Finally! The Honeymoon Story!!

The day after the wedding I was hung over – with happiness, that is!! Still giddy from the wedding day hoopla, we cracked open a bottle of champagne, met the fam for brunch and in no time at all, arrived at the airport – ready for our honeymoon!

Ecstatic to be boarding the plane to Copenhagen and not quite ready to give up my bridal day look, I wore a cute sundress, orchids in my hair and enough bobby pins to set off the metal detector. And, yes, I was subject to additional airport security screening.

After a 5 hour flight to the treeless country to Iceland, and another 2 hour flight to Denmark – we were finally there, we were on our honeymoon!! But first, we had to get to our hotel. Stepping out of the train station, we were welcomed with a cold rain. Armed with the directions to our hotel, we figured it was less than a block away and decided to make a run for it. Which, in theory, may have been fine, had we not “made a run for it” 4 blocks too far on the wrong side of the canal. Soaking wet and shivering cold, wilted flowers in my hair, I resembled something more like a walk of shame victim rather than a newlywed bride. Alas, we had arrived at our hotel. Now, keep in mind, when I use the word “hotel” I use the term loosely. Actually, it was a room inside of an apartment that a Danish woman and her son had rented out to us. We had heard the Danes were famous for their sense of making things cute and cozy – they even have a word for it: “huegily.” This place, however, was anything but. Dishes were piled high in the sink, a forgotten pot of baked beans sat on the stove next to a decaying fish carcass. Our room was okay, as long as you ignored the storage boxes and closet full-o-crap. Wanting to get the heck out of there, we decided to venture into town to enjoy the first dinner of our honeymoon. The cold, 20 minute walk led us to a little café in town. The nachos, ala Doritos with cheese, cost $30. Suffering from sticker shock, I wasn’t about to order the $20 tomato soup. A glass of wine? Yeah right. Sober, wet and cold, we took a cab back to the hotel, praying the next day would bring sunshine and a new attitude.
The next day we woke to a chilly October-like sunshine. Eager to get out and explore the city, we took turns showering in the cluttered bathroom- sans a shower curtain - and were off for the day. The first part of the day was okay, after a run to the tourist office and internet café, we grabbed a traditional Danish lunch of open-faced sandwiches and small glasses of Carlsberg beer. Never mind that the waiter thought he could play us “dumb” Americans and pretend the gratuity wasn’t included in the bill – which, it clearly was. That afternoon we went to Trivoli Gardens – a quaint, and pricy, amusement park. After one ride, we called it a day. We spent the rest of the afternoon aimlessly wandering, checking email at the internet café and walking in and out of the tourist office, hoping to find something to do, other than hang out at the 7-11 looking for cheap alternatives to dinner. It’s about now that I should mentioned that my shoulder had been itching. Noticing my back was itching as well, I asked Kirk to take a gander. Sure enough, my back looked as though it had been attacked by a flurry of mosquitoes – except it wasn’t mosquitoes – it was bed bugs! I was disgusted and ready to be done with Copenhagen. It was getting too late to find another place to stay, so Kirk convinced me to stay a final night and promised we could leave first thing in the morning. That night I slept on top of the covers, wearing long sleeves and sweat pants. So much for a romantical honeymoon.


Leaving Copenhagen 3 days early, the next day we woke up, went to the dirty, dirty train station and got the hell out of there. 5 hours later we arrived at Aero Island, a small island off the coast of Denmark. Now, let me back up just a moment. I’ve wanted to go to Aero for several years, ever since I saw it featured on an episode of Rick Steves. Admittedly, Aero was a bit of the motivation for going to Denmark in the first place. As the ferry approached Aero, I was nervous. It was cloudy, cold and dark – some of the fishermen were even wearing snow suits. Stepping foot onto Aero soil, it was a wee bit different than I had imagined. First off, I pictured a sprinkling of quant towns we could ride our bikes to and fro - carefree, with the wind blowing in our hair. That wasn’t so much the case. The island was freakin huge – and we just happened to be staying in the middle of nowhere. A windy, 45 minute bus ride later, we finally arrived at the Graasten Farm Inn. Home sweet home. Our host, Julie, though I thought she looked more like a Henrietta, was a bit of an odd soul. A British woman that married a Dane, she sure was chatty. But not in a friendly, ‘let’s be friends’ sort of way, it was more of a ‘I want to complain but my husband tuned me out years ago’ sort of way. Like a hen that ruled the roost, she would gyrate her neck and cluck – at least in my imagination. She showed us our room, and proudly pointed out that many-a-births had happened right in that very room. “It’s a very famous room.” She assured us. I just hoped the sheets were clean. When I asked what the mysterious door in the living room led to, she said in a stony voice “that’s my son’s room.” Creeped out, I pictured her son dead, murdered in an unsolved crime, eager to torment us in the dark of the night. Looking at each other sideways, Kirk and I had only one thought – how fast can we get off this island? Having nothing better to do, we decided to make the journey with our host mum to the market. On the way, she told tales of her childhood growing up in London, “near Heathrow airport,” complained about Aero drivers and how she “nearly jumped out of her chair” she was so excited when she found the keys she had lost the week before. She was even kind enough to give us a little lesson on Solar Energy. Not convinced we had ever heard of it, “Solar, have you ever heard of it?” she drove us out to the Solar Plant, “worlds largest, do you believe it?” That night we plotted how we could get off the island and salvage what was left of our honeymoon. If this is starting to sound like a bad reality show, you’re right – maybe I should write FOX. That night, we downed a bottle or two of wine and decided that the next day, rain or shine, we we’re going to get on the bikes we rented from Henrietta, the bikes she’d been emailing Kirk about for a good month before we arrived, and head straight to the tourist office.
