​I am a hypocrite. Traveling during covid, not recommended and yet once again I hopped on a flight in order to spend the holidays with my mother, Reggie, and the slim hope to see more family. Thankfully due to a JetBlue credit, the dreaded-Dallas-American-Airline-covid-infested-airport-connection was avoided and I had a non-stop from an 80-degree sunny San Diego to a 32-degree snow infested Boston. Party on.
The flight itself was a non-event; however, initially I thought there could be a situation - I had a window seat and an empty row until an excessively chatty good-ole-boy from Walpole parked next to me and immediately began looking up insanely scary hunting knives on his phone. Thankfully Davy Crockett moved to the aisle seat. It wasn’t until we landed and were stuck on the tarmac while the ramp to the plane got de-iced that he started talking again as he explained that he was flying back following a road trip with his buddy who lives in San Diego, this friend wants him to move out there – hmmmm, “tough call” I said as the Arctic winds ripped through the aircraft.
Landing anywhere north of San Diego at 11pm is a challenge to my senses, but I forged on and Brian my ace Lyft driver – (ok maybe not so ace since in the Callahan Tunnel I had to ask him to close the car windows before I got frostbite) - delivered me to the boon-docks of Harvard, MA just before midnight. But overall, going from point A to point B during a pandemic was pretty smooth and I was happy to be back.
Harvard Mass - the perfect little town with the kindest of unsung heroes who deliver food, take pooping challenged Reggie to the vet, bake cookies, and go on packy runs for rum. Covid has taxed the best of us; however, there are added challenges from being older and isolated with some physical issues. My mom has a team of people who consistently reach out, show up, and ask what they can do to help in any way, and they help. Kindness and thoughtfulness can never be overstated.
And once again, we thank the heavens above for our hero Zac - the young man who possesses commitment and ethics which scream greatness. He continues to show up at 3:00pm and our favorite cracked out muffin of love, Reggie, waltzes out the door for their daily walk.  My mom often calls to tell me, “It’s a long day with Reggie” and she sits waiting to hear the back door open and Zac’s footsteps. Now that I am home, I realize that it is a long day and I am also looking at the clock and listening for his steps – cheers for our teenage savior!
Otherwise, life in Harvard is pretty quiet…we take drives through the orchards, we have the occasional happy hour in the stairwell with neighbors, we discuss meals, and we play scrabble. The highlight so far has been a picnic outing with my sister and her family – my mom stayed in the heated car while the rest of us huddled around a picnic table holding hot tea’s – a tad bit chilly but great seeing everyone.
How long am I here for? I don’t know. I came east with the intent to stay for a few weeks. I promised my bf that I would not repeat the 3 ½ months that I was away for this past summer and with hope avoiding the “re-entry” relationship challenges. I figure roughly 3 weeks is an ok healthy time apart…but I am no relationship guru so we shall see….
I dread the flight back. Covid is rampant in California – and I don’t like leaving – but I will do it at some point soon. With the New Year comes new beginnings, I vow to have a good attitude, and I will be kind to strangers, even the chatty ones – we are all nervous wrecks.

