Chapter 5First Lessons in Climbing

In Altona, a suburb of Hamburg, is the main station for the Kiel railway - that's where we were headed to the shores of the Belt. Twenty minutes after we left, we were in Holstein, and our carriage pulled into the station.

They hauled out our heavy luggage, weighed it, slapped on labels, and tossed it into a huge van. We grabbed our tickets, and right at seven o'clock, we were sitting across from each other in a first-class carriage.

My uncle didn't say a word. He was too busy checking his papers, including that famous parchment, and some letters from the Danish consul. Those were supposed to get us an intro to the Governor of Iceland. I just looked out the window.

But it was kind of boring - we were passing through flat, but pretty, countryside. Three hours later, we arrived in Kiel, and our bags were immediately transferred to the steamer.

Now we had a whole day to kill - a delay of about ten hours. That really ticked my uncle off. We didn't have much to do but wander around the cute town and bay. Eventually, we got on board, and at half past ten, we were steaming down the Great Belt.

It was a dark night, with a strong breeze and choppy seas. All we could see were occasional fires on shore and the flash of a lighthouse here and there. At seven in the morning, we left Korsor, a little town on the western side of Seeland.

We hopped on another train, which got us to the capital, Copenhagen, in three hours. We barely had time to grab a snack, and my uncle was already rushing off to hand over one of his letters.

It was to the director of the Museum of Antiquities, who, knowing we were tourists headed to Iceland, did everything he could to help us out. One tiny hope kept me going. Maybe, just maybe, no ship was going to such a far-off place.

Ugh, a little Danish schooner, the Valkyrie, was setting sail for Reykjavik on June second. The captain, M. Bjarne, was on board and kinda surprised by how energetic and friendly his future passenger was, shaking his hand. A trip to Iceland was just routine to him. My uncle, though?

He thought it was a huge deal. The sailor totally took advantage of the Professor's excitement and doubled the fare.

"Be on board Tuesday morning at seven," said M. Bjarne, handing us our tickets.

Awesome! Totally amazing! Fantastic!

"my uncle said as we sat down for a late breakfast. "

"Fuel up, kid, and we’re gonna hit the town."

After we finished eating, we went to Kongens-Nye-Torw; to the king’s palace - it was gorgeous; to the beautiful bridge over the canal near the Museum; to the massive memorial for Thorwaldsen with its weird naval sculptures; to Rosenberg Castle; and all the other must-see spots - none of which my uncle even noticed, he was so caught up in his plans.

But one thing caught his eye - a super unique steeple on the Island of Amak, which is the southeast part of Copenhagen. My uncle immediately told me to head that way, so we hopped on the steam ferry that runs on the canal and soon reached the famous dockyard.

First, we walked through some narrow streets where we saw tons of galley slaves in crazy colored pants - grey and yellow - working under strict bosses. Finally, we got to Vor-Frelser's-Kirk.

The church itself wasn't that special. In fact, the Professor was only interested in one thing: its steeple. It started from a circular platform and had an outside staircase that spiraled all the way to the top.

"Let’s go up," said my uncle. "But I’m totally not a tower climber," I said. "I get dizzy, like, a lot."

"That’s exactly why you should. I want to fix that bad habit." "But, seriously - "

"I said come on. What’s the point of wasting time?" It was impossible to argue with my uncle’s orders.

I gave in with a groan. After paying a fee, a verger handed us the key. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the climb. My uncle immediately showed me the way, practically sprinting up the steps like a kid. I followed as best I could, but as soon as I was inside the tower, my head started spinning.

No way I was an eagle. The ground was good enough for me, and I never had this urge to fly. Things were okay until I got to about one hundred and fifty steps and was close to the platform, when I felt this blast of cold air. I could barely stand, so I grabbed the railings and looked up.

The railings were flimsy enough, but nothing compared to the ones around the crazy winding staircase, which looked like it went all the way to the sky from where I was. "Alright, Henry."

"I can’t do it!" I yelled, totally freaking out.

"You’re a scaredy-cat, huh?" my uncle said, without a shred of sympathy.

"Get up there, I said!" There was no way to respond.

But the cold air was messing with my nerves; the sky, the ground, everything was swirling. My legs felt like jelly. I crawled on my hands and knees, pulling myself up slowly, like a snake. Then I just closed my eyes and let him drag me.

"Look around," my uncle said, his voice serious.

"You might have to look down into some deep stuff. This is great practice."

Slowly, shivering like crazy, I opened my eyes. What was this? I looked up first, at the icy, fluffy clouds. They looked frozen in place, while the steeple, the weathercock, and me and my uncle were zooming along. Way off to one side was a grassy field, and on the other, the sea glowing with light.

The Sund - we call it the Sound - was past Elsinore, packed with white sails that looked like seagull wings. To the east, I could just make out the Swedish coast. It was like a total magic show.

I was super out of it, though, and there was nothing I could do. I had to get up. Despite my complaining, my first lesson went on for a good hour. When I finally touched solid ground, almost two hours later, I felt like a super old, creaky dude, bent over in pain.

"That's it for today," my uncle said, rubbing his hands together. "We'll start again tomorrow."

No way around it. My lessons went on for five whole days. Finally, I climbed up, feeling pretty good, and could look down into the depths without even blinking - and even enjoyed it a little.