The city of Copenhagen owns 2200 specially designed city bikes. The bikes are placed in racks all over the city, and can be picked up by anyone in return for a one-coin deposit.
It’s a wonderful service, but there is a drawback: Each bike weighs 25 kilos, and the tires are made of solid rubber.
In the summer 2005 I decided to cycle the 3500 kilometers from Copenhagen to Istanbul on such a bike. My mission was to find the goodness in people on my way through Europe.
I have cycled 90 kilometers. I’m sitting at a Shell gas station six kilometers from Vordingborg (a town not far from the Danish/German border). A couple of minutes ago a man carrying three empty Tuborg beer bottles went into the shop. He came out again carrying three new bottles. He’s drinking his bottle with a fat lady with no front teeth and a fat boy who could be their son. An equally fat guy holding a French hotdog in his left hand frowned at me when passing me in his car. In the rear window of his car a big hand made of fabric was giving the finger to people driving behind him. I didn’t ask myself to shake my head. My head shook automatically. They’re all Danes.
Today I cycled 65 kilometers in Poland. It took me six hours. I’m back in Germany now – in a big room in a log house three kilometers from the Polish/German border. My visit to Poland was short but unpleasant. I didn’t feel safe while I was there. Before entering into Poland three persons told me “Be careful in Poland, keep an eye on your belongings, the Polish people steal”. Nothing was stolen from me during the six hours I was in Poland. I found my stay there unpleasant for another reason. My impression was that the roughly 200 people I noticed in the villages I cycled through expressed nothing but quiet hostility. There was no warmth to be found in the furrows between their eyes. I smiled and nodded to 40 persons. Three of the 40 returned my greeting. The remaining 37 frowned at me angrily or looked away. By smiling I wanted them to welcome me and to see my smile returned. But they disowned me. The blond fool on the bike. At least I wasn’t run down by a car.
It’s ten-thirty pm, and I’m sitting in a t-shirt on a chair in the backyard of a pension in the village Ullendorf. Ullendorf is 200 kilometers south-east of Berlin. It’s not the village that makes me high. It’s the sum of all the impressions I’ve received today. I left the log house at 11 am. I cycled for six hours. It cannot be explained how fantastic that was. I’m sweating when I cycle. That is in itself fantastic. I stop. Drink water. Kick back the prop stand. Get into a trance again. I saw a stork. Ordered a cup of coffee in a village. Smoked cigarettes. I met an unusually sympathetic Danish married couple by chance. And parted with them again. OK. Enough talking. It’s nine-thirty pm, and I see a sign that says I can’t go to Lieberrose as I’ve planned to. The reason is roadwork. It’s getting dark. There are fir trees on both sides of the road. No cars. I could put up my tent but I need food. I see a sign. It says “Pension Blanche – 6 kilometers”. I know I can’t cycle more than six kilometers – my knee hurts.
I reach the pension and get a fantastic room. 18 Euros breakfast included. The lady running the pension speaks in a whisper. She doesn’t want to wake the other guests. I whisper “Is it possible to get a cup of coffee? I don’t suppose I could get some food? I’m so hungry”. 15 minutes pass. I meet her husband in the backyard. He says “My wife has set out food for you”. I step into their living room. I feel the urge to call my parents and tell them what I see. I’ve got the whole living room to myself. Instinctively the wife apologizes for the table she has set. I feel little. I use the word ‘fantastisch’. I know it doesn’t suffice. Two different kinds of cheese. Two different kinds of ham. A pot of coffee. Cream. Juice. Ten slices of pealed cucumber strewn with chives encircle a tomato. I say the word again “Fantastisch”. I’m full now. And slightly dumbfounded. Once again the world has shown me that it’s bigger than I thought.
