Mom reminds me that when she and Dad went to Normandy in 1975, they stayed at the infamous Hotel Hardy, where they were not-so-entertained by les petit cockroaches doing the can-can across their beds.
In other words, the spider--did I mention that sucker was HUGE?--was just trying to assist in making my experience historically accurate. So, um, thanks. I guess.
Went to Christiana yesterday, which is a sorta-kinda autonomous hippie haven and Amsterdam-in-miniature. It didn't exist in 1963--meaning it's not in my guidebook; a friend mentioned it to me--but the spirit of the 1960s is alive and well. Lots of crazy, psychedelic public art and graffiti; many zoned-out people wandering/stumbling around or sitting in groups, singing what I took to be the Danish version of "Kumbaya." An acrid haze hangs in the air. Feral dogs, as happy and stoned as the humans, roam the grounds--one had somehow managed to get on a picnic table and was munching on food from a takeout container (styrofoam--bad hippies!). It's a pretty trippy place, even if you're not actually tripping. Alas, I have no pictures because there are signs everywhere saying "no photos." Those hippies: such sticklers for rules.
My battery is about to die and I need to head out to take a bike tour (Frommer's orders).