20 years ago today - Day 150

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Wednesday, July 31st - Saeby to Orsted, 8059 km

It's a sunny morning as I leave my refugees camp in the Saeby school gymnasium. It could be a Sunday morning the streets are so quiet. I managed to reach a Servas host in the town of Orsted last night before going to the pub. He's a young farmer named Morgens Horning, which I think means 'morning hard-on' in Danish. He was a bit reluctant to host me because he is in the middle of a heavy work program, but he doesn't get many guests being in the countryside and I assured him I will be quite tired myself, having covered 125 km by this evening and a total of 500 km over the past four days.

The strained tendon in my left knee has improved over the past two days, which is especially notable today. It is calm and sunny with no hills anywhere on the route. It's like Holland without the dikes, and so far, without the winds. I will take it light and easy. I have told Morgens I will call him around 6pm when he returns to his house for dinner, so I will have plenty of time.

The road I am using is an unnumbered side road that follows the coast 46 km to the village of Hals. It is perfect cycling weather, warm but not hot, very little traffic, gentle breezes and landscapes. As pleasant as the scenery is, there is nothing extraordinary. There is only the hazy blue Kattegat, the strait between Sweden and Denmark, a thin strip of rocky beach, farm houses, dairy cows and fields of golden grass.

At Hals, there is small ferry every 20 minutes that crosses back and forth across a body of water that looks like an inlet. My map shows that it continues right across the country to the North Sea, passing through the city of Aalborg 20 km west of here. It seems that the land to the north of it that I have been cycling is actually a large island.



Beyond Hals, the road remains close to the shore, passing through a small nature preserve of forested dunes, fields and marches called Mulbjerje. Beyond the reserve, the road continues another 20 km until I turn west to the town of Hadsund to reach a bridge over the Mariager Fjord. From there I jog south and east on side roads to Mellempolde, which is more of a landmark than a village. From here, there is a small private ferry across the 300 m entrance to the Randers Fjord. It has no schedule. It just sits there until someone needs a ride.

An older fellow, formerly from New Zealand, runs the ferry. Being from the other side of the world, he takes his amusement from talking to his passengers and hearing their points of view. He has a wizened face, full of ironic humour, and rather wild silver hair that likes to dance with the breeze along the fjord. He asks me what I think of Denmark. It's gentle, I tell him, and he smiles.

It is only 10 km from the south side of Randers Fjord to Orsted. It is 5 pm when I arrive there, so I kill an hour writing my journal before phoning Morgens. When the time comes to call, Morgens gives me instructions on how to reach his farm. It is a low, ancient farmhouse with a thatched roof, almost Tudor is style. Morgens youthful appearance doesn't seem to fit. He is a pleasant-looking guy, almost 30, masculine in a casual way, his muscles naturally acquired through hard work instead of by pressing weights and taking steroids. He invites me and chats with me while his common-law wife Pia make our dinner.

He dispels my image of farmers as simple, slow-talking labourers, content in their slow rural lifestyle. He's the type of guy who constantly has projects on the go and who will look for more if his plate isn't full. Besides running his dairy and chicken farm, he sits on local planning boards and teaches courses in agriculture at a nearby university. His life is full, full, full and he comes across as skilled and knowledgeable about his work as any other PhD certified professional. I am impressed. He's single, but I presume that's because he hasn't allowed himself the time to date. He has to run off to some sort of meeting after dinner, leaving me here with Pia and his 4 year old boy Misha.

Pia is happy to relax once Morgens has left and the dinner dishes are soaking. She won’t let me do them. We now have our chance to talk. She is a warm, attractive woman, a long-haired blond with a slender, agile frame. We talk about Canada and her home in Odense, on an island south of here. She and Morgens were students in university studying agriculture when they met. Misha is a dark-haired boy, cute but very shy of me at first. That passes and soon he has claimed me as his official chair. Pia shoos him off in spite of my insistence that I don’t mind. She puts him to bed and I spend the rest of the evening reading Walt Whitman.


PHOTO 1: church in Saeby
PHOTO 2: a Danish chateau I pass
PHOTO 3: pastoral scenes abound
PHOTO 4: grain field
PHOTO 5: Mulbjerje hills
PHOTO 6: Mulbjerje beach
PHOTO 7: Morgen's historic farm home

20 years ago today – Day 149

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Tuesday, July 30th – Kristiansand to Saelby, Denmark, 7931 km

I am up early this morning, packing as quickly and quietly as I can so not disturb my four roommates. I leave before breakfast to check in at the ferry by 7:15 am. The passage across the Skagerrak between Kristiansand and the Danish landing point at Hirsalts, is much shorter than between Copenhagen and Oslo. It will the full morning. I make myself comfortable on the deck, hopefully for a pleasant ride.

I am seated beside an older fellow, perhaps in his early 50s, a Norwegian who notices my front pannier which I am using as a sachet, the one I keep with that contains my ID, my guides and journal. He asks about my trip. I tell him about my route so far and where I might be going, announcing that I am almost at the 8000 km mark. But he is more alarmed than impressed, not the typical reaction I get to my story. He shakes his head and warns me not to do too much. What do you mean by 'too much'? I ask, slightly offended by his comment. He just shakes his head again and repeats himself, staring pensively at the open water.

