Copenhagen, episode 10. In which Karen Blixen had a farm in Africa.

The beautiful home in the background of Mari's selfie of us in our (almost) matchy-matchy shirts has tremendous historic, literary, and (of course) personal significance, all of which I shall dive heartily into today as part of my final Copenhagen episode in which we are finally back in Copenhagen after our Baltic cruise adventures. I am quite a bit sad to be leaving Copenhagen behind, just as I was on that postcard perfect day back in July of 2017. Our final full day in Copenhagen will long live in my storied memory as one of the most favorite days of my life.

Allow me to storytell.

I will never forget the first (of many, many) times I watched Out of Africa. My many-splendored story necessarily includes two wonderful friends, one of whom did not actually watch the movie with us, but more on Miss Coni later because she is categorically central to the epic adventure of two college friends and major movie buffs trekking to see Out of Africa for the first time.

I knew Ted and I would be good friends when he first moved in across the hall from The Wicker Lounge in August of 1985, my sophomore (his freshman) year. His wonderfully warm mom gave me a hug when she first met me as Ted's family dropped off its oldest son for his first year of college and, before returning to Kansas a few days later, gave me another wonderfully warm hug and asked me to look after her son. When Ted later told me that his Midwestern mother refused to allow a microwave oven in her house, he cemented our kinship and we became even faster friends. Our eventual extended study-avoidance discussions about movies clinched the deal.

I was a great admirer of Ted's cinema knowledge and of his own personal acting and singing talents and Marissa and I are eternally grateful to him for singing so beautifully at our wedding. I don't remember whose idea it was to trek to the theaters at the mall formerly known as Scottsdale in south South Bend, but I know we were both excited to see Out of Africa upon its Oscar re-release sometime in late February of 1986.

Late February in South Bend means winter (sometimes late April in South Bend means winter) and neither of us moviegoing dorm-mates had our own transportation so we did like most locals did and we got up and went with Transpo.

I always admired the catchy slogan of South Bend's public bus service, Transpo, "Get up and go with Transpo!" Sorry, Transpo, but "The new way to go" just doesn't... well... it doesn't make me want to get up.

Regardless of its slogan, Transpo's dependable service transported Ted and me the seven and a half slushily cold miles to the far south end of South Bend to the theaters at Scottsdale Mall which has since been unceremoniously razed and replaced with a colorfully nondescript collection of strip malls where I believe a Target bullseye stands watch over the former cinema on the mall's east end.

Our Saturday afternoon matinee did not disappoint and Ted and I immediately started making plans to revisit the tragically beautiful epically dramatic biopic during our return Transpo to the downtown bus station where we expected to transfer northbound back to campus.

We learned a valuable lesson from our driver that day, almost as significant and certainly more practical than any lesson in our college courses: buses stopped running at 6:00 PM on Saturdays (no service on Sundays).

In a pre-cellular world, on a cold, slushily wet, and winter-dark Saturday, I had no choice but to find a pay phone and beg my friend Coni (who had a car and her own apartment) for a ride.

Ask her today, 32 years later, and either she will say I have lost my mind because she doesn't remember this incident (huge favor) at all or she will roll her eyes and think, "Yeah, Lou, I dragged my heiny out of my Saturday night bubble bath for you boys... of course I remember!" If I know Coni, it is definitely (hopefully) somewhere in between.

Remind me to share with you the tragically embarrassing tale of

my first attempt at doing laundry and how Coni set me straight.

And if I know Ted, I have a feeling Out of Africa is right up there on his favorites list, too. I remember he spent quite a bit of time trying to find the poem Karen read at Denys' funeral, one of my favorite scenes in any film. Remember, this was pre-IMDB, pre-internet even, when you had to look subjects up in the most current Reader's Guide to Periodical Literature (that necessary scourge of all research) before finding the drawer with the correct microfiche!

I know.  I've lost half my audience.

In other words, you had to work really long and hard to answer a question that Alexa can monotonically retort to your request in just a few seconds, but Ted was determined and I remember how excited we both were when he introduced me to A. E. Houseman's "To an Athlete Dying Young," a beauty of an ode that was likewise brilliantly excerpted in the film.

Yes, I know. Copenhagen.

When we were first researching Copenhagen, Mari discovered with great joy that the Karen Blixen Museum was located just outside the city.

Onto my list went the family home of the celebrated Out of Africa author (published under Blixen's pen name, Isak Dinesen) and an extra day in Copenhagen inked onto our itinerary.

No sooner had we disembarked from our cruise and rechecked our luggage at the Admiral, than we were hoofing it to Central Station for a train to Rungsted, about 20 miles to the north.

If you do take the train from Copenhagen, the front entrance to the museum is less than a mile's walk from the station and not worth the time it takes to wait for the local bus advertised here (at right) to take you to its first stop.

There is also a shortcut off Rungstedvej Street which will take you onto the rear of the museum's lush and well-tended property, allowing you to walk the property before approaching the museum from the back yard.

For a lover of Out of Africa as well as another favorite based on Blixen's writings, 1988's Oscar-winning foreign language film, Babette's Feast, a visit to Copenhagen must include an afternoon at the Karen Blixen Museum. If Mari's photos aren't enough to satisfy your cravings, then please click on my YouTube video below to watch highlights from our visit. We tour inside and outside the beautiful estate, home to the beloved Danish author.

the phonograph given to Blixen by Denys Finch Hatton

It was an incredible thrill to walk through Blixen's home, where she was raised and where she lived once more upon her return from Kenya in 1931 until her death in 1962.

It was a thrill I hope to repeat some day because I dream, of course, of visiting the "other" Karen Blixen Museum (in Nairobi, Kenya), but that is another story, another selfie, another journey, another list for another day.

beans harvested from Blixen's Nairobi coffee plantation

The K1 Flea Market outside Nairobi and the Masai market in Karen (named after you-know-who) on the grounds of Blixen's failed coffee farm are also on that travel list.

For now, I must pack up my melancholia and bid a fond farvel to a capital city which welcomed us magnificently even as it transported us on journeys beyond its Baltic byways. Our multinational cruise adventures notwithstanding, Copenhagen was a pleasant surprise and a city incredibly rich with history and culture, satisfyingly creative and delicious cuisine (that includes the express meals and pints of wild strawberries we picked up at the local føtex market to help us stay on budget), and, of course, the welcomingly wonderful and wonderfully eclectic Sunday flea at Ravnsborggade.

I think my wonderfully supportive travel partner would agree that should we ever decide to pack it all up, go minimalist (but modishly modern), and trade in our cars for bicycles, Copenhagen would definitely be at the top of my list.

A special episode awaits us next week as I begin an intimidatingly exciting new adventure!