I hadn’t expected to see cyclists being ordered to dismount their bikes.
Not in a country renowned for its cyclists anyway.
Somehow we had managed to slip through a police cordon, unauthorised access allowing us to mingle with fluorescent jacketed police officers and avant-garde TV crews.
All eyes were on Restaurant Nimb, white façade, fairy lights, a red and white flag rolling in the breeze directly across the road from the main train station. Two helicopters above it suggested that someone famous was about to arrive.
But the aroma of French hotdogs, mustard, ketchup and fresh chopped onion got the better of our curiosity, two specimens chased down by the creamiest, coolest chocolate milk.
“Its nearly 7.30.”
We were running late, but still managed to make it to Tivoli’s main entrance on time.
“Is that … no surely not.”
“Dad?”
“Claire.”
Turkish Pepper liquor drizzled onto smudged Neapolitan sky, Pierrot on stage watched over by Tivoli Guardsman. Hans Christian was alive and well in this leafy part of Copenhagen, as were my memories of it.
Café Groften looked as it did the first time I visited in 1983, a first acquaintance with snaps inducing an overwhelming desire to sleep, much to the amusement of my hosts - and a waiter who thumped a bottle down onto the table right in front of me. “Drink this, it’ll sober you up.” I remember it being a bottle of almost frozen Tuborg.
We settled for a more sober dinner this time. Pickled herring on spongy brown rye bread iced with butter, mineral water, a catch up conversation only briefly interrupted by shrieks from nearby visitors enjoying the rides.
Fireworks cascading over the roof of the Tivoli concert hall could have ended our reunion night, but we didn’t allow it to, choosing instead to wander across Radhuspladsen, down Stroget, up a few stairs into La Fontaine - jazz, a reedy voice, oozing from its wood sash window. Finn Ziegler played here until his untimely death in 2003.
Rund stykker, gifler, cheese and filtered coffee set us up for a new day of walking - Christiansborg, Borsen and Nyhavn rediscovered - Langelinier an ideal spot on such a sunny day.
“What’s happened to the Little Mermaid?”
A nearby tourist overheard us. “She’s been shipped to Shanghai and won’t be back until October. But there’s a replica in Tivoli”.
Our last night was perhaps the saddest but most enjoyable one. A goodbye Dannebrog flag atop fresh Kransekage so to speak.
Rio Bravo, which had been there for years, proved the perfect setting for our “Farveller.” They still dished up some of the best steaks ever tasted. Not to mention the paprika, béarnaise, and yes the pepper sauce.
“Delicious. So when will we see you again.”
“October.”
‘Great. Is that today’s paper?”
‘Russia’s President Dmitry Medvedev visits Denmark. First Russian President to visit since Khrushchev 46 years ago.’
“Oh so that’s who it was.”
We were pleased we hadn’t waited.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Wishing you were here (2)
The place buzzed with activity on an afternoon when a late spring sun shone through a vibrant city.
There are many ways to get around it but I chose the bus – a larger than life guide exuding ample amounts of Belfast humour as we made our way down roads once the subject of adverse news footage - her humour taking the sting out of possible remaining issues.
Our bright red double-decker turned into streets swarming with well dressed people - curved around the Waterfront - steered towards an area reflecting back dark ochre – a chequered mix of old and modern buildings spooling past my window.
It was time to disembark, mingle - immerse myself in the energy re-ignited by a burgeoning city once on its knees.
I tasted olives in Saint Georges Market, meandered towards a ‘Black Man’ not yet visible – a plan to reach Great Victoria Street delayed on more than one occasion by the draw of curiosity shops hidden in shadowed back streets - replica models of Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams furtively purchased in one of them, hidden in a fistful of brown paper bags before I continued my journey.
I stood, looked up towards the windows of a building with the dubious reputation of being the most bombed. No evidence in sight though, just a large ‘Europa Hotel’ sign beneath a towering block of concrete.
