Welcome to Texas! Part 1 of 10...or More (?)

(This blog was originally posted by tgdindenmark1, 16th of June, 2014)



“It is said that time heals all wounds. I don’t know if I believe this to be true. For even wounds healed properly leave scars, whether we are wounded physically…or emotionally.”
The Great Dane

There comes a time when we need to look at a phrase such as the one above and reconsider its context, only to assess whether it isn’t time to revise it. Perhaps, by shifting the words about,  would bring upon a new cognitive impact, in which we may change our views regarding the wounds inflicted upon us in our lives.

It is inevitable, we become wounded at some point in our lives, some more than others, whether it be physically...or emotionally. To some, the wounds may seem small and insignificant, not realizing the depth of the tear of the emotional flesh, just as one cannot predict, while looking at a physical wound with an untrained eye the severity of the singe of the muscle fibres once the skin is broken. Others may look to have taken quite a beating in the emotional battles, only to find out the is was nothing but a very large superficial scratch to the surface. No matter the size or depth of our physical and emotional wounds in life, wouldn’t it be interesting and perhaps rather refrshing if we could shift the focus from the wounds and whether or not time heals them, to focusing instead on how we carry the markings we are given by such scars, as they are the very essence of what differs us from one another, much like the ridges of our fingertips...wouldn’t we then see all of the challenges given to us differently?  Rather, if we stated: “Time presents us with an opportunity to carry perfect scars given to us by the gift of wounds?”, would it give us the opportunity to show off our past with pride, no matter how chaotic, tragic such past was, rather than carrying such past much like a dreadful burden weighing upon frailed shoulders as buckets of water carried by a tired villager...restraining the mind, much like shackles upon the ankles of a prisoner, constantly reminding him of the loss of his freedom due to his poor choices.

Life goes by, and opportunities are missed if we sit around licking our wounds, waiting for them to heal properly before we go on with anything else in life. I can attest to that. I decided long time ago, to let the wounds heal on-the-go, wearing the subsequent scarring proudly, much like a tigress wearing her stripes. I have earned each and every one of such metaphorical stripes with various degrees of sacrifice. Some, if they were to analyze my life thus far, would say that a few of the scars derive from wounds which have never healed properly. Some may observe the scars to be excessive. It is irrelevant. By focusing on the strength, which I have earned through the sacrifice behind my scars, I have been able to live a rich life in form of experiences and unique challenges. And, as every scar comes with story, I will be cashing them in…one scar, and one story at a time,also metaphorically speaking.

There is something to learned by stories, as there is something to teach through storytelling, I will, therefore, present one story, which may marvel, even humor you; particularly, it may entertain those of you belonging to the legal community, more so than others. I have to admit, that the unfortunate event which I am about to splatter all over this blog did leave me wounded; however, as I experienced this event later in life, and as I have, throughout time, acquired a robust emotional armor, I can truly say that the bizarreness of it all, wounded only my pride, although my reputation was bruised beyond imagination. Regretfully so, I fear that others whom I encountered in a short period of two months, may have been given emotional wounds which may never heal…

Part 1: Have passport and ESTA approval…will travel!

I have had plenty of opportunities to write this story; every time, however, such an opportunity arose, I would find an excuse not to manifest the story with words. Either the motivation was not sufficient to write what I believed should be included in the story; or, the agony of the events of which I was about to write was not quite buried yet in the section of the mind where we store away all for which we choose to repress. On another occasion, the motivation was present, yet the words didn’t come as easily as expected; I, therefore, thought that I would follow an advise to all writers by Ernest Hemingway, himself:  “Write drunk; edit sober.”

That did not turn out as expected. Instead of words pouring out as expected while the chilled Frascati was consumed (one delicious glass after another) I was finding myself turning into a social butterfly, chatting endlessly with my friend, who was a gracious hostess, kind enough to open the doors to her home at a time where I was trying to find the right place to write, about everything women ordinarily chat about while in each other’s company...and, while simultaneously scouring EBAY for great deals, placing bids on everything from jewelry to blond human hair extensions, only to justify our purchases by stating and reaffirming to one another that we were only aiding foreign small business entrepreneurs in places such as China and India, rather than satisfying our own shallow needs for material unnecessities. Amount of words written: zero.

After dismissing the famous advice by Ernest Hemingway, attempting the writing while replacing the opalescent wine glass with a cup of frothy coffee, words slowly started fluttering from my mind and unto the computer screen:

"It has been nearly a year since my brief return to the United States of America, for which I believed to become one of the most joyous holidays of all; a most memorable time in my life it was supposed to be...an experience which would, afterwards, be treasured in my mind as well as heart, just as a precious gem is stored safely in the comfort of a jewelry box. And just as I had expected, the trip became quite memorable, indeed; although not “quite” as I had expected.

