To Denmark

 Here are a few straggler pics from Copenhagen.  We spent two days there, and it was a nice amount of time.  Denmark is the oldest kingdom in the world.  I kept thinking of lines from Hamlet while we were touring around, reflecting on the mighty history of the Danes.  They have a proud legacy.

 Little Mermaid statue...beloved, unassuming.

 Entering Christiania, before Golda knew what she was in for.

 We were sad to say good-bye to the comfortable and vibrant atmosphere of Generator Hostel, and the buttoned-up, yet totally accepting vibe of Denmark.  We had some funny moments there.  One was, someone said "Duty Free" and I, a victim of jetlag, busted up hysterically laughing.  From then on, the words "duty free" were associated with tooting, if you'll forgive my crudeness.  The other highlights for me were the ballet, the late nights in the lounge, the picturesque walks and the thrill of experiencing a new culture.  If I asked Scott what his favorite part was, he would definitely say, "The time spent with you and the girls."  Then he'd cry.

Because it was running through my mind in Denmark, I'm including the most beautiful, passionate soliloquy of all time, in my opinion, Hamlet's "To Be or Not To Be."  Here's to Denmark.

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.–Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.