Copping Out in Copenhagen, Day 6.5

The most blessed day (8.1.10). I don't know if it's a coincidence my best days have been Sundays. My most restful, joyous ones.

I returned to Christiania in the morning - and it wasn't so hostile as before. I recognized Mathias immediately from his photo as I entered Morgan Stedet and when I sat down Mark, the Seattle busker from yesterday, just happened to walk in, giving me company and encouragement while I waited for Mathias to finish up. He was so generous - offering me free soup and bread and water, something I needed dearly as my diet had been sorely lacking in vegetables. It was a gorgeous soup, with squash and leafy greens and just the perfect hint of cilantro. The three of us chatted amiably about busking; I asked them how they dealt with the shitty days - and they said that's just part of it, but kindly. Mark left to busk at the entrance and Mathias and I walked back to his place in Vesterbro.

Pusher Street, Christiania

My jotted notes on Christiania: "Sending me stumbling again. Reeling. It's friendly here but... I shudder. I see the refuse and the deadbeats. I smell the sweet gross smoke of marijuana. Of wine and feces. And then the beautiful tiled Gaudi-esque parapets and the green spaces and the sun and the broken beautiful furniture. The generous people. The pushy weed sellers. The lazy with their glazed, bored eyes. The drugged: vacant and staring. The wonderful allure of squash soup wafting in oil and fresh cilantro. Bright colors, garish; muted and splendid. It's the perfect metaphor not just for her but the world."

Along the way he told me all about his ups and downs. It was so wonderful to speak with someone who understands - more than understands. How you can play an entire day and not get a tip. How you might have to go hungry or without a place to sleep. But how those really make the highs truly wonderful, when someone who you expect won't help lends you a hand - gives you a berth, food, a tip... Now I don't intend to get quite as low as he has (something he enjoyed, because it helped him see he had no limit of endurance). So encouraging.

We arrived at his little falling apart (yet beautiful) flat at three in the afternoon, exactly when service was to start at the Vineyard Church of København, which just happened to be around the corner from his flat. Worship, a perfect sermon, getting prayer... I even asked if I might sing at the end but they weren't keen on it as they'd just closed the time.

I quickly gathered my things back at the hostel to move to Mathias'. I'd been told as long as I payed before 9:30 I would retain my reservation - so I could wait till then before I had to pay. When I went to the administration desk to check out, however, I was told there was a fee as I'd failed to check out before 3:30. They were a kind trio so I offered to play them a few songs as my fee and they acquiesced. Naturally they chose songs that somewhat undid my rest day - songs needing a lot of voice, Say and Sound of Silence. It was a nice vibe in that little room so after dropping my things off at Mathias' I returned just to hang out. The workers even gave me a beautiful supper of two slices of quiche - salmon/spinach and ham. My densest, tastiest meal in quite some time.

And then I returned to Mathias' just in time for his other couchsurfer, Julietta, to finish making dinner - a beautiful soup and a quinoa dish. By the end of it even I was full. I whiled away the rest of the night finishing a letter and playing every instrument in the flat - all three who live there busked together and there are all manner of stringed lute-like instruments hanging from every wall. I spent the most time on Mathias' violin. Maybe an hour. We even spoke about art, shared my work, talked photography with his roommate Joachim... all the things I'd missed a little from school. Parting the next morning felt ever so bittersweet.

Song of the Day: Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

Copping Out in Copenhagen, Day 6

Today (7.31.10) I became homeless. None of my couchsurfing requests panned out, Jacob's subletter moved in, everyone had to leave the DIS flat. I had one hope for free housing - one of the couchsurfers, Mathias, had told me to meet him at his workplace and he'd try to help me as much as he could. "Asking for help is a beautiful thing," he said - he didn't have space but if I met him he'd see what he could do. Mathias had spent the past ten years busking full time around Europe and I was eager to meet him.

This meant I had to return to a place in København I felt loath to set foot in again. It has the trappings and ideology of paradise but the feel of hypocrisy, of disease. It's a squatter's community near Christianshavn called Christiania. I have... other reasons for wanting to avoid the place, of course. As soon as I walked towards it I felt trapped, like revisiting a memory long buried. Entering I wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere. The citizens and tourists took on a mean through my prejudiced eyes. Morgan Stedet, the vegetarian restaurant I headed to, lay at the far end of Christiania from the Metro. And upon arriving I discovered Mathias had just departed. Attempts to phone him failed.

I departed, still homeless, just before three. A man busked at the entrance so I engaged him in some conversation - Mark, from Seattle, used to live here, busking for many years, visiting old friends. He gave me the pitch and offered me some consoling words... but right after my first song an elderly lady moved me on, not so kindly. No bed, no money, and now music taken... it was a frantic start.

The reverse side reads, "You are now entering the EU."

My pack doesn't look very heavy, but it's hardly ergonomic. I rescued it from a Yale brown bin last year and the sternum strap is broken - which contributes to some yucky strain on my back. Walking about København with it and my eight kilogram guitar case and five kilograms of discarded Yalie food got rather taxing. My backup - the City Public Hostel was booked up, all the other hostels on hostelworld were booked up... then I remembered seeing a hostel around the corner in Vesterbro. Oh, the relief that it had room! It's also a brilliant hostel - no internet reservations and very well kept.

