COPENHAGEN Hello, Hans
Copenhagen is a fairy-tale destination with Hans Christian Andersen lookalikes, Renaissance castles and Vikings
An early morning chill
swept through the streets and feet clattered on pavements and bodies huddled
into trench coats and warm scarves. It was an early June day and, technically,
it was supposed to herald summer. But the sky was a dull grey and the chill
could well have been the harbinger of winter. Unusual rains had dragged
temperatures down and the threat of a drizzle hung in the air.
Pavements and cobbled-stone
streets were slick with moisture and everything was dewy green. It was
beautiful but also cold. Copenhagen felt more like gloomy London. But Danes in
general and Copenhageners in particular are known to say, stoically one would
presume, that “there is no bad weather, only bad clothes“. Obviously, the
statement was the product of centuries of experience. Soon, the clouds cleared,
the sky shed its dreariness and the sun burst forth dramatically, drenching
everything in its path with glorious light and gentle heat. Only the sound of
bugles was missing.
The sun's rays caught parts
of the façade and the clock tower of Copenhagen City Hall or Kobenhavns Radhus
and made them shimmer. Located in the City Hall Square, the massive building
was inspired by the Palazzo Pubblico, the town hall in the Italian city of
Siena. It was accessorised by a massive pot of colourful flowers which seemed
to revel in the sunlight. But more arresting was a man in a top hat and long
coat standing on the pavement. He seemed completely out of place amid the
chicly clad humanity that flowed around him and yet least concerned about it.
Erect and rather stiff in demeanour, he introduced himself, “I am Hans
Christian Andersen.“ The iconic Danish author, most noted for his string of
fairy tales such as “The Emperor's New Clothes“, “The Little Mermaid“, “The
Ugly Duckling“ and “Thumbelina“, had been dead and gone for nearly 150 years
but it was amusing to play along and see where he would go with it.
Richard (for that was his
real name), of course, loved his alternative reality. A wizened and wiry old
man probably in his 70s, he also seemed timeless, much like the person he was
impersonating. A colourful character who had experimented with everything from
learning sitar on the ghats of Varanasi to vigorous dance forms in Latin
America, he refused to answer to any name other than Hans. “It doesn't matter
that I've been dead for some time now,“ he deadpanned, and the motley group
around him guffawed. Just a few feet away was a rather large tribute to
Andersen in the form of a bronze statue and I wondered if the famous Danish
sarcasm and irony was in full force. Nevertheless, for nearly two hours
thereafter, he led a walking tour, combining wit, charm and information, and
was not boring for even a minute.
A Land Far Far Away
As he wove through narrow
cobbled streets that suddenly opened into large squares or church courtyards,
or random open areas, it was tempting to indulge in fairy-tale metaphors. The
constant presence of Andersen made it all too easy. The Town Hall with arched
doorways and innumerable pillars was grand and ostentatious. Beautiful carvings
and paintings added to the effect. Among the busts that lined the walls was
Andersen in a corner. Coincidentally, it stood outside the marriage registry
office.“Apt, isn't it? The start of a fairy tale,“ someone gave voice to what
was in my head.“More like the end of it,“ the comeback arrived almost immediately.
On the eastern side of the
Town Hall stood a tall column with two Vikings blowing the lurs, an ancient
wind instrument. Hans said it symbolised the Danish belief that the lurs
blowers were protectors of the city and stood ready to sound the alarm in the
event of an attack. But I was amused by the more prevalent myth, that it would
be sounded if a virgin passed by. “It's never been heard since it was erected
in 1914“ had us cracking up in mirth.As fairy tales go, it was a funny one.
About 500 m from the Town
Hall was a more poignant tale at the Market Square or Gammeltorv. For over 700
years, it was the centre of Copenhagen's legal and political heart with baroque
and Renaissance-style buildings and the beautiful Caritas Well, an elegant
fountain. It seemed to be as bustling as it did centuries ago. There was also
an unobtrusive platform where wrongdoers were flogged and people came to watch
the spectacle. A tiny shiver ran up the spine and the fairy-tale city didn't
seem all that fetching at that moment. But some home-brewed schnapps at Cafe
Nytorv tilted the world back on its axis.
