12/18/2009 – Savoring Serenity & the Extraordinary in Copenhagen
Normal day, let me be aware of the treasure you are.
Let me learn from you, love you, savor you, bless you before you depart.
Let me not pass you by in quest of some rare and perfect tomorrow.
- Mary Jean Irion
Copenhagen, Denmark
This image was taken in Copenhagen, Denmark. It may have been the light at that latitude, or perhaps a lens of grace in my attitude, but I looked at this scene and saw incredible beauty in the Danish everyday. There seemed to be an aura of peacefulness emanating from the warm glow of the gold and mauve buildings, the row of bicycles, and the shadow splayed across the entrance to this courtyard. Quite a contrast to this week’s news reports of snow falling on the city, amid friction and protests related to the global climate conference taking place there.
I had traveled to Copenhagen during warmer months with my friend Jane. We were staying near the colorful waterfront neighborhood of Nyhavn, where Denmark’s favorite son, Hans Christian Anderson, lived for 18 years. The atmosphere of the quay is fanciful and fairy tale-like—the streets surrounding it are lined with 17th century buildings painted in every shade of the rainbow. Cafes spilled out of each building onto the cobblestones, where sun-burned Danes sat, enjoying beers for breakfast. The canal is home to masted museum pieces of the country’s seafaring heritage, and lined with majestic schooners. Copenhagen means “merchants harbor” and the city is located on Zealand, one of the country’s 406 islands.
From Nyhavn, we boarded a water taxi, better known as Flyvefisken, or the “flying fish.” The water shuttles operate in and around Copenhagen’s harbor and canals, dropping and picking up passengers at the city’s cultural attractions, such as the sleek and modern Opera House, the little Mermaid statue and the “Black Diamond,” an architectural gem that is home to the country’s royal library.
We disembarked in Christianshavn, located on the east side of Copenhagen, on the isle of Amager, where placid canals flow gently through blocks of charming historic buildings. We meandered across one small footbridge after another, wandering leisurely through this largely residential area. Criss-crossing the tranquil waterways, we delved deeper into the borough. We had no particular agenda, no specific itinerary, and it was lovely to linger when something caught my eye. I took a series of photos of some graffiti, its bold colors and whimsical designs spray-painted directly above the tips of tall weeds, like blooms crowning stalks. I dawdled shooting duck decoys decorating the deck of a houseboat. I dedicated long moments to capturing the reflection of a church spire in the windows of a converted warehouse. {See Denmark under Travel Photos on site.}
While I don’t take for granted any time I get to spend exploring new locales, this was an occasion of lazy, comfy poking around, an all too rare experience in my often frantic quest for the dramatic vista, spectacular skyline or remote mystery. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was immersed in a pleasant state of being the Danish call “hygge.” A fundamental feature of the culture here, hygge translates loosely as cozy and soothing. {See Travel Articles section of the site for Boston Globe article “Looking for Light and Comfort with the Danes.”}
Jane and I eventually found ourselves on the outer edges of Christianshavn, enjoying an idyllic amble in a park along ancient ramparts built in 1617 by King Christian IV, for whom the settlement was named. We were approaching Christiania, a commune that covers 85 acres, created in 1971 when an army of squatters claimed the abandoned military barracks as a “free state.” The “normal day” we had been treasuring was about to get a little weird.
As we descended steps from the ramparts, heading down into the social experiment in progress below, two young men appeared out of nowhere, following closely behind us. Jane gave me a nervous look, and I felt a mixture of anxiety and responsibility. I had pooh-poohed the notion that an area reclaimed for peace could pose any danger, despite the community’s main thoroughfare being named “Pusher Street.” I stopped suddenly, extending my arm in front of Jane, as a mother does for her child sitting beside her in the front seat of the car when applying the brakes. The duo parted, walked around us and continued on without missing a stride. What their intentions were I’ll never know.
Christiania residents refer to the settlement as the “losers’ paradise,” citing its creative and recreational values. Walking along its gravel roads, where no cars are allowed, I was entranced with the vibrant murals splashed on the walls of the buildings—imaginative, unruly and uninhibited art shouted and shimmied from the surfaces of almost every structure. Jane seemed mesmerized by the other side of the equation—the legion of lost souls here whose empty eyes had seen too much freedom, whose hygge had gone haywire.
As I shot a two-story painting of a turbaned woman emblazoned with the moniker “Human Justice,” Jane point-blank asked me to hurry it up. Reluctantly, I turned away, only to be drawn in by a particularly poetic rendition of a peace sign. Jane’s admonitions to leave got sterner as a phalanx of policemen in full riot gear approached, and I too was suddenly very ready to go. Not at all sure how to liberate ourselves from the Free City, we chose to follow authority rather than question it and tagged along behind the cops at a respectful distance.
