Copenhagen: In which I attempt a solo pub crawl (and revel in a spectacular failure)

Okay, I confess.

I am a lush.

A sot. A tippler. An inebriate. A drunk. Somewhere in the 3-year gap between college and mid-twenties, alcohol became my indisputable drug of choice.

And boy, we've had some good times.

But there's no point in equivocating. For reasons both obvious and personal, my fondness for drink has evolved from entertaining to increasingly problematic. And while I don't much feel like sharing the gory details in a public forum, I will say this: the drinking has gotten old. And it doesn't seem worth the stress on my health anymore.

Now I've had my fair share of last hurrahs, particularly since the New Year, after it became painfully clear to me that something had to change (word to the wise: Parisian youth are really not partial to Reggaeton music, especially when it's forced on them by a belligerently drunk and overly touchy Uruguayan). But I only had twenty-four hours to explore Copenhagen. Before heading back to St.E. after eighteen days of traveling. Before returning to work after eighteen days free from undersexed adolescent french schoolboys.

I spent the day walking the crap out of Copenhagen. I went all over. The city center. Cristianshavn. Christiania. Nørrebro. Vesterbro. Fredicksburg. At dusk, the soles of my feet were on fire. And I was thirsty.

So I hit the pubs. Armed with my Top 5 bars list and a mission: drink a pint per bar, every hour on the hour.

First on the list: The Moose

GET HAMMEREDE IN CHEAP BEER
[Svaertegade 5] "THE MOOSE is the place to go if you're up for a crazy night out. Especially on Tue, Thu Sat and on the 13th of each month no one is left sober for very long. Then a large draught beer is only DKK16 until 21:00. After that the price rises to DKK23. Occasional live music. Open every day."
("Copenhagen for Young Traveler's" map and guide)

Of course, I strolled into the Moose on a Saturday. What luck. The entire bar was covered in graffiti: not an inch of wall spared, not even in the bathroom. I quickly surveyed the available tables and opted for a stool at the bar. Sitting at the bar always seems appropriate when you're drinking alone.

Denmark banned smoking indoors in 2007, with one exception:
"The only exception from the ban is for establishments with an area less than 40 sq. mtrs., which don't serve fresh food - so you can still enjoy a cigarette in some smaller pubs if you're lucky - some places have installed special smoking rooms but most refer smokers to the streets."
(Copenhagen Office of Tourism)

The Moose is an establishment with an area less than 40 square meters. It is also an establishment that doesn't serve fresh food.

I took in my surroundings, my eyes smarting from billows of pungent tobacco smoke. And I observed the following:
Above one table, a Moose's head stuck out prominently from the wall.

Above the bar, a series of inane pictures. A freeze frame from "Frankenstein," the movie. A photo of the National Olympic Curling Team of Denmark from the Nagano 1998 Olympics. Elvis.

Also, bills of various international currencies papered a wooden panel over the bar's mirror. I was only slightly horrified at my reaction upon seeing George Washington's familiar portrait sternly gazing down at me. (Like seeing the picture of someone you love up in some random bar. Since when do I love American money? Or George Washington?)

Musical highlights from the Moose included:
The White Stripes, "Seven Nation Army"
Nirvana, "Smells Like Teen Spirit"
Lou Reed, "Walk on the Wild Side"
Depeche Mode, "Everything Counts"

The drink:
Jacobsen's Brown Ale

The reading material:
Jan/Feb 2009 Foreign Affairs
(No comments, please. I realize it's not Rilke or Kerouac or Auden or whatever the hell you're supposed to read when you're sitting alone at a bar. But it was interesting enough.)

I sipped my pint of Jacobsen's and tried to read through the article on peace in the Middle East ("Change They Can Believe In: To Make Israel Safe, Give Palestinians Their Due," Walter Russell Mead). But I kept getting distracted by increasingly intoxicated and spectacularly attractive groups of Danes. One of whom came up to the bar about every 15 minutes to order another round for his table.

Apparently in one of trips to the bar, he sneaked a peak at my reading. And decided I needed saving.

"Hello!"

I felt someone tap my shoulder, and I spun around on my stool. Behind me stood a tall, blonde woman with bloodshot blue eyes.

"Would you like to come have a drink with us?"

She posed the question in perfect, if slightly accented, English, waving over at her table, where I spotted the Dane who had been at my side refilling on drinks just a few minutes before. And by his side, another man, older, taller, with brown hair and equally bloodshot blue eyes.

I smiled and replied, "Of course!"

As it turns out, Synne (pronounced like Sonne with an umlaut over the "o") and her crew had discussed my situation at length before asking me to join them. Brian, the younger man, had tried to read a bit of my article and reported back to his friends about it.

"It's soooo booooooooooring," he exclaimed, drawing out his words. I laughed and told him I found it interesting, but much preferred to be in the company of talkative locals.

Now, if you'll recall, I was on a mission. I still had four bars to visit.

Bars like VINSTUE 90:
[Gammel Kongevej 90] "An authentic bar with original 1916-decor. The famous serving of Carlsberg from a special tap takes 10-15 minutes. Because that just makes the best glass of beer! When ordering your slow beer, order a vente-øl (while-you-wait-beer) as well. There's no music, in order to preserve the fine art of conversations. Open every day."

Or MASKEN BAR:
"Gay time all day! At MASKEN BAR it's Happy Hour all day every day! The mixed crowd of gay, hetero and bi, combined with a friendly staff, make everybody feel welcome."

But Brian bought a round of Jacobsen's. Followed by a second. Followed by a third.

As I lost my sobriety, I lost all sense of time as well. Conversation flowed as freely as the pints of beer Brian kept bringing back from the bar. And then I told Synne, Brian, and Frank about my grand plans to explore the Copenhagen nightlife solo.

"Where do you want to go? We will take you!"

But not before dinner, as, apparently, the men had not eaten. I was treated to dinner and more drinks at a crêperie nearby. Then we moved on to Masken Bar, where Frank was felt up by more than a couple of scantily clad men. Frank and Synne are actually a couple. Synne doesn't have a problem with Frank's natural attractiveness to other men. Nor does Frank, for that matter.

At this point, a "snowy mix" was beating down mercilessly on the streets of Copenhagen, and we slipped and slid our way a club where a live band was rocked out to Guns 'n Roses and other Guitar Hero tunes. Frank and I head banged our hair dry while Synne and Brian continued to throw back the beers. I made it back to my hostel, by some miracle, soaked but safe, at approximately 5 am. And was kicked out of my bed at 10.

I'm happy to say that I think this was truly the last hurrah to end all last hurrahs. Not to mention the fact that I now have three wonderful people to visit next time I'm in Copenhagen.