I arrived in Copenhagen one cold December morning with the equivalent of a dollar to my name. After working on a Norwegian freighter for several months, I signed off in Alicante, Spain and made my way north stopping here and there along the way, spent a week or so in Paris living in a small room on the Left Bank where many of my favorite expatriate writers lived, walked the streets, sat in cafes then made my way to Denmark where I somehow managed to live for several months.
My journey began in Brooklyn where I signed on as a galley boy. I had twenty dollars left after waiting for a ship that would take me to Europe. I had dropped out of college in my freshman year determined to be a writer and knew that to get a real education I had to experience life, be “out there” and not in the safety of the ivory tower. I wanted to be Odysseus lost at sea facing the unknown with his mind and open heart. I wanted to see, feel, taste, smell as much as I could, to meet people, hear their stories, bump into the nitty gritty, know in my gut what I could not learn in books and believe me, I did.
My plan was to get off the ship in Lisbon, but two days out at sea learned that Portugal was cancelled and the first port would be Beirut, Lebanon. I thought, perhaps, I could sign off there and find a ship back to Europe but decided to stay aboard, earn some money, see the Middle East. It was extremely hot, often a hundred and ten degrees and hotter in the galley where I peeled sixty pounds of potatoes every morning, scrubbed pots and pans, scrubbed the floor after each meal and did all the dirty work, but I was glad I stayed on board.
Stopping in ports in Egypt, Arabia, Yemen, Kuwait then up the Tigris River, almost to Baghdad, seeing the date fields of Iran on one side and palm trees of Iraq on the other, walking the dirt streets of Basra and many other backwater towns. Seeing people throwing out their nets to fish, watching the brown skinned dock workers loading and unloading the ship. Watching them on their knees facing Mecca to pray, handing me their tin cans with tea to get hot water, my mind taking snapshots of a way of life that hadn’t changed in two thousand years. Karachi, Pakistan was the last port before heading back to the Mediterranean. Signing off in Spain ended that part of my journey and eventually brought me to Copenhagen where I met Inge, a beautiful blonde woman I will never forget.
One of the things I had learned while traveling is how important it is to find a café or bar I liked and keep going there day after day and gradually becoming known. I had hoped to find a job, but first I needed a place to live. I went to a realtor to ask if there were rooms available I could rent, explained my financial situation and that I would be getting a job. Fortunately, I was able to get a room in the home of an elderly woman. She took me in with the understanding I would eventually pay her once I got a job, but then found out a visitor had to prove that he had several hundred dollars in order to be allowed to stay in the country and be eligible for working papers. I couldn’t do that because all I had was a dollar and there I was stuck, not sure what I would do.
What I did, however, might appear foolish. I went to a really fancy restaurant and had a delicious steak dinner with a glass of wine. In those days, food was very inexpensive. I figured if I am going to be broke, I might as well go out with a bang and not a whimper, so I had my delicious dinner and then faced the harsh reality I was completely broke. My landlady was kind and gave me a tiny room and each morning brought me coffee, toast and jam. She often brought me tea and a snack in the evening. I had a little desk and I wrote every morning and evening, but during the day would go to the café I enjoyed, gradually got to know a lot of other travelers and had many stimulating conversations. I was never without a cup of coffee or something to eat because of the generosity of so many people. Even the waitresses got to know me and often dropped me half a sandwich or something tasty.
Many times, I was cold and hungry and would go to the café to see if anyone I knew was there. When there wasn’t a familiar face, I would stand, look around and see someone finishing a meal, leaving some food on their plate. I would go to the vacated table and finish what was left before the bus person or waitress cleared the table, sometimes a few French fries, a crust of bread, a remnant of a salad. It was awkward, but I would do it as casually and as inconspicuously as possible, hoping no one would notice and usually no one paid any attention, except one night when I noticed a young blonde woman sitting at a nearby table watching me with a smile on her lips. Our eyes met as I was putting a piece of bread with a little gravy into my mouth and was caught, red handed, as they say. Rather than try to hide what I was doing, I smiled, shrugged my shoulders and was surprised when she left her table with her cup of coffee and joined me.