For all his age, Hans was
rather sprightly and led us in and out of some stunning structures such as the
Vor Frue Kirke (Church of Our Lady), Kobenhavns Universitet (Copenhagen
University), with Danish physicist Niels Bohr looking out with a piercing gaze,
and Rundetaarn (Round Tower), a 17th century stone tower built as an
astronomical observatory. He peppered his talk with comments on Danish culture,
politics, the tradition of cycling and its landscape: “Copenhagen is so flat,
your dog can run away and you can still see it after three days!“ But as much
as Andersen and the fairytale saga continued elsewhere, nowhere was it more
pronounced as at the iconic Tivoli Gardens. Full of gardens interspersed with a
plethora of rides, it also hosted a wooden roller-coaster which, at over 100
years, is considered to be among the oldest, and the Flying Trunk, a fun,
Andersenthemed ride. At night, the towers and pillars of the rides were alight
with twinkling lights and did seem fabulous.
Happily Ever After
It was further magnified at
the Frederiksborg Castle, about 45 minutes north of Copenhagen. A sprawling
17th century Renaissance and baroque castle standing on a water body surrounded
by gardens and walking paths, it seemed straight out of a story. Its interiors
were luxurious and elegant with plush furniture, art, sculptures and a
smorgasbord of royal artefacts. Here and elsewhere, such as in the castles of
Kronborg and Christiansborg, everything was replete with royalty and tales of
princes and princesses. Even more so at the Amalienborg Palace, inhabited by
the current royal family, and it seemed like a fairy tale was being played out
in real time.
The fairy-tale connection,
especially where Andersen was concerned, continued into the eastern shore of
the city at Langalinie where sat a little bronze statue of The Little Mermaid
atop a rock. Inspired by Andersen's eponymous tale, it had become the symbol of
Copenhagen for over a century, and was something that the locals regarded with
affection and seriousness. And because of its stature, it has also been an easy
target for vandals and protesters; the latest was by eco activists who doused
her in red paint to protest against whaling in Faroe Islands, an autonomous
country within the Kingdom of Denmark. It was a bit unsettling to think that a
fairy-tale character was treated so brutally but no matter what was thrown at
her, the city lovingly put her back together time after time.
By evening, I found myself
gravitating towards Nyhavn or New Harbour, the colourful 17th century
waterfront in the eastern part of the city. Possibly the city's most happening
area, it was lined with bright and colourful townhouses, which had cafes, bars,
lounges, restaurants and other entertainment options. It seemed to have
seamlessly segued from its 17th century avatar as a haven for beer and bawdy
dalliances for sailors to its current touristy yet charming hub of nightlife.
It overlooked a canal lined with boats, some of the bigger ones hosting cafes
and bars while smaller ones plied up and down. It was here that Andersen lived
for 18 years, in two stints in two different houses on the waterfront.
I stood on the lone bridge
on the canal, Nyhavnsbroen, gazing out at the buildings.It was relatively calm
on the bridge while the lanes on either side of the canal teemed with people
and their collective buzz hung in the air. Despite the crowds and the noise, it
charmed me, mostly because the colourful buildings were rather surreal, and I
stood there, just soaking it in. From Vikings to princes and princesses,
Copenhagen seemed to be living one continuous fairy tale, the ancient
effortlessly flowing into the modern. As night fell and the sky turned a
dream-like indigo and the lights came on, a lilting tune made itself heard,
probably from one of the establishments. It was singular and melodious and
brought to mind Andersen's immortal words, “Where words fail, music speaks.“
Close on its heels came another: “Life itself is the most wonderful fairy
tale.“ It seemed rather fitting.
ETM16JUL17
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