Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Early in the evening I went for a stroll along the city's curiously uninspiring waterfront: a dull vista of fish-
processing factories and industrial cranes. Far away across the still water a ship-repair yard was working
late doing something shrill and drastic to a rusted freighter, which defended itself with hideous shrieks and a
shower of sparks. I walked as far as the statue of the Little Mermaid perched forlornly but rather prettily on
her rock at the harbour's edge, and then strolled around a neighbouring park called Castellet, named for its
star-shaped fortress guarding the harbour mouth, before finally stopping for a light and cheapish dinner at a
caf￩/bistro on Stockholmsgade.
The food was not remarkable, but the beer was good and the service was excellent since I was the only
customer in the place. I had only to look up and smile hopefully and a fresh beer would be hustled to me.
After a bit I didn't even have to look up. A new bottle would magically appear as the last drop fell from the
old one. This was my kind of bistro.
So I sat contentedly for two hours looking at some Danish newspapers that had been left on the table,
trying to discern from the mass of unfamiliar words whether Margaret Thatcher had perchance fallen out of a
moving car or World War III had started yet. But planet Earth seemed to be much as I had left it three weeks
before, so instead I gazed out of the window at the passing traffic and lost myself in those aimless reveries
that are the lone traveller's equivalent of a night on the town.
Eventually I rose, paid the enormous bill and tottered a trifle wobbily out into the night. It was a fair hike
back to my hotel, but I sustained myself en route by stopping at any place that looked bright and friendly and
dispensed beer, of which Copenhagen possesses a gratifying plenitude, and thus passed the evening
sitting alone in a series of corners, drinking far too many beers, smiling inanely at strangers and dribbling
ash down my shirt. Sometime around one in the morning, as I was weaving down Strget, suppressing the
urge to break into song, I encountered an Irishman reeling down the street towards me, swearing crazily at
anyone who passed.
'You fucking cunts!' he screamed at a genteel-looking couple whose pace immediately quickened.
'You shit-head! You great Danish turd!' he shouted at a young man who lowered his head and hurried on.
The odd thing was that the Irishman was dressed in a dapper grey suit. He looked like a successful
businessman. God knows what was going on inside his addled head. He caught sight of me, but seemed to
recognize me as a fellow drunk and let me pass with a listless wave of the hand, but immediately perked up
to rain abuse on a middle-aged man. 'You're a piece of crap for sure, you stupid old twat!' he said, to the
man's considerable surprise, then added mysteriously: 'And I bet you're staying in a fucking posh hotel!' I
stood with my arms crossed and watched as the Irishman reeled off down the street, shouting abuse at the
buildings now, before he lurched abruptly to the left, as if yanked on a long rope, and disappeared down a
side street, taking his expletives into the night.
I awoke in the morning feeling as if I had spent the night with my head attached to one of those
machines they use to test shock absorbers. I looked at my watch. It was a quarter to ten. I had intended to
catch a train to Sweden at half-past, and I had yet to pack and check out. I went to the bathroom to struggle
through the morning hygiene and make low death noises, then wandered around the room dealing with
personal effects as I chanced upon them - a sock went onto my foot, a map was forced into the rucksack, a
Big Mac box that I had no recollection of acquiring went into the wastebasket - until at last I had assembled
my possessions. I needed coffee the way Dan Quayle needs help with an IQ test.
I arrived at the front desk just in time to take up a position behind twenty-seven Italian visitors who, in
that interesting way of the Italians, were all trying to check out at once. This didn't help my fragile mood any.
At last the Italians departed, moving across the lobby as if surgically linked, and the last I saw of them they
were all trying to go out of the revolving door together. I gave my key to the young woman and waited as the
computer hummed for a minute, as if getting up steam, and then abruptly spewed out several feet of paper,
which was shorn of its sprocket holes and separated into sixteen sheets, the faintest of which was
presented to me for inspection.
I was surprised to see that the bill contained a charge for phone calls. The night before - it all seemed
so long ago now - I had tried to phone home, but all I got was a recording in Danish which I presumed was
telling me that the international lines were engaged or that I was dialling wrongly or possibly that I should just
go and fuck myself. In any case, I couldn't get anywhere with it, and after three tries gave up. So I was taken