I am too irritated to pursue his point any further, and I walk away a minute later. The world is full of people quick to shoot others down for doing more than they would, as though we rock the boat of their limited world by trying to do something extraordinary. I want to dismiss him this way, which would be easy enough to do, but that doesn't seem to satisfy me. He seemed wise and thoughtful, not the type of conformist who thinks the pinnacle of life experience is a good football match. I have not considered the concept of doing "too much" up to now, that perhaps what I am doing is harming me in some way. That thought is unnerving, and offensive. I am wondering if he said that because I am as skinny as a rail, but I can't see that I am doing too much.

There's a bank of fog that diminishes the view of the Danish coast. I am talking with a handsome Dane named Sven on deck as we approach. When we land in Hirsalts we are in the thick of it. I disembark. It is a small town, even compared to Kristiansand, but because it is a customs entry point there are more services than a town this size would normally have. I go to the exchange office to take out some Danish money and visit the tourist information office to get maps of bike trails and a list of youth hostels. After I do some grocery shopping the fog has lifted.

I follow the road south from Hirsalts and turn east along Skanensvej, a small highway that parallels the coast of the north tip of Jutland. It is set back two to three kilometres from the shore, to the south of the dunes. I find the bike trails on the map I was given. They are mostly unpaved, but they make for peaceful, scenic riding free of traffic. I entertain this fantasy of sleeping on the beach tonight. I make several detours north to the white sand expanses in the hopes of finding a remote cove, perhaps even a nudist beach, but the beaches are accessed by cars and trucks that cruise along
the sand, affording no privacy to anyone. The dunes are nice and there might be hiding places in amongst them, but instead of abandoning my bike to check them out I return to the trails.

When I reach the east coast I stop in Albaek to phone the youth hostel in Saeby to make a reservation. With the southward change of direction the headwind disappears. I follow the highway now, not bike trails, but the traffic is light and the road surface smooth. I make excellent time. It is a blessing for my achy knee. Around me are fields and pastures and the occasional banks of power-generating windmills. It is all very pastoral and open, scarcely a rise anywhere large enough to call a hill. I glide through Frederikshavn, the largest town I have seen today, and onto Saeby, 12 km further south.

The youth hostel is in a small gymnasium in a local school. It is subdivided by temporary dividers into doorless, ceilingless cubicles with two bunk beds in each. My cubicle has no mattresses on the upper bunks so I only have one cellmate. His name is Martin, a 31-year old German architectural student. We joke about being residents of a refugee camp. After I shower up and change the two of us eat dinner at the hostel and go into town to share a couple beers.

There isn't much to Saeby. It is slightly more than a village and there isn't much of a commercial strip. The only pub in town is in a hotel. It is reminiscent of a British pub with its solid oak furniture.


Martin is a solid guy, but not heavy. If his lack of fashion sense and hair style doesn't flag him as straight, his obsession with women does. He doesn't stir up any sexual appeal for me. He talks about girls and sports. I don't have much to add, so I just nod in mock agreement. It's better than drinking alone.

While he is talking, I am thinking about the idea of cycling the length of Norway. I would not do it alone, but I've had great difficulty finding suitable gay cycling partners. I have this fantasy of doing it with a handsome straight friend who I gradually introduce to man love as we share a tent each night, but more realistically, I suppose it would end up being a situation like tonight, and I wouldn't be able to get aroused in his presence if he wanted me to.


PHOTO 1: Sven
PHOTO 2: roads near the beach, north coast
PHOTO 3: Danish horses
PHOTO 4: pastoral scenery
PHOTO 5: a quiet Saturday in Frederikshavn
PHOTO 6: Park Hotel, Saelby

20 years ago today - Day 148

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Monday, July 29th - Risor to Kristiansand, 7847 km

When I get up this morning I realize that I injured myself mildly on yesterday's long and strenuous ride from Larvik. A ligament or tendon on the inside of my left knee is paining me a bit when I turn the wrong way. It is nothing serious at the moment but it could be by tonight if I strain it any further. I have another arduous ride to get to Kristiansand, near the southern tip of the country, so that I can catch a ferry to the north coast of Denmark tomorrow. I shower, pack, indulge in the hostels 40 kroner super breakfast, make a sandwich for lunch and I'm on the road by 9:30.


The weather from Larvik has been quite cool and grey most of the time, but at least it has been dry. Sometimes this weather is better and sunny dry weather where sun burns and heat exhaustion become a threat. I follow the slightly longer, quieter and forested Rte 411 past lakes and inlets for a couple hours to get to Tvedestrand, then along a similar route 410 south to the town of Arendal. I manage a good pace, covering 41 km by noon.

Climbing up a long hill out of the neighbourhood of Saltrod in Arendal, I stop for a break to photograph the stunning view of the town centre across a small bay. Even more stunning is a cute, young blond wearing only sneakers, socks and a pair of white track shorts who is painting the railing at the viewpoint with a brush 50 metres away. I can’t let this photo opportunity (as Mike would refer to it) slip by. I try ever so discreetly to use my telephoto lens to catch him in the wild. It takes a few seconds to focus and frame the shot but before I take it he turns as sees what I am doing.


He slowly stands from his squatting position and stretches out his naked torso before walking towards me. I am burning red with embarrassment and feeling a mild urge to bolt, but I am spellbound by his beauty, which increases as approaches me. He bursts into a welcoming, far-from-innocent smile and I realize that, instead of being offended, he is reveling in the flattery of my attention. He greets me and asks about my travels with the warmth and intimacy of a close friend. Now I am flushing instead of blushing.

