Aslaug's Axe Shed

Well, as promised, and slightly delayed, here’s the last bit of the story of my trip to England.

After a long, eventful day in York, it was time to start winding down. Except for New Year’s Eve of course. Which was the following day.

Mind you, I’m used to New Year’s Eve as it’s being held in Denmark. Which frankly is a monstrous affair if you don’t feel safe letting a nation of near-terminally inebriated people have access to enough explosives to arm a small, Central American dictatorship.

Fireworks, folks, is the bane of my life. I hate the damned things. Yeah sure, rockets and chrysanthemum bombs are beautiful once they explode up above, but first of all there’s the gods-forsaken noise and secondly, it’s bloody dangerous. It’s even MORE dangerous when people, as mentioned, get stupefyingly drunk before firing off the damned things. Now imagine what it’s like when a small town like Nibe, with a few thousand inhabitants, run wild like that. Sure, it’s not too bad is it?

WRONG!

Housing is built closely together and all it takes is one mistake or mishap and half a street is on fire.

Then imagine what happens when a city like Aalborg, with over a hundred thousand people celebrate New Year? It’s pandemonium … and it frightens me every year.

Not to mention that there’s a sad, sad tradition here that says that kids run around playing tricks on people on New Year’s Eve. Those tricks long since stopped being harmless in many communities and went over into abject vandalism and random destruction of property.

And the kids don’t even understand it’s -wrong-.

Good grief.

So frankly, I was looking forward to New Year’s Eve in England, until Erica told me that they also shot off fireworks to celebrate.

So I tried to think of something else, and concentrated on getting everything ready for the evening and the next day, since I would be leaving very early on the 2nd of January.

Sarah and her family came by again, and they were due to spend the night there. So after Erica and I had done some shopping for food, we got to work on simply having a good time.

Frankly, we had too much to drink as the evening progressed. Not to the point of near-terminal inebriation, but we did go pass the point of merely being tipsy. That doesn’t happen to me very often, so I don’t feel bad about it. Every once in a while, I allow myself to indulge. And besides, it was great company. So we drank a little of this and a little of that and some more of everything … chatted and simply had a great evening. And then … Sarah decided it was time to taste her cinnamon vodka.

Insert ominous soundtrack here, please.

Anyone who knows me, knows I’m an absolute cinnamonoholic. I can’t get enough of the stuff. There’s cinnamon in my tea, in my shampoo, in my soap, in as much of the food I eat as possible … life would simply be dull and drab without cinnamon if you ask me. So a Cinnamon vodka? Hell yeah! Bring it on!

Until we realized she’d also put a chilli-pepper in there. A fresh one. A WHOLE one. And worst of all … a small one.

The smaller a chilli is the stronger it gets. We did taste the vodka … but you could LITERALLY have used it to peel paint off walls. It was without comparison the strongest tasting alcohol I’ve ever had and my tastebuds felt numb for two hours afterwards. The looks on our faces must’ve been worth a picture but thankfully, no one had a camera nearby.

So we settled down with wine, beer, cider, port, a scnapps or two … yep, we had a good evening. Mostly spent talking, which I rather liked. Then, as midnight approached, we watched a bit of television and I showed the Brits the tradition of “jumping into the new year” … which basically consists of getting up on a chair or couch and jumping off it as the -first- stroke of the bell tolls midnight. And then it was time for Old Lang Syne.

By that time, the kids were completely hammered but still soldiered on for another half hour or so before collapsing in bed. Someone said fireworks were being shot off outside, but I admittedly didn’t see a single rocket. I did stay inside, yes … but at home, it wouldn’t MATTER if I stayed in doors with the windows shuttered. I’d see and hear it anyway. So my worries were for nothing, and thank goodness for that.

Erica and I went outside at around a quarter to one in the moment, and I drew a sunwheel in the snow. Then I asked the powers to bless their house, with strength, love, wisdom and good health, and after that, we settled down for a few more drinks.

Suffice to say, that by the time I finally fell asleep, I was more drunk than I’d been in many, many years.

Which meant I was sorely surprised when I woke up the next morning COMPLETELY without hangovers. Not even that annoying little ache behind one’s eyes. It was very strange indeed.

Neither Sarah nor Erica had any ill effects either. I wonder if it was that vodka that did it, because both the men were sick as puppies from the looks of things. Arty in particular looked like Death … note the capital D.

And then Erica began to cook. With Sarah’s assistance.

Oh … my … gods!

You know how the saying goes that when you’ve been drinking, you want greasy food for some reason? Well, I saw the ultimate proof of that.

It’s called a Breakfast Flatcake … Yorkshire style.

Take a flat bun, about seven inches across. In that, you put two English sausages, sliced in half along the length to allow them to lay flat on the bread. Then add three slices of Danish bacon (the BIG … -thick- slices). Then add two fried eggs. Then add three or four hasbrowns (depending on how many you can fit onto the bread). Then top off with butter-fried mushrooms, sliced thinly. A good double-handfull for each bun.

Then put the top of the bun back on.

That’s food for ONE.

I nearly died, and no, I didn’t finish it. I couldn’t. There was no way whatsoever my already severely strained stomach, having been kept at a constant FULL level since arriving in England, could possibly cope with that much food. I did my best though … I honestly did my best.