​I belong to one of these fancy-pantsy boutique gyms downtown, it is out of my league on every level but I am a sucker for a steam room. The steam room brings back memories of a weekend coed steam room at a high-end gym in Vienna where I spent a semester way back in the day.  The concept sounded racy; however, this was Vienna and it was a prelude to Stanley Kubrick’s movie Eyes Wide Shut, lots of naked bodies but nothing sexual going on.
The last day I set foot in my current gym was March 10th, 2020 – a last gasp of normalcy before we all got locked in and locked down, eight - long - months ago. During this time, I survived on an impressive diet of cookies, chocolate, and boxed wine – it worked for me and in all honesty I didn’t miss the gym. Furthermore, I was pretty determined that my gym days were a thing of the past; but hats off to great marketing peeps who sent a barraged of encouraging emails – “Safe to come back”, “Classes outside”, “Appointments only”, so I weighed my options – end up in a diabetic coma in rehab, or get off my tush – I wrote an $85 check for a one month commitment.
In preparation, I bought new sneakers and detoxed for ten hours for fear of smelling like a winery. My excitement was building. I envisioned the wind blowing and the sun shining as I briskly walked on a state-of-the-art treadmill while looking out on the bay and being alone on the open rooftop space.
Reality is a bitch and marketing people are liars.
I signed in early for my 7am appointed time slot. After a successful temperature check I made my way to the outside roof top where I saw the line of empty cardio equipment, I was thrilled. I was happily sauntering on a machine, contemplating life, when the flood gates opened, the boot campers arrived. What is up with boot campers and boot camp for that matter??  These people gather three times a week but from the way they greeted each other you would have thought they were all returning from a 3-year deployment; they yelled, they cheered and they touched each other. And these nutters were not wearing masks. My serenity was further blown away when the bootcamp boom box started shaking my treadmill. As much as I tried to focus on my walking skills, there were far too many distractions and further questions to be asked - where were the EMT’s because the man with the keg belly was surely going to go into cardiac arrest as he dragged huge round weights across the floor?  Why was the scarily skinny woman not home eating donuts? And why were they sharing mats? These enthusiasts were spewing sweat, spit and snot on their mat, then moving onto the next – petri dishes of disgustingness and a COVID-19 nightmare.  As I was pondering these questions a boot camper got onto a machine next to me, one that was not 6 feet away. I mustered every ounce of polite etiquette I could and yelled, “WOOOO WOOOO WOOOO, too close”. Thankfully this kind soul moved away. I had pee’d on my territory, no one came close for the remainder of my visit but I was on high alert.
Two days later I was back at it – and so were the boot campers. I was mentally prepared this go around and decided to get into the grove of their “motivational” music, why fight it. I was strutting along when disaster hit, a new camper came too close. This time I was calmer and asked her to go to another machine – she refused! I couldn’t believe it, she said NO! Who says no when asking for more physical space during a pandemic? A BOOT CAMP NUTTER that’s who! I jumped off my machine and stood far away until she finished her 60 second round – and during this minute I had an epiphany - the gym was stressing me out, being around people was stressing me out, worried about keeping my personal space on a treadmill was stressing me out – so I quietly left.
Some day when the virus is a thing of the past, and the stream room is back in action, and the boot campers are back in their own designated area or a new athletic trend renders them obsolete, I will return to my gym. Until then, I will keep my own personal space and hang with my winning combination of cookies, chocolates and wine. 

Seriously? Now I have to worry about getting eaten by a shark? Specifically, great whites? In Maine? The pandemic isn’t enough to contend with, now sharks?
I am not being a wussy; some poor woman down the coast lost her life while taking an idle swim with her daughter. I was always a bit jealous of the wetsuit swimmers, they seem so content not being threatened by hypothermia - you pee once in the wet suit and you are set – but - there is the misfortune of being mistaken for a seal, and this wetsuit victim had bad luck. This shocking tragedy rocked the rest of us who venture into the Atlantic. Shark attacks in South Africa sound exotic. Shark attacks in mid-coast Maine…not so much.
The stress has been enhanced by multiple sightings of fins off the little cove I swim at on this little island. Granted, there has been some debate as to if the fins are large sunfishes or sharks, but a fin is a fin.
My sister, who consistently gives sage advice, emphatically told me, “Don’t go into the sharks house!”.  I really need to listen better – but with the heat wave, and being summer and all, I like to swim. I have, however, taken several solid precautions – don’t ask me for data, but it is a well-known fact that sharks shy away from bright colors, so I wear a Mexican themed bathing suit. I enter the water slowly and make sure not to create a large disturbance or attract any attention to my area. I swim on high alert and diligently scan for any signs of jumping fish. And most importantly, I have a solid line of defense, I swim with Charlie. Every day I position myself with Charlie on the outside as I hug the rocks; effectively he is running block. Charlie does not wear bright colors and he is larger than I am so any smart shark will go for him first while I channel Michael Phelps and swim to safety.
I am trying not to be a complete headcase about taking a casual swim – but seriously, nature is really overrated. 

​Hats off to Zach – who is Zach? I will proudly tell you – he is a fabulous young man who showed up and kept showing up.
My mother lives alone with her cracked-out loyal companion Reggie, the most fantastic and spoiled cocker-poo on the planet. Tough winter, tough knee’s – and then this life-shattering virus hit, tough spring.
My mom resides in this utopian little town where people live to help other people; however, during this insane pandemic my siblings and I were crazy protective and wouldn’t let anyone near her. But, the dog group (people who actually may be sainted) came forward to pick up little Reggie for runs. Then the son of one of these saints stepped up to walk Reggie. Every day, seven days a week Zach  showed up. My mom repeatedly told him not to feel obligated, that he didn’t have to come every day, this kid replied, “Reggie needs to walk.” At 2:30, regardless of the New England weather, with his mask on, Zach would come bounding up the stairs and Reggie would go charging out the door to greet him. Don’t think he was in it for the money, I think my mother was paying him minimum wage from her teenage days, and this wonderful young man kept showing up.
A while back a misguided friend criticized the youth of today. I was quick and perhaps a bit too aggressive (note to self – refresh Dale Carnegie notes) in jumping down his throat in defense of the youth. I took offense. As an educator and a fan of all my friend’s kids, I have the utmost confidence in our youth. We are in good hands. The youth will lead the way.
Look, we have Zach!

