Like Mountain

This is Part 7 of the Wir Gehen Nach Deutschland series, which is, apparently, a series now, because I just called it a series, just now, and there are eleven of them, which is bonkers.

Part 1: Fashion Scarves in Fucking Charge

Part 2: Predictable

Part 3: Noishenvantengutencastlestein v. Hitler's Casino

Part 4: Beating Hitler at His Own Game

Part 5: Inhale

Part 6: After the Fox

Part 7: Like Mountain

Part 8: But You Know. Sweden.

Part 9: It's Fine

Part 10: Kiss Off

 Part 11: Red Man Says Nein

The thing about stories, I mean, the reason things can feel terribly exciting is unrelated to action and unrelated to meaning and completely related to truth.

The truth behind an action, the motivation for an action or inaction is the truth of a story.  Doing something for the sake of telling other people about is a quest for fame, not life.  Sometimes I need to remind myself of that when I get all weird.  Why am I doing this?  Oh yeah.  For me.  To prove to myself that I'm not a waste.  Because honestly, this is about me. 

...

(I wrote all of that earlier, and now it's four-thirty and I'm drunk, but not too drunk, so hopefully this makes sense)

We forced ourselves out of bed the next morning and Katsisch was still pretty drunk, but we stumbled to the train and onto a plane and I snored the entire flight like a jackass.

Snoring, by the way, is a relatively new thing for me, lifre-wise.  I think it started about two years ago? People complain about being single because they're lonely, they want love, sex, passion, someone to make sure they get home okay, someone for all-bed-all-day Sunday, for speaking in codes, for adventuers, for no other security than wrapped arms, for boozing and lazing and facebook updating, for dirty guilt and thought dumps, for hate and shame and squishing and groping, for dreams and futures and memories and all of those things that romantifc comedies make us believe we want, because really, we fucking do...but as of this moment, right now, I really need a chronolurgical snoring timeline.

Then Copenhagen came along, looming like dappled Legos, the city equivalent of cool, but rude, and everything there felt broken somehow but proud and healing.   There was mystery leaking out of the cobblestones, because people were elusive and because every night the Tivoli would gear up just slightly in preparation for opening day, and it was eerie and sinister and always afterhours, and I was always afraid bad little boys were being magicked into donkeys because that is the goddamn scariest shit I've ever seen in a Disney movie ever, other than puppies being skinned and sewn into haute couture, and WHO THE FUCK WRITES CHILDREN'S BOOKS?

Hans Christian Anderson does.  I feel sorry for Copenhagen, wonderful wonderful Copenhagen, because their mascot is a stupid martyred mermaid bitch that gives up everything so she can walk on daggers and die for the love of a douchebag who was never really that into her anyway, god girls are dumb.

And the fucking cunning grandeur of it all is this: Copenhagen doesn't fucking want your pity.  They want your money.  They want to charge you eight dollars to ride the bus.  They put holes in their money (how quaint!) so silly Americans say things like, Oh, this looks like a donut! I will spend this willy-nilly.  Look at me, I am well-traveled! Did you know ketchup packets and butter pats cost extra?  Hooray, I get to use my octagon coin! 

I know this because every time I used a donut coin I felt validated as a human being who has experienced other cultures.  It's a brilliant scheme. 

But then! They have secret trampolines along the coast that you can just fall onto if you aren't paying attention, and it's not uncommon to accidentally wander into a palace or a fortress shaped like a star.  And they have a land with zero rules and red wagons full of puppies that are NOT being made into fancy clothes for rich ladies, and there are so many drugs and skate parks and brilliant graffiti murals, and you can buy beers for fifty cents.

But thar be monsters, and some of those monsters are scary orange meth-heads from Thailand who wink and raise their eyebrows at MoLinder, who is 5'10" and a curvy, brickhouse nightmare.  Gyna is also a curvy brickhouse nightmare, but she wasn't there.  Honestly, now that I think about it: we all have giant boobs. We could rest trophy collections on them, or encyclopedias.  Plus, we've read encyclopedias.  We are walking library shelves.  The reference section.

(I've used my backspace key soooooooooooo many times)

"You are like mountain," the meth-head said to MoLinder, hourglassing his hands.  He moved and wiggled like an amateur surfer, but since the ground was flat it was obvious he just had serious gravity problems. The open sores on his face pulsed.

I laughed and MoLinder ignored him.  His friend dropped a boombox and hit play. "You dance?  Me?" 

"No thank you," MoLinder said, then ignored him properly.

I didn't.  "You look like you're trying to balance on a rickety bus."

"Ah?" He smiled at me, gray-toothed and wobbly.  "Dance?  You dance?  You think I funny?"

"No dance.  Yes funny," I laughed again, and sipped my Christiania beer.

"He is a zombie," Katsisch whispered loudly, and a stray dog peed on my Pumas.

...