Friday, January 1, 2021


After my little cat gets her diagnosis of acute kidney failure, with no real answer about why the disease progressed so rapidly, I question my ability to see what’s in front of me. Had there been clues that I missed? Was I not paying enough attention?

Her real name was Raven but when she was a kitten, she made a sound like a monkey and she climbed trees like one too, so she was Monkey and sometimes Miss Monk, depending on her attitude. She had begun to follow me around a bit more than usual. Always at my side, curled in her little nest, as I sat by the computer. At my feet. Back and forth from the front door to the back door to look outside. Her behaviour was perhaps a bit different, but not enough for me to wonder about her health. In winter, she always pouted, because she loved the sun. Perhaps I ignored those first signs because I put it down to winter blahs? In winter she also slept at our feet or on my pillow and that didn’t change. Again, I ask myself, was I not paying enough attention?

I know everyone is like this. Questioning. Doubting themselves and their abilities to catch the signals. I’ve heard the questions from my family and friends after a loss much worse than losing a pet. Should we have paid more attention to that cough? Why didn’t I notice the bags under those eyes? How could I not know that suicide was ever considered an option? Why didn’t we ask Dr. Google about that back pain?

We find it difficult to believe that we are unable to stop the inevitable. To change the course of someone’s history. To control what will happen. To deny or conquer death. To make time stand still.

I watch in admiration and, at moments something bordering on exasperation, while my cat fights to assert her wishes despite a failing body. As she flops over, weak and in pain, then gets up again. Lifts her proud head. Walks slowly and unsteadily forward. Falls and gets up and does it all over again. I want her to stay in my arms, but even now, she’s not a cuddly cat. Everything happens on her terms. It seems she is determined to do so right to the end. She howls at us in pain. She sneaks down the stairs in the middle of the night and I stumble around in the dark looking for her. Thanks to my grandson, who finds her on the cold floor, I go down and pull her to me. This time she is too weak to protest. I cuddle her in our bed, skin to fur, warming her. She purrs. Comforts herself and comforts me. We sleep.

I think of my cousin throughout this ordeal. How she did all these things with her son. Her baby. I wonder how she found the strength. As I force water into Monkey or nearly choke her with a pain medication, I wonder if I could be as strong with my child. I pray I will never have to test that. My friend recently nursed her husband through his last, messy, awful dying. To me, it was the greatest expression of love and courage. Again, I am not sure I am brave or selfless or loving enough to manage it. Maybe. Maybe Monkey has taught me I can if I ever have to. (Please, universe, I want not to have to.)

However, going through a death is also a gift. One that hurts but one that makes us appreciate life. Makes us pay attention. I know we are lucky, and so is our little cat, that hers was so quick, progressed so fast from fine to dying. We talked to Monkey constantly. Vince and I reminded her of all the fun we had in our sixteen years together. We asked her to say hello to all our other fur babies who have gone over the rainbow bridge.

When we take her to the end of life appointment, we are suffused with grief and tears, but grateful we can be at her side. What of all those poor people who have had to die this year, alone and unaccompanied? We know this is a privilege and we are appreciative of these last moments. With the first shot, the tranquilizer, Monkey curls up beside my hand. Her face looks different. Ah, this is what I felt like before the pain and illness. Her serene look, I believe in my soul, reflects peace and acceptance. We lean over her, tell her we love her. With the last injection, she is completely still, but that look remains. We spend time after she is gone, enjoying the last feel of her soft warmth.

Many people seem to choose a moment of aloneness to complete their dying. Often it’s a matter of bad timing. For instance, I didn’t make it in time to be at my mother’s side. I always regretted taking the time to brush my teeth before I went to her. In the Islamic faith, family members wash the body, place the hands in prayer, and cover their loved one with a sheet before burial. Jewish rites include washing the body, tearing garments or wearing black ribbons, staying with the body until burial. We did the same thing in our old Irish traditions, wrapping the body in a shroud, staying and warding away evil spirits until the beloved could be buried. In the Irish case, we also partied hard while we guarded. I never considered the idea of washing the body to be a ritual I could embrace. Now, however, I can see its benefits. Still not sure I could do it.

