A Song Called City

The blond girl with the black-and-white striped stockings looks at me for a moment and we exchange glances as she walks by. An older gentleman with a scruffy, unkempt beard rides by on a cargo bike.

Two young kids approach me with a print-out of some sorts, carrying a ballpoint pen. Am I supposed to fill in a survey? Would they like to ask me some questions? I’ll never know, because as soon as the first kid opens his mouth and mumbles something at me that probably goes a little like “Undskyld mig, har du et øjeblik for os?”, all I can stammer back is: “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Danish.” The response is swift and polite. “Oh. Have a nice day!” Taken aback by this unexpected display of underage, polyglottal courteousness, I fail at returning the favor, uttering only “Sure!” as the duo trails off, looking for a more indigenous victim, no doubt.

I take one last bite out of my McGlobal and start heading for the coffee bar I’d spotted earlier, convinced that Danish caffeine pushers would be sure to offer up free bits & bytes to go with every percolation.

Walking there, it’s hard not to be struck by how much this city resembles those in my home country. Riding the metro into town from Kastrup, the decidedly, almost brazenly modern metro stations held promise of a City 17-esque clash of hypermodernity and classicality. Nothing like that though. Clean boulevards and probably relatively more tablet pc’s and smartphones walking around, sure. Shattered at my feet, nonetheless, lies my long-held belief of a visit to Scandinavia being like taking a trip 5 years into Europe’s future.

Coffee’s fine though.