Malmo, on the southern tip of Sweden, was as far north as I wanted to go. I contemplated taking a look over there in Norway, a couple hours’ drive to Oslo from here, but felt that was stretching time a little thin. So instead I headed back into Copenhagen to visit a museum but had the bad luck that it was a national holiday and so everything was closed. Not that it stopped me or many other tourists from walking around in the stiff cold breeze, snapping pictures of the many statues and colorful buildings all around.
With this out of the way I made my way back across the way I came in to stop along the smaller of Denmark’s towns at a more leisurely place. On the radio the Danes chatted about unknown topics in their remote tongue, a more slurred but also more melodious version to German’s throaty staccato.
On the west coast I stopped midway across a bridge that connected it to an island several miles out to sea to dip my feet into the North Sea because, you know, I thought that would be a good test of manhood or something only to let out a very girly scream. It’s okay though, my feet recovered fully later that afternoon.
Meandering through the countryside within a few more hours I found my resting place for the night just over the border back into Germany where I promptly had the usual for dinner and it was lights out in the car and time to cozy up inside my sleeping bag for the night.