His name is Oysteinn, which I am sure is Norwegian for “let me be your oyster”. He is tanned with fine blond hair that moves a bit with every breeze. The surface of his torso and limbs are covered with small, shiny golden hairs. There are little specks of white paint splattered on his forearms, chest and belly that are begging me to pick them off. But I feel like I’m caught with my pants down – getting a boner in cycling shorts is always a helpless, embarrassing moment. He doesn’t seem to mind in the least, which make me ever harder. He isn’t about to grab my crotch with paint on his hands. Instead, he stands very close as he tells me about himself. He’s 24, single, a religious studies major in Oslo and he is in training to do the grueling iron man competition this summer while working with the Highways Department to make money for school and travel in the coming year. He asks me many questions about my travels so far and my plans for the rest of my trip. He tells me he will be traveling in India this coming winter.

After chatting for what seems like half an hour (it is probably much less), his boss and co-worker pass by in a pick-up and he regrettably has to return to his painting. We exchange addresses and promises to write. I definitely will. Before he leaves he poses for me and offers to take a picture of me too. He goes back to his railing and I float away to the south on my bicycle.

That decides it! I am definitely going to in India this winter instead of Morocco! My imagination is running away ahead of me and I have to keep reminding myself about the shocking incident with the pothole yesterday to keep me focused on my cycling.

From Arundel onward the land is more built up and populated. I follow a few segregated bike paths to the village of Fevik, and then take an inland route away from E18 to get to the town of Grimstad. From here, I have no option but to return to E18 and face the traffic. On this stretch of the highway there is no more than 10 cm paved edge outside of the single lane. This takes all my focus as the buses and trucks whiz by me at close range. I make a game of racing as far as I can go between bursts of traffic and these last 30 km into Kristiansand past quickly enough.

The final step to enter Kristiansand, my departure point from Norway, is crossing another massive bridge, dumps me into the centre of town. It is a festive, casual setting full of fresh sea air off the Skagerrak, the strait between Norway and Denmark. I like its energy, but perhaps that’s just my own vibe as I am excited about the crossing and being out on the sea again.

I get the last available space in the youth hostel. While I am making the reservation a charming young man with curly blond hair steps up to me and introduces himself. His eyes look like blue glass. He’s around 19 or 20, with a beautiful build - a bit taller and heavier set than me, but still probably not fully-grown. He has a peaches and cream complexion and definitely looks more innocent than Oysteinn. At first I think he is staff, but he is just an interested local youth with a yearning for travel. I am sure he is drawn to every traveler with a backpack or a bike. He has been ‘inter-railing’ through parts of Europe this spring himself.

He tells me his name is Magnus. If that isn’t funny enough, the very next thing he says is “would you like to eat my banana?,” offering the unblemished fruit in his outstretched hand without the slightest hint of a smirk. “No thanks,” I say, laughing openly at his amazing unawareness of his own words. He cannot believe how I have traveled on a bicycle already, or that my trip is less than half over. “You must have great legs by now. Can I squeeze your thigh?” I can’t believe this kid, and I am certainly not let myself get another hard-on, especially on the town’s main street.

He is so innocent I could ask him to massage my perineum to help wake it up again after my long ride, and he’d probably do it without realizing that it’s foreplay. But he might know what he is saying, so I suggest he meet me later and have a drink and some fun together out on the town. He doesn’t clue in. For a youth with his imagination focused on the magical mists of distant horizons, his life is strikingly bland. He says he rarely goes out because he has to babysit his grandmother. He says this matter-of-factly, as if he does this every night of the year, as though he has never considered doing anything else. His work life is as hollow as his social life. He sells encyclopedias door-to-door or by stopping strangers in pedestrian malls, much like he has done with me today without the encyclopedias. The only part of his life worth hearing about is his workout program. He flexes his pecs to show his progress.

In another private time and place I might offer to teach him to new massage techniques or some refreshing high-adrenalin push-up exercises, but at the moment I am salty, dirty (not in a good way) and quite tired after my second almost 150 km day in a row. As we are talking, my left knee is starting to ache badly, much worse than last night. I thank him, excuse myself and limp back to the hostel.

I decide not to walk on it again until tomorrow. I spend the rest of the evening talking to my four cell-mates, one Dane and three German lads. They are all typical straight boys who think and live inside the box, but travel this summer might wake them up a bit. They seem quite uninteresting in comparison to beautiful Oysteinn, who floats across the skies of my imagination tonight like a Michelangelo painting.


PHOTO 1: bridge south of Risor
PHOTO 2: Saltrod
PHOTO 3: Oysteinn
PHOTO 4: me
PHOTO 5: Magnus and I

20 years ago today - Day 147

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Sunday, July 28th - Larvik to Risor, 7700 km

I am up much earlier than anyone else except two children, a boy and a girl, who have either been giver very strict orders not to disturb me or who are still to shy to talk to me. I pack my bags, write a journal entry and eat a breakfast of yogurt and granola. Leif is up before I need to leave but he doesn't come talk to me. This puts me off a bit. I act more rushed than I need to be when I finally see him waiting outside to see me off. Sverre and Jorgunn rouse themselves out of bed to see me off with an invitation to visit should I ever come back. I try to give Leif a little hug goodbye before they appear, that sends him scurrying back into the closet. I let it go.

