Our DIY Wedding in Denmark

The beige waiting room was like something out of a modern fairy tale.

It's the morning of our wedding and I'm picking wild flowers in a field an island in the Baltic Sea. The flowers are for Kata's floral hair arrangement and my lapel. In less than an hour, we will walk to Aersokobing's town hall and stand before the registrar to be married.

It wasn't an easy journey to this field on Aero island. We took a plane to Amsterdam, another plane to Bilund (of Lego Land fame), then a bus to Vejle, a train to Odense, a local train to Svendborg, and finally a ferry to Aeroskobing.

But the journey began months earlier when we walked into Düsseldorf's city marriage office and saw the couples lined up out of the waiting room, into the hallway, down a flight of stairs and into the lobby. As if that wasn't enough, a newly married couple and their wedding guests were navigating through this snarl of waiting not-so-nearly weds.

We'd later learn that couple, if they were both foreigners like us, would have spent hours talking to bureaucrats in their embassies and the German government, gathering important documents from their homeland, getting them translated and certified, and then waited a year for the honour of pushing their way through a crowded government building to be allowed to the privilege of being married.

We wanted none of that.

One alternative was Denmark, the Las Vegas of Europe, because of the ease of getting married. Especially for a couple of foreigners living in Germany who had neither the time, patience, nor inclination to gather their required papers and wait months for an appointment to find out more papers would be needed before they could get on an eternal waiting list. There's a baby on the way, after all.

We found one of several businesses whose sole purpose is applying for a marriage on your behalf in either Copenhagen or Aero Island. In a matter of weeks, we had an appointment to get married.

We weren't the only couple running to Denmark for a quick and easy town hall wedding. After our comically long journey to Aeroskobing, we saw couples everywhere. Some were mixed race couples – an obvious sign of two people from different countries dodging huge document requirements and embassy visits, like us. We'd see others strolling the old town, the women with noticeable baby bumps, also like us. There was also a young-ish, extremely grumpy couple staying at our hotel, who we'd see later at the town hall just after their wedding, still looking miserable, unlike us.

So, ours was not a unique decision. The staff at the town hall knew the drill. When we arrived to confirm our marriage and get a time for the next day, the elderly lady behind the desk made copies of everything and gave us our appointment quickly and efficiently. A rarity for city government.

The old town of Aeroskobing.

So, the next morning, after picking our flowers, I return to our little cottage in the compound we share with mostly Danish retirees. It starts to rain as we finish getting ready – a few attempts with my tie for me and Kata fixing her hair – and return to the town hall, a little wet, but punctual.

We wait in the little grey, government-issue waiting area and watch one young couple come out, with their parents and a few others, and watch another young couple pace impatiently around the town hall office. Kata gets up to the bathroom, maybe because she's nervous and maybe because she's pregnant, and while she's away they call our name. I wait at the door of the office for Kata to finish up and she rounds the corner directly down the hall from the office. So, I whistle "Here comes the bride..." and Kata walks down the aisle... well the hallway.

There are three elderly ladies in the room. One is the registrar, who will marry us, and the other two are our witnesses, who will, you guessed it, witness the ceremony and snap photos with Kata's phone. The whole thing will last fifteen minutes. After a bit of small talk, the registrar reads a prepared statement, asks us do we, which we do. We put on the rings and we're married. There's a kiss, papers to sign, and a quick toast. Then we're outside in the rain, which we've been told is good luck in Denmark – these marriage office people know their stuff.

When the rain clears up, we spend the afternoon with Kata's nice camera and a tripod, DIY-style, snapping photos around the island's famous beach houses. We eat a steak dinner at a local restaurant. We spend the next two days exploring the island. We mentioned our plan to the registrar, who was surprised because people don't spend any more time here than is necessary to get married. They get in and get out. That is a shame.

Aero island is beautiful!

The old town is lovely, with its 200-year-old houses and post offices and stores and restaurants, but a walk away reveals so much more. The Danish islanders grow lovely gardens filled with neat rows of blooming flowers and apple trees. The entire island is covered with long, golden grass that swishes around in a sea breeze that rarely stops.

The place is clean, and not the German-style of clean where it gets dirty and workers clean up the mess at dawn, but clean in a way that it doesn't get dirty because people take care of it. We saw very little litter. Most people rode their bikes. And they smiled and waved as we took our wedding photos on the beach, totally at ease with marriage tourists wandering their shores.

Like any island, the pace is relaxed. We found ourselves getting into that groove. Our only tasks was breakfast and then one errand (registering at the town hall one day, getting married the next, mailing documents another day). The rest of the day was spent visiting the beaches, another town at one end of the island, eating freshly smoked salmon, or cooking in our cottage and watching TV where the English isn't dubbed, but subtitled so we can enjoy it without straining.

Yes, it would have been fine to get in, get married, and get out, but lingering here turned it into a mini-honeymoon with a wedding in the middle of it. We missed our family and friends. We wished our loved ones could have been here for it. But in the end, it was just the two of us, and that's all we needed to make it perfect.

Newly weds.

Not Beating the Heat Wave

I think this heat wave is beginning to affect the Germans. The other day, on a crowded, stuffy bus, a man threw up between his legs at his seat and tried to act natural about it. It didn't work. I left the bus to escape its fresh barf smell and witnessed a homeless man jump in front of a hose, which a storeowner was using to water a tree along the sidewalk. The storeowner seemed, surprisingly, nonplussed.