I overpacked.

I dumped my things and headed straight back to Blågårdsgade. The hour I spent there calmed me down nicely. I didn't worry so much about the money - a conscious effort. People really responded to the happy music this evening. Tips were very small but frequent. Right as I began with I'm Yours the man repairing the door behind me tipped me with a big smile. Playing there felt comfortable. I saw the same green grocers, the same man who shook my hand the other day, a set of girls who I'd seen before passed on bikes with a "Yay!" Lots of thumbs ups and smiles today.

Only one couple seemed bothered - they gave me icy glares (I'm not sure why) over their newspapers at the cafe and pointedly left without tipping me. Other than that all the cafe patrons appreciated my presence. A man in a plaid shirt stayed extra to play a game of backgammon with his girlfriend and when he tipped me he gave me a "Thanks." One pair of thirty-something guys sitting by the window of the nearer cafe were really into my music. They particularly loved my Weepies covers and after the first I gave them my list and moved my pitch so I could be near them. They tipped small and apologized profusely but I didn't mind.

Even the waitress got in on the requests - I went in for some water when I asked to sing Hey Ya (it needs a lot of voice) and she shyly asked how much a request was. She'd been flitting around the outdoors section a lot and stealing moments to watch. She even perused the list with the two men. I told her I'd take whatever with a smile, and sang her some Mika after Hey Ya, which a toddler danced to, drawing laughs and smiles and awws from all around. A couple replaced the two young men and as I packed up and looked around, the man flipped me a ten crown piece. I erupted in a fit of a coughing fit as I headed down the street back to the hostel but composed myself. No chance of a second pitch, for sure.

That evening I microwave-cooked (no hot-plates) some tinned chicken, onion and rice - all leavings from the Yalies (my sustenance for the rest of my time in Denmark and took a walk. Surreal. I set out chasing a gorgeous sky impossible to capture with any camera, least of all this uncontrollable one, past the Vineyard Church and into an absurdly manicured twilighted park - Frederiksberg Have (Frederiksberg is rich they have a zoo inside - I turned a corner and.. elephant!). I couldn't have ended the better more appropriately. As the sun disappeared and I took leave of the gardens by the southern end I lingered by the castle. Soft piano and the voices of a mezzo-soprano and a tenor singing Mozart hung clear in the moving but windless air - crisp and cool, pressure low as that just before a storm.





Memories suppressed from the morning before me like a series of sticky pools I walk through, submerged, as I see the couple embracing tenderly against the nearby railing - the perfect romantic pocket bathed in the sweet fleeting hushed mauve light - and wondering what if all the way back.

Earnings: 73 DKK, 50 minutes
Song of the Day: Painting by Chagall - The Weepies

Copping Out in Copenhagen, Day 5.5

Inside the Frederiksberg Library I was somewhat appalled to see this:

Look at the right edge

Not the gaming center, exactly - I'm not sure how I feel about that, yet - it's cool but seems counter productive. I'm shocked to see Grand Theft Auto even offered at a library, and here it wasn't just offered... it was the only game you could play at the station. I spent today (7.30.10) as a much needed rest day - most of it in the library or writing letters. The only reason this day warrants a post stems from the evening, when I sang and recorded a few songs for Camilla, the girl living in the flat and employed by DIS. She's absurdly stylish (bleach blonde pixie cut, olive skin, white teeth, gorgeous scarves, interesting patterned jackets, cheung sam inspired dresses with hints of paisley) and particularly loved my rendition of Hello. Really, I wanted a reason to post it.

I spent the evening cleaning the hell out of the kitchen (the Yalies living there had succeeded only in sullying it further). Being in the flat reminded me all the reasons I'm glad to be quit of Yale - I don't at all miss the one-upping (in cool factor), the drinking environment where the "thing" to do is "go out" and "get wasted" and one is "lame" if one doesn't join. I don't miss the cleanliness issue and the passive aggressiveness that comes with it. I don't miss the pretentious conversations about famous authors and big ideas and medical school... Anyways, unfortunately my cleaning instincts went largely unrewarded - the next day Camilla didn't allow me to take all the food others left me. But I did manage to escape with just enough to survive out the rest of my stay in the city.

Song of the Day: Hello - Lionel Richie

Copping Out in Copenhagen, Day 5

It rained most of the day today (7.29.10). I briefly considered trying the Frederiksberg Metro again but headed to Christianshavn instead. There was a controller there who told me I wasn't allowed to play in Metro stations when I asked and suggested to try somewhere around Kongens Nytorv - a vague suggestion but kind enough. Naturally there was nothing there and I hid inside the fabulously expensive Magasin department store for a while.

The rain lightened a touch and I remembered the colonnade opposite the Round Tower on Købmagergade. An accordionist was already there but was very friendly about relinquishing his spot - fifteen minutes, he said. I wandered up to the top of the tower in the interim - it was very cool how the archways amplified the sound so that I could hear it even at the top. When I relieved the accordion player I tipped him and we chatted briefly about busking. He was friendly and uncharacteristically skilled for an accordion player (most I've encountered have bothered the hell out of me) and despite coming from Hungary spoke brilliant English. He told me he'd been coming to København to busk for twenty summers now, but that this would be his last. Naturally I asked why, and how the money was. It was predictably horrid that day but his face fell when I asked about this year - the worst by far. He got this expression of the despair I felt two days ago, beseeching me - a pleading in his voice, "I don't know what it is, maybe it's the crisis? People... they still like it but they don't give any more, they just pass and pass and pass..."