This is my first full day of riding in two weeks, since July 14th. I have a long way to go today, perhaps 140 km. I will need to keep up a fairly fast and steady pace. I am a bit worried about what that will do to my out-of-shape knees.


The terrain is rolling with many small hills. On the map, this coast looks much smoother than the rugged western coast of the country with its many deep fjords, but while the mountains are definitely lower it is very rocky and irregular. It is a complicated landscape, mostly hidden from any particular viewpoint. The highway I am riding on, E18, twists all over the place. There are many views from above of marinas and coloured houses - deep crimson, gold, butterscotch and ochre mostly - with their slat-board sides. The towns are generally small and tucked away for protection from the weather. It's a grey day with patches of sun, but no rain showers so far.

I stop to take a couple of pictures on the large bridge over a fjord at Brevik. I continue south to the town of Kragero, a scenic town near a large archipelago. I locate the International Youth Hostel in the town and find where other hostels are along my route. There is one in Risor, only 30 km south-west of here as the crow flies. The Kragero Hostel lets me use their phone to call and make a reservation.

There's a ferry across an inlet south of Kragero, and from there I could cycle to the Sondeledfjorden opposite Risor, but the ferry isn't leaving for another 98 minutes. I am just as to ride the distance and save the pricey fare. I return to E18.


It's another 29 km to get to the turn off to Risor at the end of the fjord. It is late afternoon and I am making the best time I can. My knees have been doing well and I still have good energy. Flying down one hill at top speed I hit a pothole that catches me totally off-guard since the road surface has been so perfect all day. It hit it so hard that the jar knocks the spring-loaded panniers right off my bike. At that speed, it is a miracle that it did not send me flying head over heels, landing me in hospital or even killing me, but somehow I manage to stop the bike without a fall. I collect my fallen bags and inspect my bike. For sure I could expect a flat tire or a bend rim but amazing everything looks fine. I am quite shaken up by the scare so I rest by the road. I check the tire after a few minutes - it is still holding air - and then resume my trip to Risor.

The Vandererhjem (Wanderer) Hostel proves easy to find, two km before the town itself. I check in and shower. I have the luxury of a room to myself with no other beds, but the room looks like someone's office. I ask at the desk and learn that this is a temporary hostel for the summer.

I venture into town for find dinner at a pizzeria. I walk around the inner harbour, which is active with strollers of all ages. The sea air and happy ambience is very relaxing. I take this opportunity to call back to Toronto to my business partner David, with whom I have had a rather stormy relationship recently, to check if he has fulfilled his part of our recent bargain. He wants to rehash the tone of my last letter, in which I threatened to return home and nail his balls to the nearest wall if he didn't repay the money he swindled out of my saving by intimidating my elderly mother. He has returned the money but now he feels I should apologize for my tone after he tried to cheat me. I resist the urge to interrupt him and say this wouldn't happen if he didn't try to screw me over as soon as my back is turned. I doubt now that he will try it again, so I just hear him out.

I return to the pizzeria, the only open restaurant in town, and have another Pepsi. I chat with a young woman who has spent most of her summers here on this rocky coast that reminds me of the west coast of BC where I grew up. She relates to me stories from the years she spent in California that meant so much to her. It is her turn to be the traveler while I listen. After an hour I return to the hostel as the light is fading from the sky and get an early night's rest. I covered 149 km today.


PHOTO 1: Larvik lighthouse
PHOTO 2: Langesund
PHOTO 3: many little harbours and small craft
PHOTO 4: the south coast is like this, bays and rocks
PHOTO 5: more of the same
PHOTO 6: approaching Kragero
PHOTO 7: in Kragero

20 years ago today - Day 146

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Saturday, July 27th - the sculpture garden and a ride to Larvik, 7551 km

I am sandwiched between the naked bodies of Frank and Leif when I wake. I need to pee and my mouth tastes like a sewer, so I extricate myself from their arms and stumble into the bathroom. When I come out Frank is dressing. He has to do some important errands this morning. He kisses Leif, who is still in bed, and then me, sliding his tongue over my freshly brushed teeth and his hands through the crack of my naked ass as he does so. Then he grabs his bags and vanishes out the door, leaving me standing there with a hard-on. Leif has rolled over and closed his eyes again. I let his sleep while I pack and write my journal.

I had made arrangements to pick up a list of Servas hosts in Austria and Czechoslovakia from the local coordinator, but Leif sleeps in too long and I have to call back and cancel. By the time breakfast is done, Leif is packed and we are in his car on the way to Larvik, it is early afternoon.

Leif detours to show me the famous Vigeland Sculpture Park on the outskirts of town. It was begun in 1906, the concept of a single sculptor named Gustav Vigeland, who designed the park and added more sculptures to it until his death in 1943. There are hundreds of sculptures, too many to see in the hour or so that we were there. They are all life-sized naked images carved in granite. They feature a rainbow of different human interactions, culminating in a monolith or totem of humanity that rises phallically from a raised platform at the highest point of the park. It is an astonishing creation.

We arrive in Larvik around 4. We have been invited by Sverre, a handsome lawyer friend of former classmate of Leif's and his wife Jorgunn, a vivacious blond who works as a bio-chemist. They are on a nearby beach playing with their beautiful blond son, Carson, who is naked and brown as coffee. He reminds me of this morning's sculptures. Carson rolls all over his dad affectionately, whispering messages in his ear. He's terribly shy of me, but makes the cutest grins before hiding his face each time.