​Don’t do it. Words of wisdom I should have listened to myself – but my brain cells have been seriously depleted due to my attempts to drink my way through this unfortunate and epic time, so I traveled.
San Diego to Boston. Two flights and probably 10 years taken off my life from the stress of it all.
It began with a rough 6am wake up call after a night of hydrating with bottled wine and solving the worlds problems with Leah.  Next was an even rougher ride to the airport with my bf who I had been fighting with for 2 days and was leaving indefinitely to head east– a solid and silent start.
On the positive side, no traffic, no crowds, security smooth and the shops were open – I do some of my best shopping in airports and I was not disappointed, scarves, lotions and hats secured. My wine haze was still with me but I refrained from getting a tea for fear I’d have to pee mid-flight, actually this truth is that the Starbucks line was too long.
Then I heard my name announced on the speaker and as I walked to the gate I was thinking I was going to be offered $1,000 to be bumped from the flight and I would take it and go back to my bf and be nice and fly first class another day…no – I had dropped my wallet and a good Samaritan handed it in – with everything in it. Thank you kind person.
Alrighty. I pulled myself together and got on the plane. All was looking good, really good, middle seat empty, plane not crowded, everyone in masks - but ever so subtly people kept coming down the aisle – and not just people, 2 dogs and 10 babies. I was texting my sister describing the scene to which she kept asking, “Who travels with babies during a pandemic?”, I didn’t want to find out. I usually love sitting next to babies, great distractions when flying, but I prayed no mask-less baby stopped in my row.  My nerves were getting fried with each new person walking down the aisle. When this poor woman in a state-of-the-art multi-filtered mask came to take the middle seat next to me I mindlessly asked, “What happened to the empty middle seats?” She didn’t speak, she didn’t touch anything, and she didn’t move for 2 and a half hours, and I mean did not move, it was impressive.
We all deplaned in Dallas where I ran to pee which stressed me out because I was planning on not peeing all the way across country and I got so flustered I managed to get on the tram heading in the wrong direction. This brought back PTS from a childhood trip to Disney World when I urgently needed the bathroom and we got on the wrong monorail. That didn’t end so well. I did make it to the gate in time – but … I had lost my boarding pass and had to get in a line to get a reissued one.
This flight was also choker block full however miraculously the one seat open was the middle seat next to me and a hipster dressed in camouflage, which for whatever reason I found comforting. As I was positioning my bags and tennis racket, the stewardess appeared and questioned “Prudence Horne?” – again, I am thinking $1,000 and first class! No, she handed me my passport. Thank you to another kind person.
I like to think of myself as a seasoned traveler…not so much during a pandemic.

Boston was a welcomed sight.

 
 
 
 
 
 

My art opening cancelled, ​Tom Brady leaving New England, standing in line outside Trader Joe’s only to discover that they were sold out of boxed wine, having to learn how to teach online – the stress broke me. I went to Leah’s house where we sat 6ft apart in the fresh air in her back yard and tried to solve all the problems in the world and drank all the wine in San Diego, yup, impressive.
A shout out to Lyft drive for safely depositing me at my door.
This morning I walked the 4 miles to retrieve my car; this is when I made the colossal mistake of turning on the radio – I didn’t throw up from a hangover but I gaged and nearly barfed when I heard donald’s voice.
Now I am on radio silence.

