So... after my summer was partly derailed by Jung-Institut exams, then the flu and a month of its aftermath – I chose to travel to København (Copenhagen, to you in the back) for my first-ever conference of IAAP, the international Jungian organization; but Stockhom first, for fun, with Annick; and then Manchester, for Pride weekend.
I would have liked for the whole trip to be remarkable, but it wasn't, quite. It wasn't awful either; but a mixture of mild dislocations, slight disappointments, and more interesting things that I wasn't really in the mood to see. Ah well... I think the truth was, I simply didn't have the energy for these experiences – about two weeks, when I didn't really want to travel....
The first night in Stockholm was the only truly rotten one – a tiny, windowless room, construction right next to me, a heating system that left the temperature at 30°/80°... I staggered, wild-eyed, down to the breakfast room at 7 am, and told a silent, tall, blond Swede that he needed to find me another room. I'll bet they already knew that first room was impossible to rent, because they quickly put me in the room next door, which was much more normal (three cheers for openable windows! and normal temperatures). Then I slept until midday, after Annick sent me several texts asking where I was...
After that, Stockholm was pleasant, although I didn't see as much as I should have (mostly only Gamla Stan and Södermalm, and not enough of those), and wandered around a bit too aimlessly. At first it seemed filled with cool, utterly unsmiling people – but as I found my way into a less touristy, more working-class part of Södermalm (while looking for a particular bookstore), the faces became warmer, the people a bit more demonstrative in the pleasant summer air. And on our last night, when Annick's lovely friends Raziye and Björn came out on the town with us, the Swedes seemed to become almost lively – dancing in the street (Annick joined them), singing and wandering happily through the crowds on a summer night.
Best meal: Pelikan in Södermalm – while Annick was away at the island with Raziye, I walked several miles to a famous Swedish-classic restaurant. A long wait, but it was worth it – a platter of differently flavored herrings and akvavits, a solicitous waiter who decided I was worth taking care of. A real pleasure, even with the long walks.
The train from Stockhom to (oh, all right) Copenhagen was pleasant at first, then it got complicated, with a bus linking two trains that would normally have been one – but we got there in the end. The last stretch from Malmö to Copenhagen was elaborately polished, seemingly a matter of both countries showing off to each other... a young man in the seat in front of us spent the last three hours of the journey expounding on his own brilliance and creativity to the girl next to him, who seemed to waver between indulgence and a wish to escape. I thought: ah, narcissism, and the problem of existence in a big, crowded world that doesn't regard you as particularly important...
•••
Copenhagen. I was last there almost exactly twenty years ago... and I loved it then.
Partly because I was so impressed with the intensely handsome, brilliant artist Allen S. – at least at first. I came back from my scholarship year-and-a-half in Berlin to Copenhagen to visit him, and to see this wonderful city again, and Tivoli, which I loved.
Though it didn't seem to be working out between us... Allen was still very handsome, amazingly sexy, terrifically smart... but I wanted to see the city, to wander through the small streets in autumn, to look at things and people and places. Allen kept asking me: what do you want to do, exactly? Laundry – we can do that right here. Anything else – why? Why do you need to go somewhere?...
After three days of being penned inside, I blew up at him. Handsome yes, sexy yes, but possessive as all getout... think of those exasperating tales of famous artists and various whatstheirnames, the quasi-partners they keep pushing around. Clearly Allen saw me in this light: oh look, an American boyfriend, that will look good. My own interests were not supposed to matter, or in fact to exist.
So I packed and returned to Berlin, taking a train along the long, long line of lights that outlined the dismal post-Communist apartment houses of Rostock – wondering which of us had gotten it wrong, wondering if I'd ever meet anyone so – impressive again. Wondering if I even cared.
I can't locate Allen these days – admittedly his name is exasperatingly common (not quite like a Danish John Smith, but perhaps their version of, say, John Williams). And of course, between two HIV+ men in 1993 – chances are slim that he is still alive; a lottery I won (if surviving alone is really winning).
But I wanted to make this trip, to find out – was he still alive, was he still there – and I wanted to have coffee with him perhaps, and say, what did you think of our connection twenty years ago?...
