Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Not Dead
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: We’re still in Copenhagen. Word of warning: Lee (predictably) thought this essay was dull. I don’t care—I’m sending it out anyway. I mean, let’s be real: sometimes I write these things for y’all, but sometimes they are purely for my own entertainment.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Not Dead
A couple of days ago I hollered to Lee from the kitchen of our little Copenhagen apartment. I’m going to start the dishwasher—do you have any dishes?
In response, he asked if I needed him to come help.
Okay, first off, yes, that was very nice of him. All wives should be so lucky. And obviously, Lee and I often have to figure out how to operate machines that are labeled in incomprehensible languages, and sometimes that really is a team effort. So points to him for offering.
But actually, I can manage. I am 57 years old (actually, this whole exchange took place on the day I turned 57). For many years, we owned a ‘normal’ middle-class American house in the ‘burbs. We had all the mod cons, plus a few extras. We raised two children, both of whom used a LOT of dishes. I UNDERSTAND THE BASIC CONCEPT OF DISHWASHERS.
This happens to both of us a lot these days—we sort of ‘forget’ how to be the people we used to be, in our ‘before’ lives. If Lee got up tomorrow morning and put on a suit and wingtips, I’m not sure I’d recognize him. Even further back in our lives, before the children came along, I used to wear ‘real’ clothes too. I wrote brainy-sounding things (I’ve always been good at faking it) and sometimes I taught young people about how to read and think critically, how to write in complete sentences, and when to use a semicolon.
That former version of me (one of many self-iterations, now that I think about it—perhaps that’s a thread I should tug on at some point and see what I find) still inhabits a corner of my essential self, and occasionally something piques her attention.
When we got to Denmark, she sat right up and demanded an audience with the Prince of Denmark.
So off I went on Tuesday, in search of Shakespeare’s Elsinore (which is nowadays known as Helsingor).
The night before, Lee asked a little hesitantly if I needed him to come with. I laughed. I suspect he’d rather pluck out his own eyeballs than go on a Shakespeare-themed adventure. No, this was a purely-for-my-own-pleasure sort of boondoggle.
The trains in Denmark are dead simple to use. I have an app on my phone; I put in the name of the station I wanted to go to (this is for the real train, mind you, not the city metro), and clicked ‘buy.’ Then I just hopped on the next train. Five minutes later we were zipping along, and my return journey was just as spontaneous and smooth (although it turns out I needn’t have bought a return ticket, so I accidentally overpaid by about eleven dollars, damn it).
Kronborg Castle, as it’s known now, is where William Shakespeare set one of his most famous plays—Hamlet, the Prince of Denmark. The story is based on a much older Danish legend, that of Prince Amleth.
But as you may remember, Shakespeare was the master of turning slivers of source material into tales for the ages. Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, Julius Caesar, Antony and Cleopatra, and obviously all the history plays (plus a bunch of others) all had kernels, large or small, of history at their core.
Kronborg Castle was a beautiful example of the way Shakespeare rewove older tales. The day I visited, there were enough guests to make it seem perky and not-creepy, but it was mercifully uncrowded—unlike the historic center of Copenhagen.
In Denmark, Kronborg is known less for its Hamlet connection, and more as the resting place of Ogier the Dane, an ancient King Arthur-esque character who slumbers beneath the castle, waiting to rise and defend Denmark in an hour of need. (I’m fascinated that this seems to be a mythic archetype adopted in many different countries, but also—Denmark was occupied by the Germans during the Second World War. If that didn’t awaken Ogier, I’m not sure what would. On the other hand: apparently Ogier was a symbol of the Danish resistance during that war, so … maybe he did?)
I don’t know what happened to Ogier, or the Danish resistance, or Hamlet and poor Ophelia. Or King Frederick II and his (young!) wife Sofie. What I do know is that wandering through that castle, learning how and why Shakespeare’s Elsinore was inspired by the real Kronborg Castle, scratched a real itch in my brain.
And that’s enough. Today I have no deep insights into the human experience—just the joy of pursuing one’s passions and interests on a beautiful day by the sea.
I contain multitudes, and I reserve the right to indulge them all.
Take care,
Lisa
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