I recall one of the times when I study my great-grandson's head. He's in profile and doesn't notice my scrutiny. Clutches his bottle for comfort, sipping now and then. He watches a lively kids' show, though he's too tired to react. It's a kind of lull; he's relaxing as he lets the cartoon characters do the work. His wispy blond hair, his perfectly shaped ears. The long eyelashes. Little nose and full lips. If he turned this way, his eyes would be big and clever.

I wonder what kind of world we have brought him into. I know he's far better off than many toddlers. He's got a huge circle of people who love him. He's got a roof over his head and food on the table. In the corner there's a testament to his luck: he's got a tower of toys. I know he's smart and empathetic and kind and energetic. He's got his challenges having parents who don't live together. But they are smart, too, and share custody and talk constantly about what's best for him. Not them. Him.

Having attended an event where Jane Goodall spoke to a rapt audience for two hours, I am hyper-aware. I am paying attention, the way I did to my great grandson.

I think of attending Jane Goodall's appearance at the Sanderson Centre in our hometown, Brantford. In particular, her response to the question, "What's the next big adventure you are looking forward to?"

She answers, "Death."

The audience gasps, chuckles a little, surprised. Embarrassed?

"I have witnessed too much to not believe in an afterlife." I paraphrase, but her message is clear. Jane believes there is a great adventure awaiting all of us after we die. We go on to something else, something completely different, a spectacular new life. 

I agree with her. But I want to focus on this life. This present. 

As I write this, Vince listens to the Eagles on TV, so I hear:

There's a hole in the world tonight
There's a cloud of fear and sorrow
There's a hole in the world tonight
Don't let there be a hole in the world tomorrow

As 2020 mercifully comes to a close, I wish for all of us to wash away its fear and death. Lift our heads, burdened with sorrow but facing hope. My belief is that 2021 will get better as it goes. Start off very low, but the highs will be enormous. Can we take the lessons of the pandemic and improve life for others? Can we clean up the mess we have made of the earth? Yes. Judging by the miracles of science in this past year, yes, we can do this. A tiny virus made us sit up and pay attention. Focus. 

I plan to finish reading “Ten Lessons for a Pandemic World” and reread “A Life on Our Planet” and “Homo Deus.” Read “Peace and Good Order.” Figure out how I can contribute, even in a tiny way. For now, that might simply be staying home, washing my hands, wearing my mask, staying away from people I love to hug.  

There are holes in this world tonight. The lesson that fear, dying and death has taught me is to pay attention to the holes. Let’s fill them with respect, support, action. Let’s keep loving despite the grief of loss. Appreciate what we had, what we still have. Bug the shit out of our governments to make huge changes in the way they “lead.” To quote Yuval Noah Harari, “Is there anything more dangerous than dissatisfied and irresponsible gods who don’t know what they want?” (He refers to all of us, but here I target those with the 'power.')

Let’s get rid of them. Shift the power. Force a different kind of economy in which everyone has equal opportunity. In which those who suffer from any sort of roadblock, mental or physical, systemic or individual brackets, are given dignity and assistance. In which people are not allowed to accumulate wealth beyond their ability to spend it in a thousand years. Greed, that slot machine of reward and false promise, must be wrestled out of our civilization.

Let us choose a humanist revolution. One in which we foster collectiveness. Encourage science to shepherd the planet back to health. Again, from Yuval, let's embrace the idea that we redefine human happiness as knowing the truth about ourselves. Not what we want, but what we need, what we all need. What, for our health and joy, we should want to want. We evolved in tiny communities where we shared everything. We can return to that concept. To survive, and survive well, we need to choose the right paths.

As the Anishinaabe legend of the Seven Fires tells us, if we choose the right road, we can “light the eighth and final fire of peace, love, brotherhood and sisterhood.”

