Sunday in Copenhagen

I went for a walk early this morning, with the intent of finding coffee along the way. In a short time, I discovered that it is Sunday and nothing opens this early. So I wandered down the Stroget, a series of pedestrian streets that link to Kongens Nytorv, until accosted in the grey fog by a man when there was no one else around. I yelled over and over at him to walk away (odd choice of words) which he finally did, I think in fear that my yelling would bring someone. I turned around and went back the way I'd come. He may have just wanted money, but he came so close to me physically, talking to me and wouldn't leave. At best he has a poor sense of how a woman alone would feel about such an encounter.

But that was a small blip on the morning. There were fog and gusting winds to entertain me as I wandered. There are so many old and stately buildings, most are brick, with copper or tin? roofs. The canals, the boats and the buildings along them are picturesque.

 I could see that gloves and a scarf were in order, but this too had to wait until the slumbering city awoke.  When it came, the cup of hot coffee helped to warm my hands.

I followed church bells to the Marble Church, where I sat warming myself and watching parishioners file in. I made up stories for some, but left when the service in Danish commenced. It reminded me of the Forestville UM Church in another life.

I saw the changing of the guards at the palace,

and sat in on an organ recital at a church with a four story organ from 1698. The oddest thing was the pair of elephants on which the organ rested. I wonder what it cost to build and install this amazing instrument.  David, do you remember Ovid Young on the organ at College Church?

I visited Christiania because I'd read about it. It is an odd place, a former military property that sat unused for years until a group began squatting there in the 1970's. They have a street called Pushers Street, where hashish is sold, in spite of police attempts to curtail the trade. Someone described the area as a perpetual Burning Man, but I think its days are numbered. No photos are allowed by the residents on Pusher Street, nor any running, as it causes alarm due to the illegal activity there.  I took a few photos nearby, but didn't feel I could outrun the guards on Pusher Street.

Things are more familiar here, thus more of a sense of security. And yet I miss already those places that made me sweat because I didn't know the language or customs, where each interaction required my head, my hands, my full intent.