I decided to try a tack of obstinance at that pitch. I thought people were unhappy enough with the rain so I'd counter that by singing cheery, upbeat tunes. I could barely poke the edge of my case out so it was visible and relied on the sound to be noticed - the columns cut my range of vision to just a few meters each way down the street. I like singing in the rain - people really appreciate it or are at least puzzled - the expressions on some hurrying passersby were simply priceless. There are fewer of them and mostly hiding away with dour expressions and my defiance always brought forth at least a laugh.

I began with "I'm Yours," which is probably the cheeriest song I know (my other hundred songs tend to be a little more pensive if not downright depressing - I have a strong belief that the best music comes from less pleasant, more complex emotions). After the first set of choruses, a very strange thing happened. I saw a tall man coming down the street from the north, dressed in an orange hoodie walking, doing a double take and then heading towards me. He looked familiar. He lowered his hood and it was like a mirage materializing from the mist - Cameron, Trumbull '09, in København. What!? It was even more surreal for him. He later told me just that morning David emailed him saying, "You know Terrence is busking in Europe" but thought nothing of it. What could be the chances I was in København? We chatted briefly and he promised he'd return in about a half hour. Crazy.

The arch ways and the covered passageway really helped. After a few of those happy tunes I ran out and began to embrace the more appropriate, slower fare like The Boxer and Your Song. During the second verse of the former a nice young black man lowered his head phones as he got in earshot and gave me an enthusiastic, "You have a good voice, man!" I got tips intermittently but generally people were too hunched over or too loathe to stop or remove their hands from their pockets. No less than five families alternately stopped just inside the Round Tower to watch and listen to me, all clad in bright ponchos but extremely ungenerous. As always the cameras appreciated me but not the wallets.

The experience that made the day, however, revolved around a single slightly drunk Danish man with halting english. Tall, blonde-haired and rather teddy-bear like, he tipped me with a pot of beautiful purple irises, rising high in their plastic wrapping - nearly a meter. He struck up an awkward conversation with me and then requested Hotel California - and just then Cameron returned, accompanied by his brothers. The five of us enjoyed a round of incredibly strange introductions and waitings for the other to depart. Cameron gave way first after I arranged to stay with him Monday night.

Sometime in those odd minutes Cameron asked how the money was and I laughed bitterly. The Danish man concernedly asked me if I made very much doing this after Cameron left, and I responded honestly. I had no light for a cigarette so he wandered off - I thought for good. A couple of songs later he returned and pressed me a one hundred crown note. Wow... I asked him "Are you sure" a few times and expressed my gratitude in spades. Hotel California time, I thought.

Just before I began, however, the man insisted on taking me on a tour. The rain stopped then and I acquiesced - his tip alone made the entire day, so why not? He explained to me that he was always very bothered that all the tourists never got to see "his Copenhagen." It was a lovely tour. He pointed out the YMCA, the university and the dorms, the churches downtown. He took me to his favorite streets - Jorcks Passage and Strædet... Best of all, however, he taught me a lot of history.

København was firebombed by Admiral Nelson, he said, killing half the population. It outraged him that Nelson had a prominent statue in London - but he also blamed the bad kings of Denmark. He expressed disdain for the queen and for the trappings of royalty, pride in how the Danes saved all the Jews there - "It was like this: if you had a boat and a friend who was a Jew, you helped them get somewhere safe. Everyone did this. You can ask anyone on the street here and they'll tell you we saved 99.9% of the Jews." He showed me the stupidest part of København - the fake Italian "ristorantes" with their cheesy music. We walked through downtown in a way I hadn't gone with side streets taking us to Amagertorv - he insisted we had to relax there and not just rush through like the tourists.

One thing he insisted on showing me has changed how I look at København completely. His absolute favorite part lies above our heads, but although everywhere, people hardly notice. Roofs in København are often copper - oxidized by time into a lovely green. He's right: they are beautiful, unique... Nyhavn might be gorgeous with the multicolored fishing style buildings, Strøget might be the first pedestrian street, but the copper roofs are a feel, a permanence that like the strange paints they use make København not just another Scandinavian city in the look of it. So look up.

We parted awkwardly at Kongens Nytorv - I had to make it back to the flat before the denizens went to see Inception. I tried to insist on singing him Hotel California there but he just smiled, shook my hand and had me promise to share his Copenhagen with my friends. I hope I've done at least that.

Earnings: 150 DKK, 45 minutes
Song of the Day: Your Song - Elton John

Copping Out in Copenhagen, Day 4

Maria returned from traveling about Europe to the Frederiksberg flat last night. She gave me some great suggestions for likely pitches, one near her workplace, so at around lunchtime I walked the five kilometers to Amalienborg (7.28.10). Massive fail. I chose a spot facing the water with my back to an acoustic friendly edifice. The sun decided to disappear behind some clouds right as I began and passersby expressions similarly lost all happiness, replaced with suspicion and accusation. I gave up after fifteen minutes and popped into the Cast collection to see Maria.

