This City Belongs to Us
This City, where the weekend starts on Wednesdays.
Wednesday, when I drag myself to the Studenterhuset and drink too much Danish pilsner, where three (otherwise) cute Danish blokes tell us that they're too lazy to think in English, where tattooed Spanish boys tell me that there are six ways to say "my darling" in Spanish and none in German (although Beeks say that there is — "mein lieber schatz"?), where French girls take too many photos while dancing, while chain-smoking Korean girl and I stand outside in the freezing cold having a conversation about boys not acting their age, and us catching the 94N night bus that leaves at 0233h from Nørreport.
Thursday, though we're tired out from dragging ourselves out of bed to get to our Conflicts class early in the morning, we still get our asses to Vesterbro, where all the clubs are. We go to the SkatePark, where (almost) everyone is clad in checks, chilling on the ramps listening to a Reggae band (which is apparently popular in Denmark, but I have no idea, because I've never heard Reggae nor Dancehall before tonight). Then we move to Stengade30, which is supposedly an underground music venue, and when I see it I understand why. It’s in the middle of a rather shady neighbourhood, Nørrebro, and there's graffiti all over the place, (love/hate messages scribbled by regulars, none of those huge murals), and the gigs are either mind-blowing or just downright bad. But it’s Confetti night tonight, so everything and everyone is covered with silver confetti. Everyone is bright and shiny and happy because someone is handing out flutes of free champagne. The night ends at one of Nørrebro’s 237402 Kebab shops, us laughing at how Swedish boys cannot speak Korean no matter how hard they try.
Friday, we are at the Law FridayBar, which someone marvels, is happening right below the Law Library. Beers are going for nothing more than spare change, and as we lean over the bar we spot a crate of Christmas beer, and of course someone orders that after he’s told that the alcohol content is higher, for the same next-to-nothing price. In between cheek-kissing every other person and dancing to Kun For Mig (#1 on the Danish charts on iTunes), every 10 mins, we sneak out for smokes and audible conversations. We’re downing cheap Turborgs as we continue the conversation about younger boys, and the girls conclude that (1) a preoccupation with age isn’t an Asian thing and more importantly, (2) it doesn’t matter if a boy is younger, as long as he's cute. The night ends with us listening to The Killers, our backs against floor-to-ceiling posters of James Dean and Bob Dylan, arguing over which is the best film Wong Kar Wai has ever made.
This City belongs to Us.
Wednesday, when I drag myself to the Studenterhuset and drink too much Danish pilsner, where three (otherwise) cute Danish blokes tell us that they're too lazy to think in English, where tattooed Spanish boys tell me that there are six ways to say "my darling" in Spanish and none in German (although Beeks say that there is — "mein lieber schatz"?), where French girls take too many photos while dancing, while chain-smoking Korean girl and I stand outside in the freezing cold having a conversation about boys not acting their age, and us catching the 94N night bus that leaves at 0233h from Nørreport.
Thursday, though we're tired out from dragging ourselves out of bed to get to our Conflicts class early in the morning, we still get our asses to Vesterbro, where all the clubs are. We go to the SkatePark, where (almost) everyone is clad in checks, chilling on the ramps listening to a Reggae band (which is apparently popular in Denmark, but I have no idea, because I've never heard Reggae nor Dancehall before tonight). Then we move to Stengade30, which is supposedly an underground music venue, and when I see it I understand why. It’s in the middle of a rather shady neighbourhood, Nørrebro, and there's graffiti all over the place, (love/hate messages scribbled by regulars, none of those huge murals), and the gigs are either mind-blowing or just downright bad. But it’s Confetti night tonight, so everything and everyone is covered with silver confetti. Everyone is bright and shiny and happy because someone is handing out flutes of free champagne. The night ends at one of Nørrebro’s 237402 Kebab shops, us laughing at how Swedish boys cannot speak Korean no matter how hard they try.
Friday, we are at the Law FridayBar, which someone marvels, is happening right below the Law Library. Beers are going for nothing more than spare change, and as we lean over the bar we spot a crate of Christmas beer, and of course someone orders that after he’s told that the alcohol content is higher, for the same next-to-nothing price. In between cheek-kissing every other person and dancing to Kun For Mig (#1 on the Danish charts on iTunes), every 10 mins, we sneak out for smokes and audible conversations. We’re downing cheap Turborgs as we continue the conversation about younger boys, and the girls conclude that (1) a preoccupation with age isn’t an Asian thing and more importantly, (2) it doesn’t matter if a boy is younger, as long as he's cute. The night ends with us listening to The Killers, our backs against floor-to-ceiling posters of James Dean and Bob Dylan, arguing over which is the best film Wong Kar Wai has ever made.
This City belongs to Us.
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