marijuana

the sentiment, so much

I said,

I have heard back from my buddy from January here, a stellar human who promised then that heʼd keep the joint I left him so we could share it “when inevitably youʼre back”

So now I walk to Goodlife Cafe on Søllerørgade, where he may be found, taking note along the way of how I can eat for the absolute cheapest on this timescale

Not that the joint matters

But the sentiment, so much

National Denmark Day

Now I have walked the river feeling envious of people laughing and eating and canoodling on blankets. Lax or no prohibition against open containers, apparently. Danish flags are everywhere, I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s National Denmark Day? I am sitting on some benchy step-type things above the canal in Christianhavn and watching a raven tear at the shredded lettuce and whatever else is inside some crumpled sandwich paper left by a trio of thuggish Danes who were supping here until recently, when they left without first becoming my friends.

I think I’ll take a walk over to Freetown Christiania, maybe buy a joint, see if that’ll help me sleep during a time more broadly regarded here as night. Yes. And on the way I will scan the ground for generous bits of remaindered cigarettes with which to roll a spliff.

One fellow in a clump of drunken others still eating sandwiches and getting drunker in the vicinity is singing Destiny’s Child. I, too, want someone to say my name.

gifted a lighter

I now possess the generous dregs of a Tokai lighter, which was gifted to me by some women whom I sat near in the amphitheater above Freetown Christiania sort of because they looked ethnic — Indian? One polished and blown out, the other messier, pimply, frizzy tight curls, zaftig, gorgeous — and therefore — I assumed — racist! — right? — cool, and sort of because there was a healthy, suitable-for-sitting space between them and the next folks and eventually asked for a light for my spliff.
You need a lighter, the beautiful, voluptuous, un-orchestrated one said, and I said, I arrived yesterday.
Welcome to Denmark, then, she said, handing it to me in a no-takebacks-type way, and I said, A welcome-to-Denmark gift! Thank you.

my body and mind are jammin

I said,

I slept 13 hours so a lot of the day feels lost but wow my body and mind are jammin’

Actually I just put what turned out to be crème fraîche on my musli

So maybe my mind isn’t TOTALLY jammin’

But it’s cool

Today is so so so beautiful

I went running along some body of water

It was where the hippies make their homes

So much pot smoke in the air, and the scent has this certain edge that I can now recognize as distinctly Danish

There are lilacs everywhere

Goslings

Butterflies

I’m confused, so far keeping the blue at bay, sorta, but WOW what have I done???

undskyld

Today I made some friends named Katrine and Hakim — she a native of Denmark, him, of Morocco — who were on their third date and also at the craft beer and food truck festival on the Carlsberg brewery grounds that a brewer here who grew up in Durham like me and is a friend of my old friend got me into. We sat together on a curb outside the event, passing two spliffs among the three of us and talking about world affairs and national shame. I told them about Anthony Weiner and Huma and Hillary and about my idea for a shirt featuring the USAmerican flag and the words I’M SORRY in as many languages as possible. The Danish is undskyld, they told me back, adding that I personally needn’t apologize, and I wrote it all down to remember.

Katrine photographed me deep in my international, ineffectual coin purse, fighting through the mis-math of trying to convert inadequate euro plus some rogue Antillean guilder into adequate beer fest tokens for buying Cambodian hot rock ’n’ rolls to share with my fest friends, two of three of whom would turn out to be vegetarian anyway.

Later I looked at how I also wrote the words tissekone and fisse, Danish slang for parts of a woman, and too drew a crude likeness of the Nike swoosh. No telling why. America, maybe.

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