We walked over to the largest fountain in Copenhagen, right at the foot of Kastellet, where the tourist busses drop off their obnoxious, tight-fisted loads. I disdained playing directly in front of the fountain. I have a certain amount of pride in what I do, and a set of lines I will not cross. I will not beg, or hustle, or impose. I know how annoying it is to get your lack of generosity shoved in your face when you really can't give. I won't cater to the audience besides taking requests and slightly altering my repertoire: that is I won't wear something stupid or make fun of myself or do some gimmick.

I headed instead to the middle of the nearby bridge above the fountain. I had Maria request songs to keep it interesting. I'll take this opportunity to declare Let it Be as the Song of the week/song of Copenhagen. I think I played it every day - usually from a request. A pair of art students (probably) joined us at the end of the bridge and laid out their drawings of the Little Mermaid before them to sell. They met with the same luck as I: after fifteen minutes or so I closed off with Maria's request of Such Great Heights.

Kastellet, a good place to write letters.

Despite the fail (monetarily) yesterday I was determined to return to Blågårdsgade. I reminded myself that I do it for the art, that I should worry less about the money and simply enjoy the playing, and the reactions even if it comes with small tips. That's why I like going to Blågårdsgade so much. It's in the Nørrebro neighborhood of København, the working class district which was always home to protests, is extremely diverse... it's easily my favorite part. Frederiksberg, on the other hand, rolls in cash. Buildings in Nørrebro are likely to be graffitied, the streets meet them with refuse, the grass is unweeded and of varying lengths, the people all different colors, people honk in a friendly manner, the store fronts, patrons and tenders spill out onto the street, half the passersby stop to talk to someone they know in a cafe or heading the other way. In Frederiksberg everything is polished, contained, comparmentalized: nice little hedgerows and clean sidewalks, obsessively swept ice cream parlours, near-perfect grass, all fair-skinned yet tan and blonde and hurrying - silent and never meeting your gaze, expression rigid.

I'd arranged to meet Amy, one of the girls in my audience at Bergen - still my favorite pitch to date - at Blågårdsgade at 17h. We arrived simultaneously. I scouted the street out as a van occupied my old spot and settled on a spot facing the bike locks in front of a closed store front. Having an audience makes this so much better - no just having company of any kind. Someone to share in the lack of tips, to give consoling glances, to be enthusiastic, to request songs, tip me... Tips were slow and small as I started, but playing for Amy made it fun.

After a little while Amy passed my repertoire list to some girls who'd sat down at a bench behind some bushes but facing me right after I'd begun. They gave a few requests and I obliged. The story ends sourly with them, however, as they called in many friends (by the end there were 8 of them in a circle, stealing glances at me and clearly listening) and didn't tip, smile or even acknowledge me. They were, happily, the anomaly. Shortly after they passed the list back to Amy, a couple of grocery suppliers drove in and parked on either end of me, then got out and listened for a while, sitting beside Amy. One gave me the "You should try American Idol. You have a really good voice and I think you'd do well" comment. I humoured them with a "I've never thought about that... Hm.." They apologized about their small tips, but I assured them, honestly, that I didn't mind - they loved the music, requested Stand By Me, we had a nice conversation about the neighborhood - they epitomized why I hate the touristy bits and I appreciate the local-frequented bits.

Shortly after they left, Amy noticed a young man sitting nearby and listening and passed him the list. Now, the thing with my repertoire list is I like to include the songs I'm working on so that I can use the list to practice off of. There are about ten songs out of the one hundred and twenty on the list which are unpolished and I put them in italics. Somehow these always get requested. The guy called his buddy over and they perused the list awhile before requesting Don't Speak and Hurt - for the novelty factor. This day and many others before and after suggest that I should stick to what I like to sing - chillified covers of songs that shouldn't be chillified. Later they requested Kids, and Crazy. One told the other, impressed, that I was a good jukebox. They bought snap peas from the grocers I'd played opposite in days past and used the change to tip me (apologizing also for their small tip).

See thats what I love about Nørrebro - the gratitude I get and the humanity that is apparent is strong here. People are people, they show appreciation. Right after the pair of guys left, a five kroner coin was tossed towards my case from an unknown source. After a bit of looking we saw that a man in a balcony on the third floor of the building behind me had thrown it down. He smiled happily, gave me a thumbs up, offered some Danish words which sounded encouraging.

I felt like winding down so I began a set of chiller songs with Hey There Delilah. A beautiful black girl with curly hair walked past right as I began. She spoke new england english, "I'll be right back with some money, because you're awesome." I thanked her profusely and suggested she make a request. She assured me should would. I saw her duck into the cafe Charles liked. When she emerged she talked with a young Danish man (her boyfriend I assumed later) who'd been listening and watching, smiling with his cheek resting on his fist from that cafe, gesturing towards me. They walked over and after tossing me a tip she asked me if I'd be here a while, I told her I wouldn't as my voice probably needed a rest, though it felt strong then.

So she stayed. They sat down by Amy and requested Hey Ya, squealing delightedly at my rendition. They also wanted Don't Speak but I avoided it (the chorus is quite shaky and I didn't want to subject myself and Amy to it once again). The girl loved Such Great Heights. After a few songs she ducked into the nearby convenience store while her boyfriend remained. I asked Amy for some last requests. Amy remembered Hallelujah as fondly and powerfully as I do, but was worried for my voice. I decided to have a shot and it went very well. This time in Frances' absence, Amy got emotional.

