What is the point of it all?

It’s about 12 hours since I got back to the house, and I’m still freezing. After a half hour in a hot tub and many hours under a thick down blanket, I’m chilled, thanks to my macho attempt to get back to my cousin’s house from the train station in the middle of the night, in damp mid-30’s weather, without a map, cell phone, or proper coat.

I left my sister’s in Copenhagen around 11:30pm wearing only jeans, a t-shirt, sweatshirt, scarf, thin running socks, and laceless Converse, carrying only my purse containing a totally useless Blackberry, a bunch of other junk, and 80 Kroner (about $16, thank you very much American economy). Perhaps I should have taken more precautions considering the number of times I’d gotten lost the previous day while driving with my technophobe mom and 87-year-old grandfather. But, no. I mean, how hard could it be to take a train from one city to another and then walk back from the station. Besides, I always welcome the opportunity for incidental exercise, especially while in a country where 90% of one’s calories come from white bread and butter.

So I headed out. My sister directed me to walk to the nearest train station. I set off in a jog (I like to jog when I’m cold, for the exercise and the efficiency) and immediately missed the station. I have no idea where it was. But I recognized enough landmarks from my trip five years ago that I found the next station.

I entered the station only to see that the track I wanted was shut down for repairs. And after asking what would be the first of many “Taler de engelsk?”’s this evening, I found out that the line I needed was shut down. So I decided to take the train to the main Copenhagen station and figure it out from there.

At the main station, no problems. Only two “Taler de engelsk?”’s and I was on the train to Greve. After a nice 30-minute train ride, I arrived. To a completely dark, desolate station. No one around. I looked at the station map, figured out the directions to the house, and headed off. The problem was, there was no clear station exit. The station was in the middle of a bunch of parking lots and other buildings, and it was dark, so I couldn’t find the street I needed to take. And I didn’t know idea which direction was which.

Undeterred, I walked through a big parking lot and headed to what I thought was the main road and started walking. Greve, being a very small, residential town, was at this hour a blur of empty roads, green, stars, and damp coldness. It was kind of nice, actually. A nice change from walking around some grimy, sad parts of L.A.

After 15 minutes of walking/jogging, I didn’t see the street I was supposed to turn on, so I turned around and headed back toward the station. Mind you, it’s still a damp low-30’s outside and I don’t have a coat. But fresh in my mind was watching some show on the Discovery channel where this named Bear Grylles built a canoe and braved freezing rapids and a cave to get himself out of the wilderness. I was thinking, if that guy can do that, surely I get to a house in this stupid small town. So I continued and walked in another direction.

I walked and walked, all quiet, all alone. I started brainstorming how I would most likely be killed in this situation. I didn’t think there were any serial killers or kidnappers around. And I didn’t think I’d freeze to death, because in the worst case, I’d just knock on a door and cry until someone let me in. So I decided that the mostly likely way I’d be killed was to be attacked by a dog. Lots of people have dogs around here. So I avoided big bushes, and mostly kept to walking in the street.

I walked and walked and still didn’t see the road I was supposed to turn on. I forged ahead. There weren’t many houses in this direction. Only long stretches of highway and green. Finally I came to a neighborhood, so I cut through some alley and looked around. It looked just like the neighborhood of my cousin’s house, so I kept looking. Then I realized I was in a different neighborhood, one called Donnersgade. Earlier in the day, I saw an art piece at a museum inspired by the Donner Party and their horrible, cold, cannibalistic winter, which gave the houses a rather ominous appearance.

At this point, I’d been walking in the freezing cold for about an hour and a half, my legs and buttocks were frozen, and I was getting tired of the “adventure”, so I decided I’d knock on a door. After 3 or 4 doors, I rang a bell and heard a dog. Great, I thought, someone who has a dog will be brave enough to answer. This professor looking guy answered, understandably irritated to be awoken at 2am. My mouth was frozen, so I slowly slurred out that I was a dumb American and I was lost. He gave me some directions back to the house, and I set off again.

I went the way he said and got even more lost. What a jerk. I was really freezing now. I came upon an apartment complex. I was very tempted to borrow someone’s bicycle. There were a bunch around, and I would return it later (if I could find the place again), but I didn’t know where I was going anyway. So I knocked on some doors. Some people didn’t answer, and some looked out of their windows at my menacing 5′3″ stature and didn’t open the door. Finally one guy in his underpants gave me a chance to explain what was going on, and he called me a taxi, which took me back to the house at long last.