I’m smoking a cigarette. Drinking a cup of coffee. I have bags under my eyes. I’m happy. It’s ten or 11 am. I’m sitting at a table outside a café in the village Bozovici. Bozovici is in the southern part of Romania. I reached Bozovici yesterday at seven pm. I wasn’t able to cycle much further. I asked the lady in the café if there was a hotel in this village or in one of the villages nearby. She said there wasn’t. This meant that I had to spend the night in my tent. I bought food for the night in the café and ordered a cup of coffee. Quite a few young people were sitting at the tables outside the café. They kept looking at me. I was wearing cycling shorts, had blond hair. I stood up, fetched the map from the handlebar basket, pointed at Copenhagen, at myself, made a cycling movement with my hands and said “Istanbul”. They whistled, laughed, started an agitated conversation. 15 minutes passed. The lady from the café appeared. She said, “We may have an apartment where you can spend the night”. She
pointed at the block on the other side of the street. I said “OK”! I said “How much will it cost”? I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea. A boy who spoke English was sent for. He said “Wait here for an hour, and the man who owns the apartment will stop by with the keys. I repeated the question “How much will it cost”? The boy said it didn’t cost anything. It was free. The man arrived. The English-speaking boy, his girlfriend and two friends said “Come” – they showed me the apartment. Three rooms. No bath.
Water-stained carpets. Spiders nestling in the corners. The boys had carried my bike into the apartment. There was no turning back. The boy who spoke English said “Bring some spare clothes – you can take a shower at my friend’s house”. After the shower I met the group at the café. They seated themselves around me. Talked to each other excitedly. Shouted. The level of sugar in my blood was low. One asked me if I was hungry. I said “I’m so hungry”. I asked the members of the group if they‘d had dinner. They all did. The English-speaking boy said “Do you want to go to a restaurant with us”? I said yes. We went in two cars – eight people in all. They didn’t eat anything, they watched me eat. We drove back to the café. Hung out for an hour. The boy who spoke English used the light in the display on his cell phone to guide me to the apartment. That’s where I slept tonight. I’m now sitting at a table outside the café where I arrived last night. It’s time to go.
I’m smoking a cigarette. Drinking a cup of coffee. I have bags under my eyes. I’m happy. It’s ten or 11 am. I’m sitting at a table outside a café in the village Bozovici. Bozovici is in the southern part of Romania. I reached Bozovici yesterday at seven pm. I wasn’t able to cycle much further. I asked the lady in the café if there was a hotel in this village or in one of the villages nearby. She said there wasn’t. This meant that I had to spend the night in my tent. I bought food for the night in the café and ordered a cup of coffee. Quite a few young people were sitting at the tables outside the café. They kept looking at me. I was wearing cycling shorts, had blond hair. I stood up, fetched the map from the handlebar basket, pointed at Copenhagen, at myself, made a cycling movement with my hands and said “Istanbul”. They whistled, laughed, started an agitated conversation. 15 minutes passed. The lady from the café appeared. She said, “We may have an apartment where you can spend the night”. She
pointed at the block on the other side of the street. I said “OK”! I said “How much will it cost”? I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea. A boy who spoke English was sent for. He said “Wait here for an hour, and the man who owns the apartment will stop by with the keys. I repeated the question “How much will it cost”? The boy said it didn’t cost anything. It was free. The man arrived. The English-speaking boy, his girlfriend and two friends said “Come” – they showed me the apartment. Three rooms. No bath.
Water-stained carpets. Spiders nestling in the corners. The boys had carried my bike into the apartment. There was no turning back. The boy who spoke English said “Bring some spare clothes – you can take a shower at my friend’s house”. After the shower I met the group at the café. They seated themselves around me. Talked to each other excitedly. Shouted. The level of sugar in my blood was low. One asked me if I was hungry. I said “I’m so hungry”. I asked the members of the group if they‘d had dinner. They all did. The English-speaking boy said “Do you want to go to a restaurant with us”? I said yes. We went in two cars – eight people in all. They didn’t eat anything, they watched me eat. We drove back to the café. Hung out for an hour. The boy who spoke English used the light in the display on his cell phone to guide me to the apartment. That’s where I slept tonight. I’m now sitting at a table outside the café where I arrived last night. It’s time to go.
