There's an English breakfast before me - two perfectly fried eggs, beans, bacon and chipolatas nice 'n' spicy... No one's talking in here, Tom Waits cackles faintly, I couldn't think of anyone better to have breakfast with... the Swede has been in an anarchic mood for several days now and is having elevenses - a gin and tonic!
This bar-cum-café on Nansensgade is a strange mix of trashy décor, bad décor and the macabre; dolls' heads act as lampshades in one room and everywhere are figures with taxidermy dog, racoon and monkey heads. I eat my breakfast and let the lyrics dissolve into a gravelly slur - it's the height of summer and I'm dragging my feet.
No sooner was I back from sizzling Malta, a July of jellyfish and weddings and old familiar faces and flamenco and snazzy jazz and bad rock filtering through my window and moonbathing and Brits missing their Ryanair flights, and food poisoning and sun sets over Gozo, than it was time to pack a small bag and head to Scania, the southernmost region in Sweden, to attend the marriage of some dear old friends.
I had been in Copenhagen for no longer than three hours when Itamar, who hails from Tel Aviv, once a resident of Milan now wandering the streets of Shanghai, rang my bell and hollered "What's up sugar?" More than two years had gone by since I'd heard that voice and so in order to conceal my sentimentality I greeted him with the nonchalance of neighbours whose paths cross from time to time. Itamar was not at all impressed with this and gave me a good old hug that expressed all the gladness we felt at finally being reunited.
We made our way to Österlen in southern Sweden where the apple trees grow and the artists gather. After a month of incessant rain the clouds parted and the sun came out, and I kid you not, it shone down on every red apple hanging off the rows and rows of trees along the way and I remembered some line about heaven never being closer to earth than in Österlen.
With some luck and a touch of Milanese networking we were picked up in a flash red rent-a-BMW and driven to the red cabins where we were to stay. Ed, Rikke and Helen from Paris (well not exactly but that's where they live) rocked up to cabin 10 and a bottle of wine was opened to celebrate our arrival, the imminent ceremony and the start of a beautiful and brief friendship. Cabin 10's fate was sealed and we all made our way to the church, dressed in our fashionista best, donning shades and even fanning ourselves a little.
The overwhelming beauty of the place only served to ignite the romantic in all of us and we were soon back at the hunting lodge weaving in and out of each other, introducing ourselves, all a little giddy with sun and bubbles and the radiant bride and grinning groom... after a seated dinner of suckling boar and venison we proceeded to drink apple cocktails while waiting for the deejay to set up and then we danced and danced and danced until our feet ached and our bellies rumbled and we headed back through the dewy grass still laughing, wishing the night could go on forever.
On the porch of our cabin Ed pointed out that it had been a while since he'd seen first light and as we were about to crack open another bottle of bubbles we all sobered up, turned on our heels and hit the hay. We're all so sensible these days!
This bar-cum-café on Nansensgade is a strange mix of trashy décor, bad décor and the macabre; dolls' heads act as lampshades in one room and everywhere are figures with taxidermy dog, racoon and monkey heads. I eat my breakfast and let the lyrics dissolve into a gravelly slur - it's the height of summer and I'm dragging my feet.
No sooner was I back from sizzling Malta, a July of jellyfish and weddings and old familiar faces and flamenco and snazzy jazz and bad rock filtering through my window and moonbathing and Brits missing their Ryanair flights, and food poisoning and sun sets over Gozo, than it was time to pack a small bag and head to Scania, the southernmost region in Sweden, to attend the marriage of some dear old friends.
I had been in Copenhagen for no longer than three hours when Itamar, who hails from Tel Aviv, once a resident of Milan now wandering the streets of Shanghai, rang my bell and hollered "What's up sugar?" More than two years had gone by since I'd heard that voice and so in order to conceal my sentimentality I greeted him with the nonchalance of neighbours whose paths cross from time to time. Itamar was not at all impressed with this and gave me a good old hug that expressed all the gladness we felt at finally being reunited.
We made our way to Österlen in southern Sweden where the apple trees grow and the artists gather. After a month of incessant rain the clouds parted and the sun came out, and I kid you not, it shone down on every red apple hanging off the rows and rows of trees along the way and I remembered some line about heaven never being closer to earth than in Österlen.
With some luck and a touch of Milanese networking we were picked up in a flash red rent-a-BMW and driven to the red cabins where we were to stay. Ed, Rikke and Helen from Paris (well not exactly but that's where they live) rocked up to cabin 10 and a bottle of wine was opened to celebrate our arrival, the imminent ceremony and the start of a beautiful and brief friendship. Cabin 10's fate was sealed and we all made our way to the church, dressed in our fashionista best, donning shades and even fanning ourselves a little.
The overwhelming beauty of the place only served to ignite the romantic in all of us and we were soon back at the hunting lodge weaving in and out of each other, introducing ourselves, all a little giddy with sun and bubbles and the radiant bride and grinning groom... after a seated dinner of suckling boar and venison we proceeded to drink apple cocktails while waiting for the deejay to set up and then we danced and danced and danced until our feet ached and our bellies rumbled and we headed back through the dewy grass still laughing, wishing the night could go on forever.
On the porch of our cabin Ed pointed out that it had been a while since he'd seen first light and as we were about to crack open another bottle of bubbles we all sobered up, turned on our heels and hit the hay. We're all so sensible these days!