But I could only locate the name of one of his friends – now an elderly art professor at the university – and there was no answer from her phone.
Perhaps I should try again, at some point. If it even makes sense, to try to go backwards in my own history....
•••
To be honest, Allen's impressive qualities (you may interpret that as you like – and you'll probably be right) were not everything. It occurred to me that I was actually much happier, less self-conscious and vastly more comfortable, with my good and cheerful Hans-Friedrich, who visited me repeatedly in Berlin... and he is still alive, in a small town an hour into the east German countryside.
And we've Skyped, several times in the past two years.
Perhaps I need to – well, first, lose some weight, get a bit less un-trim, maybe – and then go visit him again; and see if there is anything we can recreate between us.
And, maybe, not take no for an answer: not too easily, at any rate.
•••
But I was traveling to go to my first Jungian conference. Yes, it was generally impressive... though the vanities of public rhetoric have lost some luster for me, after twenty years of musicology conferences. And the blunt truth is: Jungians are largely introverts – when they are together they are often a bit helpless or distracted, a bit out of focus, even a bit old, seeming far from the fast lanes (all descriptions that can be applied to me, of course).
Taken en masse, I couldn't help but wonder: how necessary is it really to follow this particular specialization, at this point in my own history? Can I do work in a new vein? Do I need to change life paths at all?...
Because a strong belief in a particular ideology – that is a game for the younger, the more foolish. Though it can also destroy them, of course... but I get tired, and a bit bored, about following any well-defined or narrow path, at this point.
But another truth is: the idea of not moving forwards toward the goal of becoming an analyst is also appalling to me. I tell my students, frequently, about the advantages of academic life – and I absolutely believe that: twenty years of forty-hour-a-week jobs, mostly associated with making money (with a few very underpaid exceptions), ground the exasperating misery of the regular workaday world into my mind forever. In comparison, academics may quarrel, departments may lurch along chaotically, governments may tinker with universities until it drives you mad – but the academic life is still a far more fulfilling, interesting, and flexible life than most forty-hour-a-week lives.
So, of course... as an analyst, I would have even more freedom, be even further from meetings and administrative structures. And focused on what interests me now: continued development, from mid-life onwards....
•••
So, right about here, there should be a clear description of what happened at the conference. But now that is nearly two months ago... I can recall only fragments.
Verena Kast, Luigi Zoja, and other famous Jungians talking about the history of the organization... The good-looking, charming guy from LA who was selling prints from the Red Book, and the friendship we struck up... another wonderful restaurant in Copenhagen: an entirely raw cuisine, visited by a group of us at Annick's instigation – and it was wonderful... another pleasant dinner of herring by a canal, with tall Inge from Berlin... many pleasant people; and two very unpleasant ones – it's not true that all therapists know how to be social...
And a long walk through town with Andrés, to buy a gift for his girlfriend (he didn't take my advice – hopefully what he bought will fit her, I thought a scarf would be less risky).
And a visit to Malmö to see the conservatory, plus the conservatory in Copenhagen – as my department has exchange agreements with both. Both very impressive, massive places, and the people were lovely.
An afternoon in Tivoli with Brigitte – I dearly loved Tivoli in 1993; it was so mysteriously complicated, you could wander all over the place for hours – think of the wonderful garden in Tove Jansson's brilliant story 'The Hemulen who loved Silence'; it was like that. But this time I grabbed a map on the way in – a mistake: I could find my way around, and we didn't have much time... we should have gotten lost instead.
And the conference dinner on the last night, when Sara and I showed up late, and were escorted to a small table next to the rest of the conference – fortunately Sara was happy and charming as always, and her father and other famous Jungians condescended to come to our table and talk to us.
And the plane back to Manchester, and staying in Felicity and Richard's apartment while they were away, for Manchester Pride. Still wasn't much interested in travel, but wandered around a bit anyway.
And a train home... finally home, after two weeks and too much moving around.
•••
S0: I was able to travel, at least in space.
But, as for Allen – and Hans-Rainer – it is clear that I am having some difficulty with traveling in time...