Dani leaned over while we rode the train yesterday.
The light shifted across my book.
“What are you reading?”
“Some Norwegian guy.”
“Well, that narrows it down.”
I turned it so she could see the cover.
A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks.
“In it, there’s this town called Jante. He made up these rules.”
“What kind of rules?”
I looked back at the page.
“Basically, don’t think you’re special.”
She waited.
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
I found the passage again.
“Don’t think you’re better than us. Don’t think you know more than us. Don’t think we care what you think.”
Dani looked out the train window.
“Sounds friendly.”
I laughed and looked out the window.
The train passed a row of houses, each one looking almost exactly like the one beside it.
~
“The king could spy on his guests through the eyes of portraits,” our guide said.
I stepped closer to the painting.
Tiny holes pierced the canvas where the pupils should have been.
Dani leaned toward me and whispered.
“That’s creepy.”
Our guide continued.
“Just wait until you see the bedroom.”
We followed her into the next room.
She pointed toward a mirrored ceiling.
“The secret escape route is through the dresser.”
I looked at the dresser. If didn’t look special.
“Through that?”
She nodded.
We moved into the parlor, walking beneath a lenticular painting.
The figure’s expression shifted as we crossed the room.
Its eyes appeared to follow us.
“And this was one of King Christian IV’s favorite jokes.”
The chair looked ordinary enough. Carved oak. Velvet cushion. The sort of chair you might expect to find in a royal palace.
The guide lifted a panel and explained what was hidden inside.
A water reservoir could be filled and arranged to leak onto the seat of an unsuspecting guest. When the victim finally stood up, embarrassed and looking for the source of the water, concealed bellows produced a loud farting noise.
Four centuries later, our guide still paused for the laughter though the king was nowhere around to see.
Outside, Rosenborg looked exactly like the Renaissance castle I had expected.
Stone towers rose above manicured gardens. Carriage houses lined the grounds. Everything was proper and orderly, fit for a king who had ruled Denmark and Norway.
Inside, the king seemed considerably less interested in behaving like one.
Christian IV had fought wars, founded cities, and ruled for decades from a throne made from what was said to be unicorn horn.
He also apparently liked fart jokes.
The tour continued. The king’s eyes following through the paintings.
We saw earrings made from fragments of the cannonball that had blinded him in one eye.
Then we entered the treasury. The room was small and close, the artifacts in it from below.
Behind glass sat a ring depicting a woman’s hand gripping a jewel-encrusted phallus.
“A gift for his wife,” the guide said, “after he discovered she’d had an affair.”
I stared at it.
“Wait. She had an affair?”
The guide nodded.
I looked back toward the castle.
“What about him? The mirrored ceiling. The escape route. The farting chair.”
She shrugged.
“Clearly a joke.”
Then she smiled.
“But that’s the king for you.”
~
Outside, we crossed the road to Saint Alban’s Church.
Behind it, a woman stood behind four enormous oxen, driving them forward. Their hooves churned the water below.
Gefjun’s Fountain.
The story went that a Swedish king had once promised a beggar woman as much land as four oxen could plow in a single night.
The woman was Gefjun, a Danish goddess in disguise. She summoned her four half-giant sons, turned them into oxen, and set them to work.
By morning, they had plowed so deeply that an entire piece of land had broken away. It became Sealand. The hole left behind filled with water and became Lake Vänern in Sweden.
The king had offered his land freely. Gefjun had taken rather more than he intended.
Her name meant “Generous One.”
I shook my head and looked back at the statue.
The oxen were still pulling.
We moved across a bridge.
Three yellow circles marked the red flag above the entrance. Next to them, red signs with cameras crossed out appeared on the walls.
I unzipped my bag and put my camera away.
Buildings leaned into one another. Some were covered in graffiti. Others looked as though someone had started repairing them and stopped halfway through.
“What is this place again?”
Dani smiled.
“Christiania. It’s almost like an independent nation within Denmark. No police. No laws, really—except murder.”
Looking around, people were living in whatever they had built for themselves. Nobody seemed to be waiting for them to become something else.
“I sure doesn’t look like the rest of Copenhagen.”
She shrugged.
We walked further in. The crowds thinned. The trails narrowed.
My stomach rumbled.
Just then, a restaurant appeared around the next corner. The doors were open—tables spilling across the walkway.
I read the sign.
“Vegan?”
Dani shrugged.
“Why not.”
We sat down and ordered.
The room was crowded enough that our table nearly touched the next one. Plates moved between the kitchen and the tables.
The menu had just three dishes. We both ordered the same.
Soon, two bowls of potatoes, leeks, and white beans were set at our table beside a loaf of brown bread.
When the bill came, I reached into my wallet.
Purple notes.
I pulled them out and handed them to the waiter.
“These are Swedish.”
He laughed.
“This is Denmark. That money is no good here.”
I checked my wallet again.
Nothing.
My head sagged.
“Sorry. I don’t have enough.”
He looked at the bills.
Then at me.
“It’s okay.”
I started to explain.
He waved me off.
“Return the favor down the road.”
Then returned to the kitchen.
I looked across the table at Dani.
“Jante.”
She smiled.
“Your Norwegian guy?”
“Yeah.”
I looked toward the waiter.
He was already carrying another plate to a different table.
“Except he just told me to be useful.”
Dani set down her spoon.
“Maybe that’s the point.”
Then we stepped back into Christiania.
The paths were dark now. The buildings disappearing into the trees.