Snippets of Copenhagen

The flight to Copenhagen is only an hour thirty, but I fly from one season to the next.  I left the British Autumn and entered the Denmark Winter.

The town has a vaguely East German feel, circa 1975.  The sky is slate grey, the whipping wind made empty bags and burger wrappers dance and the street construction was relentless.  On my way to my first meeting I stop at a small coffee shop for a sandwich.  The entire space can’t be more than 500 square feet, with a big counter and room for six tables and a couch.  It’s in the basement of a building, a few steps down from the main road.  A man in his 40’s is behind the counter, an Iranian who made me egg salad on a bagel and a coffee with the care of an artist.

I am the only one in the place.  The Conversation:

 “Why Denmark?”

“Because Tehran was not a good place to be a young person 20 years ago.”

“Do you like it here?”

“No place is perfect right?”

“Have you ever been to America?”

“No, but I want to go very badly.  I want to go to New York.  I want to see Broadway.  It’s beautiful, yes?”

“It is.”

"The construction (the road and building repairs outside his restaurant) hurts my business.  And so I ask for a change in rent.  And they say:  ‘too bad’.  And I am surprised.  I expect different from a place that calls itself a modern democratic society.”

I am impressed by his English and his manner.  But mostly by his expectations of what a democratic society is.  He wants to be treated fairly.  He feels like the construction is the owner’s way of taking advantage of him.  He wants to trust the government.

At 8:00 at night I finish my meetings and head to see Tivoli Gardens, the big attraction, especially under the Christmas lights.  I walk through the shopping district with a piece of cheese-less pizza and a Carlsberg, it is much prettier at night, but the temperature is dipping.

A block from Tivoli I stop at a Pub for a pint and to warm up, the gardens are open until 11.  There is a guitar player singing “The Boxer” by Simon and Garfunkel.  Just him, a guitar and a harmonica and it’s perfect.  The bar is warm and friendly, everyone is talking and laughing, I forgot, it’s Friday night.

During a break he tells me he is Swedish, but plays all American songs.  The pub smells of stale beer and during a series of Springsteen songs I am transported back to Ann Arbor listening to the songs of my youth, surrounded by drunkards singing and swaying together.  Hours, beers, and a long rendition of Whiskey in a Jar and Proud Mary later I walk past the now closed Tivoli and to my hotel room, which reminds me of a hostel from my Euro-rail days. 

It is good to be in the company and kindness of strangers.  Different language, same songs , just people.