Scandinavia
5/23/2008
We arrive in Copenhagen at 9 p.m.
Andy has allowed us to stay with him this week, saving us from impending homelessness. Except tonight we stay at the economy hotel where he works. This where we meet him, and he takes us for dinner and drinks.
Copenhagen has an inordinate amount of clubbing adolescents. I find the sight of glittery and gelled twelve and thirteen year-olds upsetting to my own sense of decency and scowl at them.
After drinking at a bar named Mc Kloud (as in the show) we take a cab back to the hotel. Our driver is Somalian and tells us about his home.
We go to bed at 3:30. The sun has already begun to rise.
5/24/08
To get to anywhere in Copenhagen from Andy's apartment, you have to walk through the red light district. There are several restaurants along the street. The brothels are above them. There's also a halfway house for "men who have been bad with their wives".
In Christiana. The dudes selling hash all look the same - tall, muscular, with spiked blonde hair, tight shirts and sunglasses. They all look like tools. The stand with their arms crossed, their giant dogs at their sides. All the dealers have large, menacing-looking dogs as protection; these large, menacing-looking dogs also like to fight each other. They sell people joints and occasionally chip away at blocks of hash. It takes John a few minutes, but he finally works up the courage to approach them.
Laying on a halfpipe smoking hash, watching teen-aged Danish punks try to run up the pipe. A few of the actually do. Listening to Silver Jews, enjoying the warm sun to the left, the gentle breeze to the right.
There's an Irish Wolfhound stalking the grounds, looking for things to fuck. Avoid eye contact. A man took a picture of us leaning against the back of the half pipe. I never got to see how it turned out. I was too concerned about the whereabouts of the Irish menace.
5/25/08
John's Two Pynchonian Moments:
While visiting Christiana again, we hear the song "Who Let the Dogs Out?". I tell John that it was a smash in Denmark when it first came out and swept the Danish Grammy's, which for some reason he believes without suspicion. Later, walking to dinner, a homeless man squatting under a storefront shouts "Who let the dogs out!" after we pass.
We stumble upon a Greenlandic sing-along in one of the Christiana houses. Our alien presence is noticed immediately. They inform us, in Greenlandic, that the gathering is private and shoo us out.
5/26/08
All the Shitty Things that Happened on my Birthday:
- Woken up by a man smashing Andy's toilet with a sledgehammer
- Smørrebrød
- It's cold and rainy
- Meet the Feebles
- Shawarma sauce that refuses to wash off, and adds a questionable (and noticeable) white stain to the
upper thigh region of my black jeans
- The stress of temporary but very real homelessness
- We have to go to Malmö instead of Stockholm. Tickets the day before are always too expensive.
- Andy doesn't remember my name
- It's still cold and rainy
- I left my pillow at Andy's
- We have to stand in front of the doors with our luggage for the entire train ride
- A $60 taxi ride ("Why you not stay in city center?") to residential Malmö and the wrong hostel ("Oh, you're
booked at the other location!")
- The tribulations of finding a bus stop and navigating our way back to the city center
- It's still cold and rainy, but windy now too
- It's an HI Hostel and we have to stay in different rooms because they segregate the sexes
- There's a nice patio, but they lock it after 10 p.m.
- It's Monday, nothing is open
- Drinking in the area between our rooms - Swedish beer that tastes like shit and cheap tequila chased with
Pago.
- Calling it a night by 12:30
Fuck you, Malmö.
5/27/08
We have nowhere to stay in Stockholm.
We go to the train station in Malmö. Our train is departing soon.
I order a sandwich while John tries to find lodging.
We have somewhere to stay... A guesthouse? Okay.
The high-speed train ride is beautiful.
Where's the guesthouse? Oh, it's not in Stockholm.
We have nowhere to stay in Stockholm.
Find an internet cafe.
Most hostels are fully booked, but we eventually get lucky. We have a place to stay.
We try a few hostels we see on the streets. To no avail.
We are directed to a cheap hotel and spend 20 minutes locating it unsuccessfully.
Go to the hostel's address. It's a bit out of the way. We have to walk up a hill in the 'burbs.
Where the hostel should be there is an empty lot and some construction.
The hostel was torn down two years ago.
We have nowhere to stay in Stockholm.
If the hostel we thought we were staying at is nonexistent, with whom did I speak with?
We meet a crusty Bosnian journalist from New York City. He directs us to a hostel he knows is nearby and gives us some advice.
"It's nice here, but the people will not help you. You've been to New York, Houston. I went to Texas once...You know how it is in Texas -- it's awful....But I like people, you know. You are nice people, I will help you."
We don't bother looking for the hostel he recommends, he is unable to give us sufficient directions.
We decide to find the hostel belonging to the number I dialed. Success.
Hotell Norrtull: A budget hotel with a sort of modern spa vibe. Popular with European businessmen...and us.
We stay in the "Formic Acid" Room. On the door to which they've posted this helpful information:
5/28/09
We explore the Old Town.
The Swedish idea of fast food:
Two hot dogs wrapped in a tortilla that's stuffed with mashed potatoes and shrimp salad, dressed with ketchup.
We take a bus to the Stockholm airport, which is nearly two hours outside the city.
