Don't Park Too Close to Old Danes

Tobias and I are staying in a friend's flat while we nail down some more permanent digs.  It is a nice basement apartment in the center of Aarhus, right next to the university.  There are grand villas and cozy gardens all along Emil Aarstrups Vej that smack of old money and the hyggeligt glory that obessesses the Danish psyche. Hyggelight, for those who are in the dark, is pronounced HUE/HOO-guh-lee and means, very simply "fucking cozy as shit".  That's really cozy.

Cars line the sidewalks and people push strollers up and down at a leisurely pace.  It was a perfect afternoon to go to the store and then clean out the car.  I got in the car and drove it away from the space it had occupied for less than 24 hours. 

The shopping trip was a rousing success and I even got a chance to politely refuse to be signed up for some shopper program, in Danish. "Nej, tak." High on the fumes of my Danish mastery, I returned home and parked close to the rubbish container.  The car is a disaster due to our numerous moves and generally small inhabitations. 

My astrology reading playing in my ears, I happily started throwing crap around and an organizational free-for-all.  It wasn't five minutes later, that I spied an old man creaking towards me. He appeared to be talking in my general direction. I took out my ear phone.  He was definitely talking.  At me.

Well, I was so pleased with myself that I just tried to understand what he was saying without my customary, "Undskyld, jeg taler englsk."  ...I'm sorry, I speak English.  I defaulted quickly to my normal phrase as it seemed like he had a very important message he was trying to convey.

"Where are you from?"

Smile from me. Be charming.

"The USA, from Portland, Oregon."

"Oh no."

um.  smile again. be nice.

"Yep, sure am."

"You are living in the basement."

"Yes, we are staying in a friend's flat while we look for another place to live."

No change in facial expression on his part. Just stares.

"I have a Danish boyfriend."

He shakes his head at me.

"You're a bad woman."

Sorry? Did I just hear that right? Ok, I'm a bad woman. Always agree. First rule of improv.

"Well, I can't help it. They are very nice you know."

He smirks.

"You need to park not so close to me when you drive this car.  It is no good."

Was I close to him? I can't even remember.





"Oh god. I'm really sorry.  I will definitely park further away. Could you not get out?"

He laughs.

"It is just lucky I am a nice one. Some others will not like that parking so much."

"Ok. Wow. Well, thanks for telling me."

He stands there and looks at me like I've lost my marbles.  Several seconds pass awkwardly.

"You keep doing what you are doing now."

Yes. I am cleaning out the car. Good idea. Is that goodbye?

"Alright, have a good day."  Smile again. Nice Jaime. Nice Dane.

Dane looks at me oddly and walks to his car.

There was no one in front of his car when I parked behind it on Sunday. There was still nothing except a tiny lip where a tiny driveway connected house to street.

But hey, sometimes it's the little things that make a big difference right?

As he drove by me I waved.
He stared straight ahead.

My astrologer was saying at that moment, "Relationship are really your joy in life."

Hehehehe. Yep. They sure are. 

For we are not constrained by the fame of our deeds, or the limits of our bodies, but rather by our capacity to dream, to imagine, to grow rich within and with that capital, ignite our world...

Unicorns on the Hærvejen

It was Day 8 or so on our Authentic Pilgrims On The Hærvejen trip.  We had just finished our humble lunch of strawberries and cheese in the hamlet of Vrads, lured by signs of meditation centers and organic butter.  With our bellies full and no available houses to rent in this community of artists and Masser oven builders, we decided to push on.

We walked past a young Dane shooting a longbow in a field and I waved.  He pretended not to notice us even though we were wearing the outfits which would have perfectly complimented his sport.  Never mind that though, soon we were upon the Meditation Center and started talking excitedly about the possibilities of retreats.

Cars whizzed passed us, people on bicycles stared or smiled or both, it was a typical day on our 300km trek.

UNTIL.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, across the road and in the forest, I saw it.  I could not believe my eyes and went crashing across the tarmac, hauling Tobias along with me to document the clear PROOF.

I felt like the Jane Goodall of mythological creatures.  The documentary would be called, *Myths In The Mist*

It was everything I could do to maintain professional objectivity, but in the end, I think you will all agree that I composed myself quite well in the face of this monumental discovery.

Standing there silently, not 5 meters from me, trying to disguise himself as a tree stump, was the Mystical Unicorn.

Let your eyes show you what your heart cannot comprehend.

Oh the majesty.