It was supposed to be a trip with a full agenda, starting out with the event first and foremost importantly to check off the list of the busy couple of weeks: attending my eldest daughter’s wedding!

An event scheduled to take place only two days after my arrival, and being the day I had been looking forward to for so long, as it meant being surrounded by all of those whom I cared about,while in the very same moment, on a beautiful September day; a moment foreseen to be wonderfully indescribable. The trip, however, also presented a perfect opportunity to personally invite the first five individuals, carefully selected from a list of many individuals whom were to be invited to join the efforts which lies ahead of the projected mission of the non-profit organization, Int. Humanitarian Alliance.

Yes, this, too, would become another memorable moment, almost equally exciting as being reunited with my family. The foundation of the non-profit organization was complete and it was now anticipated to become first phase of fruition after endless hours of research, exhausting fieldwork, and the creation of strategies. Of course, there was also hope for time to do less important things, which was, nonetheless, some of the things I missed so much about America: driving down the highway in a pickup truck without prejudice: Although quite an advocate for eco-friendly transportation, I regret to say, that the ultimate driving experience is somehow crippled while inside of a compact, tiny European car; a slight sense of claustrophobia and a sudden onset of a visual image of sardines in a box, rather than the sense of freedom, comes to mind when cruising in this type of vehicle...especially, if riding with more than two occupants; eating smothered burritos and listening to NPR (for all of you non-American readers: NPR, or National Public Radio, also known as 'Public Communist Radio', airs non-biased news from around the world)...shopping at T.J Maxx, Target and Ann Taylor,and, yes-even Walmart, with my daughters; all things which Americans take for granted, and the Europeans are oblivious to, as it isn’t available to them. Needless to say that emotions were running high every time the thoughts of, once again, stepping unto American soil.
A great deal of self control had to be practiced before the departure in order stay on-track, not losing sight of the upcoming busy schedule. Nonetheless, thoughts of that moment in which I would witness my daughter standing before her husband while promising herself to him, becoming part of something greater than the two of them individually had been until then, set off more sparks in the central nervous system than I would ever imagine possible; the thought of the smell of the little neck of my youngest son of only three years, hung in my nostrils as if it was real, envisioning hugging him tight after our two years of separation. According to the pictures of my youngest daughter, she was transforming from the little girl with golden locks into a young (and very tall) teenager; and then there was my oldest son, no longer a teenager, but a man, sporting a beard and sharing living space with his girlfriend. I was yearning to be in their presence; being surrounded by these young individuals whom I was privileged to have given life, whom combined were the primary reason for my existence to carry any value. Our family was quite different now than it was the day I hugged my oldest children good bye and departed America, two years previously. But, as I came to find out, soon after the wheels of the Boing screeched unto the Dallas runway in Texas, some things, regretfully, appeared to remain the same in America.

Having learned to be financially conscious, I found, while scheduling my travel plans, that it would be cheaper to fly from Copenhagen to Rome, spend the night at a four-star hotel, dine at a wonderful local seafood restaurant, followed by sightseeing inside the Vatican City, including wandering about the Colosseum at 2 o’clock in the morning (by the way, free of charge, and at the courtesy of my Italian male friend), only to continue to London/Dallas the following morning, than the price would be if I traveled directly the Copenhagen/Dallas route. Had I known then, however, that this little re-routing and changing of the entry into the United States from a different country than where residing would end up causing so much confusion as proved to be the case, I would have taken a bite from the sour apple and paid the stiff price of traveling directly from Copenhagen.

Anyway: the intangible pieces of memorabilia of the trip was about to take form in the most exciting way, and before leaving, the thought of still having a surplus of twenty dollars in my wallet than I would have had, should I have chosen the direct flight brought, needless to say, a sense of satisfaction not only to my personal bank account ledger but also to my ego.

The following morning, after touring Rome by night with Mr. Charming, and readily prepared with a suitcase stuffed with the best money can buy in form of Danish chocolates, wedding presents and all other sorts of presents and souvenirs from the tiny country at the northern tip of the European continent, compromising the remaining space, thereby limiting the amount of clothing, shoes and accessories one can squeeze into an already over-stuffed piece of luggage...a luxury problem which most women (and some men) can relate to, and which I do not ordinarily encounter as I pride myself of traveling light, only; and, while curing a slight hangover with a Red Bull, I was heading for the check-in line at the Fiumicino airport. The signora at the check-in desk presented a courteous smile after she carefully inspected my passport as well as the ESTA receipt, by which she thereafter stuck the ESTA inspection sticker unto my passport and handed it back, along with my boarding pass. Ciao to Rome… Hello, London- and HOWDY, Dallas! Everything thus far had gone according to the plan...what could possibly go wrong?"


TO BE CONTINUED...