A very tall drag queen leaned over and started flirting with one of my table mates, an elfin Faroese guy. It was my first day at my study abroad program in Copenhagen. The air was warm and pride festival celebrations were everywhere. The drag queen was gorgeous and statuesque, her friends were equally glamorous and theatrical. We all talked for a bit and then they suggested we go back to theirs for some pre-drinks before their gig at a gay club. I was the only one that said yes. Are you even surprised? I was off my meds that summer and my manic ass would’ve been up for anything.
We went back to a literal jungle. There were so many house plants they took over the room. They were on every surface, hanging from the ceiling and on the windows. I don’t remember any of the drag queen’s names, I rarely do recall names, but let’s call the leader of the pack Svend. He had changed his clothes in order to make some food. It was very lentil-ey. But hey, I was being given free beer and food, so I wasn’t going to complain. All of a sudden, Svend started caressing my hair. Turns out he was a professional hairdresser and then proceeded to give me a haircut in the middle of his botanical living room as his other two friends chatted their local gossip.
Then it was time to get ready for the show. We were all suited and booted up, all three of my new friends, a flamboyance of drag queens of you will, were resplendent in their gender bending finery. The club was this tiny place off the Strøget. We arrived and had our own booth. I hadn’t changed since that morning, and I was wearing a simple summer dress. I worried that I wouldn’t be able to fit in or that I was underdressed, but this was Copenhagen in 2013, dressed down fashion was in.
Svend came over with a bottle of Absolut and a carton of cranberry juice,
“To help with any future UTIs honey”, and told us that these were our free drinks for the night.
He called out as he strutted away, “Don’t fucking drink it all when we’re on stage.”
I nodded laughing, “Do you see the size of me?”
They went, performed, knocked the house down, and then they came back and we partied. I remember dancing with my free drink to Macklemore‘s Thrift Shop (really dates the whole anecdote). I do remember spotting some good looking guys in the crowd, but I just assumed that they were gay. The question, are they gay or just European?, did cross my mind and continued to cross my mind all summer long when I saw an attractive man. I kept popping back to our booth from the dance floor, bottles of absolute clunked down, me and my queens of drag chatting away. I’m getting the full tea on the gay scene in Copenhagen, who is fighting with who, who’s fucking who.
The party began to wind down. I had no idea what time it was. The queens, said their goodbyes, and we all go to leave. I always looked back on this memory with the nostalgia that can only be given to moments of youthful exuberance. I distinctly remember when we exited the dark club, strobe lights going and music pumping, heady with youth and alcohol and sex, I opened the door to the street and the light of the bright summer morning hit me all at once. I squinted my eyes and looked down at my phone. It was 6 AM. I was titillated that I’d actually spent the whole night in a club. I thought it was just a cliché movie trope, but there I was watching the workmen make their morning deliveries to the shops. The streets sleepy and near empty, slowly awakening to the bustle of city life. I give all of the queens a kiss kiss goodbye. Even though we had only just met that afternoon our adieus were dramatic and full of exclamations of “I had soooo much fun.” and “I love youuu.” All of this was spoken in Danish, mine accented, there’s not.
I go over to where I left my bike. My aunt lent me her old one for the summer. As I was unlocking the back wheel, I saw the three guys that I had noticed in the club. I was a little bit tipsy still. They walked over and asked if I had been the one in the club.
The cutest and the most bold of the bunch stepped forward flirtatiously and said, “I noticed you on the dance floor.”
“Thanks,” I said laughing. Of course at that point they asked where I was from: what all Danes ask me eventually. I got told over and over again that summer that I had this unplaceable accent. They knew I was not from Denmark, but they couldn’t tell where I was from. I told the guys what was my coup de grace the entire summer. It was a two-step process: first, I would tell them that I was from the States which would always engender general disappointment. Second, when they asked what part of the US, I would say New York City. I would watch countless eyes light up with the knowledge that they were in the presence of a New Yorker. This is how I defend my viewpoint that New Yorkers are not really Americans, but in a classification of their own. The three boys were suitably impressed with my little geographical demonstration. The same one of the bunch that spoke to me first, I’m sure his looks and confidence went hand-in-hand, asked if I wanted to come back to their flat to continue the party. They said they had just finished their exams and were celebrating. Now this is where a sane sober woman would have stopped and thought, “Wait a minute I don’t know these men from Adam. There is one of me and three of them. Maybe going to a private, unknown location would not be such a good idea. But I was a little drunk and a lot manic and so I said yes.
We all got on our bikes because of course the cliché Copenhagen Utopia of cycle culture is absolutely true. We were cycling down one of the main thoroughfares with a dedicated cycle path. The birds were chirping and wispy clouds were being illuminated by the morning light. Youthful energy and indiscretion was heavy in the air. It had rained the night before and I had stuck my umbrella on the rear rack of the bicycle. Me and the cute one were cycling, side-by-side, flirting, and talking. I realize now that summer I absolutely reinforced the stereotype that American women are loose. As we were chatting, one of the others came up from behind and grabbed my umbrella and cycled past us. He then started messing with his other friend upfront, and hitting his friend’s bike with the umbrella. All of a sudden he stuck the umbrella accidentally in the wheel of his friend’s bicycle. I always think of this memory when I see that meme of a man putting a stick in his bicycle wheel. I watched the two men, boys really, tumble over their bikes and land in a heap of metal and flesh. Luckily me and my romantic target were far enough back that we were able to come to a stop and watch on with our jaws dropped. The boys picked themselves up and when the one wielding the umbrella turned around all I could see was blood. He had knocked out his two front teeth and hadn’t even noticed it until his friend pointed it out. They were laughing about it and the shock of seeing a laughing, bloody mouth, missing two teeth forever singed that image in my brain. Now that I think about it, they must’ve been high on something. The laissez-faire way in which they got back on their bicycles and they said they would get themselves to a dentist, speaks to the strength of their drugs or the quality of the Danish healthcare system. Maybe both. The one without a bloody mouth was one hell of a wing man though, because he made sure to emphasize that he could sort out his pal, and that my paramour could stay with me. Notice how I have avoided using his name? That’s because I don’t remember it. I would say it’s bad manners, but I doubt he remembers mine either.
This fateful turn of events actually made the proposed “party” back at his flat far more practical. I collected my umbrella, luckily it had not been too damaged in the wheel spokes, and the two of us were on our way. I would like to say that there was some romance, but I’m pretty sure we went straight to fucking on an old green Victorian velvet couch that looked like it had seen better days. By the time we were done it was almost seven or eight. I had class at 9:30 so I quickly extricated myself. I don’t think I even asked for his phone number, his prowess or lack thereof in the sex department had not impressed me enough for a second rendezvous. I cycled back to the suburbs where my aunt and uncle lived, and as quickly as I could, got ready for the day. I don’t think I even had enough time to shower. I changed my clothes as my school mates would have noticed I hadn’t changed and I was back out again. I made it to class five minutes early.