The next morning we awoke to an unexpected surprise. Sunshine. Huh, maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all. Then I spotted the breakfast tray – right where Henrietta said it would be – sitting in the living room, on a table outside of her son’s room. There’s just something unsettling about someone sneaking into your room - while you’re sleeping - and sending in food from a mystery passageway – in this case, ghost-son’s room. For a minute there I was convinced she poisoned the food – hey, I saw “Flower’s in the Attic,” I know how these things work! Stepping into the sunshine, Henrietta was there to greet us with the bikes - we were ready to make the trek into town. It wasn’t a super busy road – but it’s a narrow road without a shoulder. Henrietta was right – Aero drivers have little mercy. All limbs intact, we reached our destination, the computer kiosk at the tourist office. First stop, Travelocity.com. We typed in every destination we could think of – Athens, Barcelona, Paris, Nice, and Rome – anywhere sounded good. To our shock, surprise and pleasure, the Travelocity gods came back with a decent price flight to Nice, France. It was our ticket out. Pleading with Kirk to book the flight, he too knew that staying at Funny Farm Inn for another 5 days would put us both over the edge. We were ready to book a lovely trip to the French Riviera: BONJOUR! Then something interesting happened. The price magically jumped up another couple hundred dollars - just enough to make it unjustifiable. Petrified at the thought of being stuck for another 5 days, we decided to try once more. This time, we added Milan, Italy, to our search. The Travelocity trip gods shined upon us once again. Without a moment’s hesitation, we booked the flight to Milan. Here’s the catch, the flight was departing out of Copenhagen at nine o’clock the next morning. Being a good 4 or 5 hours outside of Copenhagen, on an island nonetheless – we had to haul you know what back to the Inn, explain to Henrietta that we were leaving, catch a Ferry back to the mainland and a train back to Copenhagen. Once there, we would have to find a room and get to the airport early the next day. That was the plan, at least. I started to feel a bit guilty about leaving Aero so quickly. Here is this place that I’ve wanted to travel to for years, and I was leaving a mere 24 hours after arriving. We decided to take an hour or two and simply enjoy Aero. We picnicked along the sea, perched upon the deserted balcony of a miniature summer cabin. After that, we rode our bikes to the oldest part of town where cobblestone lanes were peppered with tiny houses, each equipped with little spy mirrors. It was hysterical. Imagine a rearview mirror outside of your front window - positioned so you could get a good look at whoever was walking down the street – from the comfort of your own couch. Elderly people would sit in their living rooms and people watch. In our guidebook, I read that it wasn’t impolite to look in the windows and wave at the people inside. It felt a bit strange at first, but it was fun to walk up to a stranger’s home and wave at them. In return, you would usually get a smile and a wave back. One lady even opened her front door. I think she would have invited us in, but quickly realized we didn’t speak Danish. Now, back to the task at hand - get back to the Inn, grab our stuff and catch the bus back to town for the 4pm ferry. To our delight, Henrietta and Axel, her Danish hubby, were gone when we arrived. Perfect, we could pack up and go and wouldn’t have to make up some excuse as to why we were ditching out 5 days early – even though we had already paid in full, so what would she care? Feeling a little guilty for running off, Kirk wrote a short note, thanking her for her hospitality and slipped it into her mailbox. Armed with our bags, and me with a plastic cup full of wine (I could hardly let the remainder of wine go to waste, now could I?), we made our way to the end of the driveway – the bus usually came by about once an hour – and according to Kirk’s calculation, the bus was scheduled to come in about 10 minutes. Yes, we were home free!! That’s when it happened. In the distance, we spotted a car, drawing closer and closer. No, it couldn’t be, could it? Sure enough, the car was getting closer. As the car slowed, on went the blinker as it slowly turned the dreaded corner – right into her driveway! It was her! SHE WAS HOME!! Oh crap – what would we say, what were we going to do? Any minute now she was going to find the note in the box. Yikes, the moment of truth was upon us. Axel at the wheel and she in the passenger seat, she motioned to him to stop the car. I imagine she said something like this: “What in the Sam hell is this?! Axel, stop the car at once! What are those lousy kids up to?!” Her eyes as big as saucers at the sight of us, the car came to a stop. “Leave your bags,” she clucked, “leave your bags!” I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. Instead, Kirk spoke up. Given the fact that he had just left a note, you would think that he would’ve repeated, albeit, not quite as eloquently, that we enjoyed our stay but had a slight change of plans. But that’s not exactly what he said. Instead he gave her some cockamamie excuse about heading to town to do laundry, hence the bags. Apparently, she bought it and they continued on, straight for the mailbox!! At the same time, Kirk and I looked at each other and yelled, “RUN!!” Luggage, spilling wine and all – we ran, and ran, and ran!! Just waiting for her to turn around and scold us, I was prepared to dive head-first into the ditch at any moment. Kirk kept repeating, “Where’s that g-damn bus?!” “Where’s that g-damn bus?!” That’s when I decided it would be a good idea to hitchhike. A friendly man pulled over but couldn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about. He assured us, in choppy, yet polite English, that the bus would be by in no time at all. He didn’t understand. Mama bear was mad and there was no telling what would become of us if she drove back and found us. When we first spotted the bus it was like a mirage – I could practically hear the movie soundtrack playing, in slow motion, “Hallelujah, Hall…elu…jah, Hall…elu...jah, Hall…elu…jah!” Just as the rain came pouring down, in typical Denmark fashion, we we’re on the Ferry headed back to the mainland! At this point, what could possibly go wrong?