We arrive in Copenhagen at 9 p.m.
Andy has allowed us to stay with him this week, saving us from impending homelessness. Except tonight we stay at the economy hotel where he works. This where we meet him, and he takes us for dinner and drinks.
Copenhagen has an inordinate amount of clubbing adolescents. I find the sight of glittery and gelled twelve and thirteen year-olds upsetting to my own sense of decency and scowl at them.
After drinking at a bar named Mc Kloud (as in the show) we take a cab back to the hotel. Our driver is Somalian and tells us about his home.
We go to bed at 3:30. The sun has already begun to rise.
5/24/08
To get to anywhere in Copenhagen from Andy's apartment, you have to walk through the red light district. There are several restaurants along the street. The brothels are above them. There's also a halfway house for "men who have been bad with their wives".
In Christiana. The dudes selling hash all look the same - tall, muscular, with spiked blonde hair, tight shirts and sunglasses. They all look like tools. The stand with their arms crossed, their giant dogs at their sides. All the dealers have large, menacing-looking dogs as protection; these large, menacing-looking dogs also like to fight each other. They sell people joints and occasionally chip away at blocks of hash. It takes John a few minutes, but he finally works up the courage to approach them.
Laying on a halfpipe smoking hash, watching teen-aged Danish punks try to run up the pipe. A few of the actually do. Listening to Silver Jews, enjoying the warm sun to the left, the gentle breeze to the right.
There's an Irish Wolfhound stalking the grounds, looking for things to fuck. Avoid eye contact. A man took a picture of us leaning against the back of the half pipe. I never got to see how it turned out. I was too concerned about the whereabouts of the Irish menace.
5/25/08
John's Two Pynchonian Moments:
While visiting Christiana again, we hear the song "Who Let the Dogs Out?". I tell John that it was a smash in Denmark when it first came out and swept the Danish Grammy's, which for some reason he believes without suspicion. Later, walking to dinner, a homeless man squatting under a storefront shouts "Who let the dogs out!" after we pass.
We stumble upon a Greenlandic sing-along in one of the Christiana houses. Our alien presence is noticed immediately. They inform us, in Greenlandic, that the gathering is private and shoo us out.
5/26/08
All the Shitty Things that Happened on my Birthday:
- Woken up by a man smashing Andy's toilet with a sledgehammer
- Smørrebrød
- It's cold and rainy
- Meet the Feebles
- Shawarma sauce that refuses to wash off, and adds a questionable (and noticeable) white stain to the
upper thigh region of my black jeans
- The stress of temporary but very real homelessness
- We have to go to Malmö instead of Stockholm. Tickets the day before are always too expensive.
- Andy doesn't remember my name
- It's still cold and rainy
- I left my pillow at Andy's
- We have to stand in front of the doors with our luggage for the entire train ride
- A $60 taxi ride ("Why you not stay in city center?") to residential Malmö and the wrong hostel ("Oh, you're
booked at the other location!")
- The tribulations of finding a bus stop and navigating our way back to the city center
- It's still cold and rainy, but windy now too
- It's an HI Hostel and we have to stay in different rooms because they segregate the sexes
- There's a nice patio, but they lock it after 10 p.m.
- It's Monday, nothing is open
- Drinking in the area between our rooms - Swedish beer that tastes like shit and cheap tequila chased with
Pago.
- Calling it a night by 12:30
Fuck you, Malmö.
5/27/08
We have nowhere to stay in Stockholm.
We go to the train station in Malmö. Our train is departing soon.
I order a sandwich while John tries to find lodging.
We have somewhere to stay... A guesthouse? Okay.
The high-speed train ride is beautiful.
Where's the guesthouse? Oh, it's not in Stockholm.
We have nowhere to stay in Stockholm.
Find an internet cafe.
Most hostels are fully booked, but we eventually get lucky. We have a place to stay.
We try a few hostels we see on the streets. To no avail.
We are directed to a cheap hotel and spend 20 minutes locating it unsuccessfully.
Go to the hostel's address. It's a bit out of the way. We have to walk up a hill in the 'burbs.
Where the hostel should be there is an empty lot and some construction.
The hostel was torn down two years ago.
We have nowhere to stay in Stockholm.
If the hostel we thought we were staying at is nonexistent, with whom did I speak with?
We meet a crusty Bosnian journalist from New York City. He directs us to a hostel he knows is nearby and gives us some advice.
"It's nice here, but the people will not help you. You've been to New York, Houston. I went to Texas once...You know how it is in Texas -- it's awful....But I like people, you know. You are nice people, I will help you."
We don't bother looking for the hostel he recommends, he is unable to give us sufficient directions.
We decide to find the hostel belonging to the number I dialed. Success.
Hotell Norrtull: A budget hotel with a sort of modern spa vibe. Popular with European businessmen...and us.
We stay in the "Formic Acid" Room. On the door to which they've posted this helpful information:
5/28/09
We explore the Old Town.
The Swedish idea of fast food:
Two hot dogs wrapped in a tortilla that's stuffed with mashed potatoes and shrimp salad, dressed with ketchup.
We take a bus to the Stockholm airport, which is nearly two hours outside the city.