Riley

Three words: “Two dollar falafel”.

... it had changed locations, from Washington St. to around the corner on Aborn St. I also changed atmosphere. It traded in its grungy chic for something more evocative of pre-revolutionary Havana. The sandwiches are still tasty, but I can’t imagine the Comandante would approve.

In a nod to Providence’s native son H.P. Lovecraft, the beer fridge bears the sign: “Ye Cold Ones”.

The first thing I did when I got to Copenhagen was to go to the tourist information office and ask if they had any information about Kierkegaard.

“Ah, Kierkegaard,” the clerk repeated, correcting my pronunciation. She headed over to some shelves, and to my delight began pulling off brochure after brochure. I was very pleased. But when she came back, I found her handing me a bundle of guides to the city’s cemeteries.

“Kierkegaard” (or “Kirkegård,” as it seems to be spelled these days) means “cemetery,” or literally, “churchyard.” Which really isn’t so inappropriate a moniker for the melancholy dane that I had in mind.

“Søren Kierkegaard,” I clarified.

She shook her head. “You’ll have to go to the library for that.”

Eventually I found a guide, an Irish expat, who took me to Søren’s grave. He was buried not too far from Regine. I left flowers on both of their graves.

I visited Assistens Kirkegård in 1997. I heard a rumor that Regine’s gravestone was stolen in 2000.

Located just down the way from the Chinatown MRT- and the restaurant of chef/bodybuilder/motivational speaker Alvin Koh (look for the pictures) - you’ll find a hand-lettered sign announcing the Roof Bar. It’s a long climb up a narrow staircase (the New Asia bar it ain’t) but before you’ve caught your breath, you’ll be enjoying a great open air view on the Singapore skyline and the streets of Chinatown below.

Let me tell you about the part I didn’t imagine: Rain. I stayed in Modena for most of a week, and made several attemps to visit Bologna. But every time I got on the train, it started raining. Which could explain one of the most conspicuous architectural features of the city: Miles and miles of arcades.

As a native son of Seattle I can hardly condemn Bologna for its raininess. But it did somewhat impede my attempts to get to know it. I’ll try again some day.

There’s not much to see in Sædding. The romanesque, towerless Sædding Kirke was the only central feature I noticed in the midst of farmland stretching to the horizon.

It’s in Sædding that Søren Kierkegaard’s father, Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard was born. In fact, the family took its surname from the fields that neighbor the church, and a small cemetery (another translation of “Kirkegård”) bears witness to others of that name—relatives, perhaps. (Søren and his father are buried in Assistens Kirkegård in Copenhagen.)

In 1840, Søren visited Sædding. There was, not uncharacteristically, a lot on his mind. His father had recently passed away, leaving him to question the family curse that Michael Pedersen Kierkegaard claimed to have bequeathed to his children. As a shepherd boy on the heath surrounding Sædding, the father had raised his fist and cursed God. This incident haunted him into adulthood, and as his seven children died one after another, he came to believe that he was being punished for his youthful impiety. At some point he confided to his two surviving sons that he would outlive them both, that neither would attain the age of Jesus at the time of the crucifixion.

With the curse at least half disproved, and having walked on his father’s native soil, 27-year old Søren returned to Copenhagen and promptly, unexpectedly, proposed to young Regine Olsen—a pivotal moment in his life.

There is, oddly enough, a model ship hanging from the ceiling of the church. It bears Regine’s name.

To get to Sædding, take bus 67 from Skjern, direction Rækker Mølle. I didn’t stay in the area, but there may be accomodations available in the hostel in Bundsbæk Mølle, a few miles to the west.

I’ll have to postpone this trip for another time.

Before I saw Graceland, I thought of Elvis as an oppressively central figure—a kind of sun god of the American Pantheon. And I always despised him for that. This, before I walked a mile in his shoes (or at least his former abode). In the trappings of his personal life, I found with astonishment considerable evidence of eccentricity and a fragmented personality, and I felt an entirely unexpected kinship for this fellow weirdo and lost soul.

I didn’t spend enough time in the “Chainsaw Sculpture Capital of the World” to inventory its merits. (Although I am given to understand that Chetwynd, 900 miles up the road, claims that title for itself.) That said, the Alcan highway is a must for any serious roadtripper, and if you’re coming from/headed to Washington State, you’ll pass through Hope.