love?

On the anniversary of the abominable, morally reprehensible, inhumane act that was the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima on 1945, there has hardly been any outpouring of indignation about the dubious nature of the decision to vaporise tens of thousands of civilians, which might not be surprising given the long period of time that has elapsed but given the magnitude of torment suffered by its victims alone should be warranted. Oceans of ink have already been spilled about the callous and gratuitous way in which the Americans initiated the horror that heralded the start of the nuclear era. In a way, the Americans were the first and most prolific users of the famed 'Weapons of Mass Destruction', atomic, chemical or otherwise, that which they are attempting to make their own exclusive preserve through the crackdown of terrorists partaking in the piece of the pie while pushing ahead with the development of tactical nuclear weapons. But discussion of the events of 6 August 1945 have never been as much about US military strategy as they have been about the humanitarian catastrophe, and ultimately, the extent of the evil that may be perpetuated by man against other man. Crimes against humanity had already been abound since time immemorial, but the singular image that reminds us of the depths of depravity that we have plumbed has always been, barring another, more cataclysmic event, is the mushroom cloud, a riot of red, white, orange reaching into the skies, a fleeting, towering monument for our much more enduring wickedness. Much later, the landscapes replete with shattered buildings and debris demonstrated to us the sheer force that had been unleashed upon the citizens of Hiroshima.

The question on everyone's mind then, was how could anyone do anything so terrible to fellow human beings? Surely there was some sort of empathy or bond that governed human acts. Whilst the event itself has in more recent times become more and more politicised, that question still remains, pertinent, as it had always been, as events continually reiterate the urgent need to somehow answer that question. It may be put forth as the premise that, if once we admit, be it for a single hour or in a single instance, that there can be anything more important than compassion for a fellow human being, then there is no crime against man that we cannot commit with an easy conscience. Then, men become more impervious to any feeling of pity and humanity as a paved road is to rain. It might be necessary to pave a road with tar, but it is also sad to see the earth made barren when grass, corn, or trees could have been growing atop it. The American resolve might have been steeled by, even made requisite on, the grounds of so-called morality, or simple revenge. History might show that the bombings were vital towards ensuring a swift victory, if four years and millions of lives may be called swift, but it is always frightening to think towards the malevolence that people are capable of drawing upon when called to, and even more so that they think it as natural as the rain itself, and that such shows no signs of abating, and perhaps becoming even more prevalent.

Sweden

The far more prominent cousin of Denmark, renown for Ikea and also the Nobel Prizes, Sweden seemed a far sterner and sober place, where, behind the modern exterior of Stockholm one had the feeling that important and purposeful things were being accomplished.  Like any heavily commercialised city Stockholm appeared more professional and distant, a no-nonsense sort of place with no room for frivolity.  Even the weather seemed to be conspiring to achieve such a goal, with sunny skies all day in order for us to carry out some serious sightseeing. 

Hence, everything we did seemed a lot less exciting, a lot greyer even though the incandescent Swedish sun that dazzled my eyes made everything a lot more vivid and colourful, something like what happens when you spray an apple with nail varnish to make it shiner.  Particularly intriguing was the morass of Swedish flags that fluttered it seemed from every rooftop, door, window or rubbish chute, as though we were in the wake of some Swedish September 11th.  But because flags make everything so much nobler, including back alley comic porn shops or abortion clinics, I could not resist taking pointless photos of flags in a variety of settings, as though they were some curious blue creature with yellow stripes.  Many a photo was ruined by this obstinate beast refusing to distend its full glory and instead hang limply in a heap which was all very disappointing.

This could only be a momentary distraction from the serious sightseeing that we were doing, visiting museums of obviously great credence and substance like of 300 year old sunken vessels, historical Swedish culture, Nobel Prizes, scientific achievement and the cosmos, weighing as heavily on me as the leaden muesli at breakfast.  Having absorbed what must have been a significant portion of the bedrock of Swedish society at large I felt this immense burden composed of the innumerable museum display labels that I had read all day, having my head shrouded by a miasma of hefty political and philosophical notions spiralling into hundreds more profound questions, which is hardly part of a wholesome, gentle holiday.

