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In Which My Brother Makes My Day

December 5, 2006 by Mike

Copenhagen

The last thing my brother and I said to each other as I left him and his family in Norway was "See you in Denmark":

And whaddya know? Here he is, 'fresh' off the plane after getting up at 3.30am to catch his flight. (It must have sounded like a good idea at the time, eh Nick??) What a wonderful, wonderful sight.

Our fraternal relationship continues to mature as we do - we can compare hairlines without blushing too much, though I still get miffed when people guess I'm the older brother. Not because I act older, you understand. I just look older. Than my brother who is seven years my senior, dangnabbit.

And being men, we spend far too long comparing digital cameras. Well, it's men's way of bonding. Saves us having to talk about emotions and stuff. Or having to go shopping.

But.. if we aren't going to talk or shop.. what the hell do you do in Copenhagen, in December, in the rain?

Nick had assumed I'd arrange stuff, as I've been here for a whole day. I assumed that he, having lived in Scandinavia for 20 years, would know all the good bits of the city. And being men, we hadn't checked in advance.

Well, Tivoli was on our doorstep, but in the December rain it didn't look appealing. Mind you, in the December rain, nothing did. But we both enjoy a good walk, so we set off through streets of old Dutch-style buildings towards the old palaces of Christiansborg. Once royal palaces, they now house
a) some stables;
b) the Parliament;
c) the Prime Minister's office.

And yes, that's the order in which they were listed in the tourist brochure.

The oldest parts of the city are built around a series of canals. We spotted a tourist boat and hopped on (thanks for the tip, Phil in Berlin) to enjoy an overview of the city from a perky travel guide and morose pilot -- but we overheard him telling somebody he was from the Færoe Islands, and as I think he may be my first ever Færoese, I forgive him.

Amongst other highlights, they took us to see the 'Little Mermaid'. Bless her, she's not really worth crossing the road for, but as the 'symbol' of the city every tour group is obliged to track her down.

Leaving the canal boat, we wandered down to Christiania. It's not the kind of place to hurry to purposefully. We got there thanks to my navigational skills, Nick! This was, at least in part, a tribute to our sister, who couldn't be here but sort of was, in spirit. And via txt message. Christiania feels like KC's kind of place. (It's story is pretty remarkable. Rather than mess it up, I'll link to this summary.

So here we are, a couple of miles from the Danish parliament, from the Queen's gaff, from the crucible of commerce and economy, in a scuzzy, delapidated, tumbledown, graffiti'd drug den. Because whichever way you look at it, *the* most remarkable thing about Christiania is that the main drag is called 'Pusher Street' and there the pushers are, out on the street, selling drugs.

There's much more to the area -- clearly, some people are doing well because lots of them were riding lovely old-fashioned bicycles we saw on sale for over £1000 each. The social structure is fascinating; a handful of wonderfully eccentric newly-built homes overlook the river; the food was fantastic - as was the fact that the Woodstck Cafe starts serving breakfast at the entirely sensible time of 12.30pm onwards.

But it all comes back to Pusher Street. That, on the surface, is what the freedom so valiantly fought for is all about. That and the right to let yr home fall to bits around you. And own a dog.

Only six hours 'til Nick's plane leaves. Barely time to have a pint in one of the many Pubs in the centre of town that were overflowing with Celtic fans (they play FC København tomorrow) and agree that everyone in Denmark smokes too much. I know I'm sounding old and fusty, first complaining about the drug-dealers, now even about people smoking ordinary cigarettes.. but these places *stank*.. it drove us out into the rain. We are, as you've already guessed, both ex-smokers...

Only five hours 'til Nick's plane leaves. Time to scarf down some typical Danish fare (not) and briefly reconsider going into Tivoli.

Only three hours 'til Nick's plane leaves. Better start thinking about getting to the airport which is, after all, a whole fifteen minutes away by train.

We manage something rather special: to get to the airport before his flight is even up on the boards and then, having drunk some coffee (and compared digital cameras) look again only to find a long, motionless queue waiting at check-in. This gave me plenty of time to study Scandinavian queuing techniques. Morose deadpan faces and surreptitious edging forward is par for the course. But we also witnessed the Advertising Agency Feint, in which seven braying, bragging Golden People flock towards the front of the queue and push in, elbowing the plebs aside to make space for them and their Gucci shopping bags, not pausing from their yabbering to catch breath or look even the teensiest-weensiest bit guilty. Nobody lifted a finger.

I saw my lovely bruv through the security check and off. This is the second time I've had a flying visit.

They are much appreciated, folks!

Back to town. A pint in a pub full of Celtic fans, happily chatting to a couple of Celts until one of them suddenly makes a comment so disgracefully racist and sexist that I have to put the drink down and leave before I respond and things get out of hand. A needlessly sad footnote to a top day.

Beside the Seaside

In Which My Brother Makes My Day

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