Okay, technically I didn’t find this wee present in my boot this morning. Officially, I found it on the morning of Friday, May 4, in Copenhagen, of all places. Which is where I have been. Which is why I have not been here, writing in this blog.
(Copenhagen! O, Copenhagen, land of beautiful buildings and bicycles and windmills and herring! And smorresbrod! To which I would relocate in a heartbeat if it weren’t for all those things like money and jobs and family and citizenship and language barriers, etc. But I digress: right now, we’re talking about things in boots.)
I found this little bracelet, lovingly made by Isaac, in my left ART Company boot
(… … and then she drifted off onto eBay in search of size 40 ART boots… …)
…, the boots, you may recall, that I purchased in Chicago for approximately the cost of what my heart would fetch on the black market. And that was half price. But that’s okay, because they are the most beautiful boots I have ever owned and I adore them.
I was putting on said boots in order to go out for dinner with my girl to Aamaans restaurant, for what turned out to be one of the loveliest meals of the trip (and, o, there were many lovely meals on that trip, lo, yes there were), and finding Isaac’s bracelet seemed like a sweet omen, a reminder of my children, who had conveniently remained in North America while their mothers sojourned abroad in honour of my 40th birthday. (Look soon for a guest post from their caretaker, the indefatigable — or, more accurately, utterly fagged out, no pun intended — Rob, on what was like to take care of them for a week, solo. Heh.)
We were joined at the end of the meal by
by this girl I had a fling with during the summer of 1995 my friend Lene and her girlfriend, Maria, who scooped us up and took us out to some bars where there were many younger women dressed up like Simon Le Bon (this seems to be a fashion trend, no? Babydykes in black fedoras with rolled rims and lots of eyeliner?), and who the next day scooped us up in their little Volkswagen and drove us three hours inland to the city of Århus, which I also promptly fell in love with.
We ate the original Danish comfort food at Teater Bodega (I had a dish called Biksemed, which translates roughly into “mixed food,” which is, of course, what it is;
Rachel ate some rock-hard yet delicious bacon with potatoes and parsley sauce and swooned), drank Carlsberg classic, and visited the rainbow panorama on top of the Århus Art Museum.
And we also went to a flea market, where out of the corner of her eye Rachel spied these ART boots.
In her size.
For 30 kroner.
Which translates to approximately five dollars.
And then she bought them. And then I tried very hard not to sulk. Mostly successfully, but with little episodes of sulking breaking through now and then like the opposite of the sun through clouds.
And then Lene, bless her Danish heart, said to Rachel, “You know, I have a pair of cowboy boots in your size that I love but I never wear. Why don’t you take them?”
And then I thought about killing both of them until they were dead, but instead I smiled serenely and encouraged Rachel to just say yes, until I couldn’t help it any more and hissed at her out of the corner of my mouth, “I didn’t sleep with some girl 17 years ago so that YOU could get BOOTS.”
And she smiled back at me, equally serenely, and said, “Apparently, yes you did.”