“I hope you don’t mind if I join you,” she said, smiling into my eyes then looked down at the now empty plate. I was struck by her deep blue eyes but I couldn’t help notice her slender body, her grapefruit sized breasts in the tight sweater, her snug jeans and the way her long straight blonde hair fell well below her shoulders.
“No, I don’t mind,” I said, embarrassed, “though I admit, it’s not the best way to meet someone.”
“Well, I liked watching you eat,” she said. “l never saw anyone do what you did.”
“It’s not my favorite thing to do, but I was hungry and broke.”
“So you’ve done this before,” she said, an amused look on her face.
“Yes, it’s surprising what people leave. I could have gone for a few more French fries though.”
“I’m Inge,” she said, reaching across the table to shake my hand.
“Peter,” I responded, taking her hand, “Glad to meet you. Are you Danish?”
“Yes, I grew up on a dairy farm not far from here. I go to the university.”
“Oh yes, the university, I have eaten there. A student I know gave me some meal tickets. I lucked out because it was all you can eat,” I said.
“You did luck out,” she said, then sat back. “I’m curious. You look interesting. I can see you’re American, but why are you here. Don’t Americans have a lot of money?”
“Some do, but most people struggle to get by. You probably know America from Hollywood movies. Believe me it’s not really like that.”
“I love American movies and also your music,” she said. “I’m a musician but I play the cello. My music is very different from rock and roll, but I love Elvis and Buddy Holly and actually sometimes, play along with the records I have.”
“You play rock and roll on your cello,” I said, surprised.
“Yes, I like letting go and just get into the rhythm, its fun, but very different than the music I play with the string quartet I’m in or the university orchestra.”
She glanced down at the book I had been carrying and placed on the table while I was sneaking the food. “Nietzsche,” she said, nodding.
I glanced down at the Portable Nietzsche, a collection of all his writings, a book I had picked up on one of the docks somewhere. Often men had tables with books that I was able to trade for a pair of socks or underwear. I ended up with a suitcase full of books and very little clothes.
“Yes, I’ve was just reading his “Birth of Tragedy,” I said, then opened to the page I had been reading earlier, “Listen to this,” I said, then read to her, “Truth is whatever is life-affirming; false is whatever denies or impedes growth.”
“Interesting,” she said. “I didn’t expect to be getting a philosophy lesson when I saw you sneaking food, but I like that.”
“Well, I didn’t expect to be caught and have you join me, so we’re even,” I said, our eyes meeting.
“So, what’s your story,” she asked. She spoke perfect English but I could detect her accent and found it appealing.
“I’ll tell you mine, if you tell me yours. You seem like an interesting person, coming over after catching me eating someone else’s food and you play rock and roll on your cello.”
“Okay, but let me buy you a meal and we can chat,” she said. “You look like a hungry man,” she added, somewhat coyly and I sensed something was going on between us. I couldn’t stop looking at her deep blue eyes, the way they sparkled and though I tried, I couldn’t help glancing at the way her breasts strained her sweater.
Thank you, I am a hungry man,” I said, smiling, our eyes meeting, nodding.
She called the waitress over while I glanced up at the blackboard listing the food and knew I wanted more French fries and added a hot roast beef with gravy while Inge ordered a Greek salad with feta cheese.”
While we were waiting, she told me she was a vegetarian.
“I tried being a vegetarian but didn’t make it. I like a good steak once in a while.”
“To each, his own,” she said then added, “I grew up on a farm and we ate meat, but when I was a teen decided I didn’t like the idea of eating an animal.”
“I understand,” I said, “but maybe you can answer a question.”
“What,” she asked, sipping her coffee, looking at me over the rim of her mug.
“Well, I know that people who eat only vegetables are called vegetarians, but I can’t figure out why cannibals, who eat humans, are not called humanitarians.”
She laughed and almost spat the coffee out of her mouth when I said that, “Good question,” she said, picking up a napkin to wipe her lips.
