When I arrived at O'Hare Airport, I had my main bag immediately checked and went straight for the international terminal lounge-it had been a while since I last traveled overseas-London, 2000 and that too was one heck of a time, but the difference with London and Denmark, I wasn’t going over to just hang out on my leisure---I had a job to do, promote a record, build a fan base and show Denmark what it is that I do best. As I went through the security detection system in the international terminal, a beep went off and I was asked to go through again. Turns out it was my fish hat-my lucky hat, hat that has scared off more people than is known to man, so I’ve heard. At least witnessed it on my cross country bus tour of 2002. I was asked to take it off. Why? It had buttons on it, which had metal on it, thereby it was a threat to potential passengers I would meet and/or flight crew. The TSA security guard sheepishly traded looks with me and muttered, “Go figure.” Only in Chicago, I thought.
I waited for what seemed like hours and the eventually, a call for plane boarding was announced and aboard I walked. The plane I flew to Denmark, was rather roomy. 3 seats across, lots of magazines and newspapers to read within the eight and a half hour flight and plenty of free meals and lots of good booze too-not that I drank, but I did receive a nice small bottle of wine during the flight that I tucked away in my backpack.
The plane of course was packed. And other than having a booklet of CDs and a portable CD player and maybe one or two good books to read, I felt I was set. Eight and a half hours was a mighty long time to be flying in the air. So, after the first hour of settling into the flight, I listened to music. Then read and wrote a little in my paper journal too. Slept off my excitement until at least 7 am, when the lights came back on and babies were being weaned by their mothers. It would be a long day, I was convinced of it. we’d already flown through two time zones, another few changes were coming along the way, that much I knew.
Even though physically it felt like I’d flown for more than 8 hours, I knew that it was considerably less due to all the time changes and besides, it was based on Danish time, not American. As breakfast was being served and the lot of us passengers were chowing down, Danish newspapers were being passed out. Not knowing a word of Danish at that point, I thought the best way to learn it was by reading a newspaper, writing the words down I seemed to like or wanted to know about and then perhaps asking Clean Boys or whomever I encountered later when I needed help pronouncing.
Out of the many newspapers being passed around, I decided to pick out Ekstra Bladet; not sure why, but I think it had all the appeal of a sleazy tabloid like the New York Post or Chicago Sun-Times. I began reading and lo and behold, I stumbled upon my first word: sneaglefart! I had no idea what the word meant and asked the guy next to me if he knew what the word meant. He sheepishly said he had no idea, since he was from Holland and didn’t speak Danish. He sure looked Danish to me, my first mistake in assuming that all Danish men looked alike (with the exception of Mulle). I continued to read and of course in the process I fell asleep, at least until we were close to landing.
At approximately 1.30 pm Copenhagen time (6: 30 am Chicago time), we landed! It took me at least half an hour to get my bag and then I had to get past immigrations and get my passport stamped. I was nervous at this juncture. All those what if questions began to formulate in my head. It was the moment of truth as I stood in line silently. One by one people went to the counter where the master passport stamper sat. Don't offer too much information my friends told me. They were right, as I watched one man, who was told to stand to the right of the booth. Kiss-of-death and most likely denial of entry for him.
Then it was my turn. I had all my bags with me, a bit overloaded and an armful of Danish newspapers tucked beneath my left armpit. I stepped forward. The man behind the booth in his thickest Danish accent, speaking English to me, gave me the once-over and asked, "Do you speak Danish?" "No," I told him. "Then why do you have all those Danish newspapers?" I was a little startled, but answered, "So I can read and digest the words." He looked up at me perplexed and studied me further. Then he smiled. "What are you in Denmark for?" "Vacation," I told him. He laughed, stamped my passport and waved me through. "Welcome to Denmark," he said.
I was in! Yay!
And that guy still standing to the right of the booth? He didn't look too happy as Danish custom agents began frisking him.
And now the adventure truly began...
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