First we have to pay attention. Be conscious and take notice. Guide our world by learning and knowing what to pay attention to. The environment. Racism. Inequality. 

Think. Learn. Act.

Come on 2021, light that fire.







Friday, May 11, 2018

May Eleventh: Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

May 11 has rolled around 38 times since you abruptly left for the other dimension. I know you've been watching.

We've sent you some pretty special people to spend time with. One of your daughters, our mom - your wife, all your siblings and in-laws, some nephews and nieces, lots of friends. Sadly, some grands, too. In the last twelve months, we've sent you Dave, David, Linda and Kevin. Hug them for us. We're bruised and raw from their losses here in this world. We sent you some friends, too, whom you might not have known before - Dave, Patrick, Leo and Adam. Take care of all of them for us.

Isn't your family spectacular? Aren't you amazed by how it has expanded? You're a great-great! You're still Papa and you continue to smile from your pictures. We tell stories about you to the grands.

We've had our ups and downs, as you know. Heartbreak and mistakes and fights. But the joys and the good times far outstrip the bad. Our family is strong. We love each other unconditionally. We stay in touch not only with each other but our extended family too. We celebrate. We mourn. We have each other's back. We can be a rock or a chocolate mess or a loud-mouthed drunk and know we will still be loved.

There are cuddles and kisses, sometimes a pinch or a push. We're loud and talkative and you must wonder if we listen. But we do!

Aren't you proud of the accomplishments? It would be impossible to list all the ways in which your family has made and continues to make a difference in the world. As you know, it's a huge network of influence and positive impact. We work hard! And we party hard in your footsteps.

We tell corny jokes, too, just as you did. I'm sure you love that every year we stage the Easter Hunt with as many family members as we can gather. The little ones have such a great time! One of your granddaughters has now become the Master Bunny. The tradition lives on.

Very soon we'll add two more babies to the family! How wonderful Christmas 2018 will be!

Thank you, to you and Mom, for starting all of this. In the whole scheme of things, we are incredibly lucky and grateful. See you on the other side - though I hope it's many more years before we send you anyone else.

Love, Your Eldest Daughter, Cathy

Thursday, March 15, 2018

Introducing Laurence St. John: YA Author!

            Terror on the East Coast - Two Million Dead!

    TOLEDO, OHIO, March 15, 2018 – Yesterday, more than two million people were killed, including the President of the United States.
    The death toll is the worst in the history of America and the world.
    This tragic day will be known forevermore as “The Day of Annihilation.”
    The CIA has the sole person responsible for the killing of millions and millions of innocent people in custody.
    His name is Tyler Thompson –  a moral person turned evil. The question foremost on everyone’s mind is, why did he orchestrate this horrific act of terror and how did he pull it off?

 This headline is fake news – or is it?

    In his new release, METATRON: DAGGER OF MORTALITY, science fiction/fantasy author Laurence St. John creates an uplifting and inspiring fiction novel that “sustains constant action as 15-year-old Tyler struggles to stop the relentless animosity of a demonic figure and his accomplice! Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward,” said Piers Anthony, New York Times bestselling fantasy Author of the Xanth series.

    St. John, who hails from just south of Toledo, Ohio, quickly grabs the reader’s attention then poses the ultimate question: Can superheroes really be killed?

    Who is this Black Shadow character and who does he want to get revenge from?

    Tyler must execute the most grueling choice of his life – save himself, save his beloved girlfriend Kendall or save millions of helpless people and hinder Kelltie’s plan.
    In this, his highly anticipated third action-adventure, St. John keeps readers turning the pages up to the last adrenaline-filled moment when Tyler’s fate is determined.
    The story is set in New York, Nevada, and Massachusetts, where the action-packed adventure opens your mind’s eye, conveying the sensation that you’re watching a movie.
    Metatron: Dagger of Mortality is a novel made for the silver screen ― action-packed, emotional and a gripping story that will leave you wanting more.