Couples and families begin to arrive and set up a large-scale lamb barbecue and picnic. While they are busy, I take my first dip in this side of the Atlantic since Sagres, Portugal. The water is warmer here because of the shallow bay and the propensity of rock surfaces.
One couple has just returned from a vacation is Italy where they say the water was colder.

I try to participate in the set and conversation, but Jorgunn, Sverre and Jorgunn's sister Hanna are the only ones besides Leif speaking English. Leif tries to translate from time to time but as more people join in it becomes impossible. Hanna tells me about the far north, where she is from. She misses it and tells me about her nursing career and the people up north. Overreact is quite up on Canadian affairs and impresses me with his knowledge.

As he evening wears on I am anxious to get to bed, knowing I have a long day ahead tomorrow, but my bed is in the living room, the last room to be vacated before everyone else goes to bed. The talk is all in Norwegian now, especially after a couple hours of drinking. I am resigned to being an outsider as I sit on the sidelines. Leif glances at me from time to time, but he is engrossed in his native language now too. The party breaks up finally sometime after 1. I am out like a light.


PHOTO 1: gates to the Vigeland Sculpture Park
PHOTO 2: tenderness - OK, I stole this pic from the Net
PHOTO 3: the challenge of youth
PHOTO 4: sculptures on stairs up to Totem of Life
PHOTO 5: man and wife
PHOTO 6: boys playing
PHOTO 7: platform for Totem of Life
PHOTO 8: detail, Totem of Life
PHOTO 9: picnic at Larvik

20 years ago today - Day 145

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Friday, July 26th - 2nd day in Oslo

I am up early, planning my day before Leif goes to work. When I called Mom from Germany with the news that I plan to go as far north as Norway, she told me a distant cousin of mine, Susan, has married a Norwegian and now likes in the town of Flora off the west coast of Norway. She has told Susan I might visit her when I am here, but looking at the maps a ferry schedules it would be very difficult to do so. Flora is on an island, a few hours by boat from Bergen. The train to Bergen is easy enough, but expensive - 2/3s the cost of the ferry from Copenhagen - but the boat to Flora is only twice a week and almost as expensive. I had hoped I'd see an affordable ferry from Bergen back to Oslo but that is also too expensive with an inconvenient timetable. I last saw Susan 20 years ago, and only briefly. We know nothing about each other and although the trip would be nice, it would have to be at the expense of seeing some other place.

I call her with still half a hope of being able to do it, but she doesn't seem enthusiastic. She also has no idea how to get me and my bike to Flora. I decide I cannot make it on this trip, but I tell her if all works out I might be back in three or four years to cycle the full length of Norway in summer, from above the Arctic Circle to the south cape. I have been thinking about it since I bought my detailed map of Norway. It would be a challenging ride with many long, difficult climbs and the constant threat of being caught in a snow squalls on the windswept north end and the many mountain passes on the way south. Even cycling an average of 5.5 days per week, it would take six full weeks to do it barring any injuries, storms or mechanical problems. It would take a fair amount of planning and preparation.

Leif is off to work with the promise to return between 3 and 4. He wants to drive me to a cabin south of Larvik tomorrow, where he will spend the weekend with a large group of friends and their immediate families. I will spend the night there and then ride further down the coast to Kristiansand where I can catch a ferry across the strait to the north coast of Denmark.

I visit the Canadian embassy in town to read newspapers and catch up on Canadian news. I ask if there are visa requirements for either Czechoslovakia or Hungary. They don't think there are, but they cannot tell me for sure. I walk around the downtown and take a few pictures afterwards. The city is divided into two by its shipyards. While its mostly wooden buildings have some character, it is not a scenic or memorable city for its architecture. It's a grey day again too, not the best light for taking pictures.

Leif comes home at 3:30, as he expected he would. We make love and I curl up on his bed to take a nap, on his insistence, while he prepares dinner. He has invited the man he is currently seeing, Frank, over to eat with us so that I can meet him. He arrives so after I get up. Frank is a jovial fellow, easy on the eyes and very laid-back. He's 34, a year younger than Leif, and very friendly. Leif asks him to entertain me while he prepares the meal of fish and vegetables.

Frank likes me, I can tell, as he makes a point of touching my arm a couple times and even once holding my hand. Still, I almost choke on my food when he starts playing footsy with me under the table while we are eating. I pull my foot back. The last thing I want to do is offend Leif. After dinner, when we are relaxing on the sofa with our wine, Frank sits down beside me, then kisses and cuddles me quite openly, sliding his hand up the inside of my thigh to caress my crotch. I glance anxiously over at Leif but he just smiles at us and nods. It seems they have discussed making love with me when Frank was invited. Leif joins us on the sofa and they neck in front of me to show that all is OK. Then they pull me in for a three-way kiss before pushing the coffee table out of the way and dragging me onto the living room floor for a wild threesome.


PHOTO 1: Leif Villars-Dahl

20 years ago today - Day 144

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Thursday, July 25th - first day in Oslo, 7543 km

Johann meets Shiya and I at the reception desk at 7:15 am as planned. We go to the deck to watch the shores of Oslo Fjord glide by in the morning sun. Then we go to the cafeteria to share a light breakfast and coffee. Johann is not staying in Oslo but Shiya is. I give him Leif's home phone number in case he is free to have a drink with us over the next two days.