Such a tangle, like all others, could only be straightened out by having a delicious dinner somewhere.  There was no shortage of what we had in mind that we wanted to try out, not in the least the internationally renowned Swedish meatballs, but being a consummate meat eater, also other exotic meats that did not inevitably end up tasting like chicken.  Because food writing is often just a whole bunch of tasty adjectives strung together and is easily interrupted by a sudden urge to go inhale a whole bag of potato chips, you could say that the singular dish that summed it all up was a heaping serving of crisply fried, glistening, vermillion curls of bacon reclining upon a butter sauce replete with soft onion, like a disc of fading sun framed by the skies of dusk. 

Similarly, we were at the sundown of our trip, and as the colour evaporated languidly from the streets outside the window, I attempted to sum up what Sweden had been, with its much maligned welfare state and socialist policy, perhaps something like a scientist seriously absorbed in his work, being something that he believes in, trying everything, waiting for some day when everything will come to fruition and a Nobel Prize be awarded to him.  But even if it wasn't, he would still deserve immense respect for his courage and industry.

(lack of resolve and fading memory delayed this for nearly two weeks)

Doing a fair share of travelling without producing some semblance of reflective writing is a plaything reserved exclusively for the jet-set, pink Tättinger slurping crowd, but most travel journals tend to be agonizingly tedious, blow-by-blow accounts of every soft-boiled egg eaten at breakfast or each tacky fridge magnet purchased from some fly-by-night roadside stall, like a grandfather's endless stories about some war being told to his grandchildren, initially stimulating but rapidly descending into a situation similar to being held down and beaten in the head with a cucumber. There is, however, also the tendency to attempt a Theroux-esque oeuvre, where one imagines one has peered right through the hearts of the people as though they were a crystal decanter and sucked up all the rich air that permeates the land. Seldom have we ever had such a journey, bordering even on the edge of fiction – everyone wants to meet a wizened old man and hear his mystic story, encircled by the aromatic smoke of some exotic tobacco.

In my opinion, this should be treated more like a good BLT sandwich, each component flavour being allowed to mingle with the others to produce a composite, delicious lunch item. Hence, like creamy garlic mayo, my experiences have been allowed to dribble and settle in amongst the crispy bacon and crunchy lettuce of the mind.

Whilst in Europe, a trip to Scandinavian lands is almost obligatory, if not to witness the land of the Vikings then to scrutinise the home of the archetypal welfare state. The Scandinavian countries are more famously known for their staggeringly liberal social attitudes and perhaps more relevantly as the home of revered and well-loved brand names like Ikea and Lego, being reflective of a more free-spirited lifestyle.

Denmark
Being a gibbering fan of pretty, self-connective plastic bricks, Denmark was of course the first thing that came to mind in the course of planning the trip. Visiting the home of Lego could only be like some sort of pilgrimage to the consecrated land, (if you can pardon the slightly ridiculous comparison) and could not be missed. After all, who could resist looking at intricate plastic reconstructions of some sort of utopia where the trains run on time? But going to a country simply because of a children's toy can only make one look like a drooling fool, so we did intend to go to the capital and cultural centre, Copenhagen (where, not coincidentally, Carlsberg also originates from).

Half-expecting some sort of welfare paradise where the streets were paved with gold bought with the kronor of heavily-taxed rich decadent people, we arrived by plane to find spanking new, chic, and lavish airport, rail system and rail station. Stepping out into a foul Danish day however, Copenhagen still looked like a 1980s Berlin, its browns and greys in a lattice of buildings only exacerbated by the overcast skies.