From the back cover:

    Tyler believes a Superhero’s responsibility is to make the right decision then follow it through to the end. But, what if the outcome results in his death?
      Fourteen-year-old Tyler Thompson has been in isolation for eight months so he could focus on completing his superhero training. Not even one day after his completion, Master Pat Tanaka urgently summoned Tyler. Pat desperately needs his help, but for what?
    Kelltie is threatening Tyler’s destiny of being a superhero by framing him for what will be the largest mass killings in American history and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. She also teams up with Black Shadow, a ruthless demonic figure with his own agenda — to use the Dagger of Mortality and kill Metatron.
    Tyler feeling vulnerable gets inspiration one last time from Master Tanaka’s instructor Master Dogmai. Nevertheless, with the Dagger of Mortality in hand, it’s time for Black Shadow to get his revenge. Tyler must render the most arduous choice of his life. He’ll save himself, save his beloved girlfriend Kendall or save millions of helpless people and hinder Kelltie’s plan.

Can superheroes really die? What choice does Tyler make?


“Metatron – Dagger of Mortality, by Laurence St. John sustains constant action as 15-year-old Tyler struggles to stop the relentless animosity of a demonic figure and his accomplice! Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forward…”- Piers Anthony, New York Times bestselling fantasy Author of the Xanth Series

“Laurence St. John turns up the heat with Metatron – Dagger of Mortality. This book continues the story of Tyler Thompson and his journey of discover as he masters his powers in preparation of a new evil threat. A can’t miss read for middle-grade readers and young adults!”
Braxton A. Cosby - Author of the award-winning Star-Crossed Saga Series

“Dagger of Mortality’ packs a wallop! St. John blends equal parts superhero and X-Files into a high energy yarn sure to inspire.”
Jason Born – Author of The Norseman Chronicles Series

“Teens and adults alike will identify with Tyler and his all too human angst as he executes superhero feats in a way only St. John’s hero can accomplish, with many twists and surprising turns of events in this young adult thriller.”
Kenna McKinnon – Author of Short Circuit: And Other Geek Stories, Blood Sister, and Den of Dark Angels

* * * *

Metatron: Dagger of Mortality was published by Ogopogo Book an Imprint of Imajin Books and is available in eBook edition at Amazon, Google Play and Kobo. Order your copy today.

It is also available in trade paperback edition at Amazon, Books-A-Million, and Barnes & Noble, as well as other retailers.

Buy here:
Amazon –

* * * *
Laurence St. John is currently working on book four and five in the Metatron Series.

Laurence is also available for interviews/guest appearances.
For book sign dates please see his Facebook page.

For more information please visit:

Follow Laurence on Twitter:

“Friend Request” Laurence on Facebook:

Imajin Books:

Laurence is a 1983 graduate of Genoa High School, a 1988 Black Belt recipient in Tae Kwon Do and a 2004 graduate of Owens State Community College.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

Baltic Sea Cruise 2017 - Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp

I have always been interested in history. From the perspective of a writer, the events that happened before our lives began are similar to the background stories of characters in a book.

The chance to explore the historical aspects of World War Two was something I couldn't pass up. Particularly, I have always wanted to visit a concentration camp.

Why? I used to feel strange or ghoulish when I would tell people such a visit was on the top of my "bucket list." Having visited once, I will no longer feel as though I have to apologize. I am proud that I want to remember, that I want to empathize, that I consider the horror and the agony to be too profound to ever forget.

I now feel the same way about my visits to the Mohawk Residential School in my own hometown of Brantford or the museum in Dresden, ON. I won't let myself forget.

I'm not Jewish or black or native or homosexual or poor. I'm the mother of half-black children, I love people of every race, creed, size, colour, sexual orientation and so on. I am the granddaughter of a man who was harassed and fired for his Catholic religious background. I see poverty in my streets.

If you judge the book by the cover, though, you see a well-fed, well-dressed, middle-aged white woman. (If you see me at all, that is—since I am pretty much the majority in my circles and in an age bracket that's becoming invisible.)