At the dock, we say our goodbyes and I roll onto the service road on my loaded bicycle. The service road flows right onto an expressway that separates the dockyards from Oslo's "sentrum". I am not on it for long. I find a traffic circle and make it to the Sentral Station, where I change money, buy stamps and call Leif. Leif has been waiting for my call in his law office behind the Radhus. He hurries over to pick me up. He looks great in his lawyer's suit and tie, and he is very happy to see me.

He takes me, my bike and bags to his penthouse condo on the fifth floor of an older city block. There is no lift, but he helps me with my seven bags. Fortunately there is a place to lock the bike in his garage. We sit and chat for a bit, but it isn't long before he whips out a list of Oslo attractions for me to see, including the Folkesmuseet, the Viking burial ship museet and Thor Heyerdahl's Contiki and Ra II exhibits, all of which I want to visit.

First though, he takes me to Oslo nude beach on the southern tip of town. The beach is quite small, mostly a lawn with a pebbly shore. It is populated by middle-aged locals who definitely look straight. I don't see any bushes or cruising trails that one usually finds near gay nude beaches. We can't stay long because dark clouds roll across the sky on what started as a perfect, sunny day.

The rain showers start. Leif and I share a drink at his place while we wait for them to pass. It is still sprinkling lightly when we head out on the museum trek. Our first stop is the Viking museum, where the centre piece is a fairly intact hull of an ocean-going craft that was resurrected from the sea floor a few years ago. We happen to run into Shiya there. He is with a couple acquaintances from the YMCA, where he will formally check in at 6 pm. He says he will try to call me later. He has bought as train ticket to Bergen on the west coast leaving early the day after tomorrow.

Next, we are off to the Contiki and Ra II exhibits. The story of the Contiki expedition was required reading material in the 60s when I was in school. Thor Heyerdahl's adventure captured imaginations around the world. I wonder if it is still being taught. I try to imagine him crossing the Pacific and Atlantic on these flimsy rafts, which seem too small to life on for a week, never mind crossing an ocean.

The Folkesmuseet is mostly an outdoor exhibit featuring traditional Norse houses from different parts of the country. They are log cabins in stilts with sod roofs. Goats are grazing on a couple of them. The main feature is an elaborately constructed church that proves that remarkable churches don't need to be made with anything other than wood. I shoot off a roll of film here.

Back at Leif's home, we rest and then make love. It has been three months since we met in a bath house in Barcelona and I have been dying to tear off his suit since the moment I met him again this morning. After a quick shower together, we dress and he drives me to a site north of the city where the ski jump course and a telecommunications tower overlooks the city in the distance. It is not as high or as close to the city as mountains above North Vancouver, but the view is still spectacular. I can see the fiords, the harbour, the North Sea and surrounding hills and forests that are full of cross-country skiing trails in the winter.

We return to Oslo where he treats me to a fine dinner of traditional Norwegian food - smoked and salted lamb with cabbage and Trondheim beer with Aquavit (Schnapps) - at a local restaurant. Wow, this is the way to see a new country! Back at his place, we cuddle and talk until midnight before going to bed. Life is sweet!


PHOTO 1: Viking ship
PHOTO 2: Thor Heyerdahl's "Contiki"
PHOTO 3: Folkesmuseet, traditional houses
PHOTO 4: Folkesmuseet, heritage church
PHOTO 5: Heritage church details

20 years ago today - Day 143

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Wednesday, July 24th - catching the ferry to Norway, 7527 km

Early in the morning I wake to the sound of Kersten retching in the bathroom, presumably puking up last night's excesses. He crawls back into bed half-conscious and goes back to sleep. So do I. I wake again around 10 am, having gone to bed around 4 am.

It will be a busy day and I make a list of things to do. Kersten wakes up and tells me he needs to go to the hospital. He should not have been drinking last night and now has an irritated pancreas. He says it has happened before. Each time he has been kept in hospital for five days on an intravenous glycerin tube and given no food. A tube is also inserted through his nose to pump out the fluids in his stomach for the duration. It takes him several days after this process to re-introduce solid food into his body. I want to ask, 'so why do you go on drinking binges then?,' but of course I don't. He calls Nigel to come pick him up and drive him to the hospital.

I help Kersten pack for the hospital while I do my own packing. I obviously cannot stay here. Nigel arrives and helps get him ready too, but in the middle of it all gets a call from his husband, Sabbin, who has just been hit by a truck and knocked off his bicycle. He needs a ride to the hospital too, so preparations go into panic mode. What a terrible day for everyone!

Kersten leaves me his spare keys to lock up when I leave around noon. I finish my packing and slip his keys through the mail slot. I ride my loaded bike downtown on the cycling paths, which are raised above the road surfaces but lower than the sidewalks. I call Leif Villars-Dahl in Oslo to let him know I'll be arriving tomorrow morning. He is at work in his law office and says tomorrow will be fine for a visit. Then I buy the ever-so-expensive ticket for the ferry. It costs the equivalent of three and a half days worth of my budgeted allowance, and for this price there are no cabins available for the overnight trip. I am advised to return to at 4:30 to see if there have been any cancellations.

I spend the afternoon walking around until I find a bench in a park beside a statue of children playing checkers. There are four rectangular 'lakes' on the west side of Copenhagen that were once part of a great moat around the city in medieval times. They define the core of the city and provide a scenic promenade that gives the city character. I use the time to catch up on my journal writing.