The lovely girl returned from the convenience store at the fourth verse and presented me with a fifty kroner bill, setting it gently in my case and covering it with coins to protect it from the wind. As the fifth verse began she and her boyfriend smiled and waved at me, "I told you I'd give you something!" she said triumphantly. They walked off and passed back the other way in the middle of Amy's last request, Let it Be, riding tandem on a moped and waving enthusiastically at me. And during the bittersweet chat Amy and I shared before parting, I felt like a musician..

Earnings: 155 DKK + €0.10, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Such Great Heights - Postal Service

Copping Out in Copenhagen, Day 3

I transferred over to Daria and Maria's flat last night to flee the chalk to great results. I felt instantly better this morning (7.27.10). As is my wont, I sought out the library and spent quite awhile there, blogging, etc. Unfortunately, I stayed for the dry bits of the day and emerged just as it began to rain - which put rather a damper on my plans to busk outside. I hid inside a little longer, which resulted in a strange meeting. I tend to take advantage of libraries not just for their free books and internet but also their generally clean and free bathrooms. I was quite disappointed when I walked into the Frederiksberg Library bathroom, then, and my nose was assaulted with an exceedingly foul smell. After a while, though, it became clear that the smell came from a single patron - a man who shook my hand and talked with me for a bit in Danish (I understood like 3 words) and seemed just as aware of his smell - he was scrubbing away at his face and arms and hands with the paper towels and soap (with no smellable results) but I appreciated the effort.

There's a mall close to the Frederiksberg Library and after a few minutes milling around aimlessly inside I worked up the courage to ask if I could play in the Mall. The girls at the Information desk told me I wasn't allowed to, or even directly outside (under the awning) so I decided to try the adjoining Metro station. Most Metros in København are designed expressly against hang out spaces but the Frederiksberg one has a small antechamber which I decided to exploit.

My stuff posing at the Metro

Unfortunately the absurd efficiency of Danish transport defeated my busking designs. I played the standard speculative fifteen minutes (with the decidedly appropriate Sound of Silence to close it out) to no tips. Most people looked at me rather strangely, as if I was crazy to try busking there, what with Metros coming each direction every twenty minutes and the coldness of the grey surroundings and greyer sky. When I returned to take the photo I noticed an automated message at the entrance in Danish and in an English accent "We advise all passengers to be aware of pickpockets."... which certainly didn't further my cause.

The rain let up so I discretely hopped the metro and walked to Blågårdsgade. The sky remained cloudy but it looked at first to be a great pitch. An Arab guy sitting nearby lit up immediately when I opened my case, saying "God, Musik!" enthusiastically, smiling broadly and chatting animatedly with his friends. He tossed me a twenty crown coin and stayed the whole pitch.

Unfortunately that would prove to be half the earnings for the day. Halfway through my eyes and mind wandered to the nearby café where I noticed the cost of a beer. At around thirty crowns, a single person foregoing a beer would do wonders for me. I'll spare you the rant I formulated then. The same black boy on the bike who circled around a few days ago did so again this time and near the end he stopped directly in front of my case with two 50 øre coins he'd found somewhere helped immensely - exactly the parable of the poor widow (well, had they been drachma, but the right color at least).

There were a few older men at the café who particularly enjoyed my music. The first nodded his head in time behind his dark shades for a while, smiling encouraging at me. He tipped me after a while and told me to turn so that I faced the café goers rather than the street itself. As I started Better Together he clapped along. Not long after the other man - bald, large around the middle, greying hair - tossed me a small tip, apologizing in Danish that he had little. He shook my hand at the end of the pitch, probably offering Danish words of encouragement but I don't remember hearing any sound at all - I was so depressed at this point that I felt near tears from despair.

Earnings: 45 DKK + €0.50, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Yellow - Coldplay

Copping out in Copenhagen, Day 2

Today (7.26.10) I determined that it must be something in Jacob and Katja's flat which was aggravating my throat. I'd noticed I began to feel better when I left and started hacking up my lungs after a few hours back - last night I woke myself up coughing around four and needed to inhale two cups of honey tea and use my inhaler to return to sleep. After talking briefly with Jacob and Katja I decided it must be the climbing chalk - they store most their climbing equipment in that room and my mattress was very low to the ground, just low enough to be in the zone where the chalk circulated to the light circulation from the open windows.

I had absolutely no voice, but at this point I was truly hurting for money. It was a gorgeous day so I took Charles' suggestion and headed to the metro station by Amager Strand (beach). On the ride over I noticed, for some reason, a young lady standing by the other door and stared curiously at her. She'd looked up at the same instant and after a few long seconds of eye contact came over. What a fortuitous meeting! She guessed I came (at least indirectly) from Hong Kong and queried me how things were there. She'd visited in 1996, just before the handover and told me the people were very much in her prayers. Hearing me tell her things were mostly the same (so far as I could tell) sent her beaming. I told her it was sure to last until 2046, and at that she was again happy. "I think the Lord Jesus will return before then" she confided happily. I listened to her reasons - snippets in Revelation that aligned with our digitizing times - and by the time she stepped off at Christianshavn I was inwardly praising God for this beautiful encounter. Just the right length, just the right give and take. Greg told me angel simply means "messenger." I thought at that moment perhaps we were both angels to each other.