Never mind the fact that we missed the first train back to Copenhagen and were stranded in Odense longer than planned. Pulling into the familiar train station in Copenhagen sometime after 10 PM, I was eager to get off the hot, crowded train and settle in for the night. Not surprisingly, it was pouring rain in Copenhagen. This time, however, the rain wasn’t a mere inconvenience – it was downright frightening. Typhoon-like winds howled as street lights swayed and threatened to fall at any moment. Soaking wet, we crawled from one hotel to another like desperate vagrants, begging, pleading for a room. To our dismay, we learned it was Fashion Week in Copenhagen. The nearest available room was in Sweden. I’m not kidding. I knew we were in trouble when Kirk turned to me and said we have two options: we can either sleep at the airport or in the train station. Gee, both sounded so romantic. We opted to kill as much time as we could around the city before making our way to the depression that is the airport in the middle of the night. Sensing our frustration, the rain at least settled to a mere cats and dogs status. We managed to entertain ourselves at our favorite hotspot, the Internet Café, until about 1am. Wanting to make one final stop before heading to the airport, we decided to stop into one of the 6,000 7-11’s, conveniently located on every street corner in Copenhagen. One minor problem, I hadn’t yet finished my “dinner” – a hotdog that I had purchased from a street vendor. Right as we we’re walking into the 7-11 I joked that I would get thrown out of the store for bringing in outside food. Sure enough, the moment I stepped inside the store, the clerk yelled at me to “Take my hotdog and get out of here.” So there I was, standing under an awning at 1 o’clock in the morning, in the pouring rain, eating a hotdog. It was official; I had just been booted from the 7-11 – ON MY HONEYMOON!
At this point, you’re thinking, it can’t get any worse. Well, what if I told you a Swedish girl picked a fight with me on the train to the airport? Yep. Good thing Kirk was there – I was Honeymoonzilla and ready to clock her. She had the nerve to “shussh” me on the train and told me to chill out. At that point, I wasn’t one to be messed with. Soon enough we had arrived at the airport. Next thing I knew, I was sound asleep, or as sound asleep as you can get on an airport floor. We “woke up,” at 5 am – still four hours early for our flight. I noticed another flight on a different airline was departing for Milan at 7am – how perfect would that be if we could get on that flight? Plus, it was a direct flight, unlike the one we booked. Now, considering our luck up until this point, we knew it would be a long shot to not only get on an earlier flight, but to get on a completely different airline! Well, dang it, it’s not like I had anything better to do than to stand in one customer service line after another until finally, a saint from Scandinavian Air was able to pull a few strings and get us on the direct flight to Milan – two hours early!! Yes, things were finally looking up for us. Scoring the best seats on the plane, I felt like I was in a commercial for an airline. The attendants smiled, but weren’t cheesy, the airplane was sleek and clean, and we even made a friend. Our attendant was a guy from New Zealand. Downplaying how bad the first 4 days of our honeymoon had been, it must have sounded bad enough, as he treated us to a complimentary bottle of champagne and two keepsake Scandinavian champagne glasses. Cheers! In no time at all, we had arrived in Milan, Italy. Eager to get out of the city – we headed to a small town along Lake Como, Varenna. Across the bay was the famed town of Bellagio. And no, we didn’t see George Clooney.
Okay, that was a lot of absorb – the last two lags of the trip deserve their own post. But that was the “story” of the honeymoon. Much more to come, but, um, don’t expect to see any pictures. My beloved husband just had to dicker with the camera and ended up deleting all the pictures from the honeymoon. UGH! But I’ll rant about that later.
Since the honeymoon, actually even during the honeymoon, we’ve been able to laugh at our adventures. After all, it would have been very un-Jayme and Kirk-like to have an unadventurous honeymoon. It seems all our trips have at least one death scare. Until the post on Italy – and it was amazing, I’ll leave you with this: someone said something to me that I thought was interesting. They encouraged me to let our honeymoon serve as a metaphor for our marriage – when things aren’t going as planned, don’t be afraid to course correct and “go to Italy,” so-to-speak. Not a bad lesson to learn on a honeymoon.