Copenhagen
benny goodman   Page 1
Preamble Four in the Morning Bicycles, beer and buttons Dining like the Danes Tivoli and Tantrums Epilogue
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Preamble
Thomas Hobbes once wrote that ‘life in the state of nature is nasty, brutish and short’. That might have been so for the vast majority of human existence, but for those of us born in the late twentieth century in Europe it is ‘la dolce vita’. And so, most of us can expect to reach our fifth decade untroubled by boils, the pox or consumption. Fifty is a nice round number; half a century for cricketers. It is long enough to have some proper experiences in life, affording some perspective on issues that the young find vexing, such as relationships, money and occasional incontinence. George Bernard Shaw remarked that at forty a man is at the ‘apex of his villainy’. At fifty, villainy still lingers but is tempered by ‘chalfonts’, predisposing one to lesser flights of fancy but enjoying it more at an easier pace. We are not quite so much ‘at it’ like a ‘bull at the gate’. ‘It’ in any case is just as likely to involve a week of planning, an early night beforehand and the alarm set to let you know it is time. We are not old. We will not wear purple. But we will spend our money on frippery and on ‘brandy and on summer gloves and satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter’. Turning fifty requires some celebration, whether that be drinking in Manhattan, cruising off the Turkish coast, watching the sunset from a Greek island, walking around the red desert scorched rocks of Nevada, cycling through the Champagne vineyards or experiencing hygge in a hyggelig Danish bar. Copenhagen then is an ideal spot for a celebration, not too far away for a weekend break but far enough away to feel ‘away’ even when it has once been ‘home’. When the fiftieth year approaches and one wants a hyggelig city, then this is the place to be. Skål !
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Four in the Morning Bakers have started their days work, night nurses have done their rounds and party goers are giving it the last heave ho before falling into a taxi or their own pool of vomit. It is a time reserved for the insomniacs, the incontinent and the insane. However, on this particular morning, it is the time five of us have to stir from our beds in Oxfordshire to ensure we get to Heathrow on time.
Kirsten, by dint of breathing for very nearly five decades, is reaching a milestone birthday. And it comes to pass that in celebration of such an auspicious occasion, Grant, Karen, Chris and I find ourselves heading for the airport to catch the 0710 to Copenhagen. Ann would have been with us but the gods have decreed that instead of 6 heading north, we are reduced to being an infamous five, illness being no welcome travelling companion. Terminal 5 at 6 in the morning is about as much fun as pulling ones nasal hairs with a pair of pliers. The staff do their best to ensure frivolity is kept to a minimum and jokes about men in beards armed with bombs are shelved in the name of sanity. After all we don't want the rubber fingered glove of security investigating our treasured dark orifices in search of plots, plans and prophecies of the coming caliphate.
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Breakfast, such as it was, was taken at the the unimaginatively named 'Eat' after we had checked in. I hope this trend for brevity in naming establishments does not catch on or we might see pubs simply called 'Drink', petrol stations called 'Drive' and toilets labelled 'Shit'. Lord knows what an escort agency would then call itself. The flight is thankfully uneventful as it should be. Boredom is an underrated feeling especially on an aircraft. Excitement can be a good thing but when you are at 30,000 feet it is best left in the pages of the novel you are reading. The most excitement I really want when flying is trying to figure out how to open the small plastic milk carton that comes with what passes for coffee.
The sun is out, the sky is blue, it's beautiful down there as we land. Hardly a breath of wind and summer is definitely lingering around as if it is afraid of missing something at a party it's just been to. Summer should be thinking of going home before it gets too pissed and wakes up with the winner of the wrinkled and halitosis graced 'face like a slapped arse' contest. But no, summer has decided to stay. Bags dropping and checking in at the hotel is quickly followed by beers ordered and lunch taken in a charming little square. The first impressions of Copenhagen is of a city at ease with itself; young and old and vibrant and quiet and pulsing with life but not in a loud ‘in yer face’ way. A city of islands and waterways and a hint of
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Amsterdam in its canal and Bavaria in its buildings. You might find Camden in its Christiania. If we reduce a city to one word, this one is 'Charm'. Or perhaps 'Beer'. But right now late at night, that four in the morning is beginning to tell. I'm sitting on my elbow and have no idea where my arse is leading my wrist. The little mermaid is sitting on her rock out there somewhere, safely contemplating life's richness and wondering if she should just call herself ‘myth'.
