Me and L were invited to a wedding in the south of Denmark, near the town Magleby on [the island of MÃ¸n](http://krak.dk/GRIDS/MAINPAGES/map.asp?mapnavfac=95&mapnav=s&ResultName=&ResultAdr=&tlf=&redZoom=false&redExtent=&mapx=&mapy=&job=&POSTNR_BY=&Adresse=&Tagning=&stepinout=&scrolltop=0&mapserial=kortld.krak.dk%7C611015000%7C609815000%7C71382500%7C72882500%7C641300000%7C603300000%7C42750000%7C90250000%7C500%7C400%7C100000%7C100000%7C74270000%7C610415000%7C0%7C%7C%7C0%7C0%7C0%7C0%7C0%7C0%7C1%7Cff0000%7C0%7C0%7C0%7C0%7C0&zoomlevel=3#kort), which is far from Copenhagen. We were instructed to wear “field gala dress”.
We had to rent a car, pack it with [Gimle](http://www.reflection-in-action.dk/default.asp?id=11), Maja and [Bagmanden](http://www.bagmanden.dk/) and drive down. L was at the wheel. To the Danes it was extremely far off. An hour and a half we drove, through all kinds of weather, and sometimes we slowed down to a crawl because of the pouring rain. It was a nice trip, and we discoursed and talked and word-gamed. Me and Bagmanden got pretty worked up.
At a filling station I noted an [pictogram](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pictograph) that was very queer. After many, many guesses I left the car and inspected its legend, printed in small type on it in three languages. Turned out is was where you empty your *poo-poo* container attached to your mobile home.
On arrival at the place we raised our domed tent (borrowed for the occasion) and began schmoozing. It was almost like a [Fastaval](http://www.fastaval.dk/), with many familiar faces. Most of us live in busy Copenhagen, so we seldom meet, outside bars. (And to tell the truth, most of us are too busy even to go to bars, these days.) Ã…rhus’ own Fastaval TV was represented by K. NÃ¸rgaard, who had been personally driven to the wedding in a truck, by a Copenhagen friend who turned back to Copenhagen without leaving the truck. He “just wanted to take a ride in the truck”, said NÃ¸rgaard on the ride.
After some confusion we got into our good clothes. L had on a new dress of rust-colored elegance, and I was in a three-piece, perhaps a little battered. Black tie, though. And a straw hat, Panama-style. (“No offense, but you look just like a 50s preacher.”) All wedding-guests trudged along a summery road, and as we walked, I saw a flash of lightning on a far hilltop. The skies were strange, some parts black and driving, some open and blue. The party ascended a hill, and at its top we gathered together with the groom, who awaited his bride. She arrived with her father holding her hand, to the tune of a [nÃ¤verlur](http://hem.passagen.se/rydmark/slojd/naverlur/bilder/naverlur2.jpg) — a long birch trumpet-like instrument from Dalarna, mid-Sweden. The bride’s mother is from Dalarna, so that’s the connection.
The mayor of MÃ¸ns Kommune (da. “county of MÃ¸n”), Knud Larsen, held a little speech, then legally wedded the two, and they got to sign papers. We got to throw rice at them. The rice came in a pink gauze package. Then we sang two songs, rather badly, and the wind took most of our vocal offerings, but we had to make do.
After this ceremony, there were some games for the guests, which included running about outside. Our own Mackacken crashed blindfolded into Line, which ended one part of the games. Luisa scraped her foot on a rock, too, also blindfolded.
Then we took to the feast hall, which had a stage, a bar, a buffet and a very long program of events. I was moved by some speeches, for instance when Lars got the family sabre from his father, and the big brother’s gift of the stormtrooper paper stand.
The feast was long and merry. It featured, among other things, a very witty, un-hiphop, and well-performed Swedish rap/spoken word, a lovers’ tango, the bride and groom dancing the waltz, after which the groom’s socks (?) were ceremonially cut off. Without any more blood-shed.
Now the couple are named Lars Vensild HÃ¶rnell and Anja Vensild HÃ¶rnell.