We passed trash barrels ablaze in fire, and a stoned-looking woman with her arm resting on a rack of clothes for sale. A gang of skinny dogs scurried by in one direction, and coming the other way, a woman on a bicycle pulled a wagon with two toddlers. Suddenly, there was a loud explosion, and the policemen ahead of us swiftly turned around and headed back in our direction in a crouching run. The smattering of people in the vicinity burst into a sprint, Jane and I among them, rushing past the cops, heading in the direction of a wooden sign supported by carved totems that said “You are now entering the EU.” We bolted directly into the street, almost getting hit by a taxi, and kept running. I stopped first, completely winded, my hands on my hips, panting heavily. Jane, more fit than I, kept running. I was too out of breath to yell after her; she eventually realized she had left me behind and stopped and waited.
Falling into step, we made our way back to the more genteel Christianshavn, without much conversation. Though neither of us is typically at a loss for words, it wasn’t just the aerobic exertion that had left us speechless. While I had prided myself on progressive politics and a spirit of tolerance, the extent to which I came close to anarchy was six feet from the telly, reclining in the comfort of my suburban armchair; I did not want to go down in flames on its front lines. At the same time, having considered myself somewhat worldly, I was ashamed at my naivete. We later learned that the animosity between squatters and police had resulted in frequent firecrackers being set off, but no one could rule out for us that the incident hadn’t involved bigger firepower.
In any event, we had worked up an appetite. We ordered sandwiches for a picnic lunch on the harbor before planning to flag down the water taxi. Asking directions to the nearest shuttle stop, we were pointed between immense stone warehouses with red-tiled roofs. We walked down a driveway between two of the buildings, and began crossing a parking lot. As we reached the banks of the waterfront, a motorcade swiftly streamed in, each limousine gracefully swooping into adjoining parking spaces. Dapper men in dark suits, sunglasses and earpieces stepped out of the drivers seats, whisking open the passenger doors for even more dapper men, who purposefully strode into the warehouse.
Jane and I looked at each other with our jaws around our ankles and I said “I feel like Forrest Gump! What are we going to stumble into next?” This second implausible scenario in the span of two hours was at least benign and we convulsed with laughter, much-needed comic relief from the post-traumatic stress of Christiania’s explosion. We later discovered that we were picnicking at Asiatisk Plads, or Asian Square, where the Danish Ministry of Foreign Affairs is housed in the former warehouses of East Asiatic Company. Once one of the largest shipping companies in the world, it traded between Asia and Africa as well as imported sugar from the Danish West Indies, a past colony of Denmark in the Caribbean.
Copenhagen’s links outside its city limits apparently extend beyond this earthly realm. Jane and I ended up taking a pedestrian route back to Nyhavn rather than the water taxi, crossing back to Copenhagen proper on the “knippelsbro” bridge. Named for Hans Knip, who operated the original wooden drawbridge on the site, erected in 1620, today, its funky modernist era control towers sport a pale green patina. As we sauntered across, a man walked toward us sheathed in a billboard proclaiming “Walking Across the Universe.”
I learned in Copenhagen that the unexpected can happen at any time, and that has prompted me to realize I can and should savor the serenity of the ordinary, for the extraordinary is also inevitable; it too will unfold–or explode, or pull up in a chauffeur-driven car–and I don’t need to rush it.
As I set about writing this, I tried to locate information on the author of the quote above. The closest I came was finding an email address for someone with a similar last name and I issued an online shot in the dark, considering it an exercise in futility. Much to my delight, I received the following reply from Mary Jean Irion:
“I wrote those words as part of an essay years ago and am grateful that they have been useful many times ever since.
Notice that I have replaced two words (left out below–by someone, likely before the quotation reached you). The words are “savor you.” This is the strongest verb of the four; it deepens the combination of learning/love before the blessing of a normal day. If four seemed excessive to some editor along the way, I’d rather leave out “love you,” because it is implied by the others. Small point–but if you’re a writer, you’ll understand.
I’m a poet, essayist and teacher who is, still, at the age of 87, writing–if writing is anything, it’s a way of life. I’m also teaching a poetry class of 16 at Willow Valley Retirement Center. We are currently working on W.S. Merwin and Billy Collins (how’s that pair for a mind stretcher?). If you Google me, you’ll find more, some of it incorrect, alas, as in [spelling of last name]“Iron.” But how does one go about correcting the Machine Age? I settle for the word “savor” in a single place.”
Today, I too can savor in a single place, and a special moment of connecting, as I walk across this universe called Life.
http://www.visitcopenhagen.com/