Why do I live here?

That was the question a lot of people asked me when I was back in England over the weekend.

‘What’s the difference between here and Denmark?’

‘Why do you like it so much?’

Having been back in Copenhagen for a day and allowed my observations to coalesce a little, I think what I will do is let one little snapshot of my visit home be my answer.

It was Sunday morning, and I was visiting my grandfather. I’d just had a tasty bacon sandwich and a cup of tea and I noticed that a car boot sale (a kind of loppemarked) was going on at the school opposite his house.

I told my grandad that I was going to take a quick stroll round the sale and off I went.

Once there, I made my way quickly down each aisle of cars, not wanting to lose too much of the time I had left to be with my grandfather. But at one stall, I saw a few books that looked interesting and so I stopped.

I stooped down to examine them and saw that beside me a mother was telling off her child. At first it was nothing too serious, but her scolding gradually increased in vehemence until finally she had the boy – who could not have been more than four – by the wrist and was yelling that she ‘was really going to hurt him’ in a minute.

I felt sick. In more than 20 months of living in Denmark I have never encountered anything like that and I was shocked at my sensitivity to it. It’s pretty routine in England to threaten children in that way, and sadly amost as common to carry out the threat.

I don’t go in for stereotypes, or mass generalisations. But i’m afraid that one incident illustrates in a nutshell why I’m here, and not there.

Autumn

In recent days, the weather here in Copenhagen has turned distinctly brisk.

The leaves desert the trees, I’ve swapped my quilt for a duvet, and tonight I’ve dug out my pyjamas for the first time since February.

I thought this would make me sad, but in fact the opposite is the case.

The cold, bracing air has brought with it many happy memories… strange how changes in temperature can impact our moods and sensory impressions so profoundly.

Copenhagen is bewitching at this time of year… rosy-cheeked girls on bikes, beautiful couples hurrying home to snuggle on sofas, friends gathering in cosy cafes to catch up on each others’ lives.

I’ve often felt peripheral to the lives of the cities I’ve lived in, but it’s different here.

It’s as though the sharp demarcation of the seasons creates a more acute sense of communality. I’m happy to be here, and happy to discover what the next day will bring, and the next.

Ungdomshuset activists reform

Well, they never really went away actually. But last night was their biggest action for a while.

Yesterday marked six months since the demolition of Ungdomshuset and the milestone was celebrated with customary restraint by the activists – a looting and rioting spree in Nørrebro.

TV2 has the full story here, while English readers can get more info from the Beeb here.

On a related note, when they’re not raping and pillaging around Nørrebro, the activists are busy with a campaign to persuade the government to furnish them with a new home, an old waterworks on the outskirts of Copenhagen.

They say that unless their demands are met by October 6 – G-Dag – there is going to be trouble. Big trouble.

Read about Aktion G13 here.

Update: Fellow Cph blogger Isabel found herself caught up in proceedings last night; my pics following the aftermath of the December 16 Ungdomshuset riots last year.

City of cyclists

I love my bike, I love biking in Copenhagen. This video helps to explain why.

Yet more bike blogging

My friend Mikael is going to be increasingly busy over the next few months as his film starts pre-production and so he’s asked me to lend a hand with his cycle culture blog – Cycleliciousness.

Take a look, it’s a wonderful insight into the nuts and bolts of Copenhagen bike culture, encompassing history, advocacy, and all the minutiae inbetween.

I just hope I can keep up his good work!

Boys on bikes

The shit is really gonna hit the fan here . . .

Dane Michael Rasmussen had been leading the Tour de France for the past 10 days and was basically set to win the whole event.

But suspicions that he has been cheating had been growing and it seems that for one reason or another, his team felt those suspicions left them with little choice but to sack him.

It’s difficult to convey to readers back home how deeply ingrained cycling in all its forms is in the national psyche here.

Also, Denmark’s comparatively small size leads to a situation where individuals who make an impact on the world stage – either sporting or cultural – achieve almost God-like status here.

Danish cultural mores mean that those individuals, such as Rasmussen, are not viewed as superior or intrinsically more worthy than anyone else, but are instead celebrated for demonstrating Danish excellence abroad.

Rasmussen would not have been a popular winner of le Tour, but the Chicken, as he is known here, would nevertheless have struck a blow on the global stage for his compatriots.

Denmark is one big family. This will hit them hard.

What it’s like to bike . . .

 . . . in Copenhagen.

Courtesy of Zakka.

Bike apocalypse

Something messed up with my bike today.

I was cycling along when I noticed the back wheel was making a distressing sound, rather like a small dead animal had gotten stuck to the tyre and was being gradually squashed to oblivion.

It wasn’t that though, the tyre was just escaping from the rim. I couldn’t push it back in and so I cycled tentatively to the nearest bike shop.

I walked in and asked for his professional opinion. He told me I needed to let the air out, squeeze the tyre back in and then pump it up.

Simple enough you might think.

He told me I needed a special adaptor thing for his pump outside the shop. He handed it to me and as I moved towards him I proceeded to knock over three of the bikes that he was working on. Classy.

I made it outside, adaptor thing in hand, and placed my bike next to the pump.

After about five minutes of faffing about, and my sunglasses falling off the top of my head, I figured out how to let the air out and squeezed the tyre back in. Then came the pumping up part.

I tried to fit the adaptor onto the valve but succeeded only in dropping it down the storm drain in front of the window where it lay, shimmering amid some particularly unsavoury street detritus.

I looked inside the window and the bike man was staring at me with a mix of bewilderment and horror.

Luckily I have abnormally long arms so I managed to retrieve the adaptor and successfully pumped up the tyre with no further mishaps.

I reckon Danish children are taught basic bike maintenance as soon as they can walk. In England, you learn how to sniff glue and microwave.

Fishing for tadpoles

I decided to get the train today. I don’t know why; it wasn’t raining and there was nothing wrong with my bike. I think I just wanted to be transported with minimal effort.

One stop along, a class of schoolkids got on. They were five or six and were all clutching fishing nets, buckets and jars. They filled the carriage with their chatter, looking earnestly and with curious eyes at the beleagured adults on their tiresome commute.

Their two teachers, a good-looking man and woman both in their early 30s, held tightly onto their takeaway coffee and moved up and down the carriage, gently manoeuvering the children into spare seats, picking up stray nets and exchanging knowing looks with the other passengers.

I don’t quite know what point I’m making here. I was only with them for a couple of stops and then I left them, heading out to the country to splash in ponds and catch minnows.

Amnesty!

Thanks to Isabel and CB who both left charming messages about me over on Marie’s post about this ‘not-integrated Englishman’. It’s good to know I have some friends in the blogosphere!

Marie herself has also taken steps to defuse this potential Anglo-Danish blogging war with an eloquent post (in English) explaining her original intention.

I hope one day to be able to respond in Danish.