Wonder sprouts from trip to roots

Sitting at the dining table one evening, Dick and I decided that if we were ever going to take a trip by freighter, we'd better get cracking.

We had talked of a trip to Denmark and Norway, from which our families emigrated, and decided the time had come. We flew to Montreal to board the Can Mar Fortune. We boarded the ship the day before departure and marveled at the truck-size cargo containers being loaded on deck.

A massive crane placed each of the 2,000 containers within a few inches of their assigned space. Capt. Rajan Mathur said the deck was 216 meters long and the cargo weighed more than 26,000 tons.

The ship was immaculate. Our stateroom was large and comfortable with plenty of storage space. A couch, coffee table and private bathroom were included. A passenger lounge provided books, movies and music tapes. For the eight days we were at sea, we saw no newspapers or televisions and received only a brief resume of world events from the computer on the navigation bridge.

We spent a lot of time on the bridge and were always welcome.

When the crew had an emergency drill, we put on hard hats and life jackets, too, and hurried down the ladders to the life boats.

Joseph Koch, a young man from Switzerland, was the only other passenger. He spoke a little English, which was better than our nonexistent German. Despite the communication problem, we had a good time.

Finally, we entered the English Channel and passed Normandy and Calais in France on the starboard side and Dover, England, on the port side. These names brought back poignant recollections of World War II.

We disembarked in Antwerp, Belgium. We were on our own and headed to Denmark and Norway by ferry and train. It was marvelous to see the terrain our grandparents had known: fields, woods, rivers and bays. In Denmark we went to Ribe on the west coast, a village that dates to the days of Vikings.

One night, a concert was held in St. Catherine's Church, which was built in 1228. Renaissance music was played on lute and a viola da gamba. The music echoed softly from the architecture in the old church, euphoric, calming.

I was impressed with the Danish children, who are very self-confident. We would see them walking and talking with their parents or singing as they skipped. One day there was a street market, and people brought vegetables and fruits, arts and crafts. The children went with their dogs and bikes and a few things of their own for sale. Bookstores displayed children's books instead of mysteries and romances.

I was amazed to see people who looked like me, like my sister, like my hairdresser, who is Danish. In a restaurant, a waiter reminded me of my Uncle Vigo: the same shy smile, twinkly eyes. I got weepy.

We drove to Hirtshals on the north coast and took a ferry to Norway and a train to Stavanger, where we could see the shipping docks Dick's grandparents had known. We thought the weather was cold, but the locals relished the summer warmth at tables outside cafes.

I thought of the courage it must have taken to emigrate to the New World: the hope and wonder of the unknown that came with our people. They were brave, and I'm glad they came. I love being an American.

- Dakota Eliason is the author of Kitchen Tables and Other Midlife Musings. Write to her in care of Seniority, St. Petersburg Times, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg, FL 33731; or send e-mail to Dakota.one2@verizon.net

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