There's a little pedestrian tunnel at Amager Strand, sort of a bottleneck for beachgoers from the metro, and I established myself solidly in the middle. I hoped the natural acoustics would make up for my lack of volume, and they mostly did, but the pitch was a large failure. Most the passersby ignored me or gave me suspicious looks. By the end my already low energy (from being sick) was at a dangerous level.

As a consolation, the beach itself was lovely. It's a funny strip of land that boasts three parallel beaches thanks to a sheltered inlet teeming with kayakers and children. Teenagers, twenty-somethings, and middle-agers populated the actual seashore. I practiced some songs, threw some rocks about, dug a pit. After an hour of tossing stones I finally hit the small, jutting, rose-colored stone a few meters before me with a polished black basalt one and decided to metro it north.

I ran into a busker on the steps of the Christianshavn Metro. He bade me sit down and listen, and I plucked my D for him to tune off of. He was horrid. Every few seconds he'd retune his guitar - at random, it seemed to me - and he just played a few simple licks while grinning at me, as if it was impressive. He'd deposited himself such that he took up half the steps and cyclists had to shoulder their bikes to pass him. I realized soon why. He got his tips not from appreciation but from hustling - as one young man passed him by on the way down he held out an open palm. The young man replied he'd already given him all his change and spent the rest of his money on weed, but the busker lit up at this and demanded the weed. The young man parted with a spliff. I took this distraction as an opportunity to leave and walked up to Strøget.

I hate Strøget (pronounced rather like "stroll", amusingly). It's far too busy for my tastes and I despise the obviously rich passersby who stare down their noses at me accusatorily, like they're saying, "Get a real job." But as I direly needed some cash flow flowing in I headed that way anyways. Some buskers leaving Amagertorv recommended I play by the church, where I remembered the John Mayer look-a-like played two months ago. The hawker there had me check with a band lounging by the church and they graciously gave me an hour, assuring me that if I sang poorly they'd come down and kick my ass.

Tips were slow and the people as haughty as always but the day was saved by an audience. A trio of Italians and a pair of Danish girls took the two benches facing me after not so long - they noticed me when I sang Libertà, probably as the chorus sports a few lines in Italian. I wish I'd been at my best, just for their sake, but after forty minutes my voice was truly done. I sang Hey Ya and Relax, Take it Easy especially for them and then I asked for requests as I'd lost my repertoire list some days back at Islands Brygge. Thankfully I knew them: Let it Be and Tears in Heaven. Again Japanese tourists passed fortuitously during Ue Wo Muite Arukou, but again no tips. Luckily the composition of the passersby was equal parts positive youngsters to haughty rich tourists but unluckily for my wallet the former are considerably poorer than the latter and rarely had the means to give. One truck driver, however, did toss me a kroner.

Earnings: 60 DKK, 1.15 hours
Song of the Day: Libertà - Pep's

Copping out in Copenhagen, Day 1

Sleeping in cold airports seemed to have sickened me and I took 7.23.10 as a rest day - essentially a lot of coughing and a lot of water intake. It didn't get any better the following day so instead I took a nice 11km walk about the town, looking for potential pitches and the like. I wanted to avoid Strøget if at all possible. One thing that struck me was how the prevalence of biking might affect things. Everyone bikes in København. Everyone. The pedestrian tunnels are thus frequented mostly by runners and cyclists. The pedestrian streets outside of the walking streets downtown see mostly bikers and fewer walkers. Cyclists don't tip (I mean, it'd be rather difficult, eh?). On my way back I popped by Daria and Maria's flat but no one was in besides Charles.

A mural by the lakes of the lakes. Massive swans!

I returned to what looked to be the most promising location at Blågårdsgade in Nørrebro (7.25.10). Just before I started, Charles emerged from the facing Har Bo café, and that gave me just the right spurt of energy to begin. I sang pretty well but only lasted about forty five minutes before I had to call it quits. My throat wasn't improving but I'd gone out because I needed the money. The passersby where mostly younger folk of all sorts of different ethnicities, so I started with nineties tunes. The greengrocers across the way gave me big thumbs up and wide smiles. A young man in yellow plaid tipped me with a thank you for Yellow. A beaming brunette bent down to tip for High & Dry. All sorts of passersby found Torn hilarious.

Charles re-emerged and complimented my singing. I endured a short dry spell but that ended with Let it Be - lots of sing-a-longs and multiple tips. A little black boy on a bike began to linger in front of me, doing loops on the street and watching me curiously. I even had the courage to try Libertà, to good acclaim and Ue Wo Muite Arukou. A Japanese lady passed fortuitously then, but didn't tip. I tried Hallelujah but hadn't the necessary voice - halfway through a man in the grocery burped and I had a hard time supressing a laugh. By the time I ended with Mrs. Robinson I had hardly any voice, and I was grateful for the shy girl who tipped me then - sometimes I make a determination to keep singing till one more tip, and this one couldn't have been more opportune.