I return at 4:30 to find there have been a couple cancellations so I buy a cabin ticket. As soon as I am on-board and my bike secured, I am told there are no cabins available, and no lounge where I can sit and write or read without being required to buy food or alcohol.

I am not too pleased but I find a seat on the deck outside the restaurant where I can eat the leftover potato salad from Kersten's fridge. He insisted I take as many leftovers as possible as he won't be able to eat them before they spoil. It is fortunately a sunny day but the wind on the deck is a bit brisk so I keep my jacket on most of the time. I feels strange to be leaving Copenhagen so quickly but I was unable to reach another Servas host and hostel and hotel prices are alarmingly higher in Scandinavia.

I get restless on my own. A handsome blue-eyed man, about 30 with sandy blond hair, passes me and makes brief eye contact but doesn't stop. He looks alone and restless too.
I will invite him to sit next to me the next time he passes, I say to myself, but an hour later I leave my spot to watch the scenery from the railing as the ship cruises through the strait between Sweden and Jutland, called Kattegat, past a couple capes and stopping briefly in smaller ports.

The sun is low now. Having nothing better to do, I check at the information desk to see if there is any further news about cabins. Only more expensive cabins, costing an additional 160 KR, are available. I complain about my "deck" status because I paid for a cabin but there is nothing the clerk can do. I take a lounge chair nearby in the busy reception area, determined to hang onto it as my 'bed' for the night.

The beautiful blue-eyed man I have seen earlier passes by again and I catch his eye. He smiles broadly and sits in the chair next to me without waiting for an invitation. His name is Shiya, which is short for Joshua in Hebrew. He is happy to have someone to talk to and we chat up a storm. I was right thinking he looked lonely when I first saw him. He is unfortunately a straight man, but I enjoy his company. A few minutes later, the reception clerk comes to me to offer one of the more expensive cabins for no extra fee because of my complaint. There are two beds in it and I offer the other one to Shiya, who was also expecting to be using a lounge chair all night.

After we have moved our bags into the room, Shiya and I buy a bottle of wine and some additional food to add to my sandwiches and potato salad. We eat our meal in the room and then share a couple bottles of beer in the licensed lounge. We meet a Swede there named Johann. He was cruising by, looking lost and lonely too. Only a gay man makes that much eye contact with another man, but I don't want to be too obvious in front of Shiya. Eventually, he stops and asks if he can join us and we say 'Sure' in unison. We talk well into the night when northern sun is gone from the sky. We agree to meet on deck tomorrow morning to watch the ship enter Oslo Fjord shortly after sunrise. Johann gives me a gentle squeeze on my shoulder as he leaves for his cabin, a gesture that says he would have liked to have been more intimate.


PHOTO 1: Copenhagen harbour
PHOTO 2: boats in the harbour
PHOTO 3: Shiya
PHOTO 4: skinny ol' me

20 years ago today - Day 142

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Tuesday, July 23rd – Copenhagen, 7512 km

I wake up alone at 10 am. Kresten is already up but I am tired and it takes more than the usual effort to get out of bed. Nigel, Kersten's ex-lover, has brought us over fresh breads and joins us for breakfast, which Kresten has been busy preparing. Nigel is Spanish and he is using the bread delivery as an excuse to escape his visiting in-laws from San Sebastien. Nigel is as interesting to talk to, compassionate, sensitive and, unlike Kresten, a much better listener. He tells me he "married" (registered partnership) his Spanish lover here in Denmark last here and now his family has come up to meet him. He has left his lover to attend his family for the duration of our breakfast.

Kresten has AIDS and has many medical conditions associated. After breakfast he develops a strong headache, an aftermath of a bout of shingles he had several years ago. His gaunt features and sunken eyes with dark shadows remind me of a man with AIDS I worked with as a 'emotional support buddy' three years ago, who has since passed away. His muscles were atrophying with his failing health. Kresten looks weak and ill. He is clearly intelligent but his confused instructions last night seems to indicate that his mind has been affected. I am concerned for him.

In spite of his discomfort, he still plays the Servas host after Nigel leaves. He has procured a map of the city and indicated on it several interesting attractions I might want to see. I tell him I have a guide book so there's no need for him to explain every one to me, so that he can get to bed.

I head out to explore the city, walking first down to the end of his street, which meets a major traffic artery that passes the yellow-walled Assistens Cemetery that Kersten told me about. Hans Christian Anderson and philosopher Soren Kierkegaard are buried here. The wall is two and a half metres high so it provides privacy for those who sunbathe naked on the graves. Apparently it is the only place within the city limits where one can bathe nude. Kersten says when he dies he wants to be buried here, so he will lie in peace knowing young naked people will be lying above him from time to time.

I continue downtown to the central square and find the nearest park to catch up on my journal writing. I am excited by the vitality of this city it is very walkable and scenic. The number of handsome men is astounding too. My time in Berlin has done anything but quench my thirst for more men so my eyes and checking every man out, and Copenhagen is the perfect place for that.


I walk past Tivoli, the famous amusement park from the 19th century, the first of its kind, but I don't feel like going in at this time. I have been told it is a must see but that it is best in the evening and for some reason I do not feel like going in alone. I continue on to Nyhavn and to the ticket office where I get information on cruise ships leaving for Oslo. Dozens of people are lined up to check in and board tonight's ship. A woman in the line-up tells me the cheapest ticket would cost 525 DK. The fare is about three times more than what I hoped it would be. I walk away downhearted.