It's the third or fourth week of the heat wave that's scorching northern Europe and it's starting to show. Businessmen in suits melt into their seats on the train, kindergarten teachers chase their young charges in slow motion, and city workers lean a little more heavily on their shovels.

This is a country that is not only completely unused to this heat, but completely unprepared for it. In Southern Ontario, I would've retreated to an air conditioned room with blackout curtains and stayed until September. Here, few have the luxury of air conditioning. Many apartments have wide windows that are great for letting the air flow through it, but not so good for summer heat waves were the temperature doesn't drift below 25 degrees some nights.

The trains, trams, and buses are no better. Most have small windows, designed to let a little air in, but are sealed shut to keep the spring-winter-autumn chill out. In this weather, they've been mobile saunas, 

Offices are not spared either. At Ogilvy, we used shutters to keep the sun out and windows to let the breeze in to avoid using the air conditioning, which was used so seldom that it was always set to Arctic and people would run to the thermostat and shut off the vent above their work station. When enough people did this, the air conditioning was pretty much turned off and we'd switch to shutters and windows again.

My office in Aachen also lacks air conditioning, so we're also relying on windows for a cool breeze, or at least a warm breeze, and shutters, which for some reason open suddenly for no reason other than to blind the workers inside with searing, hot sunlight. The heat in the office can be so debilitating that many of my colleagues avoid coming into the office and work from home, where they can at least stay cool and, if they're like me, work in basketball shorts and an undershirt.

When I do work from home, our apartment turns into a cool bunker. The shutters – first floor apartments in Germany have shutters over the windows, in case of burglars, peepers, and zombies – are shut and a fan is strategically set up.

Usually the German summer is a benign thing and the Germans partake in summer activities with typical efficiency. They patiently line up at ice cream shops, many stretching around the corner. On sunnier days, locals dash for the public parks, peeling off layers, while the rest of us are getting our shorts and miniskirts from storage. By the end of May, most of Germany is walking about, bronzed from laying in public parks under the sun, and happily eating their ice cream.

This summer is different. In the heat wave's first week, I'd see people who thought they could handle an afternoon of tanning in the park. They looked like they fell asleep in a brick kiln – bright red, visibly thirsty, stumbling to the shade. They still haven't quite discovered the North American cooling tactic: the movie theatre. We've watched a couple flicks and haven't had to fight a crowd to get good seats.

They have, however, gone running to the local lakes and pools. On Sunday, we went to a pool/strand in the Dorf's north end. Getting there was like crossing a desert. The grass is scorched brown and I was sure I saw a sun-bleached buffalo skull. Waiting on the platform to change trains was like looking through the haze in the Badlands. The train seemed like a mirage.

At the pool/strand, people laid towels on the burnt, brown grass or flocked to the shade under the trees and tents. But the water, with no clouds in the sky, was blue and cool. It was perfect, and you couldn't appreciate how great a swim that like that is unless you're coping with a heat wave in a country that is still learning how to handle heat waves.

The Badlands of the Dorf

Notes from the Commute

Good morning, fellow commuters.

Every morning I wake up to two alarms. One to get me out of bed and another to remind to stumble out the door and go to the train station, where I will await the train to Aachen.

And so the hurrying up and waiting begins. Sprint out of bed, linger over the breakfast, rush to the platform, wait for the train. Then the trip, which is actually a long wait for the train's arrival to Aachen.

In the afternoon, or Feierabend, as they call them here, I leave the office for the train station,  sometimes sprinting to a bus stop, to wait, then sprinting into the train station, to wait for a train, any train that will take me back to the Dorf. Once at home in the Dorf there is leisure time before the nightly routine of packing my bag and laying out my clothes to ease the limited decision-making-power of groggy-6am-straggery-sleepy Marshall.

Hurry up and wait. And wait. Those activities eat up a lot of time, which has become a precious commodity.

This blog has always been a passion project living in the margins of my day. Its posts begin as snippets scribbled into notebooks on a lunchtime Discovery Walk, then typed during the work day's final minutes before I leave the office.

But in the flurry of daily sprinting and waiting – with the pressure to catch the bus that will take me to the place where I will catch the train, with my time structured around arrivals, departures, and delays – those margins of my day are pushed back.

I'm not whining. I have a good, challenging job. I work with thoughtful, competent  people in a niche, but interesting corner of the tech industry. I even get to work from home, since my new employer treats its employees like responsible adults who can get work done without supervision.

This commuting lifestyle has only taught me the value of time. Sure, I have time to doodle in my notebook or read a book or look out the window and ponder things… like this blog post…

But when you have structure enforced on you it's difficult to find time to waste, like 45 minutes to write a blog post that's not working and then throw it out. (That might be a subtle mea culpa if you don't like this post.)

There's little time for Discovery Walks or quick drinks at the bar with colleagues, because there's a schedule to keep and a train board and things to do before I go to bed, like pack a lunch and search for clean clothes for the next day.

And yet, when I get those moments, to ride a bike during a lunch break on a home office day or just sit on the balcony, I appreciate those moments more because of their rarity.

I'm not complaining, seriously, because there's a lot to be happy with. Let us end it on a brighter note, with a promise to you, dear blog reader, that I will try to keep up with the blog. The daily slog is long, but it isn't so dreary. There's plenty to write about and plenty to show. I just have to stop taking pictures out of train windows and get on with telling you about it all.