Cast of Characters

It's time to get to know some of the characters of The Begining of El Camino...get in a cozy chair and walk backwards in time down the Camino with me to Logrono...city of cafe's and pinchos and narrow streets.  Also, Papi Chulo, Alessea, Ulrik, David, and Ima, who had already left for home when this photo was taken.  

Papi Chulo was a doctor from Italy.  He carried a backpack that was more of a portable pharmacy than ruksack and wore all red, all the time.  PC was fond of showing us hand signs that meant, "You asshole, your wife is sleeping with another man."  He could also drink any of us under the table with a smile on his face, which is probably why he has that knowing and whimsical look in this photo.

Alessea was his long suffering and extremely tall, daughter.  She loved the equality of everyone on the Camino and was always prepared to let Papi Chulo indulge in his childlike wanderlust and demanding desires.  Her usual facial expression was one of bemused tolerance. She called her father Eduardo. She loved her job as an HR manager and general over-lordess and you could tell that everyone liked her right back.

David, the caballero sin caballo, never knew what he wanted if he could have anything and was fond of calling me 'una mystica'.  He loved Cataluna with all the passion his heart could muster and would spend hours talking about Barca and football with Ulrik. David was full of witty spanish one liners like, "Chulo chulo, mi pidulo" which roughly means, "Cool, cool, my dick."  

He and Ima were our fearless guides and translators for the first week until they and PC and Alessea had to leave at the end of Semana Santa.  David would occasionally wear his boxers on his head in the Albergues and liked to run marathons, but thought he was out of shape.

He loved Ulrik and Ulrik loved him. They were like a pair of best dog buddies who you knew would rip up chickens together and run to the ends of the earth howling with glee.

Ulrik, whom you have met before, Danish folk singer and attache from day 2 in Zubiri, was clearly not from this planet.  He was fond of playing his tiny guitarlele and gazing dreamily and lovingly at whatever his eyes beheld.  Though from Roskilde, he spoke English like an American and had a passionate adoration of the clawhammer banjo,  Hank Williams III, whom he called Hank III, and teaching me swear words in Danish like, "Run for fuck's sake, bitch".  He would move his mouth very slowly and precisely to show me how to say hard Danish words like Rød, and never acted like he was 22.  

He also developed a strange and troubling skin affliction on his hands that lasted the entire Camino.  He took cortisone from Papi Chulo, rubbed iodine on them, tried benadryl and anything else people might suggest.  No one knew he had chillblains until a couple days before the end of the trail.  He refused to see a doctor right up to the end.  He may have been from Jupiter.

And then there was Ima, mother to all and eternally young beauty.  At 37, all she had to do really, was just smile and make us all fall in love with her a little more. However, she never rested on her youthful laurels.  She was fond of making sure we were all ok, seeing the sights, and telling stories about our lives.  She lived in Tortossa and was a teacher who travelled the world in the summers, visiting places like Nepal and Africa. She communicated in the universal language of love.  Full stop.

There was Hanne the Dane whom everyone called Hannah Montana, and I met her in a herd of Danes one morning on the way out of Larrasoana.  She could walk faster than anyone I met and was on her second Camino.  Hanne had just started opening to the universe and magic and energy and moving with initiative through the world instead of always reacting.  She was probably half wood nymph and even though we only had a few hours on the trail together, she was one who lingered in the heart long after.  It wasn't until Santiago that I saw her again, but since coming to Denmark, we have corresponded and seen each other several times, so the story continues long after the walking stopped.  Hanne trains for triathalons, but I didn't know that then.







Then there were Max and Sana, two Germans who were walking for reasons I still don't entirely know.  I only know that Max was a fuzzy bear and Sana, a tomboy princess.  Together, they were like a walking fairy tale where the world doesn't know that they are royalty and only discovers it in the end, after trials and tribulations that they undergo with grace.  The last day in Santiago, I was wishing I could see them again.  I turned a corner and there they were, standing in front of a shop.  They told me I was the one person they hoped to see before they left the Camino and we have been in touch several times since.  They live in Lubeck, which is only 300km from Aarhus.  We will definitely see them on scene again. Max is the tall guy and Sana, the girl on the right.





Thus began the first week of Camino.  May it live a thousand years.

Writing makes you rich

It is exciting to think about making loads of money by writing away on a Danish sailboat or in international coffee shops.  Since I am now essentially living my lifelong dream, I figured it wouldn't hurt to check out the financial realties too.

Today I decided to do some research on just how much money I have made as the author of Theobroma Gypsies.  From online sales mind you, since the ones at the launch don't really count...actually. Yes, we better count that.  

