Adopting a sample approach, the following are four short happenings from 24 hours in the Danish capital.
ONE…
Grabbing some takeaway fuel for the night ahead, I started a
conversation with an incredibly pissed off and sultry looking serving lady in a
take out. After initially doing her best to ignore us, she about turned, became
friendly and went on a tirade against Denmark. She was from Lithuania, had come
over for work a couple of years back and clearly resented her hosts. She
described them as condescending and racist towards Eastern European migrants.
This was interesting given my only positive experiences of the Danes, but no
doubt illustrative. The lady had fire in her eyes.
TWO…
After a few more drinks we sauntered into the peculiar
anomaly that is Fristaden Christiania (Freetown Christiana). Amongst the Copenhagen canals, lies an island which
was at the core of the European flower power movement. A mini San Francisco
’69, in the early seventies this place was taken over by freedom toting,
spliff toking hippies. They even declared independence as a sovereign state,
barricading the bridges from the Danish state. A lot of police raids and public
debate later, Christiania and its ageing hippies remain. I had only vaguely heard of the place before, but being
recommended as an interesting sight by a local lady in the hostel bar we
thought we’d give it a go.
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In the day the place is apparently inviting, complete with
all types of clever ecologically minded housing designs (it has a permanent
population of over 1,000) and invitations to tea. At night it had a vaguely
intimidating atmosphere. Walking through a branded gate and down “pusher”
street the place felt distinctly dodgy. The overwhelming feeling is one of
shadows. Dark except for the odd patch enlightened by some form or other of neon
green strobe light (tackily enough often in the shape of a hash leaf), we
shifted down the path past derelict looking buildings and eyes peering out of
the darkness.
We eventually reached the “centre” of Christiania dominated
by a bar and surrounding weed stalls. A bit like Amsterdam, but far less
welcoming. A good portion of the locals clearly did not want foreigners around.
Ignoring such sentiment we went to the bar and grabbed a round of local beers
(yup, Christiania has its own brewery producing really quite delectable beers).
The place was packed with quite probably the oddest
assortment of people I have shared a drinkwith. On the one hand you had the
core hippies from the original movement. With long grey hair, fisherman’s pants
and brightly covered clothing, their exuberance seemed to shed off their age
(remember the flower power movement is 45 years old). Alongside them were a
good number of West Africans, students, a small sprinkling of tourists from all
over and random uncharacterised elements.
The great thing was that everyone was
mixed up and together in what became an increasingly exuberant atmosphere of
WTF let’s party. Whether reggae or trance, 60 year old hippies were twirling
around with young Africans, drinks were shared and a small Nepalese (I guessed)
man was strutting his lonesome stuff as if this was the best thing that had
ever happened to him… Leaving was like awaking from a dream, reconciling back
to normality.
THREE...
Fuelled with a significant brunch, we gingerly wandered
through the charming streets and sights of old Copenhagen. We eventually found
ourselves passing the palace of the Danish royal family. Being a long time
Londoner I have oft cringed at the tourists posing next to the Horse Guards
near Buckingham Palace. We soon discovered that the Danish royals are guarded by
very similar looking guards complete with bear skin hats. With the shoe on the
other foot, we jumped straight in for the quintessential tacky photo. Now I get
it.
FOUR...
With Uwe back on the bike heading home to Rostock (mental guy), Dave and I
headed to the renowned Tivoli gardens, the second oldest theme park in the world.
Situated at the heart of the city in both a geographical and emotional sense,
we thought it would be rude not to. What we found was strangely alluring. There
are many worse ways to spend a lazy Sunday than kicking back on a Victorian
deck chair under the sun, in the middle of a pristine lawn and before a gilded
stage trooped by a brass bad. It felt like the Danish equivalent of Lords. Very
civilised indeed.