I’m smoking a cigarette. Drinking a cup of coffee. I have bags under my eyes. I’m happy. It’s ten or 11 am. I’m sitting at a table outside a café in the village Bozovici. Bozovici is in the southern part of Romania. I reached Bozovici yesterday at seven pm. I wasn’t able to cycle much further. I asked the lady in the café if there was a hotel in this village or in one of the villages nearby. She said there wasn’t. This meant that I had to spend the night in my tent. I bought food for the night in the café and ordered a cup of coffee. Quite a few young people were sitting at the tables outside the café. They kept looking at me. I was wearing cycling shorts, had blond hair. I stood up, fetched the map from the handlebar basket, pointed at Copenhagen, at myself, made a cycling movement with my hands and said “Istanbul”. They whistled, laughed, started an agitated conversation. 15 minutes passed. The lady from the café appeared. She said, “We may have an apartment where you can spend the night”. She
pointed at the block on the other side of the street. I said “OK”! I said “How much will it cost”? I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea. A boy who spoke English was sent for. He said “Wait here for an hour, and the man who owns the apartment will stop by with the keys. I repeated the question “How much will it cost”? The boy said it didn’t cost anything. It was free. The man arrived. The English-speaking boy, his girlfriend and two friends said “Come” – they showed me the apartment. Three rooms. No bath.
Water-stained carpets. Spiders nestling in the corners. The boys had carried my bike into the apartment. There was no turning back. The boy who spoke English said “Bring some spare clothes – you can take a shower at my friend’s house”. After the shower I met the group at the café. They seated themselves around me. Talked to each other excitedly. Shouted. The level of sugar in my blood was low. One asked me if I was hungry. I said “I’m so hungry”. I asked the members of the group if they‘d had dinner. They all did. The English-speaking boy said “Do you want to go to a restaurant with us”? I said yes. We went in two cars – eight people in all. They didn’t eat anything, they watched me eat. We drove back to the café. Hung out for an hour. The boy who spoke English used the light in the display on his cell phone to guide me to the apartment. That’s where I slept tonight. I’m now sitting at a table outside the café where I arrived last night. It’s time to go.
I could cry. I’m on the verge of tears. It’ll take too long time to explain what has happened today. But my brain can no longer keep up with the events. I woke up in Romania, cycled eight hours in Serbia and am now lying on the bed in a hotel room in Vidin, Bulgaria. I’ve grown thin since I left Denmark 26 days ago. Tonight I received an SMS from my bank. It said that I’d reached my credit limit this month. I feel hollow inside, I need rest. Today I cycled 110 kilometers. Made an interview with three Serbs for Denmark’s Radio. They told me that they work all the time. They’re in their mid-20’s. One of them works as a waiter in a club. He gets six Euros for nine hours’ work. He claims that Serbia is a ghetto. He hasn’t got money or a visa, so he cannot leave the country. During the eight hours I was in Serbia I bought nothing. No cashpoint accepted Visa. He gave me an ice coffee. He gave me an energy drink. He asked for my phone number. He said “I’ll call you”. We had only talked for two hours. He asked his friend who speaks better English than he does to ask me to go with them to their town and spend the night with them. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wasn’t surprised that they asked me. This is not Denmark. It’s the Balkans. People aren’t afraid of committing themselves here. But I am. That’s not the reason I could cry, though. More likely the reason is that I’ve pushed myself too hard for too long.