Blågårdsgade

But the best tip came from an ancient couple. The husband was pushing his wife in a wheelchair, back bent and shuffling slowly down the street while cyclists whizzed by. They slowed (almost imperceptibly) as they passed me right to left and the man smiled at me. That would have been encouragement enough and I beamed at him. A few songs later, though, they returned the other way, inching towards my case. First the man smiled at me once more before dropping me a silver coin. Then the sweetest thing. He slowly crept his hand to his wife, who shakingly took another set of silver from him and sort of released them in a small jerk into my case. The corners of her lips tugged upwards just a hint - her expression had been completely fixed heretofore, as if she'd lost most of the control over those muscles. As they hobbled slowly on I put as much feeling as I could into my music, and I hope that was gratitude enough.

Happily, Charles treated me to a honey ginger tea inside the café and I'm hoping that repaired most of the assault on my vocal chords.

Earnings: 82.5 DKK + €2, 45 minutes
Song of the Day: High & Dry - Radiohead

In an Aeroport (Lay)Over to Sleep

This post will document the unglamorous reality of travelling on an extremely tight budget. I was effectively homeless from the time I left Stamsund at 12h on 7.20.10 until I arrived at Jacob's place at 15h on 7.22.10. Soon I will post an expenses of Scandinavia thingie, but suffice it to say for now that I was extremely proud of myself for this stretch in that sense.

I intended to hitch out of Stamsund to the airport, but the continuing rain hampered this feasibility so I jumped on a series of busses, instead. By calling myself a student I managed to halve the price. I intended to stay awake for the entirety of the rides, but Drammamine had other plans. The first short leg, to Leknes, got me rather nauseated, so I popped a Drammamine (the recommended dosage being 1-2 every 4-6 hours) to sustain me through till Svolvær and Evenes. It knocked me out. This is an eternal gripe of mine, that dosages never take slighter people into consideration. When the dosage is a single capsule it's extremely hard to vary for a smaller person. Sudafed also is lights out for me. And in København, Katja confirmed my annoyance: they do tests on 80kg pigs... that is the average adult male. What about the rest of us (Im getting thinner, but Im still at 54kg.. that's like the average female, right? Female doses on boxes, pleeease).

This tiredness lasted through the next fuzzy days. I slept the first night in freezing cold Evenes Airport (heating, anyone) but the benches were very comfortable, at least. I awoke with a small cold. This was exacerbated in Oslo Airport. The strength I left the Lofoten with - nullified with two nights in airports.

I'd packed five sandwiches, a box of sweet crackers and a package of Marie crackers. This managed to last me the whole journey. Of course my liquid intake consisted of water, stored happily in the original one euro one and half liter bottle I purchased in Helsinki (you can take such bottles on board planes, if empty). I spent the day in the Oslo airport availing myself of the free services - I sat in a bookstore for a few hours reading a book before the staff sternly kicked me out (I still don't see the problem of reading a book in a bookstore without paying). I'd gotten just over halfway through, and now I'll have to find that book (The Piano Teacher) elsewhere, which is sure to prove difficult. The very friendly airport is also densely populated with free internet kiosks and is quite well equipped for sleeping: they let you sleep on the couches inside the bars and restaurants and even dim the lights!

I was rather starving by the evening in OSL, so I talked to the girl running the cash register for the ever present Pizza Hut. I asked her what they did with the pizza (they threw it out) and asked if I might have some when they closed for the night. She took pity on me and voila: two extremely greasy, calorie filled slices... of heaven. I intended to intercept her on her way out to sing her a song, but she was accompanied by her manager (who was unaware of our transaction). Regardless, I slept well.

I whiled away much of my first day back in København at the Royal Library. Later on I was informed that only Danes can use the facilities there, but no one bothered me, so maybe it's the honor system? So many things in Scandinavia are based upon that. It's quite nice. I'm much less mobile with my pack and coat so when I hobbled over to the walking streets I couldnt decide if I wanted to play. The first busker I met in front of the Rundetårn - a large black man with a piano on wheels - hailed from California and he was rather friendly in recommending me a pitch further down, across from the Post Office. I decided to send a bunch of letters instead.

Jacob was a touch late meeting me in front of his place. I was able to do some laundry (been awhile) and we had a wonderful barbecue in the open courtyard of his apartment complex in Vesterbro. Here I sampled (and liked) the apparently very Swedish bacon wrapped around banana and fried. Brent would love that, but he's not reading so he fails. Katja was keen on heading to Islands Brygge. As it was we biked down and I was paranoid enough with my guitar strapped around me, unprotected from the hazards of the roads except with my rusty biking skills. Still, biking is the way to get about København, and it was nice to go at it. Besides a mishap where the chain came off at the beginning, crossing the road, it was strangely astonishing for me how much faster travel is with wheels.

In retrospect I should have brought my camera. The sunset was glorious - a boiling carpet of cotton candy red and pink, smoothing out into deeper blues and a soft indigo. The hues reflected off the surface of the canal, mostly still now that few people were swimming. I sang a few songs - one man nearby complimented my playing after Steets of London and the youngsters around us seemed to particularly like Hey Ya. After we'd eaten a typically Danish dessert: Koldskål, which tastes like a sweet, yoghurty cereal with a hint of citrus and egg, Jacob requested I Will Follow You into the Dark. The sun had finally fallen over the edge and all the ride back I heard it playing softly in my mind.

