- The first, slightly overcast tea-dance on leaving
bergen. Sizing up the shipmates, loving the camper than camp gay disco remix of Enya’s Orinocco Flow that I predicted would be one of the holiday’s tunes. Asking DJ Barry to hook me up with a copy and getting one almost immediately (now how many DJ’s would do that?)
- Arriving in
Copenhagen on a grey, overcast day, and trekking with D along the waterfront to see the Little Mermaid. Saying a prayer for my godmother Marie, who was fabulous and glamorous, and taught me what it means to be a good godparent, to be independent, to be cosmopolitan and European and open and lovely. Missed her a lot right there, by the statue that appeared on the front cover of the Collected HC Andersen that she sent me for my birthday one year. Remember thinking “Sod the Grim Bros. HC wrote about magic and tragedy and obsession so much more Danishly. Quiet. Steadily. All-encompassingly.”
- Watched the Japanese tourists troop off, and prepared to take some (underexposed) shots. Was annoyed to see another bunch of tourists arrive, before realising they were our fellow travellers. And they included the lovely Irwin, who would subsequently turn out to be a right-wing lesbian with a penchant for utilising her God-given instrument in group scenes. In public. And who listened to our pontificating on Scandi-pop with a look that hovered somewhere between get-me-the-fuck-away-from-these-freaks and ooh-my-Ambien’s-kickin’-in, but who remained charming nonetheless.
- Flirting shamelessly with the most gorgeous barman named Andrea, from Pisa, in a CP themed
Danish Gay Bar, and feeling envious daggers from some of the other gents on an organised pub crawl of Copenhagen.The entirety of said pub crawl, and the way (thanks to said Tall, Dark very handsome and amazingly quite shy Latin Barman and his very generous boss, who was extremely heavy handed with the aquvit and Carlsberg) I got totally hammered in almost no time whatsoever.
- Dancing like a maniac in the middle of a dance floor to this years Turkish Eurovision Entry whilst many of my fellow passengers stood round me in a circle chanting ‘Go Derek!’ At 3pm in the afternoon. I probably should have stopped drinking at that point. Forever
- The post-crawl madness: Giggling like a loon and making extremely politically incorrect gags with the the equally wasted and gilggly Pattie Cakes. A cocktail party where I was papped cuddling up to a variety of rather sweet young Danish gentlemen.
- Summoning up the courage, a day or two later, to ask the fellow passenger who organised the Danish Pub crawl whether he would like a drink. Discovering that the man I’d assumed would be brusque and disinterested in spending time with me was a sweetheart expat Texan (one of the ‘good’ Texans) with a gorgeous Danish Husband, a wicked line in smutty gags, a filthy laugh, and a heart the size of the Lone Star State.
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on Tuesday, August 14th, 2007 at 10:58 am and is filed under travels.
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