I could cry. I’m on the verge of tears. It’ll take too long time to explain what has happened today. But my brain can no longer keep up with the events. I woke up in Romania, cycled eight hours in Serbia and am now lying on the bed in a hotel room in Vidin, Bulgaria. I’ve grown thin since I left Denmark 26 days ago. Tonight I received an SMS from my bank. It said that I’d reached my credit limit this month. I feel hollow inside, I need rest. Today I cycled 110 kilometers. Made an interview with three Serbs for Denmark’s Radio. They told me that they work all the time. They’re in their mid-20’s. One of them works as a waiter in a club. He gets six Euros for nine hours’ work. He claims that Serbia is a ghetto. He hasn’t got money or a visa, so he cannot leave the country. During the eight hours I was in Serbia I bought nothing. No cashpoint accepted Visa. He gave me an ice coffee. He gave me an energy drink. He asked for my phone number. He said “I’ll call you”. We had only talked for two hours. He asked his friend who speaks better English than he does to ask me to go with them to their town and spend the night with them. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I wasn’t surprised that they asked me. This is not Denmark. It’s the Balkans. People aren’t afraid of committing themselves here. But I am. That’s not the reason I could cry, though. More likely the reason is that I’ve pushed myself too hard for too long.
I’m sitting in an armchair in room 102 in a building that looks like a student house. The building is in Botevgrad. Botevgrad is in the middle of Bulgaria. I reached Botevgrad at eight o’clock this evening. I rode up to the biggest hotel in town and asked the receptionist if they had a room available for one night. She shook her head saying “No”. This weekend a Basketball tournament is taking place in town. Players from all over Europe have occupied all the rooms. The receptionist smiled. There wasn’t a fucking thing to smile at. I went outside and stopped a girl, she said there was one more hotel in town. She gave me the directions. 500 meters down the street I asked three men, “Do you know where the hotel is”? One of them said “Come on”. We walked 100 meters, the man went into the hotel and returned with bad news. No room available. I said thank you, he disappeared, I strongly disapproved of the thought of spending the night in my tent. Half an hour later the same man tapped me on the shoulder. I’d just finished buying food for the night. He said, “Just outside town there is a dormitory. My friend is driving. He’ll show you the way. Follow him on your bike”.
We drove one kilometer, the car pulled up in front of a hut surrounded by fir trees, the friend got out and started a conversation with an elderly woman attending the building. The friend argued my case. The lady made a call, but from her expression I understood that I wouldn’t get a room here. The second of the three men I’d met in town came cycling up the garden path in front of the building. We greeted each other, he talked to his friend who walked over to the sports center on the other side of the street. Five minutes later the three of us were standing in the lobby of a dormitory next to the sports center. The man whose car I’d followed on my bike said, “You can get a room here, it costs ten Leva”. He seemed annoyed that I had to pay that much. Ten Leva equals five Euros. I said “That’s totally fine”. I handed the receptionist a 20-Lev note and understood from his annoyed expression that he had no change. The guy whose car I’d followed gave me back the 20-Lev note and pulled from his own pocket five two-Lev notes and gave them to the receptionist. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Of course I didn’t let him pay for my room. But he wanted to. That’s what I don’t understand. After all the things he’d done for me during the evening, he even wanted to pay for my room. Before we parted, the two friends spent 20 minutes discussing which route was best for me to follow through Bulgaria to Istanbul.
I’m sitting in an armchair in room 102 in a building that looks like a student house. The building is in Botevgrad. Botevgrad is in the middle of Bulgaria. I reached Botevgrad at eight o’clock this evening. I rode up to the biggest hotel in town and asked the receptionist if they had a room available for one night. She shook her head saying “No”. This weekend a Basketball tournament is taking place in town. Players from all over Europe have occupied all the rooms. The receptionist smiled. There wasn’t a fucking thing to smile at. I went outside and stopped a girl, she said there was one more hotel in town. She gave me the directions. 500 meters down the street I asked three men, “Do you know where the hotel is”? One of them said “Come on”. We walked 100 meters, the man went into the hotel and returned with bad news. No room available. I said thank you, he disappeared, I strongly disapproved of the thought of spending the night in my tent. Half an hour later the same man tapped me on the shoulder. I’d just finished buying food for the night. He said, “Just outside town there is a dormitory. My friend is driving. He’ll show you the way. Follow him on your bike”.