Later in the day, after the guests had gone home, I finally got started on the packing. With some help from Erica, I got everything into my luggage, but I had a problem. My carry-on couldn’t take everything it needed to take. At all. Erica came to my rescue and let me have one of her pieces of luggage as a carry-on. It was precisely within the limits allowed and I got everything else into that.

Thank goodness.

The rest of the day was spent mellowing out and getting ready for the next morning, which arrived without fanfare.

Erica and I were the only ones out of bed. I had said my goodbyes to Arty and to the kids the night before, and at half past five in the morning, Erica and I got into a cab and headed for a small trainstation near the centre of Bradford.

We’d already agreed that Erica wouldn’t take me all the way to Manchester. British Rail charges exorbitant prices for its services, and my stay had been very costly. Money was -very- low by this time. However, Erica did take me to the station in Leeds, as I had to change trains there. She made sure I got onto the right platform, and then we said our farewells. As emotional as ever. Even as she walked away, I missed her. I already missed Arty and the children.

Friends like that are priceless. Friends that can make you feel that way are very, very special and should be cherished. And so I do.

And in any case, I had a mission to think of. After all, Her Majesty, Empress of the Known Universe, had entrusted me with the battleplans for her future conquest of the world, in the shape of a detailed drawing, and it was now up to me to bring it to safety and study it thoroughly

So as I sat there on the train to Manchester, I felt happy I was finally going home. I love going abroad, but I guess in that regards I am a bit like my father. After a while, I simply start missing my own bed. Still, it was emotional to leave … and I do look forward to going back next time.

The train was cold. It seems all British Rail trains are like that. I sat next to an American couple who had celebrated Christmas with their daughter in England, and who were now also on their way home. We didn’t talk much. They were elderly, and it was early morning … so they dozed off regularly. But finally, we arrived at Manchester and I got out and into the airport itself. I had loads of time before the plane left. Two hours … but due to the Christmas day underpants bomber, all passengers had been warned to expect extra security for a while. MAINLY those going to the United States of course, but security was supposed to be up in general. Moreover, it had snowed heavily, and I’d rather be in good time than be ten minutes late for my plane.

It turned out I had done the smart thing in turning up so early. While I breeeeeezed through security and checkin, and found myself in the transit hall with an hour and a half to spare, I realized that had I arrived half an hour later, I’d have hit rush-hour, and I doubt I’d have made it in time. So … I bought a book at an airport bookstore and sat down to wait for the plane by the gate.

It was delayed. Snow and ice had settled on the wings overnight, and it needed to be properly cleared first. It meant we were twenty minutes late off the ground, but the pilot informed us he flew faster than normal to make up for some of the lost time.

I love flying, but that trip home was -BUMPY-!

When we landed in Kastrup Airport, Copenhagen, I just felt glad to have firm ground under my feet again. We’d caught up with ten minutes of our delay though, so with luck, I might still make an early train from the station to Aalborg.

It was not to be. Problems with the luggage meant another ten minute delay, and when I got out, I had missed my train by five minutes. It was no big deal, really, since I didn’t have a ticket for any particular train. But I went and got one … for the next one leaving. I’d really rather not stand up all the way to Aalborg from Copenhagen. It’s a six hour train ride, after all.

So I got a seat. Sat down, opened my book again and suddenly smelled that sickening stench of a sweaty man with too much alcohol in his system.

And then two Russians sat down in the same seating area. I don’t speak the language, but I can recognize Russian when I hear it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen seedier looking people in my entire life, and they had a two-litre beer-bottle with them. Strong beer. The percentage on the side of the bottle made me gulp.

That two-litre bottle was empty before we’d even left Copenhagen, and they did not get off until we reached Aarhus. An hour and twenty minutes before Aalborg. And they were loud. My GODS they were loud.

At last, though, I got off the train in Aalborg, and waded through snow and slush to the bus-station. At last, some good fortune. I only had to wait five minutes for a bus home. Great, I thought, and checked what little coinage I had in Danish money. The train-ticket would cover some of the trip home, but I needed sixteen kroner.

I had fifteen.

So I went to get money from the ATM at the busstation, only to see that it was out of order. And it would take me half an hour to walk, with all my luggage, through the slush, to the nearest ATM and back. Missing my bus.

So I decided to wait and see if the bus-driver wouldn’t have mercy on me. If he wouldn’t, I’d have to walk to the other ATM and back, but I’d really rather not if I could avoid it.

Fortunately, the bus-driver was one of the nicer ones, and he allowed me to get on the bus for fifteen kroner.

And so I got home.

It was nearly nine o’clock, but I was home … in Nibe. In my own apartment. It was cold, I had no food or drink in my fridge … but it was -home-.

The first thing I did was to plug in my cell-phone. Then I turned on my computer and went to make a cup of tea. That much I did have, at least. When I had my tea, I wrote Erica an Email to let her know I was home safe, and I called my parents to give them the same message. And then I called my good friend Jane, to tell her the same thing. I knew she’d want to hear about what had happened, since she used to study in England and since she had told me how much she loved York.

I didn’t get to bed until well after eleven.

But I slept like a baby.

In my own bed.

Home.