Street life - Burb, excuse me
Wednesday afternoon, fourth floor, the city: I'm off to spend my first night in the burbs of Copenhagen, in a village called Farum, for this is where an English friend now lives, with offspring and spouse. I am always ambiguous about life in suburbia,...
Wednesday afternoon, fourth floor, the city: I'm off to spend my first night in the burbs of Copenhagen, in a village called Farum, for this is where an English friend now lives, with offspring and spouse. I am always ambiguous about life in suburbia, it offers many good things, like space and gardens, but I have always been afraid of what lurks under every bush and in the corner of every quaint, droll shop - the tick-tock of life, a very loud click in my ear, it is a stun gun waiting for you...
I should know, I grew up in a town of nothing and nothingness, surrounded by fields where we could get a mild adrenalin rush from riding bicycles and building war camps for pent up frustration and boredom syndrome. Perhaps it is because I am a faulty by-product of suburbia that I fear and loathe it so, and perhaps that is why, paradoxically, I secretly crave the comfort and familiarity of monotonous, residential life devoid of fashion junkies, junky-junkies, self-absorbed writers, self-promoting charlatans, wannabe rock stars and shiny sports cars...
What I think is that I am about to enter Rangeroverville, where time and space are insignificant, and insignificance is the very stuff of life.
Friday morning: I am safely installed back on the fourth floor in Copenhagen dwellings. Because of Jante's Law, an unspoken rule in Scandinavia that one musn't be too flash, most of the cars that we saw in the outskirts of Copenhagen and beyond were not range rovers. I have come to learn that the further north you go in Scandinavia, the more obvious this law becomes. The Swede says: Jante's Law is this - you shouldn't try to be and furthermore you simply shouldn't be better. Hard to comprehend when you live in a country of shameless exposure and hyper baroque villas, where the secret aspiration in the bosom of every housewife is for a set of gold plated taps in a pinkish Marie Antoinette salle de bain.
The village I visited, Farum, too far removed from city life to be considered a suburb, but not far enough to be considered rural proper, was a pleasant enough place to spend a cosy evening by the fire, but in the morning, despite the rain and wind, we packed offspring into the back of the car and went out for a drive. Now it may have been the rain, but though we drove for hours, conquering half of North Zealand, we hardly saw another soul. It was hard to tell which houses belonged to the wealthy and which houses had been in the hands of farm stock for generations.
The only inspiration we found came in the form of Matteo, a Calabrian selling coffee, sausages and waffles from a kiosk outside the Queen's summer residence - a humble castle of Jante law proportions. He wanted to talk alright, but cold in summer shoes, and disappointed with the cappuccino fresh from the vending machine, we slunk back into the car, safe from the wind and rain, to continue on our quest to find something unusual, quirky, odd, shocking, camera at the ready...
Nothing! By early afternoon we were back in the environs of Copenhagen and so the Jante's Law regulations seemed to slacken a little as a red Audi flashed past and a well-heeled lady shimmied on the pavement; the senses were revived, suddenly there were things to look at everywhere.
In a flurry of need-retail-therapy, friend jumped out of the car to buy a chair, leaving me with offspring and engine running on a side street in Vesterbro, my neighbourhood. I could have assumed a semblance of boredom but as I looked out of the window, I saw this - a pile of bicycles, with two locals having a casual chat next to the pile-up. What was it? Art? Did it matter what it was? When you live in the city - the artificial and the man-made - strange piles of bicycles that delight and perhaps annoy the local inhabitants do matter, and defining them matters more still. The wonders of nature are great, but sometimes man-made junk is simply better.
I should know, I grew up in a town of nothing and nothingness, surrounded by fields where we could get a mild adrenalin rush from riding bicycles and building war camps for pent up frustration and boredom syndrome. Perhaps it is because I am a faulty by-product of suburbia that I fear and loathe it so, and perhaps that is why, paradoxically, I secretly crave the comfort and familiarity of monotonous, residential life devoid of fashion junkies, junky-junkies, self-absorbed writers, self-promoting charlatans, wannabe rock stars and shiny sports cars...
What I think is that I am about to enter Rangeroverville, where time and space are insignificant, and insignificance is the very stuff of life.
Friday morning: I am safely installed back on the fourth floor in Copenhagen dwellings. Because of Jante's Law, an unspoken rule in Scandinavia that one musn't be too flash, most of the cars that we saw in the outskirts of Copenhagen and beyond were not range rovers. I have come to learn that the further north you go in Scandinavia, the more obvious this law becomes. The Swede says: Jante's Law is this - you shouldn't try to be and furthermore you simply shouldn't be better. Hard to comprehend when you live in a country of shameless exposure and hyper baroque villas, where the secret aspiration in the bosom of every housewife is for a set of gold plated taps in a pinkish Marie Antoinette salle de bain.
The village I visited, Farum, too far removed from city life to be considered a suburb, but not far enough to be considered rural proper, was a pleasant enough place to spend a cosy evening by the fire, but in the morning, despite the rain and wind, we packed offspring into the back of the car and went out for a drive. Now it may have been the rain, but though we drove for hours, conquering half of North Zealand, we hardly saw another soul. It was hard to tell which houses belonged to the wealthy and which houses had been in the hands of farm stock for generations.
The only inspiration we found came in the form of Matteo, a Calabrian selling coffee, sausages and waffles from a kiosk outside the Queen's summer residence - a humble castle of Jante law proportions. He wanted to talk alright, but cold in summer shoes, and disappointed with the cappuccino fresh from the vending machine, we slunk back into the car, safe from the wind and rain, to continue on our quest to find something unusual, quirky, odd, shocking, camera at the ready...
Nothing! By early afternoon we were back in the environs of Copenhagen and so the Jante's Law regulations seemed to slacken a little as a red Audi flashed past and a well-heeled lady shimmied on the pavement; the senses were revived, suddenly there were things to look at everywhere.
In a flurry of need-retail-therapy, friend jumped out of the car to buy a chair, leaving me with offspring and engine running on a side street in Vesterbro, my neighbourhood. I could have assumed a semblance of boredom but as I looked out of the window, I saw this - a pile of bicycles, with two locals having a casual chat next to the pile-up. What was it? Art? Did it matter what it was? When you live in the city - the artificial and the man-made - strange piles of bicycles that delight and perhaps annoy the local inhabitants do matter, and defining them matters more still. The wonders of nature are great, but sometimes man-made junk is simply better.