Yet I feel a compulsion to explore others' experiences, to empathize with others, and to share my perspective.  Sometimes to try and "walk in their shoes" in order to deepen the understanding of the characters who live on my page.

Chris is our guide on the way to Oranienburg, where Sachsenhausen awaits. One of the very first concentration camps, Sachsenhausen was also relatively small in comparison to others that were built in Poland and Germany. Deemed a work camp, its primary purpose was to provide free workers and to silence political dissenters. It devolved into a killing machine in several ways as the war progressed.
Our guide, Chris, in the cap.

Chris is charming and speaks English well. He's interested in why the people in our car have chosen to visit a camp. Through learning last names and their origins, he can often discern their motivations: ah, you might have been related to a prisoner; you may have a guard in your ancestry and so the stain of guilt rests upon you. The rest of us have motives like mine.

It's an eerie feeling as we speed through the tunnel of trees. So many movies have shown those cattle cars racing to death surrounded by this very greenery.


In Oranienburg, we meet Eva, our local guide. We walk from the station to the camp under hot sun and blue skies, through the lovely little city with its cafés and people on bicycles. Eva tells us that this march would have been similar to the one the prisoners took. And every day, they would have gone back and forth to the factory, ignored or avoided by the townspeople, who were convinced they were the worst of mankind. Pedophiles, psychopaths, murderers. From most reports, it should have been the guards they feared.

An example of a prominent prisoner was Reverend Martin Niemoller, who survived his imprisonment, and is best known for this poem:
First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.
Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—
and there was no one left to speak for me.

Once the Nazis began to reveal their true purposes, the Reverend was outspoken and a member of the resistance, which led to his imprisonment.

We enter the gates of Sachsenhausen with a keen awareness that others who walked through here would know they might not walk back out again.

The infamous sign, Work Sets You Free, and the design of the camp became the blueprint for all the others to follow.

The building under which we enter and go through the gate housed the armed guards. Because the camp was laid out in rows within a certain distance from the entry, the guards could shoot anyone from their perch.

Many of the prisoner barracks have been removed, but there are several that have been reconstructed to show how they were forced to live.

Eva explains the Nazis' methodic breaking of the human spirit as she leads us through the barracks. Without proper access to toileting or keeping yourself clean, or making your own decisions, or having any sort of privacy, people were systematically stripped of all dignity. In most cases, the prisoners became too dispirited, weak, and numb to be able to resist any longer.

If you were kept inside
with barbed wire...

If you only saw the
sun through the
bars of your cell...

If you
were deprived of
food and worked
until you fell on
your knees...

If you slept in filthy

If you shared a
wooden bunk
and a thin blanket
with three or more other
dirty, degraded

If you had to toilet
and clean yourself in these rooms
with a hundred or more others...

Would this bed - all by yourself and a blanket of your own -
start to look good? Would the opportunity to toilet and wash
before anyone else entered the room begin to sound enticing? The chance for more and better food?

Would you then become a Nazi pawn? Would you herd your
neighbours and friends and become a gopher for your captors?

If you were a guard, would you swallow the drugs they gave you? The belief that made the prisoners rats to be exterminated?

I can't say for certain what I would do. I hope I'd be strong. All I know for sure is that my admiration for the courage of those who continued to resist despite everything is now boundless.

We look back at the menace of the barracks and the cruel heat of the yard. Here, prisoners were marched back and forth along various ground covers to test military footwear. Experiments with drugs were forced upon them.

Here, prisoners suffered so much abuse that thousands of them died.

Several of the local companies who exploited slave labour or profited from working for the Nazis (in other camps, not just Sachsenhausen) still exist, such as Siemens, Bayer, IBM, BMW, Audi, Daimler-Benz and Hugo Boss.  Most of these companies worked to compensate laborers after the war. For many, that initiative was far too late.