When our food came, I thanked her and we both began eating, talking and our conversation flowed.
She asked me my plans, how long I planned to be in Copenhagen. I told her I was leaving tomorrow. My brother was getting married in a few weeks and I was going to go down to Hamburg to see if I could hop a freighter back home.
“Oh, so this is your last night here,” she said, and I could see she was thinking, but then she started telling me about growing up on the farm, how she loved taking care of the chickens and they grew most of their own food, how she went to the university where not only the tuition is paid, but she is given a small apartment and a stipend, so she doesn’t need to work.
“Wow, that’s so cool. I didn’t know that. That’s not the way it is back home,” I said then added, “It should be.”
“Well, we pay high taxes but then everyone benefits,” she said. “No medical bills, financial help if you are injured, free college and a lot more.”
“Sounds like a win, win situation,” I said. “I like that.”
She then told me how she just broke up with a man she thought she would marry, told me how he broke her heart. We talked for over an hour, sharing thoughts and feelings, opening up and saying things to each other strangers usually don’t share. We talked about love, relationships, dreams, what we loved, what we disliked, our passions, our longings. Somehow, our conversation became intimate, touching each other. I was fascinated by her and I could tell we were enjoying each other and before long we were the only ones left in the café.
She looked around the empty café, “It looks like we have to leave,” she said then looked at me. “Listen, if you promise you will behave, I might invite you to my apartment for dessert. I baked an apple pie this morning. ”
“I would love dessert and promise I will be a good boy,” I said.
“Yes, I love to bake and I would love to give you a treat on your last night in Copenhagen, but don’t get the wrong idea. It’s just apple pie and if you’re really a good boy, some delicious coffee.
“I promise, scouts honor,” I said, putting up three fingers. “I will be a good boy.”
“Good, I can tell by the way you ate your meal, that you have a big appetite so it will be nice to give you a delicious dessert,” she said, smiling into my eyes. “Let’s go.”
After we left the café, we took a walk through the park. It was winter and we passed a large pond with lots of people ice skating then we took the bus to her apartment. On the bus, she sat next to me. We were quiet, but our thighs and arms were touching as we sat next to each other. A few times we glanced at each other, smiling, enjoying the feeling we didn’t have to have a constant conversation, but I could feel the warmth of her body. I couldn’t believe my good luck, having this beautiful woman treating me to dinner then inviting me to her apartment for dessert, especially after how she caught me sneaking food.
When we arrived at her apartment, she led me up a flight of stairs and I could not help but watch the sway of her hips and her ass in the tight jeans. She turned to look at me and smiled, knowing where I was looking but didn’t say anything. I followed her down the hall, noticing the green carpet, the warm color of the beige paint, the paintings on the wall, how clean and modern everything looked.
Her apartment was at the end of the hall and when we entered, I was impressed with how nicely decorated it was. She took my well stained rain coat and put it in the closet along with her down vest then went into the kitchen while I walked around the small studio apartment, noticing the cello leaning against the wall, a music stand, a pile of music scores on the floor, a comfortable looking couch, a rocking chair, a small neatly made bed, a round dining table and then went to look at the photographs on the wall, seeing a picture of her farm, another with two people I assumed were her parents and a photograph of Inge when she was probably fifteen or sixteen and thought she hasn’t really changed that much, just older.
I heard her humming and went into the tiny kitchen and saw the pie on the counter while she was making coffee.
“That pie looks delicious,” I said.
She took two coffee mugs from the cabinet and turned to me, “I think you will like the service here,” she said, handing me a mug of coffee then went over to slice the pie. “Go, sit and I will bring you the pie.
When I sat down, I took a sip of the coffee and noticed it tasted delicious but unusual. She came and sat down next to me, handed me a large slice of pie, “Here you are, hungry man,” she said, smiling at me.
“This coffee is delicious but it has an unusual taste,” I said, taking another sip.