Song of the Day: I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie

Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part IV

Over the next few days I continued to polish songs, write a little, etc. I've really started to warm to the idea of being a human jukebox - with a placard or something - but that would need more supplies than are easy to carry about.. but perhaps when I've traveled enough that I settle in a place more than a week. Every day new people come in, most of them stumbling upon this paradise that you can't book online, with no staff, that sustains itself entirely with human decency - Roar cant possibly run the whole thing (though he does his best, for sure) so those staying help out with sweeping, keeping the place immaculate - everyone makes their bed when they leave, even!

The hostel is the orange guy

My train cohorts left after one more night and I enjoyed the ensuing patches of silence. I continued to wake late and sleep late. I left the hostel only to draw, to write my letters or for walks. Though I felt a desire to see the white beaches and the Trollfjord, my way of traveling meant I felt just as happy simply relaxing where I was. One particularly gorgeous night, Roar told Russell, an incoming Australian photographer, that the light was bound to be gorgeous. Russell retired after being deterred by a general misty murk, but I perservered and around three or four in the morning...

From the hostel.

Everyone else: sleeping

It'd been a very rough time of faith for me, and I wandered around the mountain top praying and talking - sometimes it felt like I was talking to myself, sometimes not - but just before I went to sleep I got a little direct and asked for a response. How do I deal with the lack of community, the lack of fellowship, my loneliness, my feeling that I'm missing out on time that could be spent growing close to a someone, now I'm across the globe from those closest to me? Now ECV and the other groups I was in believed strongly that God speaks in many ways, and I firmly believe what happened next was an answer. It came so immediately (the instant I opened my eyes) and seemed so aligned... Well I'll just write it out and you tell me, hm?

Just before the birds...

Which flew across this.

From my journal: "A flock of birds headed right across my vision flying low, parallel to the sea, black against the burnt sky. Five of them, I think? One of them veers off at a right angle to fly away from me. Disappears into the mist. Two of the remaining birds pair up and fly on. The other two fall back and away from each other (one flying even lower, one soaring up) but continue on, albeit slower.

I blink and the one's re-emerged from the mist, flying fast and low after the others - I think of Jonathan Livingtson Seagull. The last of the flock is almost behind the mountains blocking my sight to my right.

I focus again and three more birds are closing, large and fast in the same direction. They gain on the one lonesome bird, join him just at the edge of the mountain... and that's it. No more birds. The air, which felt a strangely still and hushed - a little cooler, crisper yet muffled - moves again."

Not long after the birds disappeared.

I'm determined to come back here. Maybe if I end up teaching I'll take my summers here. After that gorgeous morning it rained without much pause for the rest of my stay. And still it was beautiful - the hostel never felt warmer. We had a lot of stragglers come stay to hide from the weather: a set of Brits from Cambridge I got along with very well, three Californians, three Italians. Now at first it felt odd being with Americans - somehow I felt they were invading my paradise, or something - but it went well.

It wasn't quite this dark... but close.

Best of all, I made the acquaintance of a masters student from Chile/Brasil, Pablo. He finished undergrad with a degree in composition and speaks fluent Spanish, Portuguese, English, French, Italian and understands German. Phenomenal. It's made me formulate a theory that musicians, by virtue of their highly attuned ears, are particularly adept at languages - Pontus in Sweden, Pablo, etc. We had an excellent time jamming together. There are two guitars and a mandolin that live at the hostel which we used to great effect - first with the two of us and one of the Brits, then the Americans, then the Italians. Most importantly, he'd brought his violin.

How I'd missed it! First I just soloed over some random chord progressions and songs with Pablo on guitar, but after he took a break I took his violin into the adjourning room and just went at it, making stuff up (sometimes starting with the Chaconne or Bruch or Ysaye or Butterfly Lover's or Erbarme Dich but quickly moving to improvisation) for over an hour. There's just something you can't do singing or playing guitar that only the violin can satisfy. Some of those deeper emotions, the ones you can't name and can't voice and sometimes that you're hardly aware of - those are what really need a violin. I played well. Better than I've played since I've played regularly, maybe because no one was around to judge.

When I returned to the kitchen/common room, the French lady who'd been staying a few nights was telling the Italians, who'd just checked in, "He's a musician," in a confiding tone of voice - like she was proud to be able to be acquianted with me. Stamsund was filled with these affirmations - made me think, maybe I could do music if I wanted to? The Americans encouraged me to try it as a job. Pablo complimented my ear. The Italians loved the beautiful sound of my guitar, which made up nicely for the snub it got in Oslo. We spent the rest of the night singing and playing - Francesco even taught me Nothing Else Matters.

And when I left the next morning I had a few minutes to pass before my bus, so I played a few songs in the adjourning room - and I'd hardly begun when two girls came in from the main room just to listen to me. I still feel awkward and undeserved of all the attention I get from females, but I sang them Libertà on discovering they were from France, and maybe it was the confidence or the the rest, or the rain, or the peace or the violin but I don't think I've ever sung stronger.

For those of you who made it this far, here's something funny to end on: people here peg me as much younger than I am. Leonard, in Edane (remember him?), pegged me at twelve. TWELVE. And the day before I left Stamsund a Bulgarian lady put me at "Fifteen... plus or minus three." Sigh. Is it the hair?

Song of the Day: Libertà - Pep's