At the start of June, me and a mate from Leeds Uni (H) flew to Copenhagen. We had never been on holiday together before. We have always gotten on great, but I was still filled with the slight edge of anxiety: what if we had nothing to talk about? Was this the catalyst that made our friendship fall apart? Nothing like an intense test of friendship than a weekend to somewhere we've never been before, and don't speak the language.
After facing queues all day, we faced another long wait before a brief and half-hearted interrogation by passport control (“Why had we come here? How long were we staying?”). We tumbled into a taxi by a gentleman who had previously lived in Manchester (where we flew from). Far from bonding over our similar roots, he welcomed us to Copenhagen with an outrageously priced fare after taking us through many long-winded twists and turns, as my Google Maps screamed the direct route.
Checking into the hostel, we made it to our dorm to dump our rucksacks and have a quick wardrobe change. We said a shy "hello" to the couple of girls we were sharing a room with (one was asleep, the other typing furiously on her laptop in bed) and skedaddled. One the door of our room, their was a comically humungous picture of a young John Travolta. Not sure if it was particularly a Scandinvian icon or whether it was just the hostel's attempt at contributing to the revitalisation of the 90s trend.
Desperate for a drink (or a few), H and I crept downstairs to take in the midnight atmosphere. The hostel bar was buzzing, and we were quickly surrounded by people (read: guys) who wanted to introduce themselves. Initially, we pretended we were girlfriends- a very tired excuse to get men to focus their attention elsewhere- we eventually let down out guard and chatted with the group. H had hit it off with a London-based lecturer from the Netherland, whilst I was trying to assert the vaguest suggestion of personal space from a French student. We traded Instagram usernames: the Italian guy recorded himself screaming "FUCK YOU" as a voice message to us (an unusual way to slide into someone's DMs. We resisted the persuasion to go to a night club with them; it was about 2am by that point and we wanted to enjoy our first full day NOT hungover.
Alas, it was not meant to be. My Jaegar-induced headache did not do me any favours. At the grand old age of 23, for the first time in my life I had to resort to Paracetamol to cure me.
When me and H hoped someone would buy us a drink, God said be careful what you wish for. It might just be Jaegar.
Central Copenhagen was full of beautiful buildings, both modern and old fashioned. narrow streets and grand towering buildings, all with beautifully cosmopolitan European architecture. Dipping in and out of quaint little shops, including Søstrene Grene (a Danish homeware place that H's mum was apparently obsessed with). We dreamed of a wholesome, calm, Danish life; existing in neutrals and organic ingredients. Me and H outfit-spotted throughout the weekend, adoring the style and flair of the women, flirtatiously commenting on the classic-looking men as if they had fallen out of Vogue. The Danes were effortlessly cool and sophisticated, as if they had absorbed the entirety of & Other Stories via osmosis.
We stopped off for a late lunch in Torvehallerne, a food market hall (another one of H's mum's recommendations). Consisting of what seemed to look like two ginormous greenhouses, they were filled with squared market stalls selling everything from fresh fruit and veg, raw fish to cooked meats, DIY salads, homemade chocolates, vegan ice-cream, coffee, alcohol, tapas and much more. There was even a florest outside. I'm always fascinated by the food other countries value and specialise in, despite me and H both being more or less vegan and not being able to eat most of it. I still get wildly anxious about ordering food, especially with a lack of portion control. H could intuitively feel my stress-levels rising, which was somewhat teased by a couple of holidaymakers who were being aggressively rude and annoying towards the young girls working. Bloody tourists.
The timing of our trip seemed to have coincided with a lot of reconstruction in the inner metropole: scaffolding was punctuated throughout the city just enough to sabotage any aesthetic housing exterior.
Speaking of aesthetic, the only picture you will see on the Socials when anyone goes to Copenhagen, nay (or, nej) Denmark, is Nyhavn. The colourful row of houses on the marina which looks like it has been directly transported out of a fairytale. It is quite breath-taking in real life. I was very grateful that we were not in high tourist season, as waiting for a picture would really test my commitment to the ‘gram. After me and H took turns to snap photos of each other, a fellow tourist asked if we wanted one together. Of course. Then, we were obliged to return the favour to this male-only family holiday. The gentleman very helpfully mansplained to us, mere novices, that “the important thing” was to get a good view of the background as it was, “quite famous”. Our British sympathies mandated us to politely exclaim our surprise and interest at this information ("Oh, really?", "Wow, you don't say"). Bless.
Another famous viewpoint in Copenhagen is from the top of the Round Tower. Constructed in 1637, the tower functioned as a Church, an education institution as well as a public astronomical observatory. To our surprise, to get to the top of the 35m tower, there was minimal stairs to climb. Unsure whether it was a new scheme for wheelchair and pram accessibility (or whether the Danes just hated stairs) the tower exists of a sloping ascent to the top, with a flight of stairs at the final hurdle. On further research, it turns out that in ye olden days, the 7.5 helical corridor was used an to move heavy books and astronomical instruments to and from the library. Now, it is merely used for the fortunate employee to joyously ride down in some form of small lifting truck, as seen in an Amazon Warehouse. Does time change or is it merely ourselves?
We love a viewpoint. Standing at the top of the tower, the amalgamation of red rooftops and orange buildings swirls around you. There is something about a panoramic view that installs an innate calmness inside. The birds-eye view conjures a feeling of weightless: it forces you to see things in perspective and breathe. Everything is small and manageable when you look at the bigger picture.
Despite the overwhelming tranquillity which comes from being up on high, me and H could not work out the geography of the city. Our location in relation to the hostel/airport/centre was lost on us. Throughout our circular wanderings we could hear street performers playing ‘Titanic’ in the distance. Bit of cheesey ambiance? Yes, please.
Friday night: the plan was to go to a place called JOY Bar on the other side of town which had advertised natural wines and live music. The live music was a DJ and there wasn’t much of a dance floor. So we ended up bar hopping around a few places and soaking up the vibes. Wine was often poured from a tap or keg which was strange at first, but we just had to trust the purity of the wine. The best bar we went to was Vinhanen, where H was convincing me to join her on her travels in Bali in September. Jury’s still out on that one.
Both Friday and Saturday night we ended up back at the hostel, hoping to meet more people for more spontaneous antics. Friday night, we met more guys in the hostel bar, who I then out to a free night club called Zefside with (conveniently situated around the corner).
On Saturday night we talked to our roommate from Iceland and met a 20-year-old uni student from Nottingham who was on a solo interrailing trip. Whilst going upstairs to get ready for the club (H wanted to change out of her Birkenstock sandals because there was no chance was she going to get passed the bouncer with the lower half of her looking like one of Jesus’ disciples), we met a sweet girl who wanted to walk with us after a creepy interaction with a guy. She was from Alaska and had the most gorgeous American accent. Like the start of some 2000s bildungsroman chick-flick, we set off went to the club together as a merry girl band.
I used to think I’d hate going 'out out' on holiday. But the Continent really know what music to play to have a good dance. The actual music you listen to, the cheesy tunes and the pop songs and the dance beats. Initially we were the only ones on the floor. The wild British girls (and Alaskan girl) trying to get the dancing vibe going. People soon followed suit and we were all dancing on the tables and screaming out lyrics to pop songs.
Although me and H spent the whole day together, the chaotic melodrama on the nights meant we spent it apart. H, having a bad reaction to the wine and spewing in the hostel toilets, and me, sharing a different hostel toilet whilst pulling a guy who got caught up in my dress. The following night, H was in the professor's bunk bed, and I was out having vegan nuggets at MAX at 3am by myself.
Saturday morning we debriefed the previous night's shenanigans over coffee. Our next mission was walk to the middle island in Copenhagen. Alongside the water's edge, there were installations of mini trampolines in the pavement. Presumably meant for kids, me and H still were elated at the opportunity to have a wee mess around. It was the perfect way too release the childlike giddiness that comes with being on holiday. In search for some fuel, we went to the iconically Danish Grød Cafe for oat-y times. A very Danish dish of overnight oats and porridge.
We were heading for the Freetown Christiana: A Commune set up in 1971 in an old army barracks by a group of 'hippies', who wanted to establish their own self-governing society. Outside of Danish conventional law, the community is founded on principles of equality, no taxes, zero violence, as well as not being allowed to run. Running insinuates there's something to run from- and this counter-cultural social experiment is all about eliminating fear. Nowadays, around 900 people live there, including a lengthy waiting list of people trying to join this haven of hedonism.
The Commune was bigger than I expected. I didn’t realise you could walk around inside it so much. We went through the gift shop initially and there was a woman dressed in a comically stereotypical, violently-coloured hippie dress. It seemed strange that a Commune, disparate from the rest of Copenhagen civilisation, had a gift shop and was clearly exploiting their novel status.
The Commune had much more to see than we thought. It had lots of the little stalls that you see alongside the beach of other tourist destinations. There was a cool skatepark with “Harry loves you” enscribed on the top. We're still not sure who Harry is. There was bright-coloured murals and cartoonish graffiti artwork everywhere which added to the playful and slightly anarchic feel of the place.
We walked through the infamous 'Green-light District', trying to envision a society where casual selling of Weed on countops this would be a normal and regulated situation. H raised up her phone to take a photo but was sharply yelled at by a man cycling past, who pointed at a sign 'No Photos'. Tracing the circumference of the park and investigatuing the accomodation houses as much as we could, we sat down and tried not to breathe in too much Weed or tobacco. After swearing we were never drinking again (as all Brits do about once a month) we sat down and had a beer in the sun. We talked about our 'type' on paper and what gave us the ‘ick’ in guys. Meanwhile, I was being periodically distracted, fawning over someone's dog that was slouching on a nearby bench.
We grabbed lunch from 7-Eleven and sat out in the sun. An adorable Danish man in a fedora hat (and an unfortunately questionable moustache) was sitting in a tiny coffee kiosk. Easily persuaded by any opportunity for an oat flat white, we wandered over and started chatting. He told us that we had come to Copenhagen at a good time because all the flowers were starting to bloom. We asked how long he had lived in Copenhagen, and he replied, “all his life”. I said he was very lucky to live somewhere so expensive. He laughed and said, “you just have to get rich if you want to live here”. The search for success/ winning the lottery/ marrying rich continues.
The Danish Library was another beautiful building on the waterfront. it was made up of many glass floors and looked more like a contemporary art museum than a library for students. They were doing an exhibition on the remains of a Jewish school in Slovakia pointing towards the history of the Holocaust and Denmark’s role in the Second World War. The Last Folio exhibition was a gorgeous installation by a Canadian photographer (Yuri Dojc) from Jewish heritage. He captured the last birth of life of the decaying books of a Jewish school where, it turns out, his father used to go. It was a mark of recognising and acknowledging the Jewish community in Denmark after being exiled to Sweden during the Nazi occupation. Not well-known history but powerful.
Taking a water taxi to the far end of the main island, we went to see The Little Mermaid. Albeit rather underwhelming, it is an iconic statue of a mermaid becoming human. It was commissioned by the Danish Brewer, Carl Jacobsen, after watching a ballet performance based on Hans Christian Anderson’s The Little Mermaid. It was unveiled in 1913 as a present to the city of Copenhagen. It seems that it was a gift that no one had particularly asked for, as our Icelandic roommate told us that it had been torn down quite a few times. The mermaid was modelled on the artist's (Edvard Eriksen) wife- how bizarre to have a replica of your tits in a city for over 100 years? Think about it: they had seen two world wars, the Moon Landing, and the creation of ABBA.
Walking back to hostel pretty tired out from the day, we see a crowd of people around a fancy hotel (D'Angleterre). We wandered up and asked a curly-haired woman standing next to her bike what was gong on. She said that Obama was in Copenhagen and he was arriving at the hotel shortly. Without much discussion, me and H joined the crowd and jittered with excitement. A few minutes later, a stylishly dressed gentleman inquired what everyone was waiting for. There was a slight awkward pause as the same curly-haired woman with the bike looked at us. Awkward British stereotype took over and me and H avoided eye contact. She explained (with less of a smile) that everyone was awaiting for Obama. Without pausing, the man just said: "the American one?". As if in different universes there were different Obamas we were waiting for. Me and H were in hysterics. I kept chuckling to myself for the remainder of the holiday and I still think about this at least once a week.
Anyway, we eventually see Obama get out a car surrounded by numerous security personnel. There is a sudden lurch of the crowd and everybody starts applauding and cheering. He gives a his classic smile and wave (to paraphrase my dad, 'bet it was the coolest wave ever').
Despite the disorder of the night time, we found peace in the day. Peace in taking our time exploring, finding something new, and connecting with the city.
Sitting on the side of the harbour and sipping a cold drink, soaking up the sunshine and hearing the buzz around us, making plans for the rest of our adventure.
These last few months have been a bit rough for various personal reasons.
I thought that a weekend away on holiday would be a break from myself. But, to my non-ironic suprise, I was still as chaotic as ever. I did a tequila shot on my own at the bar just to feel the alcohol hit; I tipsily opened up to people I had just met that I couldn't cry; I was shy and felt so big in my *recovering* body whilst negotiating tricky food situations; I threw myself into risky situations with strangers just for the sheer novelty of it. Just the love of a good story. It seems silly to think you can take a holiday from yourself, but that was what I wanted. I wanted to imagine my life anew in a different place and live it. But old habits die hard. In the times where I was so desperate to drown out the noise with alcohol or attention, what I really needed was peace. I found that tranquility calmness came in the quiet moments of life being reflected back at me: whether on the rooftop of a swirling metropole, marks of history and art, catching of light on the glass, the simple bobbing up and down of a boat, or the slight pause and comforting silence after two friends share an inside joke. The stillness is soothing. It's one of the many reasons why I love travelling. I am enraptured by the new stimuli that I don’t need to feel catharsis, I’m already there
Of course, no one has it together. H and I both indulged each other in our feelings of disturbance with being at the crossroads in life for different reasons. Everyone has their own battle to contend with. Although I came home, worn down with the thought that a month on I was still in the exact same mess as before. Mum reassured me, "that's what happens with change: you fall off the wagon and get up again". We go again.
Travelling should be a break from ordinary life, not from yourself. Because you can travel as far away as you like, to the ends of the earth. But you'll always be right back where you left yourself, waiting to find a place to call home.
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