We walk around the long, intimidating wall and are punched, emotionally, in the chest.

Here is the death trench. Here - particularly later in the war - prisoners were lined up and shot and shovelled into the ground. In the beginning were the political dissenters, the resistors, the homosexuals, the disabled, the mentally ill - and later, Romas and Jews.

Inside the building, the ramps lead to ovens where the overworked, starved, or murdered bodies were disposed of.

Here is the place many in our group dissolve into tears.

We walk out of the camp subdued and sad. Yet as we face the sunshine, the bustling little city, and the comfortable bus to Berlin, hope buds inside us. Eva's tour of the facility, this museum of remembrance, helped to change the grief, horror and guilt into determination to do whatever we can to stop evil, even in our own little corners of the world. No kindness or good deed or smile or charitable work is too small. That is the point of this tour, the reason for doing it. To bolster the strength of love and goodness in our world, one visitor at a time.

Monday, June 12, 2017

Baltic Sea Cruise 2017: The Ship

I thought I’d spend this post on the ship, instead of referring back to it from the various tours. This was only my second cruise. Maybe because I knew what to expect, I enjoyed this ship a lot more than I did the other (who shall remain Nameless). I liked the way Norwegian Cruise Lines planned meals, for instance: there were lots of restaurants to choose from and you didn’t have to sit in the same place with the same server every night. The crew seemed happier, perhaps better treated by their employers, than the staff on Nameless. The entertainment was far superior. The ship was probably not full, because the few line-ups were short and fast.

Something I didn't know, but Wendy made sure we were aware of: you can bid on an upgrade. Rita and I followed Cugina's advice, but I made a mistake and bid $10 more than Wendy and Carolyn. We all got upgraded! (Probably more proof that the ship was not full.) However, Rita and I got a bigger cabin - that $10 made all the difference, I'm sure.
Our room was awesome. Lots of space, even a pull-out couch along with our two beds, and a huge bathroom.
Not to mention the glorious balcony. It was warm enough in Germany to have breakfast on the deck, though the rest of the cruise, the wind and cool temperatures kept us from spending too much time out there.

Even though the weather was cool, I would  recommend doing this particular cruise in May.

The destinations were still crowded, but nothing like they are in the summer, according to our local guides. And you can move around the ship more easily, partake of the amenities and entertainment without too much elbowing for a spot.

Here's a prime reason for taking the cruise in May. No one else is brave enough to swim! You can have the entire pool to yourself all day long. The pool was heated and gorgeous and the sun was shining. So what if you shiver for a few seconds when you get out? (My answers to that dilemma are to get out as seldom as possible and to drink Bahama Mamas when you do.)

 The pool area on the ship was awesome. If only I'd had Zoe or Catey or Sydney or Livi or any of the boys to go climbing and diving with!
Everyone else lounged at the sides or sat in the hot tubs. Chickens!

They had big, comfy chairs to lounge in as we listened to music. Someone always appeared to ask if we wanted drinks.

Wendy and Carolyn.

Even Rita got her money's worth.

 The (alcohol) drinks package was the best bargain we ever made. Every day they had a drink of the day.

Rita and I discovered a delicious red wine that we've since purchased when we got back home.

Music by Into the Drift was especially great.

There be casino winners on this trip!

 'Twas not I, alas.

Too bad we couldn't bring our bartender back with us, too. 

Our husbands said no.

Views of the ship!

Centre deck chandelier and some fine dining areas.

We did a lot of walking on the tours - but on the ship, too.


 Oh my god, am I lucky or what?

Wednesday, May 31, 2017

Baltic Sea Cruise 2017: Day 2 - Copenhagen

May 14

Today we perform the Hop-On-Hop-Off trick.  We make a few missteps, as you will see. 

 We walk down Havnegade to purchase our tickets at the Red Bus office and lumber up to the top of the bus. (We’re without Rita, who has come down with a stomach ailment during the night.)