Suffice to say that we went to a few common or garden museums and churches and the like (punctuated only by a mildly amusing visit to the somewhat promisingly named "Guinness Book of World Records Museum" that consisted mainly of a few bits of plastic and paper that looked like they had been glued together by some autistic, spitting circular saw accident victim. Naturally, our admission fee might have been better spent by handing it to some shady Nigerian Colonel named Mbomtba to get our cut of the 15 (fifteen) million United States dollars) and the awful greyness of the city was getting me down. It seemed a complete letdown that a trip to this land of social justice and light begin with going to a city more similar to one where collectors roamed the streets and beat homeless people for their coins while the rich dined on caviar bought with their tax rebate money.

Because the hotel was charging us the famously high Scandinavian prices, we soon left the city (but not without the requisite visit to the statue of the Little Mermaid, which we saw under a pall of rain and tour buses - that made the stay complete; something like getting a fridge magnet after a visit to a famous museum) and went to a more rural tourist town to look at more rural things. Travelling pleasantly on a train that would make English ones look like stinking latrines, some members of our party struck up conversation with some of the locals, who, like all good Europeans, became increasingly congenial after a multitude of beers. I soon learnt, to the delight of my Western European, left-wing, whale-hugging liberal ideology, that the Danish government was playing the role of some extreme Robin Hood man, providing free education, unemployment benefits and vehemently paying for everything in sight. Grey as Copenhagen was, the warmth of righteousness glowed beneath its subsidised roads.

We were soon to be surprised again by all the tax kronor of the wealthy, as we were about to get off the obscenely late train and miss our connecting journey. But we had a taxi provided all the way to our destination as "this was why we pay taxes in Denmark", to quote our increasingly tipsy friends, lurching over a gaggle of empty bottles to bid us farewell.

An uneventful two days elapsed in this country town amongst the marshes, whose only claim to fame was that it was the oldest town in Denmark, being the least flooded and lousy place for settlement in the ninth century. I never really had the chance to observe much about the rural lifestyle, the famous and rather hackneyed comparison between the hectic and corruptive urban life pitted against its more chaste and tranquil rural counterpart. They seemed mostly the same, though, as, emerging from a restaurant, we were hit by some racist abuse that battered us like an errant ping-pong ball, some inebriated man telling us to "go back to Italia (sic)". Needless to say, we were absolutely quaking in our shoes.

Something like how, to a young child, the sleeping, eating, and praying prior to present-opening on Christmas day is superfluous and idiotic, we had completed the preliminary stages in the lead up to our stay in Legoland, and, with puerile fervour I set upon the spoils like a child ripping open his presents, at times feeling like a Gulliver treading through the Lilliputian land and at others parrying the curious gaze of a wayward European parent as I shifted uncomfortably in a seat designed for someone a quarter my age.

You might say that theme parks hardly count as any sort of serious travel at all, being self-contained bubbles of joy and contentment, and without the chance to observe any real people with real lives to live in a real environment, time seemed to zip by instantaneously, as it tends to do when one's mind is only occupied by the thoughts of tiny plastic cars and their even tinier plastic occupants.

Wondrous, slightly creepy, we all harboured various thoughts about a world that could be constructed solely of plastic bricks, and maybe in our sleep we wished it were all that simple, like when we were children, building fantastic things from nothing, and where, if things didn't work out, we could always try again or go eat some crackers.

Soon, it was time for the seemingly more serious and sober Sweden with its more ironclad reputation. From the glum streets of Copenhagen to the even more sullen weather, if we were to compare Denmark to a person (which strictly is counter-intuitive as we encounter even more difficulty when trying to unravel people) then it might be like a scatterbrained old person who is often shabby in appearance on several counts but pays careful attention to others, who is really quite intelligent, caring and gives candy to children and goes to bed with a contented heart. Inexplicably, as observing such a person would cause, I felt a sudden spurt of warmth as we left for Stockholm. Or it could just be my third glass of free wine.

(more…)