Copenhagen – A Stranger in a Strange Land

– Or why isn’t anybody speaking English?

Homeless in Copenhagen:

After the long, arduous journey from San Francisco to Frankfurt to Copenhagen, I take the taxi to Munkensvej 1, 2000 Frederiksberg (a small municipality within the city limits of Copenhagen -  or, as the Danish call their city “Kopnhaagen.” I am renting Edda Nickelsen’s apartment for my 12-night stay, and we have arranged to meet around 3PM (just as the sun starts to sink into the west) so she can show me around and leave me the keys.

The cabble drops me off and is gone, I am out in the streets of Kopnhaagen with my three bags totally around 85 pounds of luggage (I’m traveling light). No sign of Edda, so I ring the bell. No sign of Edda.  It’s cold, so I am finally forced to drag out a coat from my bags as I fumble with my rented international cell phone to try and call Edda. Two wrong numbers and several “sorry, you can’t do that” messages  instills a growing sense of mild panic. Through my jet-lagged fog I realize I’m not in San Francisco anymore.

A sympathetic neighbor who had already come through the common front door for his apartment several minutes earlier (or perhaps he was Edda’s irritated next door neighbor tired of hearing Edda’s doorbell ringing) allows me into the building to stay a bit warmer. As I am dragging my luggage in, a blond woman in her early thirties (the stereotype fits) comes in and greets me. I won’t be homeless in Copenhagen after all. After a quick tour of the apartment and rundown of where to eat and shop for food (another story perhaps), Edda packs up the last of her things and is gone, leaving me to my new  home. Whew.

Stowaway:

It is a pleasant 20-minute walk down Borups Alle to the metro from the apartment. The cold fresh air and exercise help ease my anxiety of what the day would be like at the international climate  conference, if the UNFCCC would decide to deny my press accreditation after all, if I would somehow derail progress toward a sustainable future… I arrive at the station and find the ticket vending  machine with the requisite slots for the purpose, I thought, of inserting money for a ticket. I try to insert a paper bill, but it doesn’t fit into what looks like the paper bill slot. I try to insert a coin into what appears like the coin slot, but it doesn’t fit. I push a button on the touchscreen and helpful instructions pop up – in Danish. I see several people non-chalantly deal with their ticket issues and proceed onto the train. Three trains headed for the Bella Center come and go. There is no physical barrier preventing a person from just getting on the train. When the next train came, that’s what I do. Nobody noticed.

Now that I am registered at COP15, I have a travel pass for all public transport within Copenhagen, so I am free of the embarrassing rigor of figuring out the ticket machines. No doubt there were a couple of security guards having a bit of a hoot watching my “candid camera-esque” ordeal: “hey, look at this idiot American who can’t figure out how to buy a ticket!”

An old man’s commentary:

To belie my opening comment, most Danish do actually speak English – just not to each other. How rude to speak in a foreign language when guest are present, eh? But my ugly American tendencies  aside, I am not prepared when an old man cones up and starts speaking to me in Danish as I stand waiting for the light allowing me to cross the street. From the tone of the old man’s voice it sounds to me  like some important commentary on the state of the world. Or perhaps he is just telling me I am an ass. Who knows? I sheepishly say to him “I’m sorry – English?” Which prompts another guttural commentary -  this time I’m fairly certain to tell me I am an ass.

-tds