​I lost my pencil in prison. Granted it was my first day – I was SO nervous.
I had never been to a prison before, I had never thought about going to prison, suffice it to say prison was not on my radar. Yet, there I was, in prison with no pencil.
Richard J Donovan State Prison.  A men’s high security correctional facility.
I was a new employee of Project Paint (a non-profit which brings art to prisoners).
After passing a background check, my first task was to attend four hours of paid prison training. On a sunny Saturday morning, instead of heading to the tennis courts in La Jolla, I drove south to the border then banged a hard left and drove to the middle of nowhere.  When I first spotted the facility, it looked like an oasis on the horizon, the mountains glowed in the background, it was pretty.
I am going to cut to the chase, prison training was a huge disappointment. Of the fifty people who slowly filtered into the room roughly 45 of them were men, most of whom were carrying bibles. I am going to be generous when I say that the training went for about an hour, an hour and a half if you include the welcomed donut break. What did I learn? What were the skills and knowledge I acquired?  Well, there was one lesson, one message repeated over and over again – and that was - do not have sex with the prisoners.
Every time this was repeated, I couldn’t help myself, my head would whip around scanning the room to see if this was some sort of inside prison joke and then looking to see if anyone else was as shocked as I was – no – no one reacted. Apparently, this is a problem. And then I started wondering which bible carrying person was having sex with a prisoner.
A few days later I was back to teach my first weekly drawing class. As I approached the area this time around there was no glowing aura or oasis. My working partner and I went through 3 check points, a large dark empty space of land, and huge gates until we arrived at the yard where we waited for guards who were to let us into the gym where the class was to be held. Throughout this rather unnerving journey of getting into the inside of a high security men’s prison, I kept looking around wondering where the bible carrying people were having sex.
Most prisons are numbered 1 to 4. 1 being the lowest level of security, 4 the highest. I was in a level 3. On my first night in the yard, a man in prison blues approached, introduced himself and tried to shake my hand – I froze and was unable to speak. My partner spoke up and said “No touching”. He backed away, pointed at me and casually said, “newbie”.  If being scared as hell in a desolate wasteland of wandering unknown men in blue meant that I was a newbie, then yes, he would be correct. He walked away and we walked to the gym.
The gym is a large dark, drafty, dreary and empty room with the exception of exposed urinals against the side wall. The guards unlocked the gym and the cabinet where the art supplies are kept and then they left. The prisoners, my students, came in and set up tables and chairs. Before I knew it, I was sitting ever so silently and small in front of 25 men wearing blue staring at me.
My partner went about her business of checking in the students, collecting id cards, and keeping track of everyone and everything. She bustled about with ease, chit chatting, and checking out the supplies - every pencil and ruler is numbered, every eraser is accounted for because heaven forbid someone instigates an escape with a one inch rubber eraser… I sat there. She checked out my supplies and handed me a numbered pencil and a piece of paper since I was actually supposed to teach the class and I was slated to give a drawing demonstration.
She gave me an incredibly enthusiastic introduction – what she failed to notice was that I was in a catatonic state. After an eternity, and I can say that time in prison is an eternity, I stood up and slowly started rambling and giving away way too much private information about myself – I was getting strange looks from quite honestly some scary looking dudes with impressive facial tattoos, so I picked up speed and was speed rambling, I told them about my mother’s dog Reggie and my love for Tom Brady and that I like box wine.  In an attempt to slow down this train wreck my partner stepped in and suggested I give the demo. Good idea. I had my paper but I couldn’t quite put my finger on my pencil. Surely it was in on me somewhere, in one of my pockets. I had four layers of black on, black pants, black shirt, black sweater, black jacket…In front of 25 prisoners I started feeling myself up and down and all over while still maintaining a constant flood of words. Now the prisoners were in shock. And then I saw it…right in front of me….one of the guys had his hand cupped on the table. I looked at him and softly chirped, “You have my pencil.” He might as well of flipped me off, instead he smirked and said, “I was holding it for you.”
So began my first class.
A class soon after, I got into the gym without incident and was getting supplies when I notice a half-naked man in a cage.  A man in a cage. Obviously during my first class and my heightened state of extreme fear, I failed to notice the two telephone booth size cages which I learned were used for men who were not being good prison citizens. They were held in a cage until they were moved no doubt to another cage. The only other time I have seen a live person in a cage was in the 90’s in a trendy bar in Greenwich Village – there, two hot, bikini clad female go-go dancers were in cages hanging down from the ceiling over the bar and gyrating to Baby D’s Let Me Be Your Fantasy - it was sexy as hell. But there was no imaging sex in this cage in the gym. I whisper to my partner, “Hey, there is a scantily dressed man in a cage.” She shrugged and said, “Ya, that happens sometimes”. So I quickly weighed my options, stay in the gym with the naked caged man or stand-alone out in the dreaded yard and wait for the guards to come to remove the man - the yard was a known entity to me, the man in the cage, not so much, I chose the yard.  
For weeks and weeks, after each class, I drove home in tears. I would weep and weep. I was a mess.  Everyone asked - “hey how’s the job going?” and my standard answer was, “It’s daunting on all levels.”  The fact was that I couldn’t wrap my head around any of it. We were not allowed to trust a person with a pencil sharpener. I cried for how we treat human beings, I cried for the crimes they committed, I cried for the victims, I cried for everyone’s families, I cried for humanity.
My mom kept urging me to quit, just stop – but I kept showing up. As for their art, there was a wide discrepancy of ability – some students had never drawn before, and some were accomplished artists. I encouraged them to really personalize their work - this backfired a few times – one student drew disturbingly over sexualized drawings of nude women in war-zone settings and he was a little too eager to see my reactions to his creations. He creeped me out, but I kept my game face and would give him inane compositional suggestions. I never asked, but yes, many told me their stories – not surprisingly the major themes were youth, gangs, drugs and bad decisions.  One particular assignment I gave was to draw “the landscape of my life” – this was a heart breaker. A baby faced student divided his paper in two halves, on the right half he drew his childhood home, toys on the yard, his dog sitting on the front steps, and his four family looking out the windows – on the left-hand side he drew a very small tomb stone with only his name on it, sitting alone in a vacant space. When I asked about his drawing, he looked at me in a kind of pleadingly way and said, “I was just in the car; I didn’t pull trigger.”
I am now at a second prison, Centinela - a 2 hour drive straight down the 8 to scenic Imperial Valley. Shockingly, this prison is more intense than Donovan. Centinela is gang driven and gang controlled and these gansters are my new level 4 students
People ask me, “Do you feel safe?” – At Donovan yes, Centinela, hmmm, “sort of”. Some of these men I would invite over for dinner – ok maybe not dinner but I would sit down to a tea – in a very public space like a crowded Starbucks - and others – there are a few I never want to see leave an enclosed space.
Inevitably the students ask me to be their advocate, to help them try to get a new sentence or trial. I say no pretty fast but I do tell them that I am there to help them become the best artist they can be so that they can have their own voice and to be their own advocate.
I have now been teaching at men’s correctional facilities for over two years. I still weep for all involved and I still get flustered and lose pencils.