Beside it stood the Opera House, built like a mini version of The Royal Albert Hall, but crouched next door to Centre Point in London.
Beyond them lay Victoria Avenue, Castle Court shopping centre - an eclectic mix of shopping possibilities extending all the way down to a grand shopping mall - its planetarium style structure housing an array of international retail outlets and star struck consumers.
Not much sign of a recession here if the fashion carriers borne by shoppers were anything to go by.
The Albert Clock, once leaning, now upright, stood ahead of a line of pulsating street fountains - a Labrador provoked by its intermittent squirts pawing at the holes they gushed from.
McHugh’s became my watering hole of choice, a glass of the black stuff gingerly sipped as I observed its clientele above the rim of a pint glass - a pale red haired man dressed down by a face full of make up. Everyone else ignored them!
I passed through the haze of her lingering petal perfume, down towards ‘The Fish’, the taste of it taunting my taste buds as I faced into moisture filled breezes from a well lit river bank.
By now blue light from the embankment had morphed the River Lagan black, the concert hall beyond Queens Bridge like a lighthouse on a rock – the amber strips curving around its circular exterior gathering in those they’d intended to attract.
With so much to see – so little time to see it all in, I vowed to come back here.
There are many ways to get around it but I chose the bus – a larger than life guide exuding ample amounts of Belfast humour as we made our way down roads once the subject of adverse news footage - her humour taking the sting out of possible remaining issues.
Our bright red double-decker turned into streets swarming with well dressed people - curved around the Waterfront - steered towards an area reflecting back dark ochre – a chequered mix of old and modern buildings spooling past my window.
It was time to disembark, mingle - immerse myself in the energy re-ignited by a burgeoning city once on its knees.
I tasted olives in Saint Georges Market, meandered towards a ‘Black Man’ not yet visible – a plan to reach Great Victoria Street delayed on more than one occasion by the draw of curiosity shops hidden in shadowed back streets - replica models of Ian Paisley and Gerry Adams furtively purchased in one of them, hidden in a fistful of brown paper bags before I continued my journey.
I stood, looked up towards the windows of a building with the dubious reputation of being the most bombed. No evidence in sight though, just a large ‘Europa Hotel’ sign beneath a towering block of concrete.
Beside it stood the Opera House, built like a mini version of The Royal Albert Hall, but crouched next door to Centre Point in London.
Beyond them lay Victoria Avenue, Castle Court shopping centre - an eclectic mix of shopping possibilities extending all the way down to a grand shopping mall - its planetarium style structure housing an array of international retail outlets and star struck consumers.
Not much sign of a recession here if the fashion carriers borne by shoppers were anything to go by.
The Albert Clock, once leaning, now upright, stood ahead of a line of pulsating street fountains - a Labrador provoked by its intermittent squirts pawing at the holes they gushed from.
McHugh’s became my watering hole of choice, a glass of the black stuff gingerly sipped as I observed its clientele above the rim of a pint glass - a pale red haired man dressed down by a face full of make up. Everyone else ignored them!
I passed through the haze of her lingering petal perfume, down towards ‘The Fish’, the taste of it taunting my taste buds as I faced into moisture filled breezes from a well lit river bank.
By now blue light from the embankment had morphed the River Lagan black, the concert hall beyond Queens Bridge like a lighthouse on a rock – the amber strips curving around its circular exterior gathering in those they’d intended to attract.
With so much to see – so little time to see it all in, I vowed to come back here.
Wishing you were here (1)
The road from Drogheda to Derry was not a straight forward one, but we did eventually arrive there, thanks to the help of others – the sloping walls and streets which had accompanied our journey, now giving way to a country lane and sign. ‘Eglinton’.
All we could find when we arrived there was a small airport at the bottom of rolling hills, set tight up against a curvaceous coastline – but no sign anywhere of there ever having been a Naval Base.
