Friday Night in Copenhagen

I can tell you what possessed me to travel to Copenhagen last Thursday. It was an article in a glossy magazine extolling the virtues and beauty of Denmark’s fair capital, complete with a recommended hotel.

Never having set foot in Scandinavia before, I decided to start with this pleasant-sounding, artisan-rich and friendly land, which, in my (confused) mind was both a physical and cultural extension of North Germany.

How wrong could I have been and next time I must look at a map before I go anywhere. The journey itself was probably the most exciting, interesting and pleasant part of the whole experience. The couchette train from South Germany to Hamburg in the north was nearly empty, so the very kind Swiss ticket collector (the train came from Zurich) rearranged my sleep cabin and the one next door so that they turned into a single bedroom cum sitting-room.




At Hamburg, we changed trains and all passed without incident until about an hour or so before the border, when the customs officials turned up. There were four of them, and they wanted to see my passport and ticket, as well as asking if I had any illegal drugs or guns.
I don’t even use Paracetamol unless there is an emergency, let alone illegal drugs, the likes of which I wouldn’t recognize if you stuck one on a plate and served it up for my breakfast. And you wouldn’t get me near a gun, I would be terrified of it exploding by accident. But I answered politely in the negative and told them that they were welcome to search my suitcase if they liked. For a moment I thought they might take me up on this, but then they turned their attentions to my much more interesting neighbors, who had the misfortune to be from a South American country, and proceeded to investigate their luggage instead.

The ferry was the most exciting part of this trip. I had had no idea that so much water lay between the European continent and Denmark. In fact, I had not been aware that any water lay between them at all!

Eventually, we arrived in Copenhagen. It was only mid-afternoon but it already seemed like early evening. I got some Danish Krone from the ATM and took a taxi to the hotel I had booked, which was the one recommended by the glossy magazine.

My hotel room was not cheap, but it was smaller and sparser than I had been expecting. It contained the smallest desk I have ever seen in a hotel bedroom, only just large enough for my laptop. There was just one minute bedside table and no room in the bathroom to lay out cosmetics, toiletries, etc. In fact, there were almost no surfaces at all. I ended up putting some of my stuff on the floor and the rest in cupboards.

I determined to stay bright and cheery, however. This was the first weekend I had had free for a long time, not to mention a Friday as well! I was going to make the most of it. After unpacking, I set off to investigate the old-fashioned alleys and shopping streets located around the hotel. These at least looked very attractive, many antique stores, clothes shops, silverware shops, art galleries and small stores that looked like little offshoots of IKEA.

I would have loved to have taken photos, but it was now pitch-black, and it was only 4 p.m. And it wasn’t just the light (or lack of it). It was the fact that the actual atmosphere seemed to convey night-time.

Actually, these 2 or 3 hours turned out to be the nicest time I had in my extremely short time in Copenhagen. I bought a large, old illustration from the 1920s at an antique bookstore, and visited a porcelain store absolutely laden with Royal Copenhagen china. Then I found a retro boutique and bought two vintage dresses and a vintage sweater from the 1960s. The lady who owned the store was lovely and the clothes were beautiful. It really was the nicest time.

I then went to a café where I ate a chicken salad and had a cup of tea, and after that proceeded back to the hotel.  I was terribly tired and just wanted to go to sleep, so I undressed and got into bed. And that was when the fun started.

Unable to sleep, I got up around 9 p.m. to use the bathroom, and in the small, cramped room, accidentally stubbed my second toe against the aluminum leg of the one chair. I screamed with pain (twice), but it was actually only when I tried to walk on my foot that I realized how badly injured it was. I couldn’t stretch or bend my toe without crying out and after a few minutes it was already very swollen and very red, and walking was agony, only possible by walking on half my foot.

I fetched some ice from the ice bar but after about half an hour my foot was in a worse state and the bed was now wet. Having established that the phone in my room didn’t work at all, I had to get dressed and go down to the Front Desk, where one woman was now looking after affairs and an extremely loud disco was in progress in the room next to the lobby. The woman said she would call the doctor, but that it was unlikely that he would come out, as it was “Friday night” (an explanation of affairs that I would hear approximately another 30 times that evening).

I spoke to the doctor on the phone and his remote diagnosis (in excellent English) was that my toe was not broken, he would send round some Ibuprofen, and I would be much better the next day. It was Friday night, he said, so he couldn’t come. Also I should not go to the hospital emergency room, as I would be there for 8 hours (it was Friday night). I thought he was joking. I tried to explain to him that I only had a total of 48 hours in Copenhagen and that I planned to spend my time walking around the city seeing the sights. No problem, he said. I would be able to walk tomorrow.

A short while later, the Ibuprofen turned up. My foot was much more painful and swollen by this time. I was beginning to realize that I would not be able to walk around the city the next day. I took an Ibuprofen and tried to sleep. I had paid 400 Krone for the “consultation” with the doctor and 165 Krone for the taxi to bring the Ibuprofen and the tablets themselves.

It was not possible to sleep because of the incredible noise from the disco downstairs. At 1.00 a.m. in tears with pain and frustration, and with a toe that, in addition to being twice its usual size was also starting to turn dark blue, I once again dressed and returned to the Front Desk. I asked if I could have a different room, which was not directly above the disco. This did not seem to be possible. I returned, hobbling, to my room and finally decided to pay a visit to the hospital. I took my handbag and came back down to the Front Desk, where I asked them to call me a taxi.

