To find yourself you really don't have to go far, but for me this trip is more than finding my inner voice, but to find the voice that will communicate my dream of becoming a respected photojournalist that tells stories that provoke and to cause change.
Ideal, yes. In some way this return to school couldn't be filled with more idealism. I hope in some way being surrounded by men and women ready to conquer the world that I can recapture that same attitude and passion I had when I started in journalism.
A friend of mind asked me my impression. Coming in at night when everything is in a cloak of black I could only see that there are lots of bikes, and people are very considerate, but not openly friendly in that fake kind of way. When pressed for answers (with bad Danish or poorly spoken English) everyone seemed open to helping.
Despite the overcast clouds, damp air that creates this pall of undeniable deep wet winter that seems to be hanging here the students are a contrast, being genuinely warm, cheery and welcoming. Particularly when the spirits (beer and other assorted fare) are raised in cheer.
It was appropriate that the 12 hour journey lasted more than 20 hours after a delay in Toronto due to a snowstorm, which forced me to miss my connecting flight to Copenhagen (Kobenhavn, pronounced "Co-Ben-houn"), and the chairs of Frankfurt airport became my temporary nap area. After the flight portion my final leg was supposed to be straightforward. Who knew in a long line of trains that there are specific ones intended for specific destinations. Fortunately my body and attitude remained strong despite living on snack bars, and airplane food, which consisted of bland and rubbery chicken with more than enough bread based food that I want to remember. With the little strength left I managed to wheel my 29 kg of luggage and the 11 kg or so of photo equipment through about 20 trains before I finally got to the correct one. The physical test wasn't over as I had to lift and put the 29 kg bag up and over my head on to the overhead storage shelf.
For consistency sake one more delay came my way in the form of a guy with bald head and a grey track suit. Think Danish "Good Fellas" and you have your guy. Funny enough this guy had come up to me earlier to ask me about my ethnicity and try his hand at a Chinese greeting. He apparently fell ill and was carried out of the train, probably due to intoxication of some sort. I was later told my greeter Mikkel it's just part of the traveling experience.
When Mikkel came he was a welcome sight. No more waiting or feeling completely ignorant of the situation. Now I knew the end was in sight.
At that point I was ready for a shower and a long slumber. However Mikkel's suggestion of a small gathering for exchange students couldn't be passed up so after I dropped off my luggage and a brief meeting with some of my dorm mates, who seemed to be fairly preoccupied playing some variation of a Warcraft game, I was off to a party. We passed by a blur of low lying buildings, no higher than a couple floors, all brown and non-descript illustrated the physical socialist uniform design of the living dwellings. When we stepped through the door to the common area of Mikkel's kitchen an eruption of cheers burst from a diverse mix of men and women, some blond, brunette, some tall, some average height, all drinking and smiling, welcoming me and the other international students.
Although I was told that Danes really don't drink to excess that it is a relative behaviour and cannot necessarily be measured against cultures where drinking is not as popular it's hard to deny the pleasure they get from the experience. And for me that was fine as I was only too happy to share in the revelry of the moment made possible by my new Danish friends.
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