“Cinnamon, I always put cinnamon in my coffee, I’m glad you like it,” she said then leaning forward, looked into my eyes, “I like you. I’ve enjoyed myself getting to know you.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad you caught me sneaking food earlier.”
“I am too,” she said.
Just as I finished my slice of pie, I glanced over at her cello. “The cello is one of my favorite instruments.” I said. “I love the sound. Sometimes it sounds like a wise old man speaking to me.”
“Would you like to hear me play something for you, even though I am not a wise old man?”
“I’d love that and you’re right, you certainly don’t look like a wise old man.”
“Oh, and what do I look like,” she said, standing up, shifting one hip to the side, putting her hand on the back of her head, posing like a sexy model.
“You don’t want to know what I think,” I answered, feeling she was teasing me. “I’m supposed to be a good boy, aren’t I?
“I didn’t say I would be a good girl, did I?” she said, with a little smirk then walked over to her cello, picked it, along with her bow and sat down with the shiny brown instrument between her knees. She glanced at me, smiled, “This is my favorite Bach Partita,” she said then closed her eyes as began to play.
I was fascinated watching her play, her bow moving vigorously, her fingers moving quickly and smoothly up and down the strings, the deep mellow sounds filling the room, the rapid notes, her brows creased in concentration, her long blonde hair flailing as she moved her head from side to side, then leaned over the cello, moving her ears closer to the strings and her fingers, listening to the delicate passage then sitting back, her head looking up at the ceiling, her eyes closed, her whole body swaying and I could feel her intense energy radiating, warming me, drawing me into the music. She opened her eyes as she played a slow passage and looked into my eyes, and bit her lower lip, as if she was speaking to me with the soft, delicate notes and I felt I was hearing love in the music. I could not take my eyes from her eyes before she closed them again and returned to the rapid vigorous playing, the intensity building and suddenly finished, the bow still on the strings, her eyes closed before taking a deep breath, opening her eyes and again we looked at each other.
We were both silent. I was mesmerized by what I had heard and then she lay the cello on the floor, the bow on top and came to me and without a word straddled my legs and put her arms around my shoulders and looking into my eyes, we kissed, first gently then deeply as if this was inevitable, as if the whole evening of conversation, walking through the park, sharing our stories, our lives, our coming together in the most unexpected way in the café and at the same time, so right, so real, so destined, the music transcending words taking us to this moment of wanting each other more than anything in the world.
Our passionate kissing grew, our tongues swirling, our bodies moving against each other, my hardness pressed against her, our need growing until we were tearing each others clothes off, tossing them before falling onto to her bed, our bodies rolling over each other, her hands on my ass, pulling me into her then pushing me onto my back, filling herself with my throbbing cock, rising and falling harder, her hands on her tits, her hair flailing, her screams echoing in the small room before I rolled her onto her back and entered her with hard thrusts, moving faster and harder, my fingers entwined in her fingers, her hands above her head, both of us getting closer and closer to exploding in exquisite overwhelming orgasms, writhing in ecstasy, until I collapsed on her panting body, our wetness overflowing, both of us gasping, her strong arms and legs embracing me and I prayed the moment would never end, but it did.
Neither of us wanted to budge as we held onto the afterglow, loving the silent shadows of the dimly lighted room, wanting to ignore the awareness I would be leaving in the morning, but for the moment we were sharing what we knew was a time we would never forget.
When I left at dawn, Inge gave me money for the train I would take to Hamburg to begin my journey home. It was so hard to leave and for a long time, I wrestled with my desire to stay with her but knew I couldn’t. She made me coffee and we sat holding hands, not knowing what to say, feeling we had given each other the best of ourselves, both of us sitting at the table with tears in our eyes, reluctant to say goodbye, both of us knowing we would never see each other again.
Walking back towards town, not wanting to take the bus, I went back to the café for another cup of coffee before heading to the train station. I sat at the same table where we met the night before, remembering how she joined me and how we laughed and shared our lives. That night was long ago, a night I have treasured and still, when I think of what happened when I was caught eating the remnants of another person’s meal, I marvel at what gifts come to us when we least expect it.