Concluding that we were lost, we descended upon the ‘Happy Landing Pub’, our heads full of questions - the girl behind the bar unable to answer any of them.
And then Colum came to the rescue, bought us a drink, and immersed us in things to be shared with those who would want to listen. His son killed in a car crash, his memories of the Naval Base.
“Naval Base?”
Not far from the village he pointed towards large gates. “It’s a recycling plant now.” A building often recalled in the fading years of parents memories, looking like the one that we now had in our sight.
Collum explained its usage. “Snooker Hall”, and I explained my mothers recollections of it, of how she’d been stationed here as a Wren. “Back then everyone knew it as ‘Benbows Ballroom’. This is where she met a handsome officer with a full head of hair - or so she’d told us”.
We left Collum to reminisce about ‘Lovers Lane’ near by, followed landowner’s directions, and took a muddy path beyond a large block of rock - its significance only clear once he had explained it to us. “They made those found guilty of treason stand on it and then they were hung.”
We glimpsed a rusting roof, corrugated metal barely visible through unkempt trees - a graveyard of rotting cars marking rarely trodden footpath.
Grey weathered walls and bare window frames offered little in the way of clues about the good times reportedly had here, and had it not been for the dilapidated main entrance, we might never have known for certain that this was it.
We read faded letters once painted bold across it. "The Station Cinema".
So this is where my mother had spent her first, and as it turned out, her last date with a handsome officer - last because his hair, infested with nits, had proceeded to infest hers.
We exchanged telephone numbers, thanked Colum for his help, our wave goodbye to a once thriving naval base met with a wave from a man scratching his scalp.
Our cue to leave we agreed, and so we did, my sister plundering the glove compartment as I looked out for road signs - a photograph retrieved from it - colour now awash on those pale portrait faces – his uniform sharpest blue – the grey on the white of my mother’s floral dress, morphed by the sunset into lightest brightest yellow.
All we could find when we arrived there was a small airport at the bottom of rolling hills, set tight up against a curvaceous coastline – but no sign anywhere of there ever having been a Naval Base.
Concluding that we were lost, we descended upon the ‘Happy Landing Pub’, our heads full of questions - the girl behind the bar unable to answer any of them.
And then Colum came to the rescue, bought us a drink, and immersed us in things to be shared with those who would want to listen. His son killed in a car crash, his memories of the Naval Base.
“Naval Base?”
Not far from the village he pointed towards large gates. “It’s a recycling plant now.” A building often recalled in the fading years of parents memories, looking like the one that we now had in our sight.
Collum explained its usage. “Snooker Hall”, and I explained my mothers recollections of it, of how she’d been stationed here as a Wren. “Back then everyone knew it as ‘Benbows Ballroom’. This is where she met a handsome officer with a full head of hair - or so she’d told us”.
We left Collum to reminisce about ‘Lovers Lane’ near by, followed landowner’s directions, and took a muddy path beyond a large block of rock - its significance only clear once he had explained it to us. “They made those found guilty of treason stand on it and then they were hung.”
We glimpsed a rusting roof, corrugated metal barely visible through unkempt trees - a graveyard of rotting cars marking rarely trodden footpath.
Grey weathered walls and bare window frames offered little in the way of clues about the good times reportedly had here, and had it not been for the dilapidated main entrance, we might never have known for certain that this was it.
We read faded letters once painted bold across it. "The Station Cinema".
So this is where my mother had spent her first, and as it turned out, her last date with a handsome officer - last because his hair, infested with nits, had proceeded to infest hers.
We exchanged telephone numbers, thanked Colum for his help, our wave goodbye to a once thriving naval base met with a wave from a man scratching his scalp.
Our cue to leave we agreed, and so we did, my sister plundering the glove compartment as I looked out for road signs - a photograph retrieved from it - colour now awash on those pale portrait faces – his uniform sharpest blue – the grey on the white of my mother’s floral dress, morphed by the sunset into lightest brightest yellow.
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