We drove one kilometer, the car pulled up in front of a hut surrounded by fir trees, the friend got out and started a conversation with an elderly woman attending the building. The friend argued my case. The lady made a call, but from her expression I understood that I wouldn’t get a room here. The second of the three men I’d met in town came cycling up the garden path in front of the building. We greeted each other, he talked to his friend who walked over to the sports center on the other side of the street. Five minutes later the three of us were standing in the lobby of a dormitory next to the sports center. The man whose car I’d followed on my bike said, “You can get a room here, it costs ten Leva”. He seemed annoyed that I had to pay that much. Ten Leva equals five Euros. I said “That’s totally fine”. I handed the receptionist a 20-Lev note and understood from his annoyed expression that he had no change. The guy whose car I’d followed gave me back the 20-Lev note and pulled from his own pocket five two-Lev notes and gave them to the receptionist. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Of course I didn’t let him pay for my room. But he wanted to. That’s what I don’t understand. After all the things he’d done for me during the evening, he even wanted to pay for my room. Before we parted, the two friends spent 20 minutes discussing which route was best for me to follow through Bulgaria to Istanbul.
I’m sitting in an armchair in room 102 in a building that looks like a student house. The building is in Botevgrad. Botevgrad is in the middle of Bulgaria. I reached Botevgrad at eight o’clock this evening. I rode up to the biggest hotel in town and asked the receptionist if they had a room available for one night. She shook her head saying “No”. This weekend a Basketball tournament is taking place in town. Players from all over Europe have occupied all the rooms. The receptionist smiled. There wasn’t a fucking thing to smile at. I went outside and stopped a girl, she said there was one more hotel in town. She gave me the directions. 500 meters down the street I asked three men, “Do you know where the hotel is”? One of them said “Come on”. We walked 100 meters, the man went into the hotel and returned with bad news. No room available. I said thank you, he disappeared, I strongly disapproved of the thought of spending the night in my tent. Half an hour later the same man tapped me on the shoulder. I’d just finished buying food for the night. He said, “Just outside town there is a dormitory. My friend is driving. He’ll show you the way. Follow him on your bike”.
We drove one kilometer, the car pulled up in front of a hut surrounded by fir trees, the friend got out and started a conversation with an elderly woman attending the building. The friend argued my case. The lady made a call, but from her expression I understood that I wouldn’t get a room here. The second of the three men I’d met in town came cycling up the garden path in front of the building. We greeted each other, he talked to his friend who walked over to the sports center on the other side of the street. Five minutes later the three of us were standing in the lobby of a dormitory next to the sports center. The man whose car I’d followed on my bike said, “You can get a room here, it costs ten Leva”. He seemed annoyed that I had to pay that much. Ten Leva equals five Euros. I said “That’s totally fine”. I handed the receptionist a 20-Lev note and understood from his annoyed expression that he had no change. The guy whose car I’d followed gave me back the 20-Lev note and pulled from his own pocket five two-Lev notes and gave them to the receptionist. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. Of course I didn’t let him pay for my room. But he wanted to. That’s what I don’t understand. After all the things he’d done for me during the evening, he even wanted to pay for my room. Before we parted, the two friends spent 20 minutes discussing which route was best for me to follow through Bulgaria to Istanbul.
Bulgaria is a wonderful country. The country where I’ve felt most welcome of the eight countries I have traveled through. I was a jerk this morning. I woke up in a town, but did not buy food or water for the trip through the mountains to Sofia. I imagined I’d come across a restaurant on the way. After cycling and wheeling the bike ten kilometers I was dehydrated and weakened from hunger. A boy and three adults were approaching me on their bikes. I held a hand in the air. They stopped. I asked them “Is there a restaurant in the mountains”? They said “No”. A young woman who was part of the group stopped the car she was driving. She exchanged a couple of words with the group, got out of the car, pushed the driver’s seat forward and crossed the road carrying a white plastic bag in her hand. She said, “These are some croissants for your trip”. The eldest man of the family asked me if I wanted some water. I exclaimed a long-drawn sound that meant yes. The woman asked me a question, and while I was answering it the man gave me two bottles of water. When the group had left, I ate the three vacuum-packed croissants one after the other. I drank one of the two bottles of water, smoked a cigarette and caught myself shaking my head in reaction to what had happened. The family itself didn’t seem to be proud of having helped me. For them it was only natural. Three croissants, big deal! For me it was a stroke of luck but no miracle. The Bulgarians are like that. That is what I’m trying to say.
