Tower of Babel

Just a little story today. In Christiania there is a tower from the 1600’s that distinctly stands out among the many colors and architectural grandeurs of Copenhagen’s skyline. It is the Church of Our Saviour [Vor Frelsers Kirke in Danish], built, restored, and expanded by generations of old Danish kings as an elaborate symbol to God, as you do. It soars over its neighbors, beautifully ornate with dark-stained timber and round-arches trimmed in gold, rising along the spire. 4 angelic gargoyles perched on the tower guard a bright brass banister spiraling to its peak and invites any spectator to immediately wonder, can I climb up that? The answer is a resounding yes, it is a huge tourist attraction with visitors from around the world.

The 400 stairs that ascend the church go from steep to extreme. Many steps are worn and bowed. Some flights are more like ladders. Landings open into historical exhibits, art galleries, informational displays, donation boxes, a clock face, a room full of church bells, and finally, an observation deck. I learn that the temple of worship was damaged in one of the many wars with Sweden and repaired after the bombardment with improvements, including the distinctive tower. The building also houses the largest carillon in northern Europe, a massive a musical instrument comprised of 48 bronze bells. The largest of which weights over 2,000kg, a whole ton.

Near the top is the watchman route, where generations of guards would hold as post. It is a cool view. However, the gilded staircase continues around the outside of the spire that stands 10ms above the deck and I am determined to get to the very top.

At the base of this open-air climb, I see a small family. The parents are encouraging but patient with their young daughter. She is pressed right up against the tower roof as far as possible from the encroaching handrail. Her index finger and thumb pinch an ornamental trim on the spire face, her thin fingers are white with effort. She looks determined, but terrified, moving with deliberate determination but carrying a profound respect for her fear.

People pass on the outer edge, the path is wide enough to accommodate multiple lanes of bodies, offering privacy or encouragement.

I am a hippie, nomad, vagabond. I am carrying hearts cut from felt that I present as gifts to loved ones and strangers. This makes sense to a particular group of people, and those people are my people.

Which leads me to be perfectly prepared for this situation. As I pass by, I offer the girl a little heart - a jolt of courage - to keep climbing. She breaks out in a smile and grabs the gift in a tight fist, still white knuckled. Her parents smile and thank me, which I accept and keep going.

As you climb, the staircase narrows, curling around the spire. At the very peak, the tightening spiral steps dissolve from single file to nothing and the guard rail meets the apex, a golden globe with a figure of Christ gazing over the city. Here, a few graffitied locks, small sprayed tags, and intricate stickers denote the travelers who have ventured these last few inches, into the corner.

I crane my neck to observe all of Copenhagen below me. All around wisps of clouds and mist under an infinite blue sky. The sun hangs low, just starting to turn the horizon a yellow-orange hue. The tiled rooftops of the city form fractal-like geometric patterns within angular sidewalk perimeters. The uniformity clashes against the uneven shore line of the harbor. Tiny ships float on the waterways. A windmill farm is in the distance. This is a world class spot.

I am here to complete a side quest that was bestowed to me by friends in Kalmar.

First, I need a companion, an accomplice to stand watch. I greet and introduce myself to the random bystander right next to me. He is an Israeli traveler, which I greet with a Shalom Akhi, the two of three words I know in Hebrew, and translates to hello, brother. It’s always a hit for any Israeli I meet abroad, sharing a greeting in a language they love to use and that is inseparable from their culture and cultural identity. My master plan is a simple sell to my new friend.

With cover and conspiracy, I roll and light up, recently bought from the Freetown dealers. We share the peace pipe and enjoy the view.

He leaves and I take a few more moments to soak in the late afternoon sun.

As I descend, I am accosted by the wailing of a young child. Her mother is stewarding her toddler down the steep steps that lead from the observation deck to the interior of the church. But the young child is scared, and making a ruckus. She attempts a step, chickens out and retreats from the ledge. The mother is patiently fostering her daughter’s independence in Spanish. She beckons me ahead in English.

I’m feeling generous today. The trick to taking steep steps is to take them backwards, like climbing a ladder. I make a little show of demonstrating my method and stand at the landing below the little girl, to offer a safety net. Yo tengo miedo tambien, I say to her. The girl stops crying briefly, my terrible Spanish shaking her from absolute fear. She considers me. I tell her to try going down backwards, as does her mother, and with the rapid learning intuition and mimicry of a child, she takes the first step backwards, then turns around, still scared, but climbs down the rest of the staircase. The mother and I give a cheer! The mom gives thanks, which I accept and continue on the journey to ground level, leaving her to tackle the less intimidating flights through the church.

When I make it to the bottom, I happen to run into the French family. They greet me, we make small talk, in English. They did make the top! They credit that to my gift, still held in the daughter’s hand. She hesitantly offers it back to me, which I defer with equal speed and horror. It was a gift. To keep. We go our separate ways, I bid them Au revoir, which lights up the father’s face with a ray of recognition.

It hits me as I am biking back, feeling the wind brush my skin as I race through the dedicated biking lanes that are prolific in CPH. The Tower of Babel. Snippets of 3 languages, 4 including my native tongue. The representation of people gathered. The ability to give greeting in other languages. Seeing humans as equal and sharing in their perspectives, regardless where they are from. It is so much fun. As I have traveled, I’ve learned polite phrases of the places I’ve been, snippets of language that welcomes and forgives. Sometimes they don’t stick, but sometimes they do, and it’s the journey that’s important. It’s not fluency, or even really cultural understanding. It’s respect, it’s curiosity, it’s good mannerisms to meet people where they are at, where they are from. I find myself quite good at it, and it’s been a rewarding process. The little ways those skills have paid off are extremely satisfying.

I don’t know much about the Tower of Babel story itself. I’ll do a little research. But the joy of those minutes going down the tower are some of my favorite. It as reencouraged my inspiration to learn more languages, to travel broadly, and to keep learning from cultures that aren’t my own.

Tak tak for reading, Pura Vida, God Bless, and Good Night!

Winston