​To the Haters
My love for Tom Brady has no bounds.
I am not alone in loving this piece of perfection – “R Tommy” (our Tommy for you non-New Englanders), unites “my people”.  When I am east it warms my heart to see grown men wearing #12 shirts in the grocery store, and it is exhilarating to hear the screaming passion for this phenomenon on Boston talk radio – he brings us together. I am a New Englander through and through and I would seriously consider moving back to Boston to be with my fellow fans if it weren’t for snow, ice and freezing temperatures...but I am one with Tommy lovers everywhere.
I could go on and on and on about his skills, his RINGS, and how he is the poster child for devotion, passion, and commitment - but let’s cut to the chase, Tom is beautiful. Honestly, New Englanders could care less if he was hot or not – trust me, the irony is not lost that we have one of the most beautiful men on the planet as our QB - in southern Cal where I live, people care about that sort of thing, New England not so much…. but we got him and he is stunning and this is yet another reason I love him so…and love is joyous!
I love our team; they have and will continue to serve us well. Even though this season didn’t go exactly according to plan, the love is still there. There is love for the many, many earnest young men who kicked the heck out of that ball, and for the buff-built-like-brick-house-heroes who sacrificed their bodies to give Tom an extra second in the pocket, and for the players who dove head first into a wall of men as they tried to bring that ball over the end zone. There is love for our grumpy coach who takes scissors to really expensive clothing and of course to our owner who loves love - hopefully legally.
So, haters – take your deflate gate conspiracy theories, take your cries of “cheaters”, take your jealously over his Hollywood hair, his supermodel wife, and stow it. As my wise little friend Lucy wrote, “Love is love”, nothing can dent that armor. 

