The landlady of this dreadful place seems to be taking it as a personal insult that I don’t wish to board the ferry to America. She repeats the word indignantly over and over again. ‘Ja, ja! Amerika!’ She points out to the harbour again, where a large ship lies at berth. Most of my fellow lodgers, who are from Sweden, I’ve discovered, are already heading down there. They lug suitcases, bundles, and in some cases, children. They are like me, I think. They are seeking a new life. ‘No! Skagen,’ I insist. I show her my piece of paper with ‘Skagen’ written on it. She squints at it briefly, and looks back at me. I suspect she can’t read it. She sighs however, and flounces out from behind the greasy counter, beckoning me to follow her. The back door hangs crazily, half off its hinges. We go through it into a stinking backyard. Piles of refuse and horse droppings lie rotting on the cobbles. A man is unloading peat from a rickety cart. A scrawny-looking brown horse stands wearily in his harness, resting one foot.