I was very encouraged initially because there are two used copies selling for more than a brand new copy on amazon.  http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/offer-listing/0557658268/ref=sr_1_cc_1_olp?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1339590050&sr=1-1-catcorr&condition=used

Also, Barnes and Noble is apparently hocking the e-book for 8.99, which is about 6 dollars more expensive than buying from lulu.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/theobroma-gypsies-jaime-mathis/1030375965?ean=9781257342891&cm_mmc=AFFILIATES-_-Linkshare-_-TYYL2aZFZn0-_-15%3a9781257342891&

VS..

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/ebook/product-17465977.html

Now maybe lulu isn't as fancy as B and N but upon closer investigation, I discovered that I make more selling a copy for 2.75 than I do selling it in a 'reputable' place like B and N for 8.99.  Welcome to the idiosyncratic world of 'legitimate' publishing.  

I crunched the numbers and presto! 50 dollars. Yes. Oh baby yes.  Riches! Glory! 

That's without the launch sales. After overhead I walked with about 150.00 in my pocket.  

200 dollars I have made. As. An. Author.  Since 2010.  Hm.

So I decided to convert it to Kroner.  1,185 DKK.  That's over HALF the cost of my first month of Danish classes! I've made enough money writing my book to pay for a basic ability to ask where you are from and tell you I ate your banana in Danish! 

Invincible? A distinct possibility.

Watch out readers of the world.  You will know my name and read me. Now everyone, hurry up and go buy my book from lulu so I can make enough money to learn how to save a Danish child from a burning building!

http://www.lulu.com/shop/jaime-mathis/theobroma-gypsies-a-legacy-of-chocolate/paperback/product-12481544.html

My boy Hans C

Today is in honor of my departed homie Hans Christian Andersen.

Ol' HC was da bomb because he liked to make tiny rocking chairs out of paper and give them to kids.

He kept it real by taking a length of rope with him everywhere so he could climb out a window to safety if his hotel burned down.

Hans C was from the hood, no joke, of Odense. This is pure ghetto, yo.  His mom was good for nothing and likely a whore. He said so in one of his fairy tales.

I'd like to give a shout out to tall dudes like Hans with crazy imaginations and a propensity for falling in love with opera singers and already engaged women.  He knew a honey when he saw one, even if they were unavailable.  And the brotha had style.  He could DRESS and he made sure the shutter caught him lookin' fly.

So RAISE da ROOF for HCA, who wrote more fairy tales, acted in more plays, travelled the world more, and was more afraid of the comittment of buying a bed than anyone I ever knew.

You are my BOY H Christian A. I know you believe in unicorns and that shit smells simultaneously. For this I am happy.

A retrospective

This was moments before I boarded the plane to Amsterdam and then on to Barcelona to begin my camino journey.  I had just talked to my sister Summer on the phone to get some perspective and ground myself in love.

There was no doubt in my mind that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

The world was waiting for me to step into its wider arms and co-create inspiration for next steps.

Come on world, breathe in with me.

I had no idea how it was going to play out, who I would meet, where I would land, what inspiration would look like.

Inspiration is not a static concept, but I did not know that in this photo.

And suddenly, I\m in Barcelona, breathing Gaudi for the first time.  Hearing Catalan.

Riding bikes around the city to the sound of revolution over high unemployment rates and plummeting salaries.

Meeting middle-aged Pakastani men who sell me non functioning phones and try to entice me to be a lodger in their dodgy "backpacker hostels".

I'm conversing with women who have travelled the world and dance like dervishes and never seem to age. (She is 50)

The sun is pink and crimson on its descent behind the sea.

I have no idea what my next step is beyond getting to Pamplona and then on to St. Jean Pied du Port, but for right NOW, everything is engraving my eyes with glyphs that sway like palms and taste like gingerbread on my imagination.

This is me at the very begining.  

The first stamp on the credencial, no idea of what may lie on the path in front of me...all I can see is ponies and mountains, seashells and prayers for magic to unfold in waves.

Somehow time froze and shattered and played out. I found myself in love.


And then love became the inspiration, lifting my feet, filling my glass, opening my voice.

Slowly, I began to rise into each day, uncurling my heart, and reaching towards all of the yes and share and friend and communion.




I kept saying 'poco a poco'.  All I needed was one step and the wind and the rain and eyes that looked with length instead of fire.

And the way continued to unfold.  Inspiration became a daily exercise of waking and walking and submitting to the quiet companionship of earth and souls seeking understanding.