The woman at the Front Desk spent a long but unsuccessful time on the phone (it’s Friday night, she explained). Frankly, it was beginning to sound like a lot of nonsense to me. I mean, what the hell?!

Finally a second staff member was fetched from the disco and she told me that she would go out on the street and look for a taxi for me. I went with her, and we eventually found someone who was free and prepared to take me to the Emergency Room. This appeared to be several kilometers away and that was when I started to realize that this whole Copenhagen malarky was starting to burn enormous holes in my wallet.

The hospital was kind of like I imagine Hell. It had a lot of the elements of Hell – lots of waiting around, lots of blood, dangerous-looking characters, screams coming from (not so distant) rooms and a guy heavy on the sarcasm at the Front Desk. When I asked him if it would take long, he said that I was Number 7 on the list, and there were two doctors, so not too long. I should wait in the Waiting Room. It was Friday night, he said. I was starting to realize that this actually seems to be an Event in Copenhagen.

I tried the Waiting Room but reeled back from the stench of (a lot of) alcohol and cigarettes. People were not actually smoking inside there, but they might as well have been. Several people (except the ones with blood actually dripping off them) were slugging cans of beer. Seemed like they knew to bring it with them, unless the hospital was actually providing it as they walked in.

One thing the hospital was providing as people walked in was an ice pack. All the injured were holding ice packs to their heads, hands, shoulders, etc. The only person who didn’t get an ice pack and actually needed one was yours truly. Maybe they thought I would smuggle it back to Germany with me. The point was, though, that everyone there (including myself!) was actually physically injured. There was nobody whose problem was an ear infection, a high fever or blood pressure off the scale. There was nobody with a gynaecological problem or a stomach upset. Each one of these people was actually bleeding, mostly from their faces or hands. It was explained to me several times why – it’s Friday night!!!

It would appear, from what I was told, that the fun-loving Vikings hit the bars and pubs every Friday (and apparently Saturday) night and drink themselves into a bad way. In the same way that sex also seems to be an important part of Danish life, the überconsumption of alcohol does not seem to be regarded as unacceptable, anti-social or even unusual. As one taxi driver put it to me, they are working hard 5 days a week. Then they go out at the weekend and get blotto. These two things – alcohol and sex – are very important in Denmark, he said.

Well who knew.

When I first arrived at the hospital, I thought that all the people in the Waiting Room belonged to one big party, as everyone was talking to each other like old friends and you couldn’t really tell who was with whom. After a while I realized that they all (the injured and their friends and relations) divided up into group Numbers 1 to 6 (me being Number 7) and latercomers from Number 8 onwards. It was still kind of impossible however, to work out which parties were together. From this general mood of cameraderie and bonhommie I drew only two conclusions – either all Danes know each other (which might well be, as there’s apparently only one million of them) or they are a generally very friendly bunch who are prepared to talk to anyone, any time about anything at all.

I plumped for the second option after at least one group member of each group Numbers 1 to 6 (and later 8) had started up a conversation with me, from asking me how I had injured myself to whether I fancied going for a walk outside (in the freezing cold and rain) to inquiring after my marital status/sexual availability. Apart from the usual “It’s Friday night”, a second explanation was now being provided for the extremely long time we were all being made to wait, despite there being two doctors – “It’s the conditions”.

“It’s the same in every country in the world”, one man told me. He had accidentally slammed the door on his girlfriend’s hand (Friday night?). “Bless him – he didn’t see it”, she told me, holding a bloodied hand aloft in what looked like a tea-towel.

“My good man”, I told him. “I can assure you it is not”.

After two hours, I had become Number 2. It was now 4:15 a.m. and I had not sighted a doctor for about an hour. In fact I had forgotten what the two doctors looked like, so I wasn’t even sure what I was holding an eye open for. It was then that I discovered that the doctors were actually working on the wards, and only every hour or so popping out to take a quick shufty at one of the bleeding patients in Emergency (that “bleeding” by the way is not intended to be a cuss word, they actually were bleeding). One of my “admirers”, he who had asked me if I’d like to accompany him on a walk outside while his girlfriend with a half-sliced-off finger lay clutching a bloodied towel in the Waiting Room, stroked my face (I was beyond caring by now) and convinced me to wait another hour.

However, at the three-hour point I decided that was it. I asked Sarcastic Guy to call me a taxi, and he looked delighted – it meant he could promote my successor to Number 2. I left the building as a taxi drove up. That was quick I thought, but it had been called by another guy who appeared from the shadows (where the hell had he come from? I had never seen him before in my life and I thought I had met most of the people in Denmark by now). In my newly acquired Scandinavian friendly cum slightly pushy style, I asked him if he would like to share. He didn’t, but I managed to convince the driver. (Good job, otherwise I might have had to hijack the taxi). I returned to the hotel and after about two hours sleep was once again wide awake and searching the Internet for a means of escape.

Yes there was only one thing for it, I decided. I would have to get the hell out of here and return to Germany. The next day, I found some faster trains and in less than 10 hours was back home – where a friend promptly picked me up and took me to the hospital. I was seen within an hour, and yes my toe is broken.

After that night of craziness, Germany feels like a very safe and sensible place.