There have been so many things I’ve wanted to write about recently and not nearly enough time to do it! My recent trip to Israel: rafting down the Jordan River, driving up north and ending up a stones throw away from Damascus, seeing the Wall in the Jerusalem, visiting the holy city of Zefat. These were all incredible experiences, but what I really must inform you about is an experience I had right here in Copenhagen.
First, I must remember that none of you are here with me, and thus a brief history lesson is in order. Within the city limits of Copenhagen lies a neighborhood called “Christiania” in the borough of Christianshavn. Originally a military area in the 1970s, it has since become a partially self-governed, hippie enclave famous for its open cannabis trade, coffee shops and live music. There has always been a struggle between residents of Christiania and the Danish government, but this conflict has escalated the past few years, with Christiania’s independent status being threatened.
Stepping into Christiania is like an out of body experience: you walk through the entrance gates and are met with stray dogs, intricate murals (no doubt the product of halucinogenic substances), and kiosks of drug pushers (on the appropriately named “Pusher Street.”) Reggae music pumps constantly and locals gather around fires in a rusty trash bins. This may sound extremely sketchy, but I swear it is a thing of wonder. There is nothing like it. It is Neverland.
Back to my story. So yesterday two of my classmates and I went on a mission to Christiania to complete a short media piece on the recent troubles in the area (including a young dog being mercilessly shot by a police offier.) As the token journalist in the group I was sent into a cafe called The Opera House to see what dirt I could dig up. As I was about to step through the arched entrance, I was asked by a middle-aged Danish woman with bleached blonde hair, ice blue eye shadow, jeans a few sizes too small and a paterned halter top if I would like to buy marijuana. I kindly declined, and ascended the stairs of the cafe. Having no luck, I came back down and decided to start chatting up the drug dealer, whose name happened to be Tina. Tina was as lovely as can be, though admitedly a bit cracked out. She said she didn’t have much to say about the dog incident but maybe her friend did, a woman named Inge with big curly hair who lived in a yellow house on a farm across the lake, and had witnessed the dog being shot. This was too good: I had to investigate.
My classmates and I took the tip, crossed over the pictareqsue river and set out on our search for Inge. Having little luck, we thought perhaps Tina had been yanking our chain. That was until we stumbled upon Stace: a British expat who has lived in Christiania for over 30 years. He had a thick, scraggly red and grey beard, and what was left of his hair was tied into a neat bun on top of his head. He was wearing a North Face fleece.
Stace led us to Inge’s house, which doubles as a kiosk for ice cream and cigarettes. She was not home. However, we continued about half a mile down the road to Stace’s residence which was, as expected, made entirely of recycled wood and had no furniture. There were animal skins on the floor and a small indoor garden for meditation. He switched on a CD of soothing music from the Far East and we chatted with him about his travels to Berkeley and Peru and his dismay about the future of his home. Before we knew it, the sun was setting on his lakeside abode and it was time for us to make the trek down the dirt path back to the real world.
Ultimately, Stace was not much help to our project for he would not allow us to videotape him. But I wouldn’t trade our time spent with him for anything.