Bulgaria is a wonderful country. The country where I’ve felt most welcome of the eight countries I have traveled through. I was a jerk this morning. I woke up in a town, but did not buy food or water for the trip through the mountains to Sofia. I imagined I’d come across a restaurant on the way. After cycling and wheeling the bike ten kilometers I was dehydrated and weakened from hunger. A boy and three adults were approaching me on their bikes. I held a hand in the air. They stopped. I asked them “Is there a restaurant in the mountains”? They said “No”. A young woman who was part of the group stopped the car she was driving. She exchanged a couple of words with the group, got out of the car, pushed the driver’s seat forward and crossed the road carrying a white plastic bag in her hand. She said, “These are some croissants for your trip”. The eldest man of the family asked me if I wanted some water. I exclaimed a long-drawn sound that meant yes. The woman asked me a question, and while I was answering it the man gave me two bottles of water. When the group had left, I ate the three vacuum-packed croissants one after the other. I drank one of the two bottles of water, smoked a cigarette and caught myself shaking my head in reaction to what had happened. The family itself didn’t seem to be proud of having helped me. For them it was only natural. Three croissants, big deal! For me it was a stroke of luck but no miracle. The Bulgarians are like that. That is what I’m trying to say.
I feel like a celebrity here in Turkey. Like a long-haired version of Eminem with a yellow city-bike between his legs. Every tenth driver sounds his horn when passing me on the road, and there is a lot of vehicles on the roads. Two days ago, an assisting bus driver leaned out the main exit of a bus in motion and threw a bottle of water onto the road to prevent me from dehydrating. Today I saw a man blowing me kisses for three seconds before his bus turned a corner. And I know that none of these gestures are made to harm me. Even so, I catch myself lowering my head when I walk the streets in the small towns. Because the glances I receive from people stick to me like sweat, and Denmark has taught me to be humble. I look up and ask a man where to find the nearest internet café. The man seems to be proud that I’ve chosen to ask him and no one else. If Eminem had walked the streets of Copenhagen, he would’ve been treated the same way. But I haven’t released any records here, and still the Turks treat me with the same respect as we show an idol. Here, you find no fuck-you signs in the rear windows of the cars. Only children and adults turning and waving to a boy from a country where such friendliness is appreciated but so rare that one misses it as soon as the wheels hit Kastrup Airport.
I reached Istanbul 37 days after I left Denmark. 17 hours later I boarded a plane bound for Copenhagen. I managed to get the bicycle onboard the plane.
I feel like a celebrity here in Turkey. Like a long-haired version of Eminem with a yellow city-bike between his legs. Every tenth driver sounds his horn when passing me on the road, and there is a lot of vehicles on the roads. Two days ago, an assisting bus driver leaned out the main exit of a bus in motion and threw a bottle of water onto the road to prevent me from dehydrating. Today I saw a man blowing me kisses for three seconds before his bus turned a corner. And I know that none of these gestures are made to harm me. Even so, I catch myself lowering my head when I walk the streets in the small towns. Because the glances I receive from people stick to me like sweat, and Denmark has taught me to be humble. I look up and ask a man where to find the nearest internet café. The man seems to be proud that I’ve chosen to ask him and no one else. If Eminem had walked the streets of Copenhagen, he would’ve been treated the same way. But I haven’t released any records here, and still the Turks treat me with the same respect as we show an idol. Here, you find no fuck-you signs in the rear windows of the cars. Only children and adults turning and waving to a boy from a country where such friendliness is appreciated but so rare that one misses it as soon as the wheels hit Kastrup Airport.
I reached Istanbul 37 days after I left Denmark. 17 hours later I boarded a plane bound for Copenhagen. I managed to get the bicycle onboard the plane.