I am in the perfect mood to call home to Toronto, the land of disappointments. I decide to call Mark Cashmore, the fellow I was dating when I left. When I am feeling lonely I usually still think about him, even though I haven't received a letter from him through Poste Restante since Seville in early May. He answers. It's morning back home. He's doing fine. We exchange platitudes but nothing deeper. He says he has tried to write me, whatever that means. There isn't any sense of intimacy between us in the call. He's probably moved on to one or more guys, knowing Mark, and our time together now seems a world away for me. Time moves at a different speed when I am one the road. A week ago feels like a month away. All I learn from the call is that I am more disassociated from my habitual home life than I have ever been.

The call drains me of the remainder of my Danish currency. I only have enough for a coffee at PAN. This realization, along with the cost of the ferry to Oslo, has me in a financially-induced depression. So I go to PAN and find a seat in the courtyard. PAN is a government-owned and controlled chain of gay bars, which is an astonishing concept to me. There is a PAN bar in every major Danish town to ensure there are local meeting places for gays across the country. Just sitting here alleviates my depressed mood. There's a live band on this late Tuesday afternoon. They are playing a rendition (i.e. impersonation) of Louis Armstrong's "It's a Wonderful World" and it is as if I am hearing and feeling the song for the first time. It goes right to my heart.


I call Kersten, thinking he might be expecting me back at any moment. He's preparing a potato salad for dinner and needs another hour so. I change more money at the train station nearby and then return to my courtyard table at PAN.

This time I am sharing my table with a hunky, soft-spoken Finn who now lives in Malmo, Sweden, across the strait from Copenhagen. His name is Alta. He's bigger than I usually like my men to be, and as quiet and bland as Melba toast, but he has a charming smile and thick black horn-rimmed glasses that disguise his rugged features and give him a delicious, nerdy appeal.

We are joined by a slender, blond, out-going Dane who seems to be interested in me. I ask him his name. "Dan, as in DANmark, not DENmark", he replies with a somewhat accusatory tone, as if he is lecturing me even though he hasn't heard me say the name of his country. He asks me my name. "Ken, as in HeineKEN," I answer, holding up my bottle of Heineken. Alta comes alive for the first time, breaking into a reel of laughter. Dan is mildly taken aback at first, but from that point onward we have great fun exchanging wisecracks while Alta sparkles with laughter. I excuse myself at the end of the hour to return to Kersten's for dinner. I ask them if they will be going out to the disco here later. Dan isn't sure but Alta says 'probably'.

Kersten has made a lovely dinner of potato salad, green salad with a whipped cream with sugar vinaigrette, meatballs and wine. He puts the meatballs on to fry as I walk in the door. I enjoy his conversation more tonight, as he takes an interest in what I have done. He seems more focused and determined to enjoy himself too. After dinner he offers to go out with me downtown. I secretly wish he'd let me prowl on my own as I am hoping to get lucky with either Dan or Alta.

Kersten insists on taking a taxi. He wants to take me to a bar called Hollywood, but I tell him I am hoping to meet Dana and Alta at PAN so we go there instead. We are too late, however. Dan and Alta are both there but Alta has become seduced by Dan's charms and is clearly only interested in him. I try to hide my disappointment as they leave, their arms around each other as they stop to kiss in the doorway.

The wind is out of my sails but I stay to enjoy Kersten's company as best I can. He is getting drunker by the minute and is fondling every younger man who crosses his path, with no positive results. I chat with Jurgen, and older cyclist who takes a brief interest before he disappears into the disco and doesn't return. We meet a tall, pleasant, older fellow named Erik who tries to chat me up. Kersten makes a fool of himself, coming onto him in an insistent, groping way until Eric rejects him bluntly. He sticks around though, because he likes me. Ironically, he does nothing for me.

The three of us head to another dance bar, the Pink Room, but it is dead on this Tuesday night. Kersten is annoyingly drunk and not in the best mood after receiving his well-deserved rejection, so we convince him to take a cab home. Erik asks me home as soon as Kersten leaves, but I turn him down. He invites me to walk with him and I do. He tries a couple more times to convince me to come home with him, wrapping his arms around me, kissing me and groping my ass, but I am unmoved. I leave him near the Tivoli, where he immediately goes cruising through the bushes looking for men. I glance back a minute later and catch a glimpse of him on his knees going down of some stranger, and I instinctively wipe his kiss off on my sleeve.

It's a warm, clear night as I walk back through the city. It is quiet and peaceful. If I was walking home in Toronto on a weekend the streets would be crowded. There would be a steady stream of uncouth young thugs bellowing from the safely of their cars at every woman they see, "Hey Baby, sit on my face. I'll guess your weight and eat the difference," and occasionally hanging their unshaved scrotums and ass cheeks out the window for the world to see. But this is Copenhagen. It is safe and civilized. When I enter Kersten's apartment I can hear him snoring.


PHOTO 1: Assistens Cemetery
PHOTO 2: Soerne So, one of the four rectangular lakes by the core
PHOTO 3: statue of chess players by Soerne So
PHOTO 4: in Copenhagen's downtown
PHOTO 5: city of spires, this one made from 4 crocodiles' tails
PHOTO 6: bikes outside a cafe
PHOTO 7: elevated bike lane between sidewalk and road
PHOTO 8: Copenhagen harbour in the evening