​Drive-by-pick up
Next on the agenda was Orland, an island off the east coast of Sweden. This would be my third trip to Orland, the adventures there started thirty years ago when my great friends Lena and Joakim invited me to one of their family’s summer homes.  To get to Orland is easy, a scenic bus ride from any major point will drop you off at various points on the island. I was fully prepared to use public transportation but my other great friends, Anna and Matts, had other plans; they told me that they would pick me up and we would go together to Orland – they would do a drive-by. This was no ordinary drive-by, this was one for the ages, it was heroic. Anna, Matts and their son Jakob, began in Stockholm – they swung by Ystad 390 miles and seven hours later to pick me up from Catarina’s, then we drove 180 miles and arrived four hours later in Orland. They did this all in one day! We arrived in Orland and were welcomed to a beautiful evening with drinks and dinner outside. My traveling companions spent the night and then got back in the car to drive 270 miles, a mere five hours, back to Stockholm. Unreal. I stayed in Orland for a week, details to follow, and then I took a bus to Stockholm to hang with my favorite road trippers, details to follow, but I am still in awe of their efforts and their unending hospitality….well, that goes for every person on my epic summer adventure. I am still in awe.

How it came to be ~
I don’t walk into situations blind; I do my homework. I knew who the four panel members would be – liberal lawyers.
I sat at a table looking at these women and instantly thought “they could all be my friends”. There they were, set up to interview people who applied for grant money from the William Male Foundation. They were there to pay it forward – to enrich other people’s lives, and to honor a man who had devoted his life to the arts.
The first question asked was, “Tell us about teaching at Donovan” – I looked at them and thought I was going to cry, they cared.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I felt valued. I felt heard. I felt special. They were looking at me with interest, and not a passing by interest, genuine interest. I didn’t feel like a failure for not having “enough”, for not being big enough, for all of those “enoughs”. My words were being heard. We talked about humanity, art, travel, the type of person Bill Male was and how he contributed to the arts. I walked out of the room knowing that no matter what the outcome from this meeting, there were people out there who cared. For that I will be forever grateful.
I applied for this grant money with the intention of taking a break, taking a time-out and refueling. I needed to be thrown a bone. I was beaten up, exhausted on every level, and losing a bit of myself. I was asking for money to go to Europe, to look at art, to do some art, and to party with my friends.
Shortly after this interview I was handed a check – trip on!!
Immediately I reached out to friends to see who would be around and more importantly who would like a guest. Ystad, Orland, Stockholm, London – all secured.  The plan was to stay with as many friends as possible and say yes to every invitation offered.
I booked a one-way ticket and landed in Copenhagen June 21st – just in time to cross the bridge/tunnel to Ystad, Sweden for the midsummer celebration with a bunch of impressive academics.  Party party party  - songs, drinks, food (thankfully not all pickled herring), laughter and light. The sun barely set which was perfect for jetlag, the answer was simply not to sleep. I spent a week biking and sketching around Wallander country; I toured the Viking ruins Ales Stenar, walked the fields and beaches, watched the women’s world cup soccer games, hung out with Catarina’s lively and wonderful family and friends, sat in the courtyard looking at the cherry tree and contemplated life.
From there I trained it to Copenhagen with the intention of spending one night but was so enthralled I ended up staying for three days. My first stop was the Louisiana Museum, a 30 min train ride out of the city to this gem. Honestly, I was a tad bit sick, summer cold, and a bit tired from the party party party; I was lagging when I got there and started looking for a space on the grassy courtyard to collapse. As I willed myself to see some art before I napped, the gods smiled on me - the first exhibition was literally an installation piece which consisted of twenty beds, with lovely, soft pillows, in a dark room, and a video on the ceiling…not kidding, I had found my mecca! I crawled onto a bed and when I was not sleeping, gave my full attention to the video. I did go see all the other great art as well, but I kept returning to various beds as I got even more acquainted with the ceiling art, it was brilliant! 
After the museum, I trained it back to the city to find a hotel which proved a bit of a challenge since it was after 6pm, the tourist offices were closed, and I don’t speak Danish. The wifi in the country was suspect but on the trains it was awesome; I enlisted a teenager sitting across from me to help me find a hotel – actually more like a dorm room - which I could afford.  I was set. From there I walked the city and explored. One adventure was locating a graffiti art show at an old factory building in the “dodgy” part of town. I was directed by two self-confessed crackheads who eventually gave up trying to explain anything as they pantomimed that they were too cracked out to think straight; got to appreciate their effort. I did find the gallery, they were actually sitting next door to it, and it was the cleanest, most sterile photographs of graffiti I have ever seen - some of the pieces were framed. It didn’t seem real to me and this was the only art that bored me. I left quickly and kept an eye out for the gritty, more interesting people of Copenhagen, but they were nowhere to be seen.  
I headed back to Ystad. Next up - road trip to Orland.