 In go the ear buds and we listen to the relentlessly cheerful voice tell us all about the bright and happy aspects of Copenhagen. Which, when I think about it, is the best way to tour. I don’t really want to know about the warts. All big cities have them, though it’s hard to imagine in this part of Denmark. Even the numerous bicycles – which Ear Buddy tells us everyone rides to work in summer and even winter – are mostly left unlocked.

We stop first at Tivoli Gardens. This area was the inspiration for Disneyland and the similarities are immediately apparent as we walk through the nifty artificial streetways.

One entrance to Tivoli Gardens
Oh what a ride! To be young and scare-free again!

Wendy and Carolyn

It’s a gorgeous morning, cool enough for lots of walking and sunny on our faces. Wendy, Carolyn and I stroll around admiring the rides and the flowers in equal proportions.

We’d love to be young again, just for the moment, for the thrill of the roller coaster or even the tilt-a-whirl.

We have the most delicious hot chocolate and whip cream, run into some pearl hens and a souvenir shop. The latter divests us of some money for Christmas ornaments.

Here comes our first misstep! We walk to the art gallery, but take the long way around and are too tired to spend an hour visiting. So we look for the art gallery stop – which is right HERE. Somewhere. It says so in this brochure. It’s on the map. It’s HERE, dammit.

We recall the long way home from the Trevi Fountain when we spent hours traipsing over cobblestones and bridges in the dark. Is Tripoli another Trevi? Not quite, but we’re still tired when we finally get to a different stop and hop on. Okay, we stumble on this time and sit downstairs.

Where Carolyn immediately makes friends with a banker. I have his address, phone number and email rights here on the map. We are invited to Indonesia for our next trip.

From the comfort of the bus, we eye the beautiful Copenhagen City Hall, which looks like a palace except for its clock tower. Bizarrely, it’s known for its pancakes, which they serve to the constituents whenever there’s a celebration – carnivals, jubilees, special events – and even weddings.

The area is a beautiful shopping mecca, says Ear Buddy, and the Latin Quarter has zillions of cafés and restaurants.

We peer at the Rosenborg Castle, a royal hermitage, but we’re not inclined to find a way inside. It’s surrounded by lush gardens, dubbed naturally, the King’s Garden.

We continue on into the heart of the downtown district. “There’s the ice bar!” I crow, but again we’re not motivated to get out and explore. After all, we have an ice bar on our ship. (Later...there's a story to tell, of course.)

At some point – even this close to the event, I can’t remember the sequence – we pass the Christiania district. In 1971, a group of “hippies” seeking freedom and weed squatted in a deserted military barracks. They proclaimed the area for themselves, set up makeshift homes, and fought it out with politicians over the years. Today Christiania is still a source of controversy and some violence (Pusher Street being a hotspot), but they’re leaning toward yoga and peace as time goes on.

We drive past The Citadel, the Swedish Church, and once again, the Little Mermaid.  Founded in 1626 by King Christian the 4th as a fortress to protect the city at the mouth of the sea, the Citadel still functions as a military base. But the original moat is now a lovely waterway, surrounded by green walkways, trees and flowers.

The Swedish Church was built to serve the community of “Swedens Abroad” and is also known as the Gustav Church.

We lumber past the Gefion Fountain, too. Ear Buddy tells us that the sculpture is based on a legend about the creation of Copenhagen (then known as Zealand). The Swedish king Gylfi promises the Norse goddess Gefjon that he will grant her land of any size – as long as she plows it out. So she turns her four sons into oxen and digs up Copenhagen. Nice mother, huh?

I mention the above for a specific reason, as they figure greatly in our future.

We rumble past Amelianborg, the palace area that houses Parliament and the Queen, but we don’t stop. Check on Rita, eat lunch, rest and hop back on at the stop just outside our Admiral Hotel.  The plan works well. Rita is better, though not up to hopping, the lunch is rooster (or chicken if you prefer the pedestrian name) and we’re ready once more.

Second misstep: we figure out that if we get on at the stop in front of our hotel, we’ll actually drive past the palace. So we walk the couple of blocks to visit Queen Margrethe the Second. We are certain she’ll ask us in for tea.

This is the view of the Palace-Parliament district. The street side of the compound is open to a beautiful fountain, gardens, the canal, and beyond that, the Opera House.

At the other end, we glimpse the Marble Church and its magnificent dome.

The Queen was born here at Amelianborg, since her daddy was the king and her mom a granddaughter of Queen Victoria. She born one week after the Nazis invaded Denmark. At first, she was not the “heir presumptive” because the law declared only males could ascend the throne. But her daddy and his three daughters were very popular with the subjects, so it was agreed by referendum to tweak the law. As long as she doesn’t have a brother, a woman can inherit the throne. Hmmm. 
Queen Margrethe of Denmark

Margrethe became Queen in 1972 after her father died. Similar to Queen Elizabeth the Second of Britain, the Danish Queen’s role is constitutional rather than political. Margrethe apparently admires Elizabeth and performs her role as a unifier very well.

She’s popular – an artist in her own right – and a chain smoker. Margrethe is married to Prince Consort Henrik.

Why all the detail? You’ll see.

The cobblestone area of the Palace grounds is stunning.

We just happen to arrive as the changing of the guard begins. It’s interesting to watch this solemn tradition and I can’t help but find it a bit ridiculous at the same time.

Apparently, people randomly follow the guards as they march from here to Rosenborg Palace, and sure enough, a trail of tourists takes up the challenge.

Not us, however. We are back to the business of hopping on and off. This time we opt to take pictures of the Little Mermaid, since the bus, our driver informs us, will be stopped for several minutes.

The Mermaid is no happier than she was before.

She's also been pretty much deserted by the hordes, which should have been a clue.

When we return to our transportation, we discover that this was the last round for the big old Red Bus. It will stop at its final destination – cleverly known as Stop Number One. It’s nowhere near Nyhavn or our hotel. The bus driver kindly tells us to walk, because the Admiral is just around the corner.

Uh huh. Our hotel in Rome was just around the corner from the Trevi Fountain, too.

We buy a delicious ice cream to fortify us and start up the waterside path. 

We’re side-by-side with the Citadel moat and the beautiful pathways.

Copper green monuments, hedges, bushes, trees, flowers. 

More missteps: I get us lost again. Just a little. Not my fault. I told the group never to follow me. I have no sense of direction and read maps backwards.

However, we get to see the Swedish Church and the Gefion Fountain up close and personal. Really very impressive. Especially the lovely tourists.

 As we re-orient ourselves and drag along the canal side, two glorious things happen.

First, Wendy and I are reminiscing about our cousin Dave. At home, right about now, his funeral is taking place. We are silent for a few seconds and suddenly, in the shadows of a huge building to our right, stands a replica of Michelangelo’s David.

“He’s here,” we grin and admonish him for flashing.

Second, we glimpse a flurry of activity at the Royal Yacht. Sure enough, we approach and get to watch as Prince Henrik, the aforementioned Consort to Queen Margrethe, walks down the gangway to join a group of military types. He strolls down the same pathway we’d just traversed, casual and largely unaccompanied. Certainly no presence of guns or security in black suits. We enjoy the encounter immensely.

Especially the Royal Dog and Dogwalker.

Henrik, in the picture on the right, reaches out to shake a hand.

Recently, he has "retired" as Prince Consort. According to a newspaper, Denmark "sighed with relief." He's been unhappy with his role as a mere consort and more outspoken than many believe he should be. I kind of agree with his view that not being named King when you are married to the Queen - whereas the wife of a King invariably becomes Queen - is discriminatory toward both genders. I think it's an assumption that a woman would be unduly influenced by her husband if he were a co-ruler, but not the other way around.

Back at the Admiral, we’re too tired from hopping to go anywhere else for dinner. Rooster, anyone?

We’ll board our ship tomorrow for the cruise.