Den lille havfrau
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Bicycles, beer and buttons
It seems a lot happened in the 17th century. England invented a new version of slavery based on trade and pugnacity and an over arching feeling of national superiority as God's new chosen people, the French monarchs were doused in frippery, inventing food and general self regard before the coming storm of the revolution, while in Denmark, King Christian the 4th built a brewery in Copenhagen. Kings Christian 1st to the 3rd having been raised on piety and piss had left it to their successor to establish a decent 'bryghus' and thus was 'probably the best idea in Denmark' made manifest. This fine building now stands at the waterside near Nyhavn and is a testament to the Danes unswerving dedication to the art of malt and barley brewing.
There is something to be admired in this approach to life: "eat pork-get pissed" and 'bugger building empires' has served the Danes well. Nelson did them a favour in 1801 by sailing up to the harbour and bombarding the city till it caught fire. This is the same Nelson who chased the French 'Up the Nile', literally - this is not a euphemism. Any nascent dreams of empire building was therefore crushed by fire and the British boot allowing the pacified Danes to consider improving the quality of the pig now on your plate and the brew in your glass.
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Nelson when confronting a joint Norwegian-Danish fleet is reputed to have disobeyed Admiral Parker's order to withdraw by holding the telescope to his blind eye to look at the signals. But Parker's signals had given him permission to withdraw at his discretion, and Nelson declined. Again demonstrating that men find it difficult to withdraw when up their gunnels in glee and mayhem. Discretion is best left to cuckolds and concubines. However, following this unfriendly encounter the Danes rebuilt Copenhagen and got on with the serious matter of brewing while the British spread Christianity and syphilis around the world. They have obviously forgiven us this minor indiscretion probably mindful of the joint Anglo-Danish fondness for a piss up.
Nyhavn is home to boats. Its pretty pastel painted houses line the harbour wall providing rest and bonhomie to the citizens of Copenhagen and other assorted flanuers, tourists and the curious. Buskers provide some daytime music. In the past Kristen's father played jazz in some of the clubs and bars. Think 'Plymouth's Barbican' but without the Janners. It was once of course home to men of the sea and therefore provided entertainment focused on emptying their wallets and scrotums in equal measure and with equal speed. That maritime history of course is built into the place. It's cobbled walkways, mooring rings, sailing ships and yachts tied up all bear testament to its history. There is a also still a night club called the Hong Kong where one can see naked ladies according to its advertising. This phenomenon of ladies getting their kit off for money is of course a global phenomenon and has transcended the years in defiance of various social movements to stop it. Christianity has proved singularly a failure in this regard. Do Muslim countries have
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strip clubs? If not, maybe the feminists should take a leaf out of their book and encourage young white Christian girls to convert. The leaf they could take out would say "keep your kit on, your mouth closed and your bush for your hubby's beard". I'm sure that is in the Qu'ran somewhere. Putting naked ladies to one side, we embark on a very pleasant canal boat trip around the harbour in glorious sunshine. The guide repeats her, er, 'guidance' in Danish, English and German and so we are informed of Copenhagen's history and culture. We pass the 'Lille Hovfrue' sitting on her rock and unlike the later Disney version this little mermaid is just as famous in Denmark for having lost her head twice. Disney and Denmark differ also in that the Disney version has a happy ending, whereas in Grimm's fairy tale it all ends badly in froth on the sea in a spot of bother, not unlike a Redruth maid in St Ives after a few pints of gin and the promise of shag on the beach at high tide. At some point in recent history a fashion rule came into being. I learn this rule late at night at the hotel bar just before turning in. Apparently when wearing a shirt without a tie the top button should be undone. Now on that point I am with any keen follower of fashion and refrain from looking like a buttoned up nerd at a geek convention. What I did not know is that the second button down should also be undone to signal the required level of relaxation, an indication that this is 'down time'. Medallions should of course be kept for those inclined to drive sports cars, star in 70's porn films and otherwise engaging in dodgy social habits such as voting UKIP. The fashion rules however change depending on nationality and one's propensity to follow rules. I doubt Cornishmen know this rule, and in any case the only bloke in Camborne who owns a shirt (Nigel) is more concerned about the stains from the dripping gravy in a cornish pasty than order of button fastening.
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Dining like the Danes
The day opens with a symphony of sunshine. The clouds are away and nothing but light and warmth permeate the city's streets. Coffee and breakfast beckon and so we walk to a nearby cafe. The streets are remarkable for the lack of traffic, and the number of cyclists, resulting in an atmosphere of quiet 'going about one's business', free from honking horns, engines revving and the din of unrelenting, roaring, swearing drivers hell bent on killing each other and any other road user. It is truly relaxing to walk about a city without the fear of imminent death. The Danes have made cycling a priority and have provided the necessary infrastructure to support two wheeled transport. Cyclists ride all manner of machines in ordinary clothes and mostly always without a helmet as they obviously must feel safe on the city streets. Lycra clad helmeted sports bikers are nowhere to be seen. All ages are on their bikes and for various functions, including ferrying babies and children, and taking the shopping home. Cycle parks are everywhere. The bikes themselves are a variety of styles, colours, states of maintenance and worth. There are some that look like they have been ridden here and left by the armies of the third reich. Their owners, having been sent to the Russian front, have left them in a state of corroded disrepair. Most are of the sit up and beg variety complete with basket. It is fair to say that Copenhagen has many static wonders of architecture such as the town hall. It is also fair to say that the armies of Nordic beauties swishing by in flimsy summer frocks, the warm summer wind in their hair and a smile in their bosoms, also provide dynamic architectures of beauty that few cities will match. London take note, and do something to replicate this two wheeled ballet before we choke on diesel fumes and anger. It is in this atmosphere of calm that we walk to Christiania, a settlement within a city that runs by its own rules. It is a Mecca for hippies, bohemians, artists and Ganga lovers. The authorities look the other way while the thriving market for 'weed', or whatever your favourite word is, gets sold, rolled and smoked. This is an old industrial site by the look of it, not unlike Camden market. All life is here and looks rather chilled out. The drug war
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warriors would hate it and would rather like to see its anarchic flouting of convention closed down for good. Bob Marley's presence is everywhere in red green and gold, and one chap has taken to heart the decree to stick one to Babylon by lying prostrate on the ground deep within his own personal nirvana. In other words, he is stoned and off his tits as I believe the vernacular to have it. The five of us enjoy the 'vibe' but without taking part in the smoke fazed ganga worship. I prefer my drugs to result in nakedness rather than oblivion. Christiania has existed for several decades and along with Amsterdam's tolerance, point to a different way of dealing with both life and drugs. Regulation and control within a harm reduction philosophy rather than blind blunt instrument prohibition must be the way forward as many countries, politicians and police forces are beginning to recognise. I have written extensively on drugs laws and politics, and have seen experientially what drugs can do. Christiania is not perfect, but it's a damn site better that many inner city circles of despair currently existing across the globe. Lunchtime is booked at the 'Kanal Cafeen'. We meet up with Jannie and Martin at this delightful traditional restaurant to have the 'full Danish'. Sitting by the canal, the restaurant has a strong history tied to the old monarchy. It was a gift to a faithful servant in place of a pension. It was turned Into a restaurant to provide income and has remained so ever since. The staff are both friendly and very professional as we squeeze into a packed interior dining room festooned with maritime memorabilia. I ask for a 'little beer', the waitress having a good sense of humour returns with a small handled glass beer mug with a capacity of about 5 mls maximum. Schnapps will provide the continuity thread throughout the various courses which will be served in. three stages: a fish platter followed by a meat platter then the cheese. The fish is mainly herring prepared in various ways - soused, curried, fried and indescribable.
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This does not sound particularly appetising but believe me the Danes have been doing this awhile and what results is a platter to rival and surpass any 'fruits de mer' you will ever get your greedy paws on. In truth, this platter would be enough. Stopping here would be a grand feast indeed. However, in search of the Danish experience of a grand celebratory meal, it is Kirsten's birthday trip after all, we move onto meats and cheeses. There is one platter served at a time for the 7 of us, the idea being that one samples from the bowls of herring placed on it. One has to clear the pallet between each mouthful with the schnapps. A habit I recommend. The otherwise slow descent into a schnapps fuelled oblivion is tempered by the pace of the meal and the sampling of all of the many dishes to be had. There is more food presented at this table than was provided for at Belshazzar's feast. The table no doubt had reinforced steel girders to keep it steady. If there was to be any writing on the wall here, it would state "who ate all the pies?". The food and booze operate in total harmony and demonstrate the affinity between the Danish and the British. Both have a monarchy, a maritime history based on trade and liking for ale mixed with just the merest suggestions of post prandial debauchery. The meal is served without potatoes and accompanying vegetables, so it's just meat, fish and cheese. The cheese involves a little ceremonial wrapping in rum soaked rye bread complete with crisp onions and something my schnapps infused memory can't recall. Vegetables can be now only be found in distant memory. This last fact is related to the
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Chalfont index, as a diet rich in meat and no vegetables can precipitate an increase in the index. This will have to be watched. We are not riding bikes and so the critical nature of Chalfont induced pain and panic is reduced. That being said no one wants to have to face their own personal hell in this department. But for now the ‘Chalfont Index’ is 0 out of 10. We fall out of the restaurant into glorious sunshine and stroll back to Nyhavn for a beer, for some people watching and to take the summer sun. The plan is to visit Tivoli gardens later in the afternoon. Nyhavn is buzzing and being traffic free is a haven of rest despite the numbers here out promenading. I find a chair under a sunshade, sip on iced tea, and settle, Chalfont free, to enjoy the rest of the day.
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Tivoli and Tantrums
Do you remember when you were a child and the fair came to town? The smell of toffee apples, candy floss, dog poo and sweat. We'd ride the dodgems, shoot the ducks and run around making a nuisance of ourselves while spending every last penny. In the evenings the bigger 'kids' full of bravado and beer, might pick fights with the fairground Romanies and end up in the hedge or the local nick. It was cheap, it was cheerful and it was exotic in a dirty sort of way. In a few days, the fairground would pack up, leaving just a muddy field and bits of straw. Tivoli is also a fairground. There the similarity ends. Yes of course it has fairground rides and stalls we all recognise, but it is cleaner, more vivid and far more entertaining. There is a theatre showing ballet just inside one of the entrances, there is a main stage with a big band playing swing, there is a laser light show that dances across the trees and reflects itself in the lake. The fountains in the lake perform a madrigal not unlike the famous Bellagio in Las Vegas. And to top the evening there are fireworks which makes everyone whoop and cheer. All ages and classes are here. If you want posh then that is catered for, if you just want great rides then this also the place. The children of course love it and so as the sun sets, the lights and colours fill the place turning it into a magical wonderland. If your inner child does not emerge then you are brain dead. Go find a psychiatrist or a counsellor and stop yourself from procreating to end the cycle of misery into which you have obviously been trapped. What's more, we stumble into a very small bar which is servicing a microbrewery. The copper stills are behind glass in full view. So it came to pass that we sit by the lake, beers in hand to relax and watch the lasers. Nearby is a huge tower ride which spins and twists on windmill like arms, sending occupants over 30 metres into the sky. We are treated, on every ride, to screams of fear and delight. One one ride we hear, OH MY GOD , OH - MY GOD OH MY GOD!!!!!!! I think the expletive deliverer was enjoying themselves. More beers eased the evening forward. This had to be done as this was the best beer in Copenhagen. Not to drink it would be rude.
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And we do not want to be rude. So, in short, Tivoli delivers on its world wide reputation to entertain and delight. The fireworks alone would put a grin on the most curmudgeonly. Tivoli closes for the day and we go off to bed after a few more ales in a nearby smokey bar or two in the narrow streets of entertainment near the hotel. It is now night club time and the streets throng with young people all looking for the same things: fun, frivolity and a little furtive fettling between the sheets if lucky. I don't often see young people in Camborne, so the sight of the under 30's getting hell bent on enjoying themselves and generally not giving a shit about decorum is refreshing.
I remember it well. The closest I now get to feeling rocket fuelled sex charged mind twisting oblivion while dancing to pumping hard house music is the nice cup of tea first thing in the morning. Excitement at my age now comes in the form of the change and smell of fresh linen at bedtime or getting the buy one get one free item in Boots the Chemist. The end of the day gets a bit fuzzy, as time takes us way past my normal bedtime. After breakfast at a wonderful small cafe run by the Copenhagen LGBT community, according to the others, we head off for a stroll around a wonderful indoor market. You
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know the sort of thing, colourful stalls setting out their wares of fish, meats and vegetables. However this was a market of other exotica in foodstuffs including chocolate. A tea stand tempted us to sit and infuse ourselves with chai tea while a striking blond Dane discusses and shows us various teas. Of course, we buy loose leaf tea to take home. Lunch time arrives and finds us in a tapas restaurant. By this time several hours had elapsed since breakfast, and maybe the tea had stimulated appetites? The result being a small herd of hungry animals baying for blood and tapas. We sit and are served by a very young waitress who had only been in the restaurant for a week. Ordering the food was thus tricky as we negotiated the various number of tapas dishes required and the choice of wine confused due to a simple order of Rioja being beyond her imagination and expertise. The wine menu did not specifically shout 'Rioja' and so the poor wench had to decipher our request. To be fair, our demands had to be interpreted through the fog of hunger, stress and mounting panic.
One member of the party, who will remain nameless - the blond Dane knows who she is, was doing an impression of a caged tiger prowling and growling at the bars waiting for the meat to be thrown in their general direction. As we waited for wine to appear, there was a general air of discombobulated menace and fear in the eyes of companions. I feared for the young girl's life. Dark mutterings uttered 'sotto voce' and not so 'sotto voce' emanated from around the table. I half expected chewing of the table's edges to commence. With each passing minute I expected tears and tantrums at the absence of anything resembling victuals being delivered. The wine arrived and was met with general approval and just in time to prevent bloody murder. There was 'something rotten in the state of Denmark' at this point.
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The food arrived in splendour and the atmosphere changed, almost in an instant, from one of menace to one of contentment at the first mouthful of salt cod or patatas bravas. Did the waitress have any idea how close she was to a reduction in her life expectancy? The prowling tiger soon became a purring pussycat and the growls morphed into contented sighs and quiet murmurings of pleasurable acceptance of the quality of the offerings laid before us. In the blink of an eye was a revolution in Denmark avoided. I vowed never to stand between food and this hungry bunch, I value my life and my testicles too much.
 
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Epilogue Tivoli, Christiania and the Canal. Bicycles, beer and herring. Hyggelig in a small bar. Copenhagen is a welcome retreat as cities go. A city but not a city, a town with a beating heart pumping beer and a welcome. It all seems so civilised. I’m sure it has a dark side, everywhere does but time passes just that little bit more slowly, the lack of traffic bearing down on all sides helps to keep one’s senses calm. There are no bleating siren horns and no loud diesel notes in the night. Commuters ‘rush’ by on their bikes with bags, children or dogs as passengers. Hotdogs. Schnapps. Vienna, not ‘Danish’ pastries. Den lille havfrue sits serenely watching the shore, just in case a third attempt is made on her head. Somehow that seems an abomination way beyond the actual damage, for Copenhagen is not deserving of such desecration. One is likely to romanticise a city such as this, because it is human, because its scale suits us and because it is not trying to be anything other than a small delightful city by the sea. This was all for a ‘half century’; I wish I’d not left it quite so long to come to the ‘merchant’s haven’.
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