HELSINGBORG – HELSINGOR

We took the train and fell asleep on each other’s shoulders.

Helsingborg is vacant at 7:00 in the morning.

We walk off the train and along the ocean.

She shows me where she works—the gigantic office building that used to be a Sugar Factory—and leaves me to wonder with a kiss and farewell.

I adjust the messenger bag on my shoulder and turn back, entering the maze of buildings that juts from the hillside. The streets are empty. My boots clatter in the solace.

Dark windows on either side, watchful displays: translucent mannequins observing me, poised, with empty, artificial eyes.

The buildings look boney in the twilit morning—architectural giants with spines and ribcages—skeletons of gingerbread and brick, their ornate spires and turrets thrust above, copper roofs stained with an ancient patina of turquoise and grey.

I ascend a stairway that mounts the hill, overlooking the city, and is bordered on either side by gargoyles. I can see Denmark in the distance, the ocean glittering between here and there, separating the two countries.

I check the time: 8:30.

Nothing opens in Sweden till 9:00 or 10:00.

Not even the coffee shops.

I end up someplace beside a cathedral, admiring the moss that scales the brick. The front entrance is a single door, arching to a point, with iron rivets and a threatening knocker.

I reach for the handle, but the door opens on it’s own, repulsed by sinner’s flesh—my hand and fingers—lurching inward, exposing darkness.

I enter of course.

The floorboards creak beneath my feet. Slowly I proceed, adjusting to the dimness, the smell of burning candles. It seems empty. The brick walls flutter in the candlelight, organ pipes gleaming, pictures of men, ornate carvings, pews and the pulpit, a crucifix suspended by chains, casting its eerie shadow from above.

I could easily say more—I hung out awhile, absorbing the atmosphere: the shadows and murder-chains, creepy Clive Barker environment—but I won’t.

I left and the door closed itself behind me.

I found an open coffee shop and waited till 11:00.

At 11:00 I bought a ferry ticket to Helsingor and stepped into Denmark at 20 after.

Anyways.

I’m in this alleyway as narrow as your thumbnail when a bell starts to toll—a mean sounding guttural clang that lasts for several minutes.

Its chilly out and I’m feeling sorry for this edifice of a man, crippled-up and wheelchair bound, rolling down the center of the street. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, dropping ash on his shirt, and he leans into the wind, red faced and determined.

He comes to a halt.

I here a jangle as he pulls the tattered collar of his t-shirt open, reaches within, and extracts a giant cell-phone. He squints at it, holds it to his ear and starts screaming into the speaker.

I pass by and decide not to wave.

Here there are lots of open-air delis, cables strung with loops of sausage and raw chunks of meat, salamis and cheeses and chicken breasts organized along crude wooden tables.

There doesn’t appear to by any fast food restaurants—the fastest food I’ve seen is Arab—and (Christ on Rye!) I have yet to see a McDonalds.

Overall Helsingor seems far less corporate. The cafes and clothing stores are all singular and unique. There are no chains like “Espresso House” or “H&M” evidenced on every corner.

The people are more expressive and disorganized; they wear brighter clothing and seem generally jolly, less self-conscious, less vain—and certainly less focused on the matching sobriety of their greys and blacks.

The Swedes stand out in the crowd—slick hair, black coat, white shoes—standing on the street corners, watching their phones, wearing the worried look of a Swede outside Sweden: semi-cool, but tense and self aware.

Bearing the weight of social consciousness.

I did a few things, saw some cool things, walked around, entered some buildings, talked to people.

It was great.

I like that town.

I headed up the ocean toward Kronborg Castle, the ancient edifice of Shakespearean fame—the setting of Hamlet.

Its incredible spires rise in the distance, penetrating low clouds, framed against an opaque sky.

I entered the yawning gate, crossing several drawbridges, and found myself in the courtyard, a vast spans of cobblestone and castle walls.

I bought my ticket, a stub for exploration, and began with the Royal Chambers; room after room of impressive walls and carved ceilings and a gigantic checkered hall decorated with elaborate tapestries and paintings.

That was a very small portion of the castle, all you could enter, disappointingly limited.

I proceeded to the catacombs, deep underground, avoiding the cadence of voices and paying very little attention to the signposts and history placards.

History isn’t very interesting to me in certain such settings, as I like to fill these empty halls and hollow places with inventions of my own, imagined histories of a more-sordid and sinister sort.

Let me say this: You can never understand the terror of an echo or voice in the dark, until you’ve wondered the catacombs and dungeons beneath an ancient castle.

I took my time.

Crouching in black corners, thinking, listening, imagining.

The occasional oil lamp lighted the allotted path, which I explored but refused to follow, and I used my IPod light to reveal the intricacies of the darker places: holes and hollows and markings, hidden chambers and small, peculiar rooms.

I returned to Helsingborg exhilarated, to say the least.

Ju and I met with her friends Tim and Rosa in Lund, where we also explored another wonderfully spooky cathedral—one supposedly haunted by the ghost of a child-swallowing giant